Poison God's Heritage Chapter 915: Conclusion

While my consciousness drifted between awareness and oblivion, the only sound penetrating the haze was the unending wails of monstrous beings as their forms dissolved, their primal mother crying out in agony. This cacophony wasn't localized; it permeated everything, pressing in on my thoughts, weaving through the fragile barrier that separated my waking mind from the encroaching void.

Each scream possessed a palpable texture—the wet rip of flesh, the sizzle of boiling skin, high-pitched notes of seething rage and unbearable pain, all layered into a single, ghastly symphony. Even in my near-death state, I felt each cry scraping against my very nerves. The expected triumphant roar of victory was absent, replaced by the sound of an entire species confronting the meaning of extinction.

I was utterly spent. No amount of medicinal pills, however potent, could do more than keep me lucid; active combat was an impossibility. My body had long surpassed mere exhaustion, entering a realm of cold fragility. Each breath felt meticulously rationed, each heartbeat a laborious negotiation on the precipice of collapse.

The medicinal warmth from the pills seeped through my channels, a futile attempt to mend breaches in a dam on the verge of total failure. The truth was stark: they weren't restoring me, merely postponing the inevitable collapse.

My muscles were unresponsive to even the simplest commands. Only sheer willpower kept my eyes open, but the notion of lifting a finger in battle would have elicited only a bitter laugh—if such an act didn't risk tearing me asunder.

The rain lashed down with brutal intensity, showing no mercy to the Rakshasa it struck. Their matriarch suffered the worst, literally disintegrating under the relentless barrage of blows from the Blue Sun. Through heavily lidded eyes and a fractured perception, I witnessed the impossible become horrifyingly ordinary.

The poison-rain descended with unyielding consistency, not as mere droplets, but as a pronouncement of doom. Where it made contact with Rakshasa flesh, acrid smoke billowed upwards in repulsive gray plumes, and chunks of monstrous hide sloughed off in steaming masses.

And throughout this unending onslaught, Blue Sun struck again and again, each impact a searing judgment. Her movements were devoid of unnecessary flourish or ostentatious display—pure, unadulterated retribution. Every blow vibrated through the sodden ground, sent tremors across the poisoned lakes, and caused the dying matriarch to spasm beneath an overwhelming, irresistible force.

The other Suns were occupied, felling the Rakshasa that, by some unholy will, still moved despite their dissolving forms. The few cultivators from this confederation were also fighting valiantly, contributing significantly to the desperate struggle.

It should have been impossible for them to continue fighting while their bodies were being dissolved, yet these creatures still lurched, clawed, and screamed. Some dragged themselves forward on exposed bone, while others lashed out with half-melted limbs before being extinguished by streaks of solar fire.

The Suns operated with terrifying precision, intercepting any sign of movement. Around them, battered cultivators pushed far beyond their limits, forcing their bodies through unbearable pain and exhaustion, as the concept of retreat had ceased to exist for anyone.

This had transformed into a battlefield where survival was secondary to a sheer refusal to die, born from unyielding stubbornness.

"TAO'ER!" the creature shrieked, its voice echoing through the chaos. Was it a true Sun stage, or a mere imitation? The proclaimed host within the Rakshasa's form screamed, tears of blood streaming from its eyes, as if blaming the world itself for its predicament rather than its own actions.

The sound carried such profound grief that it might have evoked pity, were it not so thoroughly steeped in self-righteous indignation. It howled not with remorse, but with the outrage of one who believes consequences are an affront.

Blood coursed down its face in rivulets that appeared black under the poisoned downpour. Even as its body disintegrated, it clung to that furious lament. There was a grotesque humanity in this display—a tyrant lamenting betrayal while standing amidst the desolate ruin of their own making.

The rain intensified, and the ground began to flood, saturated by the immense quantity of Soulsteel poison that had seeped into the earth. The rain itself was a sickly gray, forming lakes and waves, pouring into chasms deep and wide enough to become seas. The world was undergoing a fundamental transformation.

This was no longer merely a battlefield; the very terrain was being rewritten. Poison pooled into vast, metallic expanses reflecting a jaundiced sky. Craters filled, becoming toxic reservoirs. Floods surged into trenches and sank into the wounds torn across the earth, feeding abyssal voids until they resembled nascent oceans. The air filled with the sharp tang of acid, minerals, and death. Even the soil appeared altered, darkening as if touched by an influence far older than decay. There was an almost cosmic spectacle in witnessing geography being reshaped by such a weapon.

The Broodmother's body continued to boil and dissolve, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of poison. Her physique was utterly incapable of preventing its insidious penetration and destructive effect.

Vast expanses of flesh disintegrated inwards. Growths resembling armor, which once repelled unimaginable force, now softened, bubbled, and ruptured. Her ability to resist became utterly futile through sheer accumulation. The venom did not overpower through brute strength alone; its persistence was its true weapon. It infiltrated every vulnerability, every crevice, every stratum. Witnessing something so ancient succumb to relentless inevitability served as a brutal lesson. Even monstrous beings eventually fall to attrition.

Darkness descended.

Well.

That’s my conclusion.

I awakened before the colossal chamber once more, positioned where the walls bore depictions of ancient warriors, and the throne that once housed the supreme being stood anew. The transition was seamless, as if reality itself had simply discarded the previous battlefield. One moment, there was a tempestuous downpour and dissolving monstrosities. The next, an oppressive silence that felt more profound than any sound.

The chamber loomed with its same impossible grandeur, each stone surface etched with histories too ancient to comprehend.

Intricate carvings of warriors marched across the walls, portraying frozen moments of triumph and devastation. The crimson carpet extended forward with solemn gravity toward the throne, where the supreme entity awaited as if it had never stirred. There was no sensation of arrival; it felt more akin to being returned to a place that had been anticipating my presence all along.

"Shen Bao..."

The voice resonated without any visible movement of lips. There was something within that utterance—pride? No, it was arrogance. My name carried a palpable weight in the air, imbued with recognition and a quality far harsher than mere approval. For an instant, it seemed to diminish the chamber's immense scale.

"You have accomplished something for us that we were incapable of achieving..."

I found myself gazing intently before responding. That declaration alone was so preposterous it immediately ignited my suspicion.

"I find that difficult to accept," Shen Bao stated, "Are you not the heavens?"

"I am not. I am merely an enforcer. You would be wise to remember this distinction and differentiate between us."