CHAPTER 726: HEROES

It took a tremendous amount of time, a copious quantity of blood, and an unimaginable degree of pain, determination, and sacrifice—but at long last, silence reigned over the Voidheart Stronghold.

The once-impregnable fortress, feared across the entire sector, had fallen. Every single Vorometallicae within its walls had been slain. Their blood ran through the streets, soaking into the shattered earth, staining the city red.

Sacred halls were reduced to rubble, temples torn down, and arcane monuments now lay in pieces, casualties of the cataclysmic battle that had erupted within the stronghold’s heart.

All that remained of the original structure were the outer walls—cracked and torn, with a gaping hole left by the first assault. Everything else had been leveled by fire, wrath, and magic.

High in the sky, Marshal Maximo hovered above the ruined fortress. Deep, jagged wounds crossed his body, but he stood without flinching. There was no pain on his face—but neither was there joy. His eyes swept slowly across the battlefield, taking in the carnage, the countless corpses of allies and enemies alike.

A heavy sadness settled over his heart.

He made a silent vow to remember every face of every Graecian warrior who had perished in the battle. They had not died in vain—but that did not make their loss easier to bear.

A faint sound of teleportation echoed beside him.

Maximo turned, and saw Spartacus materialize at his side. The Space Master’s left arm was gone, and the aura of his Legendary Demon Soul—a weapon that had served extremely well—was absent. It had been sacrificed to save his life.

Spartacus took a breath, his voice steady but edged with emotion.

"It was hard... and many perished. But we won. We’ve taken the fortress, dominated the entire southeastern quadrant of the Land of the Three Calamities, and solidified our hold. This war took thousands, but it will save millions."

He turned to Maximo, his gaze glowing with a meaningful light.

"The old man would’ve been proud."

Maximo’s expression twitched at the mention of Elder Damian. The image of the elder’s radiant smile—just before he self-detonated to stop Supreme Leader Kutun—flashed before his eyes.

"It was his dream to conquer this place," Maximo murmured. "I only wish he could have lived a little longer... long enough to see it done."

Spartacus nodded slowly.

"He marched into the heart of the enemy who eluded him for centuries... and died as a warrior, not as a sage confined to a desk. That’s how he wanted to go. There was no regret in him, not even at the end."

The words rang through Maximo’s heart like a funeral bell. He took a deep breath, steadying his soul.

Then, his focus returned. His voice sharpened. Commands began to flow as he resumed his role not as a mourner, but as Marshal.

Spartacus offered a faint smile as he saw his comrade regain his clarity. Without another word, he turned and descended. It was time to focus on healing—or else his cultivation might begin to erode.

The soldiers of Graecia were granted ten hours of rest. The injured were tended to, and the dead were buried with honor. Even in victory, discipline prevailed.

Then came the next stage—restoration.

The first order was to clear the streets of the countless Vorometallicae corpses. If left unattended, the sheer concentration of corrupted energy from their remains could poison the ground, pollute the air, and cause disease. The power lingering in their flesh could turn the ruins into a hazard for any future occupants of the Light.

Fortunately, due to the widespread use of spatial rings, the cleanup was efficient. Sages and Half-Step Legends took on the task eagerly. Though battle-worn, they understood the value in the aftermath. The bodies of Vorometallicae, even broken and battered, were worth a small fortune in rare materials and reagents.

Of course, standard corpses were distributed among the lower-ranked warriors, while the Legendary bodies were kept by the Graecian Legends who had felled them.

Not even five days passed before tens of thousands of humans marched into the ruins—not as soldiers, but as builders, engineers, and arcane formation specialists. None of them was below the Guardian rank. Their mission was clear:

Rebuild. Reinforce. Repurpose.

The city’s ruined walls were repaired, its magical barriers restored, and a new core tower was constructed in the center of the city. Powered by sacred runes and infused with Graecian energy, the fortress now belonged to the Light. The runic formations and magic matrices that once served the Vorometallicae now obeyed the Graecian Masters.

While this transformation took place, two key figures remained absent.

Vlad and Jormungandr.

The True Depravita of Wrath and the True Depravita of Gluttony had secluded themselves inside one of the few buildings left standing—meditating, healing, recovering.

Vlad, though seemingly unbreakable during the battle, had sustained injuries so deep they reached his Soul Dimension. His physical body, a construct of psychic power, could recover from almost anything. But the same couldn’t be said for his soul.

The ability known as the Will of Wrath allowed his essence to surge with explosive force, but it came at a price. He had pushed himself far beyond his limits, and his soul had nearly shattered. It had taken weeks of focused meditation to stabilize and begin the slow process of repair.

He was better now—but still not whole.

As for Jormungandr, he no longer resembled the celestial serpent who had consumed the sky.

On the outside, he had returned to the form of a small yellow cat, seemingly harmless. But subtle signs gave the truth away. The cracks in the ground beneath his paws. The distortions in the air around him. The quiet pull of gravity when he moved.

His Seal of Sin, "Embodiment of Gluttony," allowed his body and soul to transform into a physical construct reflecting the true nature of his Sin. Though he could appear small, his true form was still the behemoth serpent capable of casting shadows over cities and devouring chaotic energy from the void itself.

Channeling the power of that primordial void had taken a devastating toll on him—on both body and spirit. His final clash with a High-Legend Vorometallicae had left scars on his soul. Though victorious, Jormungandr had been forced into deep seclusion to avoid permanent injuries.

Without warning, the two opened their eyes at the same moment.

Sharp focus returned to their gazes as they turned their heads toward the entrance of the building. The air shifted slightly, sensing the arrival of someone outside.

"Come in," Vlad said in a calm, steady voice.

The gates swung open on their own with a low creak, and footsteps echoed a moment later. A figure stepped inside, tall and familiar.

"William," Vlad said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It’s been a while. It seems the war suits you well."

His voice held a note of quiet approval. He could feel the difference in William immediately.

The man now radiated the unmistakable aura of a Legendary Realm cultivator, his soul force dense and steady, coursing through his veins like molten steel. When Vlad had first met William, the man had only been a Half-Step Legend—capable, but not yet ascended. The constant battles, brutal tests, and fire of war had clearly tempered him into something more.

William bowed respectfully.

"Lord Vlad. Lord Jormungandr," he greeted them with a respectful nod and a warm smile. Despite his advancement, he showed no arrogance—only firm, disciplined composure.

He stood tall, but his tone and posture were deferential. He knew who stood before him.

Vlad—the first free man to walk into the Voidheart Fortress not as a prisoner, but as a conqueror.

Jormungandr—the serpent who had annihilated the core tower, breaking the enemy’s back and sealing their victory.

They might both be classified as super powerhouses, but in the eyes of the Graecian Empire, the Depravitas stood at a tier of their own—entities capable of fighting High Legends head-on and surviving. And in Graecia, power demanded respect.

Vlad and the small yellow cat at his side both nodded, acknowledging William’s courtesy. There was no need for formality between warriors who had shared the crucible of war.

"What brings you here?" Vlad asked.

"I come under the command of Marshal Maximo," William said, getting directly to the point. "Our Lord requests your presence at the central tower. There is to be a meeting regarding important matters. Of course," he added tactfully, "he also said that if you are still within healing cultivation, the meeting can wait."

The Depravitas glanced at one another. Though neither Vlad nor Jormungandr had yet reached their peak state, their bodies and souls were stable enough. Their recovery had been long and grueling, but both had passed the threshold of critical healing.

They nodded.

"We’re ready," Vlad said simply.

Without another word, the three set off together toward the core tower.

As they walked through the newly rebuilt streets of the Voidheart Fortress, Vlad and Jormungandr couldn’t help but observe the impressive transformation.

The architecture bore a distinct Graecian aesthetic now—sleek marble, sacred runes etched into buildings, banners of silver and crimson fluttering from archways. What was once a bastion of terror had been remade into a citadel of light and strength.

The streets were clean, paved with runic stones that glowed faintly beneath their feet. Reconstruction had been swift and thorough.

Everywhere they passed, heads turned.

Eyes locked onto the duo—some wide with awe, others shining with admiration.

Soldiers stepped aside to make way. Healers and engineers paused mid-task to bow respectfully. Even high-ranking officers saluted as the pair passed.