CHAPTER 964: HIDDEN ENEMY

The second gaze came from none other than Overlord.

The A.I. Chip Clone’s analysis was unburdened by emotion. His eyes, glowing faintly with divine circuitry, processed every possibility, every variable, every potential outcome.

From a purely objective standpoint, the situation was dangerous.

His wariness had nothing to do with xenophobia. It was logic—cold, precise, and irrefutable.

The refugees in the damaged fleet were exactly what they appeared to be: weary, wounded Vikings fleeing tyranny. Overlord’s scans detected no one above the Guardian Tier, aside from the handful of Legendary Vikings standing before them. In theory, that meant they could easily be contained and safely integrated within the Xaos Kingdom. There was plenty of land, and the Kingdom had more than enough resources to support them.

But the true danger lay elsewhere.

If the Xaos Kingdom granted sanctuary to Valhallan refugees, Antorus would have a perfect pretext to declare war. All he would need to do was brand these survivors as traitors or criminals and accuse the Xaos Kingdom of harboring them.

A war, justified in the eyes of the universe.

And while Overlord did not fear Valhalla, he saw no logical benefit in protecting a handful of wounded refugees at the cost of interplanetary conflict.

The A.I. Clone’s judgment was simple: the refugees were not worth the risk.

Vlad released a quiet sigh as he caught the intent behind Overlord’s gaze.

He understood the Archangel’s reasoning—it was flawless, perhaps even correct. But reason alone was not enough.

People were not data points.

The True Depravita of Wrath would always prioritize the safety of his world, but he could not, in good conscience, abandon millions of innocents—women, children, the elderly—to drift helplessly in the void. Not when he possessed the power to protect them.

He was about to speak, to give his decision, when a strange sensation rippled through him.

Something was wrong.

It was faint—an instinct more than a thought, a whisper echoing deep within his soul. Something unseen, something that didn’t belong.

His eyes narrowed.

His A.I. Chip began scanning every individual within the fleet, analyzing Angelo, the Legends beside him, and even the civilians aboard the ships. But no matter how deep the scans went, they revealed nothing suspicious. Every reading confirmed what Angelo claimed—they were weak, injured, and desperate refugees.

But Vlad’s instincts screamed otherwise.

He had learned long ago never to ignore that feeling.

His gaze sharpened, and power began to stir within him.

The next second, the air trembled as all the True Depravitas dissolved into streams of psychic energy, merging into his soul. The fusion was instantaneous.

A storm of divine wrath burst from Vlad’s body, shaking the void.

Angelo and the other Vikings flinched, their eyes widening as his aura erupted into being. They could not comprehend why the Xaos King had suddenly ascended into his strongest form, but Vlad offered no explanation.

He closed his eyes briefly, then reached deeper—beyond sight, beyond reason—into the resonance of souls. His will spread outward like an invisible tide, brushing against every heart and mind in the area, feeling for the faintest discord in the harmony of existence.

Then he found it.

A flicker of corruption.

A presence that did not belong.

Vlad’s eyes snapped open, glowing with molten light. His hand clenched, and the Rusty Sword appeared, its dull blade humming with ancient, terrible power.

Without a single word, he moved.

Vlad blurred forward, a flash of silver and crimson streaking through the void. His aura was raw, violent, and filled with killing intent so absolute it silenced even the stars.

Angelo’s eyes widened in shock as Vlad closed the distance, sword raised high.

"Wait—what are you—?!"

The Viking’s voice faltered as realization dawned too late. He did not even try to resist. His face softened, and a weary smile touched his lips.

"At least... I can finally rest."

But the killing blow never came.

The sword passed through him harmlessly, phasing through flesh and soul alike.

Confusion swept through the Vikings.

"What—what just happened?" Angelo stammered, spinning around—

—and then came the scream.

A cry of agony tore through the fleet, echoing across the void.

Vlad’s sword, which had passed through Angelo, had struck another—Amir, a respected Legendary warrior who had fought valiantly during the exodus. The blade was buried in his chest, energy rippling outward in violent pulses as they flashed into the distance, away from the fleet.

At first, no one understood. Amir had been a hero, a savior to many of the refugees. Why would Vlad attack him?

But then they noticed something strange.

The sword had not pierced him. It had stopped, embedded against his chest, as if hitting something far denser than flesh.

A faint metallic ringing filled the air.

Angelo’s eyes widened in disbelief as Amir’s missing arm began to regrow—not as flesh and blood, but as an amalgamation of molten metal and rotting tissue. The reconstructed limb pulsed like a furnace, streams of magma running through exposed veins of steel.

Before anyone could react, Amir’s eyes turned black. His jaw split open with an unnatural shriek as the newly formed arm struck Vlad with impossible force.

"BOOM!"

The impact sent Vlad hurtling backward, spinning through the void as waves of corrupted energy followed in his wake.

For a moment, the Vikings stood paralyzed, unable to process what they had seen. There was no way Amir—whose realm was far beneath Vlad’s—could unleash such power.

Something inhuman had taken root within him.

Vlad regained control mid-flight, his expression grim but steady. Without speaking, he cast a single sharp glance at Overlord.

The Archangel responded instantly.

The Nightmare Universe expanded outward once again, its dark tendrils unfurling across Terra’s edge like the wings of an abyssal god. It formed a flawless barrier, protecting the planet below.

At the same time, Overlord’s figure appeared in the heart of the Viking fleet.

Golden light flared from his body, creating a radiant sphere that shielded the refugees from the shockwaves of what was about to unfold.

Overlord did not value these people—but Vlad’s command was absolute.

With Terra and the innocents secure, Vlad was free to focus entirely on the enemy before him.

The corrupted being that had once been Amir convulsed, its body twisting and melting as flesh, bone, and steel fused into something monstrous.

The transformation was grotesque—muscles interlacing with cables, veins glowing like rivers of molten alloy. Armor plates grew from his skin, reshaping and cracking as heat bled through every seam. His skull elongated, the flesh peeling away until only a metallic face remained, its mouth glowing like the mouth of a furnace.

When the metamorphosis ended, the creature stood tall, a grotesque hybrid of machine and nightmare, radiating both technological precision and biological madness.

Every breath it took exhaled waves of heat that made the air itself shudder.

A living engine of destruction.

A horror born of progress and pain.

Vlad’s expression hardened.

He had seen creatures like this before and fought against them in a Doomsday World.

"Vorometallicae," he whispered, voice cold as steel.