Chapter 1134. Move Forth and Claim What Is Ours by Divine Right

Chapter 1134: 1134. Move Forth and Claim What Is Ours by Divine Right

Rex let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, unable to suppress the ghost of a smile that her theatrics always managed to coax from his guarded heart. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her against the cold metal of his armor.

"Your ’corner’ happens to be the most critical watch post in this entire operation, Lilith," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. "Without your eyes, the entire flank collapses."

"You aren’t a spectator; you’re the guardian of our rear." He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his gaze unblinking beneath the mask. "And I promise you this: once the blood has dried and the last of Aethelgard’s fools has been buried, you’ll have more of my time than you know what to do with."

"I will make good on that vow."

Lilith searched his masked face for a long moment, her lips parting as if to speak, before she finally released him. "I’ll hold you to an absurd amount of time, Master."

"Don’t think you can escape that debt." Before she retreated back into the shadows, she pressed one last, searing kiss to his jaw, a fleeting spark of warmth that stood in stark, almost painful contrast to the gathering storm of steel and hatred surrounding them.

Rex turned away, the levity fading as quickly as it had come. He began the long walk back toward the center of the formation, each footfall echoing with the finality of a death knell.

The minutes were no longer ticking away; they were bleeding out.

He took his position at the absolute heart of the assembled Underlayer forces, a throne of shadow and steel. From this vantage point, he could see the entire scope of his design.

The northern corridor stretched out before him like an elongated throat, waiting to be fed. Somewhere beyond the sealed stone ahead, the gateway to the surface world waited to vomit forth Aethelgard’s finest: their shining armor, their righteous fury, and their precious lives, all of it destined to be ground into crimson paste against the unyielding stone.

Beneath the mask, Rex’s expression settled into something terrifyingly calm. It was the stillness of a predator who had already won, the unshakeable certainty of a man who had spent months calculating every variable, every angle of attack, every bone that would snap, and every throat that would be slit.

Every woman he loved, every commander he had forged into a weapon, and every soldier he had placed like a chess piece—they were all exactly where they needed to be.

The machinery of death was fully assembled. The gears were greased with anticipation.

Now, there remained nothing left to do but wait for the first scream to echo through the tunnel, signaling that the trap had finally sprung.

...

Deep beneath the western wing of the Grand Academy, in a chamber that had been sealed behind layers of sanctified wards for weeks, the air had grown stale, charged with a static that made the hair on the back of every soldier’s neck stand on end.

This was not merely a room; it was a pressure cooker of divine ambition. The assembled forces of Aethelgard filled the cavernous hall from wall to wall, a sea of polished steel, gleaming white armor, and the righteous fury of a nation poised to strike.

At the epicenter of this contained storm stood Elizabeth. She looked smaller than intended against the backdrop of the gathered armies, but the power she wielded made her appear monolithic.

She stood within the intricate confines of an elaborate ritual circle etched into the ancient stone, her fingers white-knuckled around the key.

The artifact hummed in her grasp, its golden light pulsing in a slow, deliberate rhythm, a heartbeat that seemed to synchronize with the collective, anxious breathing of the thousands gathered to witness its activation.

Behind her, the hierarchy of Aethelgard stood in disciplined, terrifying silence. Apollo and Valentina occupied the vanguard, their presence as immovable as mountains alongside the Avatar.

Behind them stretched endless rows of Apostles and elite shock troops, their weapons gleaming in the magical glow, their eyes fixed forward with a zealotry that bordered on madness.

The tension in the space was physical; it felt as though the very atmosphere had been compressed, pressing against the stone walls as if the chamber itself might burst from the sheer weight of expectation.

Elizabeth began.

Her movements were not those of a frightened girl but of a scholar who had rehearsed this symphony of destruction countless times in the lonely hours of her research.

Her hands began to weave the dual simultaneous grimoire pattern, a technique so complex, so demanding of mental and spiritual fortitude, that lesser mages would have suffered brain hemorrhages attempting it.

Her fingers danced through the air, leaving trails of residual mana that shimmered like liquid fire.

The Key responded with terrifying immediacy. Its golden pulse quickened, transforming from a heartbeat into a frantic staccato.

The light intensified, shifting from a warm glow to a searing, blinding radiance that threatened to burn through retinas. Then, the chamber began to scream.

It started as a faint tremor, a low growl from the bowels of the earth. Then came the cracks—fine, spiderwebbing fractures of golden light that erupted from the ritual circle, spreading outward like the roots of some primordial, celestial tree tearing through solid rock.

The stone groaned in protest, ancient mortar crumbling as the magical pressure reached critical mass.

"Hold the formation!" Apollo’s voice rang out, a thunderclap that cut through the rising cacophony of grinding stone. "Steady yourselves!"

"The goddess commands the path!"

The tremor escalated into a violent convulsion. Dust and debris rained from the ceiling as the light reached an unbearable crescendo, forcing the Apostles to shield their eyes behind armored gauntlets.

Then came the climax: a single, overwhelming explosion of pure dimensional energy that didn’t just crack the wall but seemed to shatter the very concept of space.

A sound like a thousand glass cathedrals shattering simultaneously echoed through the chamber. When the searing white flash finally receded, leaving spots dancing in everyone’s vision, the far wall was gone.

In its place stood a massive dimensional gateway, a yawning maw of swirling energy that defied human comprehension. It was far larger than Elizabeth’s calculations had predicted, a gaping wound in reality wide enough for entire phalanxes to march through side by side.

The space beyond shimmered with a disorienting, kaleidoscopic quality, the distorted light of the Underlayer bleeding through the threshold like ink in water.

A ripple of awestruck silence moved through the ranks. Younger Apostles stared, their mouths agape at the raw, unbridled scale of the magic.

This wasn’t just a portal; it was a violation of natural law.

Valentina gave a single, sharp nod, her composed features betraying nothing but a cold, calculating satisfaction. She had wanted this power, and now it stood before them, raw and bleeding.

Apollo did not wait for the awe to fade. He stepped forward, the clank of his greaves cutting through the ringing silence like a blade.

His voice rolled across the chamber with the absolute authority of a man who knew that hesitation was the only sin left to commit.

"Apostles! Soldiers of Aethelgard!" Apollo roared, his sword catching the sickly light of the gateway. "The path is open!"

"The gods have granted us the throat of the enemy!"

"Move forth and claim what is ours by divine right!"

"MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRCCCCCH!"