CHAPTER 836: ATILA

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The place where these strange forces appeared was the Antartik Continent, and the name of the newly conquered Xaos stronghold was Ice Cube, named for its immense, glacial walls. The defensive force stationed within consisted of some of the finest elites in the Xaos Kingdom—the Royal Guards: Clasius, Mirena, Frank, Roman, and Amara, accompanied by the mighty Fang.

In the skies above them floated the colossal, serpentine form of Jormungandr, the True Depravita of Gluttony. He stood in his true form, as an ancient serpent of lightning and life, his body coiled like a storm across the horizon.

It was Jormungandr who first noticed them.

A vast army—silent, merciless, and terrifying—appeared on the outskirts of the Ice Cube fortress. They numbered around eighty thousand, roughly the same number as the Xaos forces currently occupying the stronghold. Ordinarily, such an even matchup would pose no challenge for the Xaos Kingdom. Their training, experience, coordination, and superior gear usually guaranteed victory even when outnumbered.

But this time was different.

Both the True Depravita of Gluttony and the ever-watchful Nightmare Knights, stationed within Ice Cube, could feel it: a chilling sense of danger. Their instincts flared—not with anxiety, but with a primal, bone-deep warning. Something monstrous approached.

There was no declaration of war, no roar of fury, no advance warning. The strange army simply began marching forward, emerging slowly from the heavy mists that clung to the southern tundra.

And then their forms came into view.

At the head of the enemy army were twisted, demonic creatures—massive beasts the size of massive warhorses, clad in bone-like armor. Their bodies bristled with spikes, and from every joint and plate emerged sharp ridges of blackened bone. Most terrifying of all, they had eyes—dozens, perhaps hundreds—scattered across every inch of their grotesque forms, allowing them to perceive the battlefield from all directions with a terrifying clarity.

Marching directly behind them were the abominations—monstrosities forged from necrotic flesh and dark power. Towering humanoid horrors made up of twisted corpses fused together, their grotesque limbs swollen with coiling, unnatural muscle. Heads groaned from their shoulders, arms, and chests, each with burning green eyes that radiated endless hunger. Crown-like arrays of bone jutted from their backs, and the stench of death rolled off them like a fog. And yet—despite their appearance—there was intelligence in their gaze. They were not mindless undead. They knew what they were doing.

More than that, many of them housed massive energy pools within their bodies, allowing them to generate their own gravity, hovering above the snow.

Suddenly—

"ZNNNNNNNN!"

A violent beam of lightning cracked through the sky, shocking every soldier. It came not from the enemy, but from Jormungandr, and its target was the weakened ice wall surrounding the fortress. At first, the move seemed self-sabotaging—attacking his own defenses—but those who understood Jormungandr’s tactics saw the brilliance immediately.

The ice wall, though once powerful, had been damaged during the previous battle. Holes, fractures, and exposed chambers had made it a liability—vulnerable to infiltration. By collapsing it, the wall was reforged into a dense, sealed barrier, compacted by glacial pressure and reinforced by arcs of lightning that fused the structure into a living electric dome.

"Defensive Formation A-1!" boomed Jormungandr’s voice across the battlefield, vibrating through the minds of every Xaos warrior.

Immediately, the army responded.

The Reapers moved to the front, their immense bodies and hardened armor making them ideal for vanguard defense. Directly behind them rumbled the Xaos Tanks, ready to unleash mechanical fury. Lastly, the Xaos Soldiers arranged themselves in tight, layered formations. Above them all, in the skies, hovered the Royal Guards, Fang, and the elite Xaos Sages and Sky Fighters, preparing for aerial response.

As the formation stabilized, Jormungandr began charging.

The ground quaked as he drew energy not only from the world itself but from the Void beyond, condensing it into a massive energy cannon. Thanks to his recent evolution—and the enhancement of his soul—he could charge the devastating attack far faster than during the campaign in the Doomsday World. Within seconds, a pulsating sphere of lightning plasma formed at his maw.

Then, he fired.

The beam screamed across the sky like a wrathful god’s judgment, its power so immense that even nuclear detonations would pale in comparison. It was aimed directly at the heart of the enemy army, meant to annihilate thousands in a single, cataclysmic blow.

But then—just as it was about to strike—

A figure moved.

So fast it was nearly invisible, the figure cut straight through the beam, sundering it in two!

Gasps and cries of disbelief rippled across the Xaos ranks. Even Jormungandr’s immense gaze widened.

Someone had stopped an energy cannon capable of killing a High Legend.

The entity descended from the sky slowly, letting his presence drown the battlefield in dread. He was a warlord of apocalyptic bearing, his body encased in jagged, nightmarish black armor that seemed to ooze molten darkness. Every limb was adorned with razor-sharp spikes, turning his silhouette into a weapon unto itself.

From his helm, two glowing crimson eyes stared with eternal wrath and cruel intelligence. His weapon—a massive, ancient sword, chipped, cracked, and eternally dripping with old blood and ash—was not a sword in any traditional sense.

There was no edge in the weapon since it was not made for cutting. It was more akin to a cleaver of realms, built not for elegance, but destruction, to crush all those that stood in its way until there was nothing left.

He stood tall and proud in the center of the monstrous army, unmoved by the chaos around him. The ground beneath his feet withered and burned, unable to endure the presence of his cursed form. Around him, the abominations marched like an unstoppable tide, yet they all kept a distance from him—as though he were some sacred, infernal entity.

Then, finally, the warlord raised his gaze toward the sky, locking eyes with the True Depravita of Gluttony, a smile arising in his face.

His voice—cold and thunderous—cut through the silence.

"Face the might of Atila."