Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 725: The pain of victory (II)

Chapter 725: The pain of victory (II)

The destruction of the core tower of the Voidheart Fortress brought a silence so unnatural, that it seemed the entire world held its breath.

For a single moment, everything paused.

Then came the flood.

A wave of triumphant exhilaration surged through the hearts of the Graecian Legends—an overwhelming sense of victory, of justice, of vengeance fulfilled.

At the same time, the Vorometallicae forces fell into chaos. Their hearts, once burning with purpose and unholy conviction, now plunged into a bottomless void of despair.

The battlefield shifted instantly.

The core tower had not just been a building. It was a beacon, a nexus of energy feeding the souls and bodies of every Vorometallic warrior. Its destruction didn’t just rob them of strength—it crippled them.

Their souls screamed in pain as their direct link to the tower’s power was abruptly severed. What had once empowered them now betrayed them. Their internal channels surged with volatile feedback, tearing through their Soul Dimensions, disrupting energy flows, and destabilizing their very existence.

All across the battlefield, Voroes dropped to their knees, vomiting blood, and trembling as pain overtook discipline.

"KILL EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THESE BASTARDS!"

Marshal Maximo’s voice tore through the chaos like a divine blade, cutting through hesitation and fear. His face was twisted with wrath—but deeper than that, with grief.

"FOR ELDER DAMIAN!"

That name sparked something sacred in the hearts of the Graecians.

They saw again the image of the ancient mage, smiling as he stood before Kutun, knowing his death would be the key to their salvation. They remembered his calm defiance, the glow in his eyes, and the word he’d uttered just before he exploded like a miniature sun.

"FOR ELDER DAMIAN!"

The chant thundered from every corner of the field.

From the skies, Jormungandr let out a cry that split the clouds. His massive form coiled and dove, targeting a crippled Vorometallic High Legend, driving it into the earth like a divine meteor. The impact leveled an entire plaza.

Spartacus was next. His blade, now coated with sundering force, cut through another Legendary enemy in a clean arc, bisecting its head and torso in a single strike. Rage and sorrow danced in his gaze.

"FOR ELDER DAMIAN!"

The Graecian Legends surged forward, fueled not only by power but by purpose. Their strikes grew more vicious, their movements sharper. They unleashed every ounce of energy, every drop of divine strength, every last breath in their lungs to wipe out the Vorometallicae who still resisted.

Even the Sages and Half-Step Legends chanted the name as they tore through the battlefield. Their killing intent was so fierce that it infected the air. Even the mind-controlled Vorometallicae foot soldiers began to tremble, their programming overridden by an ancient emotion that still existed deep within their hearts and souls.

Fear.

And in the heart of the storm stood Vlad.

The True Depravita of Wrath was still locked in brutal combat with the three High-Legend Automatons. Their bodies were forged in platinum-laced alloy, their movements precise, fluid, and inhuman. And yet, they were weakening.

Vlad, still surging with divine rage, pressed his advantage. His eyes blazed with fury, but beneath them was something deeper: grief.

He hadn’t liked Elder Damian when they first met. The man had stood in his way, blocking him from gaining a noble title. But in time, Vlad had come to admire the old mage’s integrity.

Damian had always stood for justice and fairness. If someone didn’t earn a title, they would be denied—even if they were royalty. But if someone earned one through merit, even if they were hated, Damian would stand by them without hesitation.

He was fair. He was incorruptible. He was a warrior, not just of strength, but of honor.

And now he was gone.

"It should not have been this way."

That thought carved itself into Vlad’s mind. If not for the interference of these Automatons, he could have destroyed the tower, and Elder Damian would not have been forced to sacrifice himself.

But more than anything, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that these Automatons weren’t part of the Vorometallicae arsenal.

Someone else had sent them. A hidden hand. A third player. And Vlad had a very good guess who it had been.

However, before facing hidden enemies, Vlad needed to take care of those in the open.

First, he had to win.

Vlad’s heartbeat exploded again, wrath rushing through his body like a tidal wave of molten iron. With a deafening roar, he launched himself forward in a blur of motion. He teleported, vanishing and reappearing in a split-second behind one of the Automatons.

His fist struck its back, shattering the armor and forcing the construct to one knee.

Another turned, attempting to intercept him. He teleported again—above it this time—and brought his heel down into its shoulder, sending sparks flying. The third tried to flank him, but Vlad preempted it, hurling a column of void-imbued fire to knock it back.

Each blow he delivered was calculated not to destroy, but to disable.

If these constructs were truly external to the war, they could be used as evidence—proof of interference by a hidden power.

His strikes targeted joints, engines, and servo-nodes. His movements were precise, relentless. He danced around them with supernatural speed, each teleport taking him to the next vulnerable spot.

The Automatons grew slower with every minute. Their power sources had been linked to the now-destroyed tower. The last of their borrowed energy was sputtering. Their movements became jerky, their strikes easier to predict.

Finally, after an exhausting series of feints, counters, and devastating blows, Vlad managed to bring them down, drained up to the last iota of energy left in them.

Two of the Automatons were on the ground near him, while the third was embedded in a wall not so far away. Vlad was ready to seal them.

But then something shifted.

The Automatons began to glow.

Pulses of light erupted from their chest, quick and rhythmic—unnatural, unstable.

Vlad’s eyes narrowed.

In an instant, he understood.

The ones behind the High-Legend Automatons were no fools. They had anticipated failure and built a failsafe into their creations. If things didn’t go their way, the Automatons were programmed to self-destruct, ensuring that no trace of their origin, purpose, or creators would be left behind.

It was a flawless plan—at least, if they were facing anyone else.

But they weren’t.

They were facing the True Depravita of Wrath.

Deep inside Vlad’s soul was a powerful artifact—an A.I. Chip. More than just a tool, it was an extension of his being, growing stronger as his soul evolved. Now that Vlad’s soul force had ascended to the Legendary Realm, the chip’s capabilities had expanded dramatically, unlocking a lot of powerful abilities and functions.

Vlad’s body flickered.

In the blink of an eye, he teleported to two of the Automatons that were closest. He planted his hands on their heads, gripping their metallic skulls with unyielding force.

"Stop their self-destruction!" he commanded.

[Beep... Task assigned.]

The robotic voice of the A.I. Chip echoed calmly in his mind. Immediately, arcs of glowing blue light extended from his fingers into the Automatons’ bodies. Electrostatic tendrils spiraled around the machines as the chip’s electromagnetic interference began suppressing the internal countdowns.

Stopping the self-destruction of fully energized Automatons would have been near-impossible. But now, with their energy drained and their systems flickering, it was feasible. The only requirement was direct contact—and Vlad had managed to seize two of them just in time.

But the third...

"BOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!"

A massive explosion shook the battlefield as the third Automaton detonated, its body erupting into a dome of flame and shrapnel. The blast engulfed Vlad entirely, sending smoke and fire in all directions.

But when the smoke cleared, the True Depravita of Wrath stood firm, cloaked in a field of pure wrathful energy. His skin was scorched, his arms were still locked onto the other two Automatons, and his expression had hardened into a grim scowl.

All that remained of the third Automaton were scraps and ashes—evidence now lost forever.

Still, he did not loosen his grip on the surviving two. They continued to flicker and spark, but the A.I. Chip’s influence worked steadily, draining and neutralizing their internal detonators. Their internal balance was slowly stabilizing, the threat of explosion decreasing with every passing second.

Vlad exhaled. He couldn’t afford to rejoin the fight—not while these Automatons were active. A single distraction could reignite the failsafe.

But he didn’t need to fight anymore.

As he gazed across the burning ruins of the city, he saw what was unfolding.

Victory.

The Graecian forces had completely dominated the battlefield. With the tower destroyed, the Vorometallicae had lost their enhancements, their composure, and—most importantly—their hope.

In one sector of the city, Spartacus led a brutal charge. His blade was a blur of golden steel, cutting down three Vorometallic elites in the span of seconds.

Nearby, Sages and Half-Step Legends raced through the ruined streets like vengeful shadows, killing everything in their path.