Soul God Dominates the Mortal World
Chapter 102: Tired Before Battle...

Chapter 102: Tired Before Battle...

"If I had died, would you know what I now know?" she countered. "Would you know that in two days, their world will host a grand tournament? That their forces will be scattered, their strongest distracted?"

The Progenitor’s growl rumbled deep, but he said nothing.

"They believe their arrogance will shield them. They believe we are still licking our wounds from past wars. But I tell you this—Ivana, their Ice Empress, spared me with the sigil of their god, believing they have bought peace."

Gasps rose.

She reached into her fur and pulled the glowing Deus sigil from within her cloak.

"Look at it. See with your own eyes."

The Progenitor stared. His claws twitched, but he was silent.

Another elder stepped forward. "She speaks truth... The sigil bears divine aura. It cannot be forged."

Still, the Progenitor hesitated. But the spark of pride and strategy flickered in his gaze.

"You will join the final war preparations," he finally said. "You will not be trusted fully... but your knowledge is of value. We will strike when the moons rise on the second night."

The spy-Werewolf bowed deeply.

"As you command, My Lord."

And with that, the armies of the Werewolf World began preparing—unaware they had just swallowed the bait whole.

Within those two days, Earth stood in tense stillness.

It was a silence born not of peace, but of preparation. A calm forged in anticipation, where every second was carved from the ticking hands of an invisible clock that counted down to war.

But it was a calm nonetheless.

Across the continents, forces stirred. Governments, guilds, sects, and rogue cultivators moved in tandem with one singular goal — to prepare for the invasion that threatened the very soul of their world.

Inside the gleaming walls of the Great Lumen Empire, the skies no longer looked the same. The clouds overhead felt heavier, the winds carried whispers of fates unknown. Massive teleportation arrays constantly shimmered in and out of activity, their runic patterns glowing and pulsing like giant mechanical hearts.

Mass recruitment was underway.

Free Souler mercenaries — rogue cultivators, wandering masters, disbanded guild members, exiles, and even some retired legends — were being brought in en masse. Each was interviewed, tested, and tagged with unique soul-seals by special divisions within the Empire’s administrative halls. Offers of heavy compensation, cultivation resources, spirit contracts, and future land ownership poured in.

The most elite of them were grouped into Strike Units, designed specifically for dungeon infiltration and elite combat. Others formed Frontline Regiments, reinforced by the elite beast souls of each Empire’s unique specialties.

The Great Dame Empire, though recently reclaimed by Lancelot, moved swiftly. There was no hesitation.

Lancelot personally led his finest warriors and cultivators to the Great Lumen capital via mass teleportation. Over a hundred thousand elite Souler troops marched with him — uniformed, disciplined, and equipped with the new armor and soul-tech enchanted weapons developed during the Empire’s recent reforms under Deus’ guidance.

The defense of the Great Dame was not left unattended. _{fre.eweb novel\.c om}

Lancelot’s wife, a mysterious Souler Matriarch known only by the title Crimson Widow, remained behind. She was no figurehead. She stood at the peak of Domain Phase, her command over the battlefield chilling even the most arrogant generals to obedience. Alongside her, three of the Seven Bounty Hunters remained — Scar, Iron Fang, and Thorn Wraith — each with enough reputation to silence rebellion before it even took root.

They coordinated closely with the remnants of Lancelot’s loyal Souler Army, ensuring that not even a rat would crawl out of the shadows unnoticed.

Meanwhile, over at the werewolf world...

A crimson haze colored the skies — their twin moons now glowing ominously red, as if they themselves sensed the battle to come. The great mountain — home to the Progenitor — pulsed with energy. The summit was surrounded by banners of the various werewolf clans, fluttering in the cold wind that swept across the rocky peaks.

Tens of thousands of werewolves had arrived.

Each of them powerful in their own right. Their humanoid forms adorned with partial transformations — some bearing glowing fangs, some claws, others mantles of fur covering their arms, backs, and shoulders. Their eyes gleamed gold or red, and every breath they exhaled misted with killing intent.

Clans that had not seen eye to eye for centuries stood side by side, united by the promise of Earth’s conquest.

The Progenitor stood tall before them, his massive form encased in ceremonial warhide, speaking to them with a voice that echoed through the bones of the mountain itself.

Though he did not reveal all that transpired with the spy he sent, he confirmed the plan:

"We strike during their celebration. They will be distracted. Their unity is a veil — not a wall. Their weakness is their hope."

The spy werewolf stood behind him, silent, marked by the sigil of Deus and protected by Ivana’s illusion to keep its secret hidden — playing her part flawlessly.

Back on Earth...

Ivana stood atop the glacial palace tower within Great Lumen. Her long white hair billowed behind her, the silver runes of her armor catching the early morning light. She looked out over the city — seeing the movements of cultivators, the final preparations of war, and the giant dome that now crackled with divine reinforcement, thanks to Deus’ layered soul constructs.

In the distance, the central platform of the upcoming World Tournament was being finalized — the greatest global celebration of Souler strength, ironically scheduled to begin in just under 48 hours.

"Two days," Ivana whispered coldly, eyes narrowing.

"Two days... until the blood begins to fall."

But for now... Earth stood strong.

And somewhere above it all, Deus watched silently — his divine perception trailing across the realms, observing, calculating, waiting.

The stage was nearly set.

Only fate remained undecided.

Within the sanctum of the Empress’s private chambers—silent and dimly lit, with icy-blue flames flickering gently in wall sconces—the air shimmered faintly. An ethereal hush seemed to settle across the palace, as if the very Empire held its breath, waiting.

Ivana stepped inside, her silver battle dress sweeping the smooth marble. Her expression was calm, but exhaustion clung to her frame like the frost that clung to distant windows.

Deus sat in a reclined posture on a floating platform of glowing sigils, his silver hair cascading like molten moonlight, his sharp eyes warm and steady as they fell upon her. The light around him bent ever so slightly, as though unwilling to intrude upon his divine presence.

Ivana came to a stop before him.

Then she bowed, a deep and respectful motion that carried weight. It wasn’t the bow of a subordinate, nor of a subject. It was a gesture of trust. Of reverence.

"All preparations are complete," she said, voice soft but controlled. "The Souler Armies from the major empires are gathered here in Luxenhold. Lancelot has arrived with his forces. The Free Souler Guilds have been deployed to defensive positions, and the Sanctums are under watch. Every possible countermeasure for the portal rupture has been laid out."

She exhaled deeply, straightening up, and for a brief moment, her proud composure cracked. Just slightly.

"But..." she said, her tone loosening as she looked at him—not as Empress Ivana Frost, but as a woman bearing the weight of a world. "I won’t lie to you, Deus... it’s been exhausting. Keeping the leaders in line. Balancing the fears of the public with the bloodlust of the generals. Managing the whispers and treachery that rise in times like these."

She brought a hand to her temple, rubbing it with a sigh.

"I’ve barely slept. Haven’t eaten properly in days. And worst of all, I haven’t had a moment to just breathe..."

Her voice trailed off, and she looked away, embarrassed to admit weakness. Not to her court—but to him.

There was silence for a beat.

Then Deus’s voice came, deep and calm, but laced with a kind of playful gravity.

"Come here."

Ivana hesitated for a second, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his tone. Then she stepped closer. His eyes met hers.

"You’ve done well, Ivana," he said, his fingers lifting to gently brush a lock of white hair behind her ear. "Better than anyone else could have in your place."

She closed her eyes at his touch.

"But you’re no use to me—or this world—if you collapse under the weight of your crown," he murmured. "And you deserve more than just endurance."

His hand brushed her cheek, thumb tracing the soft skin beneath her eye where faint shadows had begun to form. "You deserve to feel like yourself again."

Ivana opened her eyes slowly, meeting his gaze.

"Then tell me how," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He smiled faintly, and his tone dropped to that low, teasing register only she knew.

"I have the perfect way to help you relax."

She blinked, confused for a second—then his hands were already moving, slow and deliberate, reaching behind her to undo the clasps of her battle dress. Her breath caught, but she didn’t stop him. She simply watched his expression, searching for anything that wasn’t genuine.

There was none.

"Deus..."