I Have 10,000 SSS Rank Villains In My System Space Chapter 434: Annihilators?

Razeal ultimately finalized the agreement with Perfecto, though the terms weren't precisely what he initially sought. Nevertheless, the outcome was far from trivial. He secured ten thousand B-4 model units, each designated as an 'Annihilator' by Perfecto himself. This moniker proved fitting, and upon comprehending their capabilities, Razeal found no grounds to dispute it.

The B-4 model units Razeal acquired transcended ordinary soldiers. Individually, each unit possessed a combat prowess akin to a peak S-rank warrior in this world, yet even this comparison felt inadequate once their full potential was understood. They were not living beings susceptible to hesitation, fatigue, or imperfection. Instead, they were meticulously engineered machines built for combat with absolute precision. Their movements were sharp, calculated, and faultless; their reflexes nearly instantaneous. Their combat execution was augmented by an immense database of fighting styles, techniques, and tactical frameworks pre-programmed into their systems. They didn't merely know how to fight; they comprehended combat to a degree that enabled real-time adaptation, transforming every encounter into data that, in turn, refined them further. In prolonged engagements, they wouldn't just hold their position; they could actively evolve.

And therein lay their true menace.

Because while individually they might stand at peak S-rank, their effectiveness escalated exponentially when operating in coordinated groups. With flawless synchronization, zero communication latency, and shared processing logic, it was not an unreasonable assumption that multiple units functioning in concert could, under favorable circumstances, pressure, overwhelm, or even eliminate opponents at the Saint or possibly Saint King level. This wasn't due to superior individual strength but their design as an integrated system rather than disparate combatants.

Their internal construction was equally astonishing.

Each B-4 unit featured a skeletal structure composed of Neutronium Composite, a material meticulously derived from neutron star matter. This substance was compressed, stabilized, and engineered into a functional form, serving as the core of their entire physique and bestowing incredible density, durability, and structural integrity. Yet, the innovation didn't cease there. This central core was not static; it possessed the ability to transition into a liquid-metal state, enabling the unit to reconfigure itself following damage, reform its structure, or even alter its physical configuration entirely based on operational needs. Dismantling such a construct would prove exceedingly difficult, demanding overwhelming force, and even then, its permanent destruction was far from guaranteed.

Encasing that core was a layer constructed from an Adamantine-based nanostructured lattice, extending from their internal circuitry to their external synthetic skin. This layer was programmed for dynamic property adjustment, instantaneously shifting between extreme flexibility and rigid hardness. In its hardened configuration, it achieved a level of toughness thousands of times greater than diamond. Conversely, in its flexible state, it facilitated fluid motion and adaptive combat responses. Coupled with their self-repair mechanisms powered by advanced nanotechnology, these units could mend structural compromise and restore operational capacity over time without external intervention.

And then came the aspect that rendered them truly terrifying.

Each individual unit housed not only combat prowess but also extensive technological knowledge. Provided with adequate resources and materials, they possessed the capability to construct additional units of lesser tiers, which were nonetheless highly functional and dangerous. Furthermore, they could enhance themselves over time, refining their internal systems, boosting performance, and evolving beyond their initial design parameters. They were not merely soldiers; they were mobile manufacturing facilities, adaptive systems, and evolving entities, all rolled into one.

And Razeal now possessed ten thousand of them.

Originally, Razeal had set his sights higher. He had requested B-6 model units, those operating at the peak Saint King level, powered by tier-six nanotechnology and high-grade nuclear cores. These were on an entirely different echelon, vastly surpassing what the B-4 units offered. However, Perfecto had unequivocally rejected that proposal. Instead, he presented an alternative deal: millions of B-2 units, significantly weaker, barely reaching B-rank levels of strength. This was an entirely unacceptable proposition for Razeal.

Thus, he engaged in further negotiation.

He escalated his demands, proposing an exchange for ten million B-5 units, attempting to strike a balance that would still grant him formidable power. Yet, Perfecto refused this offer as well. Ultimately, the final accord stipulated ten thousand B-4 units, with the condition that Perfecto would analyze the blood sample Razeal had provided. If this research yielded results of significant interest, future negotiations could potentially grant access to higher-tier models.

And this time, Razeal did not press his advantage any further.

In that crucial moment, he grasped a vital truth.

While avarice had its place, so did opportune timing. This present situation was not a defeat, but rather a stepping stone. More significantly, it granted him something previously absent: a manufacturer. A source. A direct link to an entity capable of generating power on a scale that few within this world could even conceive.

Should this particular avenue fail to deliver the desired outcome, alternative methods or resources could be explored, another point of leverage to maintain Perfecto's engagement. For the present, however, this was sufficient.

More than enough to initiate his plans.

It wasn't that Razeal lacked the ambition to request superior models such as the B-7 or even B-9 units; indeed, their mere existence had stoked a perilous curiosity within him. However, his decisions, unlike unbridled greed, were grounded in control—a boundary he was resolute in not transgressing. Regardless of power's value, he understood that any power existing above him, independent and possessing superior raw capability, constituted not an asset but a liability. Accepting units that individually surpassed his own strength, units that theoretically could overpower him if circumstances turned unfavorable, was a risk he was unwilling to undertake, not at this nascent stage of his foundation's formation, and certainly not when the system orchestrating everything, despite its assurances, still harbored uncertainties he could not afford to overlook.

Therefore, he opted for the B-4 models. This was not a concession born of limitation, but a deliberate strategic choice, ensuring his absolute dominion over the forces under his command. Yet, even within these self-imposed constraints, the agreement secured far exceeded the scope of a typical exchange. The partnership with Perfecto had not concluded with the initial transaction; it had merely commenced its subsequent phase, evolving into something considerably more valuable than a straightforward deal.

A specific clause was included—one meticulously negotiated and integrated by Razeal himself into the bedrock of their accord.

Should the solitary drop of vampiric blood he had provided prove its worth, yielding results, insights, or advancements consistent with Perfecto's perpetual quest for refinement, then Perfecto was obligated to furnish him with one million B-6 model units. These would not be temporary loans, partial assets, or inferior iterations, but complete, flawless, newly manufactured units. Each would possess the peak strength of a Saint King, serving as an individual weapon capable of single-handedly altering the tide of any battlefield.

And that alone represented an outcome of staggering proportions.

However, the true magnitude of the agreement extended even further.

Because in the unlikely event—an anomaly, an exception beyond Perfecto’s already near-infinite calculations—that the same blood produced results that transcended expected parameters, introducing variables capable of enhancing what Perfecto defined as 'perfection,' the terms would escalate further. Under such specific circumstances, Perfecto himself had conceded the possibility, however remote, of granting access to B-9 model units as well.

Millions of them.

And the B-9 classification was not to be taken lightly.

These were constructs of Emperor-rank caliber.

Each individual unit operated at a level that, within Razeal’s existing world, would classify them as supreme entities—beings capable of subjugating nations, dictating the flow of entire conflicts, and embodying absolute dominance. The very notion that such entities could be manufactured—not nurtured, trained, or evolved, but purposefully produced—was something Razeal still struggled to fully comprehend.

And yet... the potential for it existed.

That, in itself, was sufficient.

For Razeal, the focus had shifted from immediate gratification to long-term potential. It was about scalability, about gaining access to resources that, over time, could surmount any conventional barrier.

Perfecto was far more than a mere supplier of combatants; this entity possessed numerous other categories of extraordinarily perilous assets.

He was the ultimate producer and manufacturer.

Weapons, advanced vehicles, high-caliber armaments, destructive capabilities on an orbital scale, weaponry equivalent to nuclear power, and even constructs surpassing these—mobile, fully militarized metropolises capable of autonomous operation—all resided within Perfecto’s purview. While none of these were part of their current arrangement, it mattered little. Future agreements could always be forged. Exchanges could invariably be negotiated. And now that the initial connection was established, Razeal was confident in his ability to return, repeatedly, each time offering something novel in trade.

When considering the grander scheme—aligning this development with his ultimate ambition of conquering kingdoms, reshaping the world, and ultimately confronting the very gods—this interaction might very well represent one of the most pivotal steps he had yet taken.

Because raw power alone was insufficient.

Sustainable power... that was the true key. And Perfecto embodied precisely that concept.

What had truly astonished Razeal, however, was the sheer smoothness of the entire encounter. There was an absence of animosity, no needless opposition, and no attempts at manipulation or control during their interaction. Perfecto, despite being the architect of something as formidable as the Annihilators, had maintained a demeanor of pure logical composure, exhibiting precision and directness. His ego, as humans understand it, was absent, as was any emotional instability; only an unwavering self-assurance born from absolute competence was evident.

A perfect being, by its own definition. And his system mirrored that inherent perfection.

From B-1 to B-X.

Yes... That constituted the entire spectrum.

The B-1 units, the lowest echelon, were not primarily engineered for conflict but were utilized for surveillance, upkeep, construction, and domestic tasks. Even so, these units possessed a physical and technological might equivalent to that of a C-rank warrior in Razeal’s world, a fact that alone spoke volumes about the baseline technological prowess of Perfecto.

The B-2 units possessed capabilities scaling up to the pinnacle of B-rank strength.

And from that point onward, the tiered structure continued, with each subsequent level signifying a colossal escalation, not merely in brute force, but in processing power, adaptability, and system integration, ultimately culminating in B-9, the Emperor-tier constructs.

And then...

There was B-X.

The ultimate designation.

Perfecto had offered no explanation for it.

Yet, pure logic made it unequivocally clear.

If B-9 represented the Emperor-rank... then B-X... had to exist on a plane beyond that classification.

A level that, by all rational thought, would correlate with entities possessing a far greater existential scale, akin to Cosmic-tier beings like Riven – beings who transcended conventional hierarchies and were beyond both mortal and divine categorization.

And it was at this juncture that Razeal paused.

Because even for him, despite witnessing all that he had... the very notion was difficult to fully embrace.

The capacity to manufacture Emperor-tier constructs was already an astonishing feat.

To engineer something surpassing that level?

Such a concept bordered on the impossible.

Consequently, he arrived at a conclusion.

If B-X did indeed exist, perhaps its numbers would be exceedingly few, if any at all. And more plausibly... Perfecto himself might embody that level. Not as a manufactured unit, but as the genesis point, the zenith of his own system.

Because if such potent power could be mass-produced...

Then the equilibrium of all existence—gods, the universe, and even the systems themselves—would have already been irrevocably shattered... whether through magical, technological, or any other form of system.

And Razeal understood one truth with absolute certainty.

No system would permit such a scenario... would it?

Nevertheless...

Even without reaching that ultimate echelon...

What he had attained today...

Was already sufficient to precipitate a fundamental shift in all things.

****

Outside the confines of the system space~

Within the moving carriage

The atmosphere inside the carriage stood in stark opposition to the silent yet profoundly significant negotiations Razeal had just concluded within his mind. While his consciousness was engaged elsewhere, forging pacts that held the potential to redefine kingdoms and perhaps even the global balance, his physical form remained seated precisely as it had been positioned: motionless, serene, with his eyes gently closed as if simply resting. Yet, this stillness, this unnatural detachment from his surroundings, was precisely what rendered the environment within the carriage overwhelmingly tense.

Razeal occupied the center of the cushioned seat, his posture relaxed, his back lightly supported, his hands resting without any hint of tension, and his expression composed to the point of seeming indifference, as though nothing in the external world warranted even the slightest degree of his attention. Around him, close enough to sense his presence yet maintaining a respectful distance so as not to disturb him, sat four women. Each carried her own distinct thoughts, her own anxieties, and her own interpretation of the unfolding situation within their confined space.

Across from them, occupying the opposite seat alone, sat Aveline, the captain of the city watch. Her back was straight, her shoulders firm, and her posture disciplined, as was expected of someone in her official capacity. However, beneath that outward composure, the tension rippling through her body was undeniable—subtle yet persistent. It was evident in the occasional tightening of her fingers around the edge of her gloves, in the controlled cadence of her breathing that she was actively attempting to steady, and in the slight stiffness of her neck whenever her gaze unintentionally drifted towards Razeal before being quickly withdrawn, as if even prolonged observation of him felt like crossing an undefinable, invisible threshold.

Approximately ten minutes had elapsed since the carriage had departed from Golden Horn Street—ten minutes since she had assumed the responsibility of escorting these unknown and potentially dangerous individuals to the military encampment. And in those ten minutes, not a single word had been uttered by the individual who was, by far, the most crucial presence within that confined space.

And that silence was not one of tranquility. It was, at this moment, profoundly oppressive.

Though Aveline had faced formidable figures before—nobles, commanders, and elite warriors whose mere presence could command attention—she had always perceived something within them: a hint of their intent, their arrogance, their impatience, or their hostility. With Razeal, however, there was an unnerving void. No discernible aura, no flicker of expression, no subtle movement, and no trace of his thoughts or emotions. It was as if he existed and simultaneously didn't, present yet utterly detached from his surroundings. This profound absence of any readable signal was far more disquieting than any overt threat could have been.

Did he perhaps fall asleep? Because if so, this was exceptionally strange.

Her decision to occupy this specific carriage had been deliberate.

That choice now felt like a significant miscalculation.

At the time, she had believed that proximity to him might afford her an opportunity to observe, to comprehend, and perhaps to glean even the slightest clue about his intentions before they reached the higher command. Yet, now, seated directly opposite him in this suffocating silence, she began to doubt her own judgment. Instead of gaining clarity, she was enveloped by a growing sense of unease, a chilling realization that she was mere inches away from someone capable of ending her life with effortless ease, without warning, and without consequence—and worse, someone who might not even register the act itself.

Her thoughts circled with meticulous caution.

The message had already been dispatched.

The warning concerning the Great Saint's entry into the kingdom must have reached its destination by now. The higher echelons would have initiated mobilization, devised strategies, and prepared whatever response they deemed necessary. The military encampment ahead would not be left vulnerable. It would be prepared, or at least as prepared as one could be when confronting a force of such magnitude.

And yet... that knowledge offered no solace to the knot of tension constricting her chest.

For preparations were rendered meaningless if the adversary remained utterly unpredictable.

And Razeal embodied precisely that unpredictability.

Her gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, towards the other occupants seated beside him.

Maria, Sofia, and Nancy.

Three young women, all maintaining a relative silence, none exhibiting outward concern, none speaking without purpose, and none reacting to the palpable tension in a manner befitting a normal individual. This alone was enough to trigger alarm bells in Aveline’s mind. Even untrained civilians would sense the sheer weight of a Great Saint's presence, displaying signs of discomfort, fear, or at the very least, a heightened awareness.

But these three...

They remained composed, bordering on nonchalant.

Their demeanor only served to deepen the complexity of the situation.

From Maria and Sofia, Aveline could discern nothing. And then her attention turned to Nancy... her very appearance commanded notice. Her hair, the color of pure ice, and her eyes like polished crystal exuded a natural, almost instinctual pressure that Aveline struggled to define, a sensation that sharpened her own instincts without conveying any specific reason.

And then there was Maria once more, her blue hair, her clear gaze, her placid demeanor.

Something about the figures of both Maria and Nancy felt… familiar to Aveline, though she couldn't identify the source of this recognition.

It was just enough to pique Aveline’s curiosity, but she dared not venture a guess. Making the wrong assumption in a situation like this could prove perilous.

"You needn't be so apprehensive," Maria's voice finally pierced the silence, calm and steady. Her gaze flickered briefly towards Razeal before returning to Aveline. "Just ignore him… he is invariably like this."

The words themselves were simple, almost dismissive, yet within the context of their present circumstances, they carried an unexpected gravity.

Aveline blinked, momentarily taken aback, not by the substance of the statement, but by the effortless manner in which it was delivered, as if the presence of a Great Saint seated so close was merely a matter of the mundane, a routine occurrence.

"Yes… ma'am," Aveline replied after a short hesitation, her tone respectful and controlled, though a subtle thread of awkwardness inevitably surfaced despite her best efforts. She gave a slight nod, drawing a quiet breath as if attempting to re-center herself.

Maria merely shook her head gently in response, a fleeting expression of resignation crossing her features. She leaned back slightly, as if acknowledging that regardless of her words, the pervasive tension within the carriage was not something that would dissipate easily.

And she was not mistaken.

Because even with that brief