THE VILLAIN'S POV Chapter 820 The Eve of Catastrophe (1)

Ultras Continent – Caelid

Amidst a desolate, sprawling desert, the remnants of the city of Caelid stood...

serving as the final bastion for the surviving Ultras.

At the very least, for those who hadn't succumbed to madness.

The ones of lesser standing had long since lost their minds, of course.

Tonight marked the eve of the ultimate confrontation.

And much like the Shadow Sect on the opposing side...

this faction, too, braced themselves for the final struggle.

Yet, the distinction between their plight and that of humanity...

was that the Ultras had been subjected to a truly unique form of terror.

A mere twenty-four hours before the commencement of hostilities...

every single Ultra, without exception, had been marshaled within Caelid.

Both men and women.

The aged and the youthful.

Their collective numbers scarcely surpassed thirty thousand...

a tragic testament to the depth of their decline.

Countless comrades had been lost—

either during the preceding conflict... or to the followers of Mergo.

That inebriated elder had artfully orchestrated the secession of his disciples, with the assistance of Frey and the Shadow Sect...

significantly diminishing the ranks of Ultras who remained steadfast against their adversaries.

It would not be an overstatement to declare...

that the Ultras were effectively finished.

All Lords and Hollows had either met their demise or sworn allegiance elsewhere.

Only two remained.

The former betrayer—Bailor Moonlight.

And the wary Hollow... Simon Manus.

Both figures stood elevated above the assembled throng, observing the apprehension etched upon the faces below.

"Would you look at this?" Bailor's voice dripped with mockery as he pushed back his azure hair.

"I find it difficult to comprehend that this is the entirety of the Ultras' remaining strength."

"It's as if three centuries of history vanished overnight."

Simon offered no glance towards the crowd.

Instead, his attention was occupied by what appeared to be an antique doll he held.

"Their demise was prophesied from the outset."

"Whether we acknowledge it or not, this war was lost."

"We are merely the final vestiges clinging to existence... akin to vermin."

A subtle smile graced Simon's lips.

His appearance had undergone a transformation.

Blue, luminescent veins throbbed beneath his skin, radiating an unusual glow.

His complexion was pallid... suggesting enduring torment.

And yet... his smile persisted, unyielding.

Bailor observed him for a brief interval before diverting his gaze.

"Our survival thus far is attributed to sheer stratagem..."

"A constant flight from the clutches of death."

"...But do you genuinely believe we shall escape this time?"

Simon responded without a moment's hesitation.

"Certainly not."

"An excessive number on the opposing side harbor a desire for both your and my demise."

He continued to manipulate the doll, his eyes shimmering with that same unsettling azure luminescence.

"Such pronouncements... have you already resigned yourself to your fate, old man?"

Bailor expressed genuine astonishment at Simon's placid acceptance.

A stark contrast to himself—

whose greatest dread was death itself.

But Simon... the Puppet Master... perceived matters differently.

"Existence and cessation are naught but constraints that fetter the creative potential of all beings."

"I harbor no preference for life... nor for death."

"However, should my destiny dictate my end—"

"Then I shall embrace it in a manner that fulfills me... and upholds my principles."

"For one day... a rebirth awaits me."

"You are a peculiar elder..." Bailor murmured, stepping away from his companion.

He possessed neither the inclination nor the fortitude to engage with Simon's unconventional worldview.

His thoughts were preoccupied with an entirely different matter.

The summoning of infernal entities.

Bailor was seized by trepidation.

A profound unease.

Reluctance.

Unlike the unsuspecting Ultras congregated below—who had been convened without prior explanation—

Bailor possessed full knowledge of the impending event.

Drawing a deep inhalation, he reached into the folds of his robe... and produced an object.

A syringe.

Unremarkable in its design...

yet containing a viscous, obsidian fluid.

Within that dark liquid...

Bailor perceived something... contorted.

Something imbued with life.

He swallowed with difficulty, perspiration beading on his brow.

"Even with the infernal pact... my strength barely ascends to SS+..."

"Such a level offers no protection against the Empire's monstrosities who seek my end..."

Bailor understood that the forthcoming engagement would offer no quarter.

He was compelled to seize any increment of power available.

His circumstances were dire.

He had once harbored unwavering conviction in the Ultras' victory in the war—

particularly given their purported alliance with the demons.

But the conflict had devolved into a stalemate.

And the Empire... had endured.

The demons had ostensibly aligned with the Ultras...

yet they had never truly fought in their stead.

They had merely utilized them as instruments.

As expendable pawns.

And it was at this juncture... that Bailor grasped the magnitude of his miscalculation.

"I must prevail..."

"As long as I endure until the final outcome... nothing else holds consequence."

Despite every adversity—

Bailor remained steadfast in his belief that the demons were destined for ultimate triumph, regardless of the Shadow Sect's ascendant might.

His sole requirement...

was to persist until that fated moment arrived.

Only then would his grand ambition be realized...

and his own dominion established.

Without further hesitation...

he administered the injection to himself.

Allowing that dark substance to breach his body.

In mere seconds—

his shriek reverberated through the structure.

A monstrous, unearthly wail—

one that bore no resemblance to a human's cry.

—

—

—

Meanwhile…

the assembled Ultras stood assembled beneath a sky painted crimson.

Murmurs rippled through the throng.

Apprehension.

Dread.

They had been gathered, much like oblivious sheep…

unaware of the fate that awaited them.

All gazes were fixed upon the colossal tower dominating the center of Caelid.

within which the demons who had summoned them now stood.

At the very apex of that tower…

only two silhouettes remained.

Two figures stood atop the tower.

One was an elder, draped in a long, tattered robe, his beard cascading heavily upon his chest.

The other, a fearsome demoness, possessing violet eyes and long, raven hair that shared the same striking hue.

The Duke of Hell, Maskith…

and the third-ranked demon, Vayne.

—or rather, Wesker, to be precise.

Though his true identity remained unknown to all… save for Maskith himself.

Positioned above, they surveyed the assembled multitude below.

Yet, their perspectives on those beneath could not have been more starkly opposed.

One perceived them as insignificant beings.

The other… as valuable subjects for experimentation.

"Maskith… your cruelty knows no bounds," Wesker’s laughter boomed, a wicked grin stretching across his visage.

"I’ve been contemplating what could possibly draw a being as enigmatic as yourself into this conflict."

"I won't hear it… this is the reason, is it?"

Maskith paused for a moment, his expression unreadable, before responding in his resonant voice.

"Not the primary cause… but one among them."

"Oh?" Wesker's curiosity piqued.

"I am profoundly eager to learn your motivations."

"You shall discover… when the opportune moment arrives."

Maskith advanced, positioning himself before the vast assembly of Ultras.

Wesker lingered behind him, observing with deepening fascination.

"So, it is finally complete…?"

"That abhorrent masterpiece of yours…"

"I cannot say for certain," Maskith replied with calm assurance.

"However, we shall ascertain the truth… very shortly."

His gaze once more swept over the faces in the crowd below.

Then, deliberately… he closed his eyes.

"Humans are truly extraordinary beings."

"Every race holds a distinct characteristic… and the defining trait of humanity is their remarkable capacity for adaptation."

"It is for this reason that demons were able to bestow their blood upon them—

a substance that acts as a potent poison to all living things."

"Other races would succumb to it and perish."

"But humans endured."

"Not every single one… but a sufficient number."

Despite their comparative fragility when set against the pinnacle races…

it was humans alone who could withstand the essence of demonic blood.

This very fact paved the way for the emergence of the first, the second… and even the third generations—

a period where humanity and demons intertwined.

It represented a truly remarkable evolutionary leap.

Undeniable proof that humankind was not a race to be taken lightly.

However, Maskith’s ambitions extended beyond this point.

He aspired to elevate them even further…

towards their ultimate culmination.