CHAPTER 239: UNWORTHY OF A MASTER

Seeing his two hundred divine champions getting systematically crushed under the iron weight of Caius’s war machine, Archon Lysander collapsed to his knees in the blood-stained courtyard. Panic and humiliation stripped away his arrogant demeanor. Clutched tightly in his trembling, bloodied hand, the ancient medallion pulsed with blinding, unstable light.

"Father!" Lysander shrieked toward the heavens, his voice cracking with desperate terror. "Hear your son! The void has opened! A dark god has descended upon us! Grant me your divine host! Save your chosen vessel!"

Above the mountain ridge overlooking the imperial capital, the sky ruptured with a sound like tearing parchment.

A monumental spatial rift, miles wide and crackling with divine lightning, tore open the firmament. Down onto the high mountain slopes poured a massive, glittering sea of two thousand fully armored soldiers, each burning with the unmistakable, dense aura of a refined mana core, bearing the silver-and-crimson crests of the Western Peak.

Before the dust could settle, a second rift tore through space directly beside the first. Another two thousand core-bearing warriors marched out into formation, their armor gleaming with the golden-azure banners of the Eastern Peak.

The two eternal rivals, the warring pantheons that had bled the continent for centuries, had united their divine hosts against a single, unclassifiable anomaly.

A colossal figure clad in heavy, golden divine plate stepped to the cliff’s edge, his voice echoing across the valley like rolling thunder. "Foreign entity! Unregistered core-bearer! Why do you meddle in the divine affairs of this realm and disrupt the balance of the mundane world? Throw down your weapons and surrender to divine judgment!"

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Standing amidst the slaughter in the courtyard below, Caius slowly threw back his hood, revealing his cold, unblemished face and the glowing violet light of his Eye of the Loom. A sharp, mocking laugh tore from his throat—a sound devoid of warmth or fear.

"Meddle?" Caius’s voice carried across the field, thin as a razor, yet cutting clearly through the divine aura saturating the air. "Your pathetic son brought two hundred lackeys to my feet and attempted to wrap me in chains. He sought to turn me into his deity slave."

Caius took a slow step forward, his violet eyes locking onto the mountain ridge with absolute, icy contempt. "I don't give a damn about your petty god games in this world. Your son wanted to make me his slave... but he isn't even worthy of being mine."

Before Lysander could even process the words, Caius raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.

A thick web of abyss-black spatial threads erupted from the earth beneath Lysander. Like liquid night, the threads wrapped instantly around the Archon's limbs, torso, and throat, severing his connection to his medallion. Lysander let out a strangled gasp as the dark threads constricted with crushing force, devouring his mana, his flesh, and his soul in a matter of seconds.

Lysander vanished completely—eroded from reality until not even a speck of ash remained on the cobblestones.

Without breaking eye contact with the four thousand deities assembling on the mountain, Caius gave a subtle, downward wave of his hand.

Behind him, the Heavy Vanguard Infantry moved with terrifying, mechanical efficiency. Stepping through the debris, the living soldiers systematically slit the throats of every surviving, captured core-bearer from Lysander's fallen vanguard, terminating the threat without a second thought. Blood pooled across the stones as the 324 infantrymen, 13 mage cells, and 100 Barbarian Knights instantly reformed their tight, impenetrable ranks directly behind their master.

On the high mountain ridge, the golden-armored herald stared down at the utter erasure of Lysander and the ruthless execution of their vanguard, his face twisting into an expression of murderous wrath.

"Insolent, bloodthirsty vermin!" the herald screamed, raising a flaming greatsword into the sky. "Kill him! ATTACK! BRING ME HIS HEAD!"

Four thousand divine champions let out a deafening war cry, surging down the mountain slope like a tide of gold and iron.