Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 697: Victory!

Chapter 697: Victory!

"AHHHHH!"

Asuru’s agonized roar tore through the battlefield as the golden laser beam pierced through layers of ice and scorched his flesh with sacred fury.

The heat seared into his bones, burning deeper than even his Legendary regeneration could fully withstand. Yet, despite the pain, it wasn’t enough to break him.

The Legendary Vorometallicae clenched his teeth and pushed through the agony, keeping himself airborne. He avoided being slammed into the ground and maintained his battle stance, blood trickling down his side.

From beneath the frozen remnants of the shattered space sphere, Vlad emerged—his figure rising like a black phoenix cloaked in crimson light. The Depravita of Wrath intended to capitalize on Asuru’s moment of vulnerability, but the Voroe had not fallen.

"Damn it, he’s still standing... He’s unbelievably persistent," Vlad thought, frustration flashing across his eyes. But there was no pause in his motion—no retreat. He surged upward again, surrounded by the swirling tempest of the Sundering Domain, his entire body pulsing with unstable spatial energy.

"ROOOAAAR!"

Asuru’s furious bellow shook the sky as he dove straight toward the True Depravita. The power of the Law of Ice surged around him, encasing his figure in freezing wind and jagged crystals. Their clash resumed, no less ferocious than before, but more bloody. Each strike carried the weight of survival.

Up above, two monsters waged war. But below, the tide had completely turned.

The battlefield on the ground bore no resemblance to what it had been. The once-overwhelming Voroe legions were collapsing. The soldiers of Graecia, though battered and utterly exhausted, pressed forward with relentless ferocity. Muscles ached, energy reserves ran dangerously low, and yet their wrath—their unyielding drive—pushed them onward. The scent of victory hung in the air like blood-soaked incense.

Among them, the Depravita of Greed and the Depravita of Envy fought with unmatched intensity. Ouroboros and Fafnir felt themselves evolving mid-battle. With every movement, their understanding of their Core Sins deepened.

The duo had seen Vlad ascend. They had witnessed what it meant to become a True Depravita. And now, in the heart of chaos, that same path opened before them—glimpses of transcendence flickering at the edges of their perception.

And then there were warriors like Agamemnon and Janus. They had watched in awe as Vlad had driven his hand through the chest of a Legendary Vorometallicae. Envy—not of spite, but of ambition—burned within their hearts.

The Imperial Prince and the scion of the Solaris Family harbored no resentment toward the Depravita of Wrath. On the contrary, they celebrated his power. But they could not help the hunger—the yearning to rise to that same height. And so, they pushed themselves beyond limits, burning every reserve, clawing toward greatness.

Minute by minute, the battle raged. Then, at last, a breaking point was reached.

The number of Vorometallicae Sages and Half-Step Legends dwindled so low they could no longer mount a coordinated resistance. A true charge began. Voroe after Voroe fell—some cleaved in two, some blasted apart, others torn to shreds by divine fire or brute human might.

And then, with the ground shaking under its weight, Jormungandr returned to the battlefield atop his massive Tyrannosaurus Rex, bringing with him a fresh surge of destruction. The small yellow cat stood proud atop the beast, clutching a glowing cocoon of lightning pulsing with life.

Asuru caught a glimpse of the chaos below, and for the first time in the battle, fear coiled in his heart. They had been so close. After slaying the human Legends, victory had felt certain—within reach. He had almost tasted it. And now? Everything had unraveled.

Even for a being as ancient as he—who had lived thousands of years—this defeat was staggering. His concentration wavered, and in that single heartbeat of distraction, death came knocking.

Vlad moved.

A blur.

He surged forward, elbow raised, every ounce of power and speed concentrated in a single, devastating strike. The Sundering Domain coursed through his body, channeling cosmic pressure into the blow. What was once an elbow thrust now struck with the force of a blade through reality.

"CRACK!"

The sound of Asuru’s sternum shattering echoed across the sky. A fountain of blue blood and fragmented organs erupted from the Voroe’s mouth as he was launched backward like a meteor. Pieces of his shattered internal structure scattered in the wind, painting the battlefield with viscera and ice.

Pain unlike anything he had ever known consumed Asuru. He hovered, barely conscious, lungs wheezing, vision blurred. The damage was catastrophic.

He couldn’t continue.

No matter what awaited him at the Void Heart Stronghold—no matter the disgrace, the punishment—it offered a sliver of survival.

Here, death was absolute.

And so, using the momentum of Vlad’s strike, Asuru fled. His battered frame streaked across the sky like a falling comet, leaving trails of frozen blood behind him.

Vlad’s eyes narrowed. The desire to chase—to kill—burned bright within him. But then, clarity returned. Though his body bore no visible wounds, his Depravita Aura was critically low. If he pursued, he might overextend—and that would be suicide.

He exhaled slowly.

He was the Depravita of Wrath. But wrath did not rule him—he ruled it.

Turning his gaze downward, Vlad surveyed the battlefield. Though the humans were winning, he knew well that final strikes were just as important as first ones. A helping hand could turn a good victory into a total one.

Without hesitation, his eyes glowed once more. Twin beams of condensed Sundering laser erupted from his pupils, each one surgically precise. They flashed downward, spiraling through the air and piercing straight through the chests of fleeing Voroe Sages. One after another, they fell—clean, merciless kills.

It took more blood. It took more power.

But at last, silence fell over the Korokor Mountains.

The monstrous army of the Voroe—once a tide of endless darkness numbering in the hundreds of thousands—had been obliterated.

Where once there had been unbroken ranks of gleaming silver and monstrous flesh, now there was only a graveyard. Scattered corpses. Broken weapons. The echo of a final scream, fading into nothingness.