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Chapter 429: 429
The well-being and survival of his people were what mattered most. He had even entertained the idea of gaining stronger vampires through this battle. Unfortunately, that hope was quickly dashed—the Zealots’ blood was tainted, repulsive to his kind, and unfit for consumption.
High above the battlefield, a massive creature blended seamlessly with the night, its piercing gaze fixed on the clash below. The enormous figure of Roth stood amidst the chaos, but unlike the other demigods, he seemed to require no assistance.
Ebonwrath, the black dragon, watched with growing interest. The longer he observed Roth, the more he liked him. His selfishness, his decisiveness—these were qualities that resonated deeply with the dragon.
Unfortunately, duty called. He had to assist the demigods, for the safety of billions—and for the safety of the dragons themselves. If the pillar was not placed soon, the wrath of the gods’ counterparts would inevitably turn toward them. Their actions had already drawn divine attention, and the consequences would be severe.
Yet, Roth faced a dilemma. If he was to focus on the goal, he needed someone strong to safeguard his people. And Ebonwrath just so happened to be that someone.
With that thought, the dragon let out a thunderous roar, its echo rolling across the battlefield.
To his intrigue, the demigod was not surprised by his presence. Instead, Roth simply nodded in acknowledgment before decisively pulling back the thick smoke. Lifting the heavy Rune Pillar onto his shoulders, he turned away, striding toward his objective.
His actions made one thing clear—he was leaving the rest to Ebonwrath.
Ebonwrath, his scales shimmering like obsidian in the dim light of the battlefield, descended with a thunderous beat of his massive wings. The air crackled with raw power as he landed amidst the disorganized Zealots, the force of his landing sending tremors through the ground and scattering the already disoriented cultists. He didn’t bother with a breath weapon, not at first. Instead, he moved with a surprising agility for his size, his claws raking through the Zealot ranks, each swipe leaving behind shattered bones and torn flesh. The Zealots, still reeling from the disorienting mist and the sudden appearance of the colossal dragon, could offer little resistance. Their distorted light, so potent against vampires, was useless against Ebonwrath’s thick scales.
One Zealot, larger than the rest and radiating a particularly intense distorted light, attempted to challenge the dragon. It lunged forward, its form flickering and warping, trying to bite at Ebonwrath’s leg. The dragon, however, simply sidestepped the clumsy attack and with a swift flick of his tail, sent the Zealot crashing into a nearby rock formation. The impact shattered the rock and left the Zealot groaning, its distorted light flickering erratically.
Ebonwrath then unleashed his breath weapon. a torrent of pure acid. The acid engulfed the remaining Zealots, chilling them to the bone and further disrupting their already fractured perception. Their cries of terror echoed through the battlefield as the acid constricted around them, crushing the air from their lungs. The distorted light that emanated from them was snuffed out, leaving only the faintest glimmer within the oppressive thick acid.
The vampires, witnessing the dragon’s devastating power, surged forward, emboldened by the sudden shift in the battle. They moved through the lingering wisps of mist, their fangs bared, and finished off any Zealots who managed to survive Ebonwrath’s initial onslaught. The battle, which had seemed so precarious moments before, was now decisively in their favor.
Ethan, the current leader of the vampires, along with three other vampire leaders, had surrounded an exceptional Zealot—one marked by dark wings and a halo hovering behind its head.
As the dragon’s presence loomed over the battlefield and the vampires steadily gained the upper hand, the Zealot’s form flickered before it abruptly vanished into the otherworld. There, a single drop of blood awaited it—one it swallowed without hesitation.
A similar scene was unfolding on Ikem’s side. By now, Ikem had long departed from the battlefield, leaving only his five grandchildren and the transformed captain still engaged in combat. Like the other Zealot, the captain’s flickering form disappeared into the otherworld, where a drop of blood awaited, which it, too, consumed.
Meanwhile, on the northern continent, the situation was taking an even stranger turn. Like the other demigods, Maul strode across the land in his giant form, carrying his own Rune Pillar while a small army of his people protected his steps. However, unlike the others, Maul showed no concern—his wife was a dragon, and he had long anticipated their possible intervention.
When the Zealots appeared, Maul’s expression remained unchanged. He continued along his path, soon disappearing into the distance, leaving his people behind to engage the enemy.
At first, the battle seemed more like a training exercise for his warriors. From above, Amethyst—soaring in her dragon form—occasionally lent her aid where needed. Unlike the grand entrance of the other dragon, her presence was expected; the werewolves already knew their queen was a dragon.
Even with the Zealots’ overwhelming numbers, the werewolves fought with ease—until something changed.
At first, the shift was subtle, almost unnoticeable. The werewolves assumed they were simply overpowering their enemies. But as the battle raged on, the truth became clear.
The Zealots weren’t just fighting—they were throwing themselves to their deaths. Blows that should have merely knocked them back instead landed in fatal spots, as if the Zealots were deliberately positioning themselves to be killed.
Something was deeply wrong. What should have been a straightforward battle—where heroes clashed against villains—had twisted into something else entirely. The werewolves, once clear protagonists in this struggle, now felt like the villains, while the Zealots, in their unnatural desperation, seemed like the true victims.
To make matters worse, some of the Zealots appeared to have regained their consciousness. Tears streamed down their faces, their eyes filled with fear and sorrow as they rushed toward the werewolves.
The seasoned warriors of the pack felt an unsettling unease creeping into their bones. The Zealots’ suicidal attacks were disturbing—not because of their ferocity, but because of their lack of it. Their movements were jerky, uncoordinated, as though they were mere puppets being forced into battle by unseen hands. The way they flung themselves to their deaths, their faces twisted in terror, turned what should have been combat into something far worse. It was no longer a battle—it was a massacre.
"What in the name of the moon is going on?" growled an elder werewolf, his fur bristling with confusion and an ever-growing sense of dread.
He had just witnessed a young Zealot, no older than a pup, throw himself headfirst into the outstretched claws of a werewolf warrior. A sickening crunch echoed through the battlefield as the Zealot’s skull shattered. The werewolf—normally a fierce and unshaken fighter—staggered back, horror flashing across his face.
Meanwhile, the leaders of the werewolves had surrounded their own exceptional opponent—a Zealot unlike any other.
It was a skeleton with darkened bones, wings sprouting from its back, and a sinister presence that sent a chill through even the most hardened warriors. Its strength was undeniable, and the strange aura surrounding it made the werewolf leaders hesitate to get too close.
The weight of death clung to the creature, thick and suffocating.
Then, just as before, the skeletal Zealot vanished.
The werewolf leaders instantly went back-to-back, their claws tensed, their eyes darting in every direction. They had faced this sight before.
And they knew—it would return.
At that moment, the skeleton reappeared—this time above them. 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙥𝙪𝙗.𝒄𝙤𝙢
The sense of danger it exuded was magnified tenfold, sending a chilling pulse through the battlefield. The werewolf leaders, reacting on instinct, shouted in unison, "Your Highness, Amethyst!"
But they were too late.
For some unknown reason, the skeleton’s form began distorting, emanating a chaotic, unstable energy. Then—without warning—a deafening explosion tore through the night, lighting up the sky above the northern continent like a second sun.
When the dust settled, the devastation was clear. Craters scarred the land, and bodies lay strewn across the battlefield. But the true horror had only just begun.
Without warning, rain began to fall.
A bewildered werewolf reached out, letting the droplets land on his outstretched claws—only to realize that this was no ordinary rain. A thick, viscous liquid slid off his fur, carrying a strange, unsettling energy.
The rain coated both the living and the dead Zealots, drenching their bodies. And as the substance seeped into them, an all-too-familiar sensation filled the air—the same dreadful aura that the skeleton had given off just before it detonated.
Realization struck instantly. The werewolves didn’t need words.
They ran.
But the horror unfolded too quickly.
One by one, the Zealots began to explode, their bodies bursting apart like unstable bombs. What had once been an easy, almost one-sided battle had turned into a nightmare. The werewolves, caught off guard, found themselves engulfed in the cascading chain of explosions.
Thankfully, Amethyst was there.
With a roar, the dragon queen summoned a massive crystal shield, encasing the nearest werewolves within its protective barrier. The survivors huddled beneath it, their hearts pounding as the sounds of screams, rupturing flesh, and the sickening squelch of bodies being torn apart filled the air.
