Chapter 923: Summon
After dealing with the remnants of the blood honey, Vlad’s gaze swept across the battlefield, cold and calculating. His attention settled on three Devils who had been gravely wounded in the fight against the mutated humanoid bees.
Vlad’s expression was merciless. The citadel was vast beyond measure, a labyrinth that could consume weeks of their time if they tarried. While it was wise to let the Archangel march ahead and clear the path, they could not afford to let too much distance build between them.
If they arrived too late, they risked finding nothing but dust and ashes—or worse, arriving just in time to face Metatron when he was still fresh. They could not wait for the wounded to recover.
Without a word, Vlad raised his hand. Space itself warped, and an invisible force seized the three broken Devils. Their bodies floated helplessly through the air, dragged toward him as if by the pull of a merciless tide.
Horror twisted their features, and terror filled the Devil’s eyes as they understood what was about to happen.
They turned pleading gazes toward their Sector Masters, their mouths opening in desperate cries. But no one moved to save them. In Hell, weakness was a sin greater than treachery. No Devil would throw away their strength for the sake of another who could not defend themselves.
The Eye of Gluttony upon Vlad’s forehead flared to life, its green iris igniting.
"AHHHHHHHH!"
The screams of the three Devils tore through the chamber as their bodies convulsed. Their flesh shriveled, their life force ripped away. Their souls were dragged screaming into the vortex of Gluttony, devoured utterly. When the light faded, nothing remained but dust scattering on the blood-soaked floor.
Vlad inhaled slowly, the stolen essence pouring into him, filling his Red Sun of Wrath and—through Jormungandr’s powers—recording every memory and scrap of knowledge the victims had possessed. Another step toward the location of the Zanis-Hell Portal.
He exhaled, calm once more, and continued forward. The other Devils fell in line, silent and grim.
As he walked, Vlad divided the blood honey within his body, channeling half of it directly into his heart. A wave of bliss crashed through him, vitality rushing through his veins with the force of a storm. His muscles surged with strength, his bones hardened like steel, his blood roared with newfound power.
A small smile crept across his lips. "This will push my body to the very brink of the Legendary Realm in mere weeks."
The treasures of this tomb might be insignificant to Metatron, discarded like crumbs beneath his divine gaze, but for Vlad they were invaluable. Every scrap of strength, every fragment of power, gave him a little more confidence.
The True Depravita of Wrath pressed onward, leaving behind the chamber of shattered hives and bones.
But Vlad, Metatron, Emanon, Hajack, and the Devils of Sector Four were not the only ones who had reached the citadel. Another force had carved its way inside—and Vlad would have recognized one of its members.
"DIE!"
A roar shook the air. A Devil Lord, clutching a blazing orb of fire, hurled it with all his might. Flames erupted in a tidal wave, engulfing the swarm of enemies charging him. The battlefield was scorched as monstrous humanoid ants shrieked and writhed, their carapaces cracking under the inferno until they collapsed, reduced to ash.
The Devil Lord took a long, steadying breath. His name was Moroir, A Devil Lord of Sector Three. His eyes burned with defiance, though exhaustion was etched into every line of his face.
He was not alone.
Beside him stood Skeler, another Devil Lord of their sector. He was a towering specter of death, a skeletal warlord wreathed in eerie green flames. His armor was tattered black steel, fused to his bones as though grown from them. In his grip rested a cursed greatsword that glowed with spectral light, exuding dread and dominion with every pulse. His presence radiated a suffocating aura, and yet even he was weary. The battle had pushed him beyond his limits, his hollow eyes flickering with fatigue.
The two Lords had taken a different path into the citadel than Vlad’s group. And unlike Vlad, they had no Archangel blasting through dangers ahead of them. Every challenge, every monstrosity, had fallen upon them directly. They had faced an entire colony of the grotesque ant-horrors, and only through fire and specter-blade had they survived.
Now, with the battlefield silent and corpses scattered around them, Moroir and Skeler exchanged glances. Their gazes were grim. They both understood the truth. This was only the beginning, and they had already been pushed to the edge of collapse.
Neither voiced it, but both knew they lacked the strength to reach the tomb of the Primordial God.
And yet, there was one path left to them.
They turned their attention toward the surviving Legendary Devils of Sector Three. Barely sixty remained, and even those survivors were battered, broken, and bloodied. Their eyes were dull with fatigue, their bodies trembling with wounds that refused to close.
The Devil Lords did not care for them. They never had. These so-called comrades were nothing but tools.
But they had a purpose.
A dark, unspoken purpose.
Moroir and Skeler shared a meaningful nod. Then, without warning, they struck.
Blinding speed carried them through the ranks. One by one, the Legendary Devils were subdued, their throats crushed, their limbs broken, chains of spectral flame binding them in place. Confusion and terror filled their faces as they struggled uselessly.
"Why...?" one of them croaked, blood leaking from his lips.
The Lords offered no answer.
The captives were dragged together, heaped into a massive pile. Skeler raised his cursed sword, carving glowing runes into the ground, while Moroir summoned flames to burn them into permanence. Together, they inscribed a vast summoning circle, its edges blazing with a sinister light.
The Legendary Devils’ confusion turned to horror as realization struck.
"No... no, wait! Please!"
Their cries were ignored as the circle flared.
Agony unlike anything they had ever known consumed them. Their bodies began to melt, flesh and bone liquefying into crimson sludge. Their screams filled the chamber as their very essence—blood, muscle, and spirit—was reduced to molten plasma, pooling within the glowing circle.
The air grew hotter, the ground trembling as the pool bubbled and boiled. Dark energy swelled, rising to a crescendo as the sacrifice reached completion.
From the churning pool, a figure began to emerge.
Its aura was vast, oppressive, and monstrous. Even before its form solidified, the weight of its presence crushed down upon the chamber like a mountain.
Immediately, Moroir and Skeler dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground. Their bodies trembled, their flames flickering wildly. Fear and awe warred in their faces.