Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 692: Five minutes

Chapter 692: Five minutes

General Tiberius’ eyes widened in shock as he looked down at the gaping wound in his chest. The monstrous claw hadn’t pierced his heart, but it had gouged deep into his right lung, practically incinerating the organ.

His breathing became ragged, each inhale a struggle, as a suffocating sensation wrapped around him like an iron vice. Pain surged through his chest with every beat of his heart, but still, he stood.

Above him, the Legendary Voroe flashed a broad, sinister grin, fangs glistening with malice. There was a thrill in his eyes, a twisted ecstasy as he admired the damage he had done. He had wounded the human legend—possibly fatally.

"Two down," he murmured, his voice laced with fanatic glee.

This was a moment of triumph. He, the Legendary Voroe, had killed the first of the human Legends. And now, another was falling!

But then, something changed.

The fire in General Tiberius’ eyes reignited. Through the haze of pain and the blur of blood, he focused—not on the injury, not on the death creeping in—but on his enemy. With one final surge of desperate strength, he reached out and seized the Voroe’s throat in a vice-like grip.

The Legendary Voroe froze, utterly stunned.

The human’s hand crushed his windpipe with inhuman strength, stopping his breath and sending a jolt of fear through his monstrous form. For the first time in centuries, he felt dread—not from a divine force, not from one of his own kind, but from a dying man.

Tiberius’ face twisted into a bloodied snarl, his eyes burning with wrath. There was no fear, no despair—only an unrelenting, monstrous will to destroy.

"Enjoy the flames!" he roared, his voice full of blood and fury.

It was a final act of vengeance, a sacrifice fueled by the indomitable spirit of humanity. At that moment, the energy tower of the Korokor Stronghold began to glow with blinding light.

Tiberius had held off triggering the barrage due to the enemy’s portable energy shield, but now, with nothing left to lose, he unleashed everything.

Dozens of fireballs, each the size of a siege cannon, surged out from the tower in a perfect formation, all locking onto the single point where Tiberius held the Voroe in place. The Legendary Voroe struggled, panicking, but he could not break free from the grip of the dying general.

Then came the explosion.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"

A sea of flames engulfed the sky, turning everything crimson and gold. The inferno consumed the battlefield in a moment of awe-inspiring destruction, and for a few eternal seconds, silence fell. Even the brainwashed Voroes stopped fighting, their gazes frozen upward as the shockwave rolled over them.

And then, two burning figures fell from the sky like meteors.

They crashed into the ground far in the distance, smoldering and motionless.

The wingless ice draconic and the remaining Legendary Voroe hovered in disbelief. They had been three against one. And yet, this human had killed one of them before falling himself.

It was an impossible feat. Something none of them had believed could happen.

But this was not a moment for mourning or awe. The Voroe were not sentimental creatures. They recovered quickly from their astonishment, and cold hatred replaced their surprise. Their gazes shifted to the battlefield below, where the army of Graecia still fought.

Without Tiberius or the other Legends to hold the line, there was nothing standing between the Voroe powerhouses and the exhausted human forces.

A wave of killing intent, heavier than a mountain, surged from the sky.

The soldiers of Graecia, already worn from the brutal conflict, felt their knees weaken. The pressure was unbearable—many could barely breathe, and some even collapsed where they stood. Their hope had vanished in an instant.

Moments ago, they had believed victory was within reach. They had crushed a good portion of the Voroe elite. But with so many Sages and Half-Step Legends still remaining, and the full wrath of the sky descending upon them, the outcome had reversed.

Despair crept into their hearts. It felt inevitable.

Then, something unexpected happened.

"ZNNNN!"

The distinct sound of teleportation echoed across the battlefield, and every eye turned toward the rear lines. There, emerging from the deepest part of the enemy formation, was the Deprivata of Wrath.

Vlad had fought with unmatched fury since the battle began. A true symbol of human resilience, he had acted as the spearhead of the offensive, plunging into the enemy ranks with no regard for his own safety. And now, he was retreating.

Soldiers watched, confused and even betrayed. Their champion was abandoning them?

A dark shadow of despair began to spread once more.

But Vlad stopped.

He turned at the edge of the battlefield, far from the reach of the Voroe. His eyes, glowing with a fierce resolve, scanned the soldiers. Without a word, he raised a hand, and from the air, one hundred vials of dark plasma appeared, swirling with volatile energy. In an instant, they detonated, creating a vortex of darkness around him.

The battlefield froze in disbelief and confusion as the Depravita was covered in a cocoon of darkness the next second.

"What...?" someone whispered.

Then came Vlad’s voice from inside the cocoon, calm and steady, yet filled with determination.

"Five minutes. I need five minutes."

That was all.

No promises. No boasts. No explanations.

But it was enough.

A wave of hope burst forth from his simple declaration. The men and women of Graecia had no idea what would happen in those five minutes—but they believed. They clung to that fragment of possibility like a lifeline.

It was better than surrender. Better than despair.

"FIGHT!" roared Angelo, his voice echoing with thunder across the battlefield.

"FIGHT!" Janus and Agamemnon joined, shouting with every fiber of their being. They exploded with energy, burning their life force to rekindle the flames of defiance.

"FIGHT!"

"FIGHT! FIGHT!"

"FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"

Soon, the entire army, once on the brink of collapse, was shouting. Their voices rose like a storm, fierce and unified. Their weapons lifted. Their spells ignited. The battle had not ended—far from it. In their hearts, a single hope burned: to win those five minutes.