My God domain is the endless abyss Chapter 71: A pious army

"It’s incredible..."

The vortex of black and red spun slowly within Cillian’s eyes as he directed his gaze across the raging battlefield towards the distant soldiers of the Heavenly Army.

"Pure, brainwashed creatures," he whispered. "Completely merged with their faith... faith that has deeply embedded itself within the very sea of their hearts."

His words were pensive, sparking distant memories. He remembered a warrior he encountered during the third trial of the Endless Abyss, a man named Magnus.

That legendary fighter had chosen to immolate his soul and body rather than succumb to corruption. Even as his subordinates were consumed by the abyss, Magnus held onto his faith until his very last breath.

It was during that conflict that Cillian first confronted a genuine legion fueled by unwavering belief.

Those resplendent warriors battled with such intense fervor that even the Endless Abyss itself trembled. Their faith blazed so ardently that it purged the abyssal layers, increasing the dimensional weight of the realm where the battle unfolded.

The damage inflicted, on a quantifiable scale, was minimal—only a few tens of thousands of layers. Yet, the astounding fact remained that they had managed to wound the Endless Abyss, an feat unmatched by any other force before or since.

It was also in the throes of that war that Cillian grasped the intricate structure of faith, how divine conviction rooted itself within the consciousness and became a channel for the birth of celestial fire. He learned how belief empowered deities and how it formed the spiritual bedrock of divine territories.

From that point onward, he harbored a profound fascination with warriors of faith.

This very fascination is why, as he observed the legions commanded by the Angel of Punishment, Peter, advancing against the Zerg, he couldn't help but scrutinize them with keen interest.

Their devotion mirrored Magnus’s, perhaps even more profoundly absolute. And they numbered in the billions.

The entirety of the battlefield teemed with soldiers whose piety rivaled that of the most revered saints. Tens of billions of radiant beings, each ablaze with unshakeable devotion.

"I truly wish to corrupt a few of them," Cillian voiced softly, a faint smile gracing his lips. "Just to witness their reaction."

His gaze traversed their formations. Each soldier he focused on seemed to instinctively detect it—the abyssal stare. Even amidst the turmoil and carnage, that gaze caused their hearts to constrict.

As the sovereign of the Endless Abyss, even Cillian’s casual glance conveyed an undercurrent of malevolence, an intrinsic hostility stemming not from deliberate intent, but from his very essence.

To the devout soldiers of Heaven, this palpable darkness was anathema.

And precisely as Cillian observed them with contemplative amusement, a solitary figure emerged from the swirling chaos, capturing his undivided attention.

An angel.

A genuine one.

Not a divine-level commander akin to Peter, but a lesser celestial being, born from the very heights of Heaven, assigned the duty of leading mortal armies. She possessed a striking appearance, starkly different from the formless celestial entities encountered during the trials. Her form was distinctly humanoid, resembling a masterpiece of perfect design.

Fiery red hair cascaded down her back, her features were sharp, and her magnificent wings unfurled, gleaming brilliantly.

She detected his gaze almost immediately. Her head snapped upward, her eyes narrowing as her expression hardened. Raising her sword, she thrust it directly at him, then swung the blade in a sharp, silent admonishment.

"If you continue to stare, I will end you."

Cillian let out a chuckle.

The audacity brought him immense amusement. To him, her threat was utterly ludicrous.

He made no move, nor did he exert any pressure. He simply continued his scrutiny. The defiance displayed by such a minuscule being only intensified his curiosity.

These angels, though individually weak, were backed by a formidable power, the entity they referred to as the Angel of Punishment, who was anything but weak.

Peter's very presence loomed over the battlefield like a divine monolith. The unshakeable confidence of these lesser angels stemmed from his shadow, from the overwhelming might that inspired such awe and reverence that even the humblest among them dared to challenge Cillian.

"...Intriguing," Cillian murmured, shifting his gaze towards the distant figure of Peter, who stood vigil over the front lines.

The Angel of Punishment observed the unfolding conflict with stoic silence. He paid no heed to his surroundings, neither the surrounding chaos nor the presence of deities like Cillian within it.

For him, there was only a singular objective.

The Zerg must be utterly annihilated. All else—lesser gods, bystanders, and collateral consequences—was inconsequential.

Cillian comprehended that perspective acutely. In Peter’s eyes, they were mere dust, unfortunate souls caught in the crossfire of a divine war.

At that moment, Cillian started to piece together the hidden logic behind the sealed secret realms and the shifting battlefield. However, rather than dwelling on the mysteries of the realm’s distortion, his attention was drawn to something far more immediate: Peter’s decision to seal the entrance to the prototype multiverse, thereby trapping them all within.

He already had a suspicion about the reason.

But until he could confirm it, acting directly against the Angel of Punishment would be an act of folly.

After all, both the Zerg and the Heavenly Army comprised tens of billions. Their clash was only just beginning, and with his current strength, Cillian stood no chance of contending with either force head-on.

Thus, he exhaled slowly, allowing his divine fire to recede. He compelled his mind into a state of calm and continued to observe.

He began to scrutinize the soldiers themselves, dissecting their combat patterns, their movements, and their very bodies.

Unlike the armies of ordinary worlds, these Heaven-born troops had undergone extensive modifications. None of them remained purely biological. Each one had been enhanced through layers of divine technology, body alterations, chemical augmentations, and even internal exoskeletons integrated beneath their flesh to reinforce muscle and fortify their bones.

Yet, just as Cillian’s gaze followed their combat flow, a sudden ripple of energy flashed before him.

A communication emerged from the twin-world structure, resembling an "8," passing through the Abyssal filters before materializing in front of him.

The seal fractured, and a familiar demonic mark pulsed with a faint glow in the air.

It was a message from the Demon Prince, Fabudi.

He and his siblings had successfully achieved dominion over their entire target world.

And within that world, they had secured the coveted rule.

"Excellent work..."

Contrary to Cillian's expectations, the Demon Prince Fabudi displayed an exceptionally potent and undeniable dominance. Furthermore, several of his "brilliant strategies" had already propelled him far ahead of his brothers and sisters.

Fabudi was not only the first among the Demon Princes to exert direct influence over the inhabitants of this world, but he was also the first to establish a firm foothold and commence the expansion of his authority across it. When all these accomplishments were tallied, Fabudi had secured the largest share of control within this world.

Although his siblings soon followed, breaching the crystal wall of this realm, their endeavors paled in comparison to Fabudi’s first-mover advantage. Against the tide of his influence, their contributions appeared insignificant.

——————x——————

The Demon Prince Fabudi knelt before Cillian, extending his hands in solemn reverence.

Beside him knelt the other Demon Princes, his newly recognized brethren, though fully half of them trembled under the oppressive weight of the situation.

"Great Lord, these are the rules you sought..."

Within Fabudi’s grasp was a rule, condensed by the divine fire of the Abyss – a crucial principle that enabled both the world’s consciousness and one's self to flourish through sacrifice. It was precisely the reason Cillian had journeyed here.

Cillian nodded, extending his hand.

A wisp of black mist carried the crystallized rule towards him. His eyes narrowed slightly as he began to perceive the essence of this law, meticulously examining every facet of its structure.

The process unfolded with an agonizing slowness, stretching for what felt like hours.

Finally, after an immeasurable duration, Cillian's eyes opened.

"Good," he stated softly. "You have performed admirably, Fabudi."

Within Cillian’s eyes, a vortex of black and red slowly spun, radiating a divine profundity.

"As a reward, your standing will be solidified. You may retain your title as Demon Prince for an extended period."

He paused. "As for greater accolades... you have yet to prove your worth further."

Upon hearing this, Fabudi quivered with elation. He understood implicitly that the acknowledgment from the Lord of the Abyss was not merely praise; it was a pact.

A promise that, provided he avoided catastrophic errors, he would continue to govern his planes for a considerable duration.

The mere thought nearly propelled him into a joyous leap, though instinct swiftly restrained him. For at that precise moment, a bone-chilling wave of peril emanated from Cillian’s form.

Yet, Cillian harbored no intention of harming him. He was merely preparing to fulfill the remainder of his pledge.

"You..."

As Cillian began to speak, unfathomable black mist surged forth from the Bloody Throne. These dark currents were not mere illusions; they were the very manifestation of the Abyss’s complete power.

"In the preceding conflict, some among you failed to demonstrate your true capabilities."

At these words, half of the Demon Princes began to tremble uncontrollably, collapsing onto their knees in utter despair.

"Lord... have mercy!"

"Pity us, Great One!"

Some even attempted to flee, tearing open spatial rifts in a frenzy of panic, but before any could escape, Cillian sighed.

A single breath of that sigh carried an authority so profound it extinguished all hope.

They were utterly consumed by the encroaching black mist.

"You carry my bloodline, and you hold my authority," Cillian's voice, devoid of warmth, pierced the gloom. "However, your performance..."

The agonizing sound of flesh liquefying supplanted their desperate cries. A thick, inky liquid began to ooze from their forms, resembling candles melting under an intense flame.

Their tormented shrieks echoed endlessly within the fathomless Abyss.

Fabudi observed the grim spectacle from a distance, a quiet satisfaction blooming within him. The princes who remained standing beside him mirrored his sentiment; no shred of pity was present for those who had fallen. The sounds of their demise were, to them, a source of pleasure.

Fabudi's eyes burned crimson as he witnessed Cillian effortlessly absorb the very essence of the unworthy, nonchalantly reclaiming their forfeited authority.

In truth, a part of Fabudi yearned to plead for an even greater share of power, but a profound sense of fear kept his words locked away.

Yet, to his utter astonishment, once the brutal punishment had concluded, Cillian extended a hand and uttered coldly,

"Take this."

With a mere flick of his fingers, the residual power of the Abyss surged outward, dispersing amongst the assembled princes. Each portion was precisely allocated, determined by their individual valor and contributions during the recent conflict.

Fabudi found himself bestowed with more than half of the Abyss's total authority, a quantity exceeding that of all the other princes combined.

A tremor ran through Fabudi's frame as he turned his gaze inward. His scarlet irises expanded in sheer wonder.

Within him, an untold number of new sinews twisted and expanded, his inherent strength escalating to unimaginable levels.

Concurrently, his soul's resonance with the Abyss ascended to its zenith. A torrent of profound knowledge flooded his consciousness.

He could distinctly feel the transformation occurring. Despite not yet having ignited the divine fire, a fundamental aspect of his very soul had undergone a profound metamorphosis.

"My Lord..." he breathed, his voice laced with reverence, bowing so deeply that his forehead brushed against the dark, unyielding ground.

But Cillian's attention had already shifted away from him.

He remained seated, a solitary figure upon the Bloody Throne, his gaze fixed upon a handful of faint, flickering residual souls held captive within his grasp.

For at that precise moment, Damon's voice slithered into his mind, presenting a novel scheme.

A plan intricately linked to those very fragmented souls.