Chapter 690: Ten Thousand Stars Fall From Heaven, Standing Above the Sky

On the Thalassian Continent, a tower built from black rock stood upon the barren wasteland. The tower's surface was rough and unadorned, with only two figures standing at its summit.

The Chosen One of the Red Tide stood at the tower's edge, his crimson cloak snapping loudly in the high-altitude gale.

Beside him stood an orc High Priest.

The High Priest wore a ceremonial robe festooned with bone ornaments, clutching a staff entwined with dark red patterns. His face was etched with deep wrinkles.

He looked at the Saint's profile and spoke:

"Holy Saint."

"After all these years of sacrifice, our distance from our god grows ever closer. My god's eyes must have already locked onto this planet."

Having said this, he shifted the conversation, lowering his voice: "It's just... too many of our Kantum people have already walked onto the altars. The population of each clan has now dropped to less than sixty percent of what it was when we retreated to Thalassia. The foundation of the empire is tottering, and we can barely even sustain daily hunting and herding."

"At this rate, Kantum may... may not hold out until the day my god descends."

He hesitated for a moment, then said: "Should we consider... temporarily reducing the frequency of sacrifices? Giving the people a little time to catch their breath?"

The Chosen One of the Red Tide did not answer.

He lowered his gaze, looking at the land before him.

This had once been land the orcs took pride in, the heartland of the empire, the cradle of their thriving existence, vast and magnificent.

In Kantum's most prosperous era, the sprawling wilderness had been dotted with city-forts and tribal settlements of every size. Bonfires never died out day or night, battle songs could carry for a thousand miles, and when hunting parties returned laden with spoils, the younglings would burst out from the gates, surrounding the prey with cheers and leaps.

But what his eyes saw now was a nation in the process of dying.

The once-boisterous orc settlements were now nine out of ten houses standing empty. In a distant camp, two groups of orc warriors were slaughtering each other with bloodshot eyes, the sound of axes and blades cutting into flesh audible from miles away.

The fallen dead and the gravely wounded would be dragged away by the attending priests and carried onto newly constructed altars.

The Chosen One of the Red Tide took all of this in, his eyes utterly devoid of any ripple.

The sacrifices to the deity had been ongoing for many years now.

However, Thalassia was not a bountiful continent. It had been, long ago, but after the orcs' unrestrained plundering and destruction, Thalassia had gradually grown barren, unable to even properly sustain a single empire.

Apart from the orcs, there were no other intelligent races left on this continent.

Even the ferocious beasts and magical creatures had almost completely vanished, driven to extinction by the collapse of the food chain, or unable to reproduce in the barren environment.

So, where did the sacrifices the god demanded come from?

Very simple.

The orcs themselves were now the most suitable sacrifices. The Chosen One of the Red Tide had the orcs under him fight and slaughter each other, with the dead and defeated all being sent to the altars. On one hand, this provided sacrifices to the deity, and on the other, it alleviated the problems brought on by the empire's scarce resources.

As for dying in mutual slaughter, being sacrificed...

The orcs did not care about this at all.

They were born viewing battle as glory, and dying beneath blades and axes was a dignified end.

Moreover, the Chosen One of the Red Tide had told them that the altar was not the gate to the divine realm; those who died beneath it would not be forgotten. Their souls would ascend directly to the god's side, continuing to fight, enjoying glory. And so, as time went on, fewer and fewer orcs viewed the altar as a destination, believing it was a path more dignified than merely surviving.

"Reduce the sacrifices? No."

The Chosen One of the Red Tide said: "My god's glory has suffered tremendous profanation. He will come bearing the fury of world-annihilation, sweeping away all filth and unworthiness."

"But his wrath is directed only at enemies."

"Destruction will not touch us."

"We, we who are his loyal faithful, will be elevated in his wrath, ascending to the eternal kingdom."

He turned around, his eyes fixed on the High Priest, speaking word by word: "Compared to eternity, what is this paltry cost? Being able to walk onto the altar and arrive at my god's side sooner is an honor all the faithful desperately seek."

"The matter of the sacrifices must not be delayed."

"This is my god's will, and it is also the command I give you."

The High Priest lowered his head.

"I understand."

"I will abide by the Holy Saint's will. The sacrifices will not be interrupted."

The Chosen One of the Red Tide withdrew his gaze and looked up at the dim sky.

Low-hanging clouds pressed down over Thalassia. And upon closer inspection, one would find that these clouds were not a natural weather phenomenon. Within them, runes were flickering, outlining faint arcane formations that sealed the sky shut.

Their effect was to block any prying eyes from space.

"The Emperor of Sacred Aola has awakened from his slumber."

The Chosen One of the Red Tide suddenly grinned, revealing a savage smile: "This dragon has chosen the most inopportune moment to wake. Or rather, this is precisely my god's arrangement."

"That's fine."

"He will watch helplessly as everything he has is reduced to ashes, as his empire, his people, his glory, are all burned to cinders in my god's wrath. He will rage, resist, and struggle, but in the end, he will discover that before my god's fury, his struggles are even more laughable than an ant's."

"This great dragon will finally taste the flavor of pain and struggle, just as we have tasted it all these years."

The Red Emperor had awakened, returning in his Immortal body.

This news had even reached the isolated Thalassia, where the Chosen One of the Red Tide learned of it.

Back when this dragon was at the Mandate of Heaven tier, he had already been capable of killing demigod Saints.

The Bone-Gnawing Saint had died beneath his claws, an indelible shame Kantum could never erase. Now that he had reached Immortal, he was certainly many times more powerful than before.

But the Chosen One of the Red Tide felt not a shred of fear.

Sheltered by the god's glory, the faithful fear nothing. He firmly believed that the dragon who had profaned the god would receive his punishment, and he himself would ascend to the divine realm.

The High Priest hesitated for a moment, then voiced the worry in his heart: "After Sacred Aola's Star Network was constructed, our priests also established arcane formations at the first opportunity, concealing the sky specifically to counter the deep-space detection of the Aolan satellites."

"All these years, the formations have operated normally, and the Aolan Star Network has never discovered what we were doing."

"But ever since my god's claws and fangs first appeared in the deep void, the Star Network's scans of the Thalassian Continent have become very frequent, wave after wave, with greatly increased intensity."

"They... may have already discovered something, or at the very least, grown suspicious."

When the sacrifices first began, Kantum had already concealed and hidden the corresponding information.

As the Aolan satellites gradually rose into orbit and wove into a network, the orc priests had further strengthened their concealment level. But as Aola's attention focused here, these concealments could no longer guarantee complete effectiveness.

"It doesn't matter."

The Chosen One of the Red Tide waved his hand dismissively, utterly unconcerned.

"They've discovered it too late."

"My god has already locked onto this world, locked onto Bernardo. Even if our sacrifices were to cease right now, his wrath would still arrive, just slightly slower than before."

"But for an existence like my god, this amount of time is nothing more than the blink of an eye."

"Sooner or later, he will come."

He raised his head, gazing at the sky.

Beneath the camouflage of the arcane formations, the sky showed nothing unusual.

But he knew that an ancient will was approaching with unstoppable speed. As for why it chose to descend upon the Material Plane in this manner... it was a bit strange, but the Chosen One of the Red Tide naturally would not question the god's decision.

The god acted with his own reasons, and the faithful only needed to obey.

"Besides, have you noticed?"

The Chosen One of the Red Tide sneered, saying:

"All these years, that red iron dragon has never dared to set foot on Thalassia even once. Hah, given his arrogant and overbearing nature, if he didn't lack confidence, how could he possibly have been so quiet?"

"He is afraid, afraid of my god's majesty."

"He knows that if he dares to come here, the only thing waiting for him is his end. So he has never dared to come."

The High Priest bowed and withdrew.

Only the Chosen One of the Red Tide remained atop the tower.

He did not return to the temple. His towering frame stood at the tower's edge, his crimson cloak billowing in the night wind, a pair of bloodshot eyes coldly overlooking the land below.

As far as the eye could see, altar after altar was operating in the darkness of night.

The crimson glow of arcane formations pulsed and flickered across the land. The priests' chanting drifted on the wind, faintly audible. Another batch of orcs who had fallen in the slaughter was dragged onto the altars, blades rising and falling, blood pouring into channels, converging toward the center of the altars.

The Saint's gaze swept one by one across the faces of the sacrifices.

Some he recognized.

For instance, a bold and daring warrior from one of the tribes, who had once toasted him, roared battle songs, smashed ceramic bowls. In the slaughter just now, he had shouted the deity's name while swinging his weapon, and shouted it still as he fell, his eyes fixed on the sky, as if he had already seen the gate to the eternal kingdom.

The Chosen One of the Red Tide nodded slightly.

How wonderful.

They would eventually understand that every drop of blood shed today was paving the steps leading to the divine realm, and he, he would lead them all, ascending to the highest place amidst fire and ashes.

The sun gradually slanted westward.

The Chosen One of the Red Tide simply watched, until the night grew deep and the moon rose to its zenith.

He withdrew his gaze, turned, and prepared to return to the temple, to offer his prayers to the great god as always.

Though he was a Saint, already possessing an extremely high status, he never forgot his duty as a faithful servant, praying every morning and every night.

But just then.

The night sky was torn apart.

The concealing formations covering Thalassia couldn't even ripple. Without any warning or sign, the pitch-black night sky was ripped open from the middle like a piece of cloth.

The next instant, a sun came crashing down from the rift!

Light poured down, illuminating the night as bright as day.

Though it was distant, on the other end of the continent, it still shone brilliantly, clearly noticed by the Chosen One of the Red Tide.

He instinctively squinted, gazing at the sun.

Then, this sun began to contract.

Vast tides of flame and light receded toward the center like water, condensing into form bit by bit, revealing a crimson dragon silhouette. Mirror-like scales reflected the not-yet-fully-dispersed firelight, muscles bulging beneath the scales, two pairs of dragon horns spreading across the crown of its head, like a royal diadem.

Across the vast distance, the Chosen One of the Red Tide locked eyes with the great dragon.

Just one glance.

Though the dragon's appearance had changed greatly from his memory, the body smaller, the scales different, and a savage horned crown now adorning its head, with many alterations to its overall form, the Chosen One of the Red Tide still recognized him in the very first instant.

Master of Sacred Aola.

Scarlet Emperor Cangxing.

The blasphemous dragon who had slain the Bone-Gnawing Saint and profaned their god's glory.

"...Blasphemer?!"

The Chosen One of the Red Tide gritted his teeth and muttered, his crimson cloak whipping wildly.

Just moments ago, he had confidently told the High Priest that this dragon would never dare set foot on Thalassia, that he feared their god's majesty.

But before dawn had even broken, the dragon had come.

And in the Chosen One of the Red Tide's heart, his arrival was, to some extent, yet another profanation of the god's majesty.

What made his blood run faster was that although this dragon's form had shrunk, and the sense of pressure seemed less intense than before.

But that was merely what the naked eye could see.

If one were to sweep him with a Saint's perception, one would startlingly discover that within the dragon's body lay vast, boundless power, like a true celestial body appearing here, instantly drawing in all surrounding gazes and perceptions.

At that moment, while the Chosen One of the Red Tide recognized the dragon, the red iron dragon high above also noticed him.

A pair of vertical pupils swept over in this direction.

Then, the great dragon raised one claw, casually tearing forward

Space split open.

The next instant, the red iron dragon's figure had already appeared above the tower, close enough to clearly see its crown-like dragon horns. Every muscle in the Chosen One of the Red Tide's body tensed up.

But the great dragon did not look at him.

The red iron dragon lowered its gaze, sweeping its sight across the land beneath the night.

On the barren, desolate earth, altar after altar glowed with dark crimson light, sacrifices awaiting the blade within them, and a thick, almost unbreakable aura of frenzied violence hanging in the air...

After a brief glance, he roughly understood what had been happening here.

"So that's it."

The red iron dragon withdrew its gaze, looking down at the orc on the tower from above, and said: "So it's you foolish orcs who are providing the coordinates to the ancient Primordial Wastes in the depths of the starry sky, using the flesh, blood, and souls of your own kin as kindling, lighting the signal that attracted it here."

"Everything you are doing is, bit by bit, pushing Bernardo toward doomsday."

He tilted his head slightly and asked: "But I am curious."

"Why have you stopped praying to your deities? Instead, you place your hopes on the Primordial Waste? Can your gods no longer answer you?"

The orcs of Kantum worshipped the Beast of Might from the orc divine system.

Though the Beast of Might was not a particularly powerful deity, it was still a god after all, and its followers certainly did not believe their god was weak.

So the question was.

Why had these orcs betrayed their god and surrendered to the Primordial Waste?

Garoth was asking in genuine sincerity.

However, when his words reached the ears of the Chosen One of the Red Tide, they bizarrely twisted into something else entirely.

In his perception, the dragon was mocking his faith in an extremely contemptuous tone, sneering at Kantum's countless years of devotion and sacrifice, saying their faith was worth nothing at all.

"You!"

The Chosen One of the Red Tide's eyes instantly flooded with blood, fury surging to the top of his head.

"Blasphemous madman who profanes the deity!"

He raised his head, roaring at the dragon in the sky: "Do you think that just because you've become an Immortal, you're qualified to contend with my god?!"

Garoth was briefly stunned.

This response was a bit strange.

Though he and the orcs were enemies, as beings standing at the apex of the Material Plane, his attitude just now should not have provoked such a reaction from an orc.

Moreover, the other party's answer was completely off-topic.

It was somewhat like... what he heard was different from what was said.

The red iron dragon's gaze sharpened, carefully examining the orc Saint before him with the Eye of Truth.

And with that look, he spotted the anomaly.

The orc's pair of eyes.

Dense blood vessels crawled across the entire eyeballs, the blood-red color so deep it was almost black, not a state befitting an orc Saint. Yet, despite having such eyes, the orc Saint's emotions seemed perfectly normal. He could roar in fury, and his logic seemed intact...

It was just that... he definitely had some issues.

"I see."

A flash of understanding passed through Garoth's eyes.

Then, as he looked at the orc on the tower, a trace of faint pity actually emerged in his gaze.

"Mentally twisted, without even realizing it."

"A dignified Saint, eroded by the will of the Primordial Waste, reduced to a puppet with distorted cognition, still believing he serves the old deities."

"Even up to this very moment, you don't realize that the god you shout about is no longer the Beast of Might."

"Truly pathetic."

The great dragon shook his head slightly, saying.

As before, when these words fell upon the Chosen One of the Red Tide's ears, they twisted once again into the most venomous profanation of his god.

"Blasphemer!"

The orc Saint's eyes blazed with fury, his fangs grinding audibly: "You are as arrogant as ever! Daring to step into Kantum's territory alone, a single dragon!"

"Even if Kantum is not at its full strength, that absolutely does not mean you can intimidate us!"

"Since you've come, don't even think about leaving."

The Chosen One of the Red Tide roared low, his crimson cloak pulled taut by the fierce wind.

"A defeated foe should stop its barking."

Garoth couldn't be bothered with more words, saying: "Whatever abilities you have, bring them out as quickly as you can. Let me enjoy the show."

As he spoke, his claw trembled slightly, as if tugging at something invisible.

The Chosen One of the Red Tide did not notice this detail.

His chest, filled with fury and rage, heaved violently. Suddenly, he raised his head and let out a low roar that shook the entire wasteland. Within the roar was the prayer he knew by heart.

"Great Beast of Might, Supreme One who has never lost a hundred battles!"

"Your claws rend all enemies asunder, your roar shatters all resistance!"

"Your faithful fight in your name, victorious in every battle, invincible in every direction!"

"All who oppose you shall be ground to dust; all who shelter under you shall never know defeat!"

"..."

The moment the prayer left his lips, a sudden mutation occurred.

As far as the eye could see, every single orc on the entire continent, whether priests beside the altars or warriors slaughtering each other in the camps, whether old or weak, male or female, all stopped what they were doing at this very moment, roaring at the sky, praying in unison!

"We are your claws, rending all enemies asunder!"

"We are your fangs, devouring all that is profane!"

The roars were like an ocean, converging into a tide.

Streams of invisible power rose from every orc, like a thousand rivers returning to the sea, crossing the night, frantically pouring into the Chosen One of the Red Tide's body.

His aura began to climb step by step.

Muscles swelled, aura surged to the heavens. The orc Saint's body was visibly expanding, the power of countless kin coiling and rising around him, making him seem like an awakened demon god.

Strangely enough.

Their prayers, in Garoth's ears, became indistinct at critical moments, lacking the true deity's title and name.

This also meant their prayers could never truly reach the god's ears.

Moreover, as the prayers rang out, these orcs' bodies began to violently mutate one after another. Muscles tore through skin, bone spurs protruded from spines, and some transformed into monsters with multiple arms and horns...

Including the Chosen One of the Red Tide.

Or rather, the Chosen One of the Red Tide's mutation was the most horrifying of all.

His flesh and blood grew wildly, seven or eight heads gradually condensed into form on his body inch by inch, his frame swelling like a mountain of flesh. Thick black veins and blood vessels coiled around his body, and the original orc appearance was no longer discernible.

Seeing this, Garoth's brow scales furrowed slightly.

"Even the faith of a deity can be twisted, mutating these followers into such a state... Have I perhaps overestimated myself before, and underestimated the weight of an Ancient One?"

Garoth suddenly grew wary.

He realized that he had indeed been somewhat arrogant before.

His string of victories had affected him, making him feel like he could keep winning endlessly. But this kind of thinking was undoubtedly very dangerous.

"A primordial Waste older than the gods themselves, an Ancient One as old as the multiverse..."

"Even if it was defeated by the gods and has lost its former glory, this Egg of Catastrophe is still equivalent to at least a mid-tier deity, and one skilled in combat at that. If it were outside the Material Plane, I wouldn't even have the chance to face an ancient Primordial Waste head-on."

Garoth's heart grew solemn as he thought.

However, although his assessment of the Primordial Waste had risen, he was not filled with fear because of it.

After all, whether you were an Ancient One or a deity, the Material Plane treated everyone the same.

Although at the same tier, the power one could unleash would certainly be vastly different, like two people of equal weight, one a champion fighter and one an ordinary person. The outcome of a fight between them was beyond doubt.

A Level Forty Ancient One was still an undefeatable opponent for a normal Level Forty Immortal.

But Garoth was not normal.

In the Material World, he believed he at least would not be without the power to fight.

Moreover, his Divine Seat had not yet been fully formed. His faith level was still that of a demigod. With his body already Immortal, the negative effects of ascending to godhood had been minimized, and he could maintain the ascended state for much longer.

When the faith of the Lord of Victory and Glory merged completely with him, that was when he was at his strongest.

...Garoth reined in his scattered thoughts and looked at the Chosen One of the Red Tide.

"Do you see, dragon!"

Under the gaze of the Saint, the Chosen One of the Red Tide's voice rang out in overlapping layers: "He dares to contend with the entire Kantum Empire with his own strength?! He thinks he can do whatever he wants there just because he's an Immortal? There's no need to wait for my god to descend. We are enough to bury him."

"Is that so?"

No emotion could be read beneath Garoth's faceplate.

He looked at the orc whose aura was skyrocketing and whose body was twisting and mutating, as well as the spectacular sight of countless orcs mutating simultaneously across the land. He even nodded slightly.

"Keep praying, then. But it would be best if you prayed to me."

"Because your god cannot save you."

The great dragon said this.

As his voice fell, he raised the claw that had been trembling slightly, its tips pointing straight at the sky vault.

"Ten thousand stars, all within my claws."

"Descend upon the world, and cleanse this filthy continent for me."

The next moment, the muscles on his dragon arm suddenly bulged! His right arm swelled a full size larger.

Ten Thousand Stars Fall From Heaven!

The night sky was torn open once again.

The clouds that had blanketed Thalassia for years were, in this instant, ripped apart as if by countless giant hands simultaneously. Beyond the rifts, one, ten, a hundred, a thousand... countless meteorites burning with raging flames were forcibly dragged out from the deep void, trailing long tails of fire, plummeting toward the land of Thalassia with earth-shattering impact.

The Chosen One of the Red Tide's words held some truth.

The difficulty of single-handedly conquering an empire was far greater than that of killing a single Saint. Empire-level powers often possessed means of augmenting their units' strength, just like what the orcs before him were doing.

Without an equally matched legion to pin them down, their Immortal would be amplified to an extremely powerful degree.

Garoth got a bit more serious because of this.

And moreover, it was a perfect opportunity to try out his own techniques.

He had sensed and seized the lines of force as soon as he arrived at the Thalassian Continent, pulling on the nearest meteorite belt and dragging it over.

Now, they had arrived.

One after another.

Meteors fell like rain, cascading fire like a waterfall.

The falling heavenly fire burned the entire continent's sky into a scorched red. The air itself burned, clouds evaporated. On the ground, including the mountain-of-flesh Chosen One of the Red Tide, the orcs' twisted roars and prayers came to an abrupt halt.

All the orcs tilted their heads back, standing frozen in place.

In their pupils was reflected the same scene.

Meteors filling the sky, pouring down in torrents.

Like, divine judgment.

Meteors struck the ground.

BOOM!!

The moment of impact, the earth swelled and rolled like the surface of water. A visible shockwave swept outward along the ground, flinging, crushing, and igniting everything in its path, camps, altars, orcs, rocks... all of it.

Crimson dust clouds shot up into the sky, soaring high, like a crown of fire and ashes.

Beautiful. Dangerous. Deadly.

And this was merely the beginning.

The meteor shower followed in relentless succession, like the Milky Way breaching its banks, pouring down upon the land of Thalassia. Every impact was accompanied by earth-shattering, heaven-cracking thunder.

The ground trembled, magma erupted from the fissures that split open.

The mutated orcs who had been roaring at the sky one second were crushed into dust by the falling heavenly fire the next. Their twisted bodies of flesh and blood were no different from withered grass before temperatures of hundreds of millions of degrees, not even leaving ashes behind.

The sky burned, heaven and earth collapsed.

These orcs had sought to bring doomsday to Bernardo, but before that, doomsday had descended upon them first.

ROAR!!

From within the sea of fire, an earth-shaking roar erupted.

The mountain-of-flesh Chosen One of the Red Tide surged into the sky atop the flames, seven or eight heads roaring simultaneously, his massive body entwined with black veins charging straight at the red iron dragon high above.

"Blasphemer! I'll tear you apart!"

Garoth glanced down at him indifferently.

Then casually waved his claw.

Among the falling meteorites, several dozen suddenly trembled slightly, their descent angles shifting, curving through arcs, all converging toward the charging Chosen One of the Red Tide.

The Chosen One of the Red Tide shattered the first one that came at him.

But more meteorites followed in rapid succession, slamming into him, stacking, crushing...

In the blink of an eye, these flame-burning meteorites, centered on the Chosen One of the Red Tide, converged and collided into a massive sphere, sealing him completely within.

A muffled roar came from within the sphere.

A few breaths later, cracks split across the surface of the massive stone ball, and it exploded outward with a thunderous blast.

The Chosen One of the Red Tide tore through the confinement and burst out.

However, he hadn't even had time to catch his breath.

The red iron dragon extended both claws through the air, muscles bulging beneath the arm guards, and fiercely clenched toward his direction.

Like an invisible giant hand squeezing shut.

All the shattered stones came to life, surging toward him once again.

Fragment pressed against fragment, rock layer atop rock layer, rapidly stacking and fusing amidst the mutated Saint's furious roars. In the blink of an eye, a massive stone sphere formed once more, sealing him back inside.

Shattered, then re-formed.

Shattered again, then re-formed again.

In a short span of time, the stone sphere was shattered by the Chosen One of the Red Tide time and again, but it coalesced anew around him time and again. And with each reformation, the rock layers encasing him grew denser.

Meanwhile, the remaining meteorites continued falling without rest.

The earth trembled without cease, heavenly fire burned the wilderness for ten thousand miles.

The orc empire on Thalassia was being ground into ashes inch by inch beneath this rain of fire filling the sky.

Was such slaughter of life cruel?

To other beings, perhaps it might seem a little cruel.

But Garoth did not think so.

In his eyes, these orcs were beyond saving.

If Halden and Nausil had both brought calamities beyond Bernardo, then these orcs were themselves a calamity living within planet Bernardo. And now, twisted and mutated as they were, they could not be allowed to remain.

Moreover, Thalassia was already barren and desolate to begin with. This baptism would not have much additional impact.

In any case, it all needed to be rebuilt.

That said, Garoth did have a little compassion.

The mutated orcs struggling in the doomsday looked to be in great pain, suffering terribly.

So, he blinked, looked away, and did not watch the scene.

High above, the red iron dragon shifted his gaze to the massive stone sphere that kept emitting muffled roars. His eyes gradually focused, then his claw fingers closed inward, slowly twisting.

Invisible force, layer by layer tightening.

The massive stone sphere began to contract.

Its enormous diameter shrank ring by ring under the crushing pressure of the gravitational field. Within, the Chosen One of the Red Tide's roars grew increasingly muffled, his struggles weakening. Occasionally, he would blast open a crack, but before he could squeeze even half his body out, the crack would slam shut, compressed even tighter than before.

Finally.

The colossal sphere, formed from dozens of meteorites, that had once encased a demigod Saint, was compressed to less than a meter in diameter, becoming a round, dense sphere. And its texture had transformed from rock into something akin to crystal.

Garoth reached out a claw to catch it, weighed it in his hand, then lightly flicked it with his claw tip.

"Saints who once filled me with fear can now only become playthings in my claws."

The great dragon grinned, casually tossing the sphere up and catching it again, like playing with a marble.

A Saint.

Back when he had participated in the wars on the Arotala Continent, facing a Saint had made him choose to avoid conflict without hesitation, turning tail and running. Now, a dignified Saint couldn't even touch his scales, subdued so easily.

"The leap from Mandate of Heaven to Immortal is truly a qualitative transformation. Am I not at least ten times stronger than before? Enemies I once had to take seriously now aren't even worthy of me extending my claws."

Garoth sighed inwardly with emotion.

Then, he weighed the sealing sphere a few times, pondered briefly, and decided not to destroy it.

Killing a Saint held no meaning whatsoever.

Moreover, a Saint could likely never truly be killed. Upon death, they would be reborn within the divine realm. It was better to temporarily seal them away.

Deities and immortal life.

Comparing the two, the latter tended to be slightly stronger in combat skills at the same tier, but the former were actually harder to kill. Because except for extremely rare special circumstances, the deities themselves almost never left their divine realms, always fighting through their various avatars and aspects.

Killing these avatars and aspects had very limited impact on the deity itself.

Furthermore, even if some madman or brave warrior forcefully stormed the divine realm and killed the deity itself, as long as the faith was not severed, as long as believers remembered the god's existence, they could gather power within that faith and gradually resurrect.

In such a situation, the best choice was to seal them up first, then seek a method to permanently end them.

Casually killing them would only give them a chance to resurrect.

Garoth tucked the sealing sphere away, hovering amidst the rain of fire filling the sky, his mirror-like crimson scales reflecting the burning continent below. Once again, he lowered his gaze.

Beneath him, Kantum was dying.

Meteors fell, flames burned through the heavens, thick smoke blotted out the starry sky.

The orc empire that had entrenched itself upon the Thalassian Continent for countless ages was being transformed into a historical record in a single night, exiting the world's stage. And the one who had set all of this in motion stood above the sky.