Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 767: The White Death has spoken

Chapter 767: The White Death has spoken

Octavio’s eyes widened in horror. Terror filled every inch of his being as he stared at the incoming blades, realizing there was no way to escape. Death was mere heartbeats away, his body frozen, his soul bracing for the end. The swords were moments from piercing his flesh when—

"Hmph."

A single sound echoed across the land.

It was soft, barely more than a breath, but the sheer power it carried was overwhelming. The blades, mid-air and moments from their mark, shattered—fragmenting into glittering dust that disintegrated before they could touch the earl. But that was not all. The sound reverberated through space like a celestial gong, crashing into Vlad with the force of a tidal wave.

The True Depravita of Wrath was launched backward—hundreds of meters—his body tumbling through the air like a discarded doll before slamming into the earth. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to regain his footing, stunned by the sheer pressure.

Still gasping from the near-death experience, Earl Octavio blinked and looked up, only to find a figure floating above him—calm, composed, and infinitely imposing.

It was a middle-aged man.

He wore layered robes with long, flowing sleeves and broad garments that suggested nobility, wisdom, and spiritual authority. The fabric was not that of warriors or Vikings but of sages and ancient philosophers. His attire was loose-fitting, ceremonial, and draped like the cloth of mystics who observed the stars and whispered to forgotten gods.

His hair was tied into a topknot, adorned with what appeared to be a ceremonial headdress. Feather-like ties extended from its crown, dancing in an invisible wind. His long, flowing beard and mustache were symbols of age and deep-rooted wisdom. A distinctive scar in the shape of an X cut across his face, a cruel brand that only added to his enigmatic aura.

His stance was firm and grounded. He did not need to move or gesture to assert dominance—his mere presence sufficed. His arms rested calmly beneath the folds of his robe, and yet it felt as though the world itself dared not stir without his permission.

There was no energy radiating from him.

And that, more than anything, unsettled Vlad.

It meant this man’s power was so absolute, so perfectly controlled, that it could not be sensed. Not even the tiniest ripple escaped his grasp. Vlad’s expression darkened. There was only one kind of being that could suppress their aura so completely.

A Lord.

An entity above the Legendary Realm. A true sovereign of existence.

"The mastermind," Vlad thought, gritting his teeth.

It made sense now. Someone like Earl Octavio could not have orchestrated the farce that was the Tournament of Destiny. The true architect had to be someone whose strength was so profound, so terrifying, that it made even the mighty too afraid to question it.

And now that person stood before him.

The sheer difference in power was suffocating, like staring up at a mountain that pierced the heavens while drowning in a swamp. Vlad had always known there was a possibility that a Lord might intervene. But even then, he would never have let Freya die. He would never have stood down.

Taking a deep breath, Vlad steadied himself and stepped into a battle stance. His body ached, blood still trickling from his mouth, but his eyes gleamed with defiance. No matter how powerful this man was, he would not back down. He would not yield to fear.

The middle-aged man’s gaze narrowed at Vlad’s defiance. Slowly, calmly, he raised his right hand.

The earth groaned beneath them.

Across thousands of kilometers, the terrain trembled. Mountains shifted. The air became heavy, vibrating with an unseen force. Even the sky seemed to hold its breath, anticipating an attack that could crush worlds.

"ZNNNNN—"

And then, just as the energy reached its crescendo—

A second figure appeared.

An elderly woman, aged and regal, her gray hair woven into braids crowned with silver. Wrinkles etched her face, but instead of diminishing her, they made her look eternal—a beautiful force that transcended time.

She wore ancient Viking armor, her body adorned with glowing totems that pulsed with prehistorical power. Each symbol etched into her armor seemed to whisper stories of Valhalla, of glory and battles sung into legend. Though she was older, her aura radiated majesty and divine presence.

She reached out and gently grasped the middle-aged man’s raised hand.

Instantly, the tremors vanished.

The energy evaporated like mist in sunlight. The overwhelming force disappeared, neutralized without resistance.

"Another Lord."

Vlad’s eyes narrowed, mind racing.

Though her life force appeared weaker than the man’s, her presence was no less terrifying. She was a powerhouse—a supreme authority in the universe.

The middle-aged man stared at her, a storm of silent fury brewing behind his calm expression.

"I am handling an outsider," he said. "Do you truly wish to start a war over this?"

The old woman stared directly into his eyes. There was no fear in her gaze, only unshakable resolve. Then, she released his hand.

"You can kill that young man if you want," she said, pausing briefly, a cold smile touching her lips. "However, if you do... it will be your end."

The man’s eyes narrowed further, a solemn light flickering within them. He no longer spared Vlad even a glance.

"Speak," he demanded.

The old woman nodded.

"The White Death has spoken. If any Lord in Valhalla dares to kill Vlad Xaos... he will kill that person."

For a moment, silence fell.

Even the birds stopped mid-flight.

The middle-aged man, a being who could travel through Hell and the Abyss without fear, visibly stiffened. A flash of dread passed through his eyes.

The notion that a Lord might be executed over a mere Duke seemed absurd—an outrageous cause for an interstellar war. Yet if there was one absolute truth in this universe, it was this:

The White Death always keeps his word.

Entire worlds lay in ruins as proof. Broken planets. Extinct empires. Whispers across the stars all repeated one thing:

Do not test him.