CHAPTER 966: A HAND AND A LEG

Barbatos’s triumphant smile lasted only a heartbeat.

From within the inferno, a hand shot forth—wreathed in violet energy, clutching the molten wrist of the claw that had impaled Vlad. Before the Sacred King could react, a sword flashed downward like divine judgment.

"CRACK!"

"Aaaaaaahhhh!"

A scream of raw agony tore through the sky as Barbatos’s right arm was severed at the elbow. He reeled backward, black blood and liquid metal spraying in a burning arc. Before he could even process the loss, two searing beams of energy struck him square in the face. The impact hurled the Vorometallicae Sacred King across the void.

Despite the pain and ruin, Barbatos recovered swiftly, smoke spilling from his fractured jaw, confusion blazing in his black eyes.

"How...?" he rasped. "My flames should have melted his muscles, burned his bones—he should have ceased to exist."

Then the flames surrounding Vlad began to fade, and Barbatos understood the reason for his failure.

Violet veins pulsed beneath the True Depravita’s skin, glowing like rivers of cursed light. The Eye of Envy blazed on Vlad’s forehead, burning with endless hunger.

"Jealous Hide," Vlad murmured.

The words resonated with the power of sin. The Seal of Sin of Fafnir’s flared across his flesh, converting every strike, every burn, every drop of pain into fuel—adapting his body to resist what had once harmed it. The more the enemy wounded him, the more invincible he became. Before Barbatos’s fire could overcome him, Jealous Hide had already evolved his body beyond its reach.

Barbatos was no fool; he was a warlord who had battled across galaxies for millennia. The moment he saw the violet arteries and their shifting rhythm, he deduced the nature of the ability. But understanding did not bring victory.

Before he could retaliate, the purple eye on Vlad’s brow flared without a warning.

"Allure of Reflection."

Barbatos’s instincts screamed danger. He spun around just in time to see his own shadow move. From it rose no other than the True Depravita of Wrath.

"Impossible!" the Voroe Lord bellowed. "You can’t—"

But Vlad offered no explanation. The Depravita of Wrath had borrowed the Seal of Sin of the True Depravita of Lust, copying Barbados’ shadow ability.

Vlad’s sword ignited with pure wrathful energy, and he lunged.

"Let’s see how you enjoy your own torment."

He channeled every iota of his strength, every drop of hatred and fury, into the rusted blade. When it struck, it carved through the air and into Barbatos’s back with a sound like tearing worlds. The blow carried the Law of Space, rending through existence itself.

Barbatos screamed, the sound shaking the firmament. The cut did not merely wound him—it multiplied. Billions of micro-tears erupted across his flesh, shredding blood vessels, pulverizing organs, grinding bone and sinew into dust.

For the first time in eons, Barbatos felt the scythe of death at his throat.

Madness took him. With a snarl, he ignited a massive portion of his own life force. The air detonated in a sphere of white-hot flame, an explosion that shook the void.

"BOOOOM!"

Vlad was hurled backward, his body scorched and shredded, though Jealous Hide shielded him from the worst of the heat. The shockwave, however, was unavoidable; it tore him off his footing, halting his assault.

Barbatos didn’t waste the opening. Jets of fire erupted from his legs, and he launched himself into the distance. He became a streak of molten light escaping over the horizon.

But as he fled, a cold voice echoed behind him.

"Gungnir."

Barbatos’s eyes widened in horror. He twisted mid-flight and saw it—a radiant spear of light streaking through the air, faster than thought.

"No—!"

The divine weapon struck him squarely in the leg, punching a hole through his armor. The damage was so much that he lost the leg. The impact sent him spiraling, tumbling through the air.

Before the pain could even fade, another beam—a concentrated laser of wrathful power—slammed into his back, burning through layers of divine metal and flesh alike. Blood and molten fragments sprayed from the wound as Barbatos howled.

"Damn you!" he roared, voice breaking between fury and agony. His flame flared desperately, propelling him forward. In the next heartbeat, his form blurred and vanished into the far horizon, leaving behind trails of smoke and molten sparks.

Vlad hovered in the void, his chest rising and falling heavily. The fires of wrath still burned in his eyes, but exhaustion bled through his expression.

He wanted to chase Barbatos down and end it. But he knew the truth—he was at his limit. The battle had drained him completely, forcing him to secretly channel even the Origin Power of Terra to keep pace with the Vorometallicae Sacred King.

With a long, ragged breath, Vlad lowered his sword. Then his gaze fell upon something glinting amid the debris—Barbatos’s severed leg, still smoldering and faintly humming with energy. Vlad stepped forward and lifted it.

The Vorometallicae were unique. Their bodies were their armories, their flesh and blood fused with metals refined by countless lifetimes of cultivation. Each limb was a treasure trove of rare alloys and condensed essence. Even a single fragment could forge a Lord-tier weapon capable of slaying gods.

Vlad’s lips curved into a small, grim smile. "At least some good came of this," he muttered.

But the satisfaction was fleeting. The moment passed, and his focus returned to the trouble at hand.

The Viking ships hovered in uneasy silence. Angelo and the other Viking Legends stood frozen, their faces pale and drawn.

They had come to seek protection under Vlad’s dominion, but what they had just witnessed was beyond comprehension. One of their own had turned out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a monster that would have drowned continents in fire.

Now, after such revelations, how could they even ask for help?

Vlad’s eyes were burning like dying suns. His gaze swept over the group in silence. The Vikings trembled, unable to meet his stare.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Vlad exhaled, the sound carrying a deep sense of fatigue. Without a word, he extended his will.

His psychic power exploded outward—an ocean of invisible force that blanketed the battlefield.

From his body extended tens of thousands of shadowy tendrils, weaving through the air like living storms. They slithered toward the Viking Legends and the weaker warriors huddled within their ships.