Rebirth of the Nameless Immortal God Chapter 2323 Madness

Dyon exploded past the frontline. Resembling a frenzied corpse stripped of sanity, his motions were wild and unchecked. Though his strikes lacked any apparent logic, each footfall claimed another victim's life.

His scythe blurred with such ferocious speed it mimicked a shadowy whip lashing the winds, while chilling shrieks and geysers of scarlet blood heralded every advance he made.

An army vast as trillions fixated their full wrath upon one solitary warrior. None among them managed to cross the barrier this lone figure had carved out.

Dyon vaulted skyward, his blood-drenched feet smashing the chest plate of a golden-armored Sapientia. As the fighter soared backward through the air, the scythe's hooked edge intercepted its flight, lopping the head from the warrior's nape in a clean severing blow.

Dyon's chain whipped outward, ensnaring three fighters simultaneously. A mere twitch of his forearm crushed them into a crimson mist, raining ruby droplets from above like a macabre shower.

The savagery defied description. Faces flushed scarlet, eyes protruding on the verge of popping free, bones grinding into ruin one by one, until only a torrent of mangled meat remained.

Dyon lingered no longer than an instant at the spot, his form already surging ahead anew.

His boots landed astride a warrior's throat. In a fluid strike, his chain coiled down to encircle the Sapientia's skull, yanking it savagely from the neck.

With a brutal kick, Dyon hurled the decapitated body away, its impact pulverizing the skeletons of those caught in its deadly trajectory.

Once again the scythe lashed out, revolving in his grip at dizzying velocity like helicopter rotors. It arced to his flank, overhead, or straight ahead unpredictably, yet invariably shredding any who dared approach.

Carnage and gore poured down with each stride. The terror of the Immortal Plane had returned. Despite ancient legends foretelling this horror, it struck as utterly unprecedented, like confronting a Death God incarnate.

They utterly ignored the rest of the Mortal Army. Their sole obsession became felling this one man. They realized victory slipped away forever unless he fell.

Yet was it not merely one against trillions? The outcome seemed inevitable. No cause for dread existed.

Alas… such thoughts were one thing… reality proved another entirely.

This warrior recognized no agony, no exhaustion, no pity. He craved their annihilation. Nothing less than trillions slain by his hand, their blood coating him from head to toe, would sate him.

SSSSKKKKKKKKKRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Dyon threw his head back toward the heavens, his raven locks fanning wildly unbound. It seemed he yearned to reduce existence to cinders.

In a mere instant, all within hundreds of miles turned to scorched skeletons. Just one breath passed, yet hundreds of thousands perished.

Abraxus and the First White Mother observed with grave scowls. Among all beings, few grasped Dyon's nature as intimately as they. That was why, rather than clash with him while he clutched Madeleine's remains, they chose instant withdrawal.

Even in his mortal phase, they refused to trifle with him. Still, certain necessities demanded action.

So what if he'd felled countless already? Trillions remained. Hundreds of thousands insufficient? Dispatch millions. Millions too few? Unleash billions.

Such overwhelming numbers daunted even the Nameless Immortal God, myth of endless eras.

No wonder then that gashes soon riddled Dyon's form. In truth, wounds blanketed him from his battlefield entry. Hadn't he just battled Aritzia to his utmost?

Fists, spears, blades, axes, staffs, knives—even chariot-pulling beasts' horns—stabbed into him relentlessly. Yet even heart extraction wouldn't halt him.

Dyon tore a sword from his torso with savage force, carving a deep gash across his own flesh in the process. Still, he registered no pain.

Chains coiled about his knuckles as he hammered forward, exploding the swordswoman's skull into chunks of red and white gore.

SSSSKKKKKRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Dyon's vajra body materialized behind him. Savage bolts of golden lightning laced with violet rained from above. Each strike erased hundreds from existence.

That instant, the ashen earth stirred beneath his soles once more. Myriad skeleton soldiers clawed upward, unleashing a slaughter that rippled through the Sapientia ranks.

Dyon pressed onward, his chest wounds so dire his pulsing heart gleamed visible through shattered ribs.

Black and gold veins throbbed across the organ, lending it an aura both regal and infernal. He evoked a risen Corpse Emperor, bent on dragging the cosmos into endless oblivion before resting again.

His gaze formed abyssal voids, exhaling dark mist with every stride. He alone could shatter worlds, he alone stood unconquerable.

For slaying his wife… he'd drag them all to premature tombs.

Dyon's weapon pagoda unfurled, flooding Reaper with myriad arms. Simultaneously, Little Chibi materialized overhead, crashing down with gravitational force to pulverize even Immortal Gods' frames.

A javelin hurtled through the void, impaling Dyon's chest before he could counter.

He staggered back one pace, yet ripped the shaft free, his ebon bones bearing only faint fractures.

Hoisting the javelin, his frame arched like drawn bowstring, muscles rippling taut.

BANG!

Reality fractured as his fingers loosed it.

The spear blazed across the firmament, trailing shattered space fragments and void qi shards.

In less than a blink, the thrower's cranium split asunder.

Initially, it bored a tiny crimson puncture. But long after piercing warriors behind, the thrower's head erupted, skull unfurling like a nightmarish blossom.

Ysabell panicked then. Dyon had breached her elven clan's fallback line. No further retreat remained. Even if space allowed, would she risk it?

She'd long accepted their numerical edge wouldn't spare all. Yet she never dreamed herself among the doomed.

"Band together! Release!" Ysabell bellowed.

Ancient Elves' spectral forms filled the heavens.

Yet they paled beside Dyon's seven vajra bodies. He loomed as an invincible deity, harvesting lives like worthless grass.

Each step beheaded one. Each scythe sweep claimed another. Each chain lash summoned fresh blood deluges.

Ysabell shook without control.

She'd dismissed the legends as hype. Though Dyon shamed her, fear never gripped her. He'd felt like a playful elder sibling, mocking her shamelessly.

Only now did legend's truth dawn.

This was the lunatic ready to incinerate reality in fury's blaze.

Even now, with Dyon no longer shielding the rear Mortal Army, none spared them a glance. All unleashed everything against him. They knew: his death or theirs.

By Ysabell's realization, a gory cavity gaped in her chest.

Dyon flung her corpse from his limb like mere battlefield trash. Status meant nothing to him—only their deaths mattered.

He yearned to witness their falls to his power, to harvest souls and rip hearts free. He demanded they taste his wife's agony, every last one.

The First White Mother's brows knit deeply.

"Release them. This ends today," she stated without emotion.

The firmament quaked anew. The void beasts emerged.