CHAPTER 861: I AM A UNIVERSE OF NIGHTMARES

Passing through the monstrous, grinding maws, Vlad found himself in a realm unlike anything he had ever faced—a place of endless horror and ceaseless torment.

Here, millions upon millions of mangled bodies were fused into a single nightmare reality. Flesh, bone, and soul merged into a grotesque tapestry where despair was the only constant and torment the only truth. Light had long since been devoured; hope was but a forgotten whisper. Everything that entered this place was fated to meet its end... only to be reborn as yet another fragment in the endless cycle of suffering.

Not even a second after his arrival, a wave of formless, pulsating corruption surged toward him, latching onto his legs. It was not just physical. As the flesh touched him, he felt the psychic weight of billions of screaming souls forcing their way into his mind. Their collective agony echoed with such intensity that it felt as though his very skull would crack open at any moment.

For any other being at the Legendary Realms, that would have been the end. Their mind would have shattered instantly, their sense of self obliterated before being absorbed into the monstrous consciousness that ruled this place.

But Vlad was a True Depravita. The core of his nature was to confront, endure, and command negative emotion and psychic force.

His eyes flared with fierce willpower. Every fiber of his being rallied, not merely to resist the screaming voices, but to dominate them—to wrest control from their chaos and bend it to his wrath. His face became a mask of absolute focus and strain, as if he bore the weight of the world upon his shoulders, using every shred of strength to keep moving forward, refusing to fall.

And it began to work.

Bit by bit, the deafening psychic storm weakened. The howls of the damned lost their edge, their will faltering under the relentless dominance of the True Depravita of Wrath.

Outside, in the real world, Freya, Jormungandr, Ouroboros, Fafnir, the Overlord, and the remaining defenders of the Xaos Kingdom watched the nightmare sky intently. They knew Vlad must have had a reason to hurl himself into the writhing mass of darkness and horror.

As they watched, they noticed the great mantle of flesh begin to slow in its descent... and then stop entirely. Awe and cautious hope rippled through the ranks.

"Did... he succeed?" Freya whispered, her voice trembling.

Just as the question left her lips—just as the soldiers allowed themselves to believe the nightmare might be over—just as hope dared to take root in their hearts—

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

The laughter erupted from every maw in unison, a chorus of mockery and disdain that shook the very air. Billions of eyes turned toward the people of the Xaos Kingdom, staring at them the way a cruel child might watch ants in a glass jar. Then, slowly, the mantle resumed its descent.

A hunger gleamed in those countless eyes, the kind of hunger a man has for a long-awaited feast. It reveled in their moment of false hope, savoring the despair that bloomed anew now that it was clear they had achieved nothing.

"Attack!" Freya roared, her voice fierce and unyielding. "Never surrender to despair! As long as there is breath in your body—fight!"

Her heart ached with fear for Vlad, and she knew they lacked the power to truly harm the nightmare. But she refused to lie down and die.

"Fight until the end!"

Her words struck the warriors like lightning. Shaken from their paralysis, they gritted their teeth and charged, launching attack after attack into the nightmare sky. Weapons flashed, spells ignited, and every drop of their remaining strength was poured into the assault.

Their blows tore at the mass, but the damage was pitiful. The writhing flesh and countless eyes mended themselves in seconds. Yet still, the defenders struck again and again, digging deep into the core of their existence for just a little more power.

The monster’s response was not pain—it was amusement. The eyes glimmered with sick pleasure. The maws curved into obscene smiles. The more they fought, the more exquisite their eventual despair would taste. It wanted them to believe they had a chance, just so it could crush that hope completely.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Inside the nightmare realm, Vlad heard the same laughter—but here it was different. It wasn’t sound carried by air. It was in his mind.

It tore through him with such force that for a moment, he thought his brain would split apart. The echoes pounded in his skull for what felt like minutes, shattering the control he had so painstakingly gained over the psychic storm. The voices of billions returned, not as a distant roar, but as if each one screamed directly into his ears.

Finally, the laughter ceased, replaced by a voice that boomed inside his head like thunder.

"You really thought," it said, dripping with amusement and contempt, "that you could take control of my existence through sheer willpower?"

The voice was ancient. It carried the weight of time immemorial.

"When I say I am old, I mean older than your world, older than your gods. And when I say I am a universe of nightmares, I mean it literally. Within me are countless souls—each one alive, each one aware—yet caged for all eternity as part of my being."

Pride radiated from its tone, pride born from existing on a level so far beyond Vlad’s that it was like comparing a mountain to a grain of sand.

"If I had attempted to possess you, perhaps your little trick might have had a chance to work," the voice continued. "But it was you who entered my body. And not even Lords can endure the weight of billions of souls, all screaming in perfect, unending psychic agony, funneled directly into their minds."

Its voice deepened into a growl. "Let me show you."

The next instant, Vlad was struck by a psychic assault unlike anything he had faced before.

If before the screams were like a storm around him, now they were inside him—raw, immediate, as though billions of people were shrieking directly into his ears, clawing at his mind from every direction.

His vision blurred. His eyes lost focus. His thoughts scattered like leaves in a gale. His will buckled beneath the pressure, and the last threads of resistance began to unravel.

He could no longer think. No longer fight.

Assimilation had begun.