Unrivaled in another world
Chapter 38: End of Rot

Chapter 38: End of Rot

[: 3rd POV :]

A thick silence followed the tremor that Daniel’s transformation had unleashed.

The chamber, already fractured from the might of the Seven Overlords, now pulsed with a new, deeper dread—a fear that none of them wanted to admit.

Daniel stood at the centre of it all, cloaked in his Apocalyptical Form.

His wings curled slowly behind him, folding space with each subtle motion, his void-draconian eyes watching—waiting.

The seven horrors of old, beings feared by realms and worshipped by countless lives, were now rooted in place by something they had not felt in aeons:

Uncertainty.

Fear.

Existential dread.

Zar’Kael, whose presence once silenced the air, took a cautious step forward.

His body of galaxies and nebulae dimmed.

"Who... are you?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper, not out of respect, but out of disorientation.

It wasn’t the name he sought. It was the truth.

Because what now stood before them was not a being that should exist.

Daniel tilted his head, his expression cold, almost amused.

"Who I am doesn’t concern you," he said, his voice layered with harmonic echoes—each one carrying a different emotion, disdain, calm, amusement, fury.

"But what should concern you... is whether any of you will leave this place alive."

His words didn’t echo in the room—they carved themselves into it, bending sound to obey his tongue.

A guttural snarl erupted from Ixellion, whose solar body blazed brighter in frustration.

"Insolent worm! Just because you’ve undergone some evolution doesn’t mean you can defeat all seven of us!"

He raised a molten blade formed from a condensed solar flare, its edge screaming with heat.

Daniel didn’t flinch.

Instead, he raised a single finger.

That was it.

And yet, a ripple shot across the chamber—no flash, no flame, just a distortion.

Suddenly, Ixellion’s burning blade cracked down the middle.

The flames sputtered. The heat fell.

It didn’t break from force—it rebelled from its wielder.

"W-What—?" Ixellion looked at his weapon, stunned.

"Your flames burn... beautifully," Daniel said, stepping forward, his voice soft. "But in the end, it’s nothing right in front of me."

Myraen shivered.

Even her tapestry of fate—stitched into the fabrics of causality—was beginning to fray.

She had seen destinies unravel, but never had she seen something whose very existence consumed the weave she crafted.

"He’s not tethered to law," she muttered, eyes wide. "Not to time... or outcome..."

Varnokh’s breath released in a mist of decay.

"Then we must end him ourselves. Now!"

Daniel stopped mid-step.

His wings opened wide—not as an attack, but as a warning.

"Try it," he said.

The chamber darkened.

Shyros trembled within his dream cocoon.

The divine fetus wept louder, and as his tears hit the ground, dream-beasts fled.

They fled—asleep yet aware that the nightmare before them was not part of sleep.

It was beyond a dream. B

eyond death.

"Tell me all of you," Daniel said, turning his gaze toward the Overlord of Void. "Do you remember what it felt like to be prey?"

Zar’Kael stiffened, eyes dimming.

"You’ve stood at the top for too long. All of you have. Feared. Worshipped. Eternal. Immovable."

Daniel’s tail swept behind him, leaving a scar across the ground.

"But all things rot. All things fall."

’’And all things have an end to it’’

"Nonsense!" Varnokh roared, his voice tearing through the air like a plague wind.

No longer willing to stand idle in fear, he surged forward, a wave of corrupted mist swirling in his wake.

Shadows of long-dead kings screamed in silence behind him, bound to his will.

Upon his brow, a jagged, rust-colored Crown of Doom materialised, forged from the bones of perished empires.

With its emergence, a pulse of raw, rotting energy burst outward, shaking the very concept of permanence.

His Blessing ignited, a power that corroded reality.

His Stigma, the Mark of Finality, burned across his chest, searing through armour and skin alike.

His Grace poured from him like a fog of demise, and as his Core awakened, the air itself began to wither.

And with his Throne, he took dominion over the Concept of Rot—not just death, not just decay, but the very essence of deterioration itself.

He became an entity not bound by flesh, but by collapse.

With speed that tore the space around him, Varnokh launched forward and slammed his fist directly against Daniel’s arm—

CRACK!

The entire chamber shook... and then fell silent.

Varnokh’s eyes widened in disbelief.

There was no impact.

No destruction.

His full strength, layered with his Blessing, Stigma, Grace, Core, Throne, Commandment, and Origin... amounted to nothing.

Daniel didn’t budge.

Not a scratch, not a twitch.

Instead, he raised his gaze and looked at the Overlord of Rot with faint amusement.

"How interesting," Daniel murmured, tilting his head slightly, his voice echoing with harmonic undertones.

"The powers you wield... I haven’t seen those before."

Varnokh staggered back, his breath shallow.

"I-I am decay incarnate...! My very essence ends all things!"

"You tried to rot something that already stands beyond just decay," D

aniel replied, calmly brushing a speck of dust from his chest.

"Your decay... is irrelevant."

Infuriated, Varnokh howled and summoned his weapon—a curved, obsidian blade known as Verus Decay, a sword said to erode even the soul.

Its edge shimmered with anti-life, vibrating at a frequency that corroded essence and meaning alike.

With a scream of wrath, he slashed toward Daniel’s throat.

But Daniel was no longer there.

He blurred past the blade like vapour and reappeared behind Varnokh before the sound of the strike even echoed.

Still, Varnokh refused to relent.

He unleashed a flurry of slashes, each one more aggressive than the last, creating arcs of decay that cut through stone, space, and matter alike.

And then, with a furious chant, he summoned thirteen swords of rot from the sky—each forged from a different civilisation he had personally erased from history.

They descended like a plague—unstoppable, cruel, ancient.

Daniel simply looked up and punched the air.

The moment his fist moved, reality screamed.

A singular shockwave exploded outward from the punch, not of air, but of void force.

All thirteen swords were annihilated before they even reached him—ripped apart by the sheer pressure, reduced to fragments of rust and smoke.

Varnokh stood frozen.

His rot had failed.

His throne trembled.

His commandment felt like a lie.

"Is that all?" Daniel asked softly, his wings unfurling once more behind him, casting a vast shadow across the walls.

"Because if you’re finished, I’ll show you what it means to be on the other end of true extinction."

And for the first time since his ascension, Varnokh felt his existence begin to decay.

And he trembled not in fear, but in fear and refusal.

Even after his previous attacks had failed—after his most devastating sword strikes, his rot-imbued essence, and the overwhelming might of his Throne were casually rendered meaningless—he refused to accept it.

He roared, and the decaying air around him turned into a vortex of entropy.

"No... I am not done!"

His aura expanded violently, his rot spreading like a plague devouring the world itself.

Symbols of Doom began forming behind him—thirteen rotating sigils of ancient calamities. He activated one after another:

Ashen Reversal: a curse that rewinds the body’s healing and accelerates decay.

Graveburst Halo: A ring of necrotic explosions that implode life on impact.

Witherbrand Pulse: – Bursts of rotting waves that melt essence instead of flesh.

Rotten Dominion Fangs: – Spiritual fangs that pierce through barriers and latch onto soul threads.

Decaying King’s Fall: – An anti-divine meteor forged from forgotten bones.

They came all at once—cascading, collapsing, detonating around Daniel.

And yet... nothing worked.

Every spell, every divine weapon, every cursed invocation...was deflected, absorbed and denied.

Daniel stood in the centre, untouched—his expression growing dull, almost bored.

It wasn’t even resistance.

It was as though reality bent around him, refused to let him be affected.

The very essence of causality seemed to collapse in service to him, stripping Varnokh’s arsenal of purpose.

Still, Varnokh would not relent.

Breathing heavily, eyes bloodshot, he activated his ultimate commandment—his final trump card.

His voice boomed through the plane, shaking the chamber.

"DOMAIN: KINGDOM OF RUINED TIME!"

The chamber warped into a vast field of decay.

Skies split open.

Mountains wept as they crumbled into sludge.

In this place, everything he wished would rot.

Concepts.

Thoughts.

Hope.

His confidence soared as the environment instantly reacted, cracking the floor, dimming the light around Daniel, trying to pull even his presence into dissolution.

But Daniel... stared at it.

And smiled.

A calm, almost mocking smirk.

Then, he whispered.

"End of Epoch."

The words weren’t loud.

They didn’t need to be.

The moment they left Daniel’s lips, a shiver passed through the core of the world.

The domain—once infinite, once absolute—flickered.

The skies inverted.

The rot reversed.

The commandment that fueled the Domain trembled—and then, like ash blown by cosmic wind—

It vanished.

Erased and overwritten.

The entire Kingdom of Ruined Time blinked out of existence as though it had never been.

Varnokh’s crown cracked.

His throne wailed in silence.

All of the Overlords—each a godlike force—froze in place.

"What... was that...?" Myraen breathed, her voice barely audible.

"That... wasn’t a skill..."

"No," Zar’Kael said grimly. "That was the truth...a power that shouldn’t exist on this planet!’’

And then, the fear came.

Real fear.

Fear that clawed at their ancient egos.

Varnokh now stood disarmed—stripped of pride and throne, eyes wide, trembling.

"...No..." he whispered.

But Daniel was finished playing.

"I tire of your tantrums," he said softly, his tone as distant as the stars.

He opened his mouth, and the atmosphere dropped into silence.

A deep, pulsing darkness began to gather at his throat.

"Oblivion Breath."

The words alone made the space quake.

From Daniel’s lips came no roar—only a stream of eerie, muted flame, tinged with destruction, void, and nothingness. It was not a fire.

It was erasure.

A breath that consumed not just matter, but identity.

It devoured the soul.

Burned through spirit.

Erased law and unmade commandments.

Varnokh, sensing the end, unleashed everything—shields, spectral copies, final blessings, barriers of rotting cosmos—

But the flames consumed it all like dry leaves.

He tried to dodge.

Even the residual vapour—a mere whisper of that annihilation—was enough.

Varnokh’s scream never left his throat.

His body, soul, spirit, name, and concept of existence—

All gone.

As if he had never been born.

As if he had never been feared.

Silence reigned.

The Overlords stood frozen.

None dared to move.

Because in that moment, they all knew—

They were not facing a rival.

They were facing a force that even the cosmos had no word for.