THE VILLAIN'S POV Chapter 826 The Lie of Existence

V's prior actions had successfully shattered the encirclement, granting humanity a crucial respite.

However, Abraham's subsequent feat transcended anything seen before.

He wielded a colossal sword, spanning the breadth of a continent, its luminescence piercing the void to reach Snow amidst the stars.

This radiant blade washed over the battlefield, annihilating all vestiges of darkness and reducing the demonic horde to mere motes of crimson and black dust.

The enemy forces, numbering in the millions, far surpassed humanity's strength countless times over.

Yet, with a single, decisive strike...

that overwhelming numerical advantage was rendered utterly insignificant.

The resulting explosion assaulted the senses, deafening many of the human combatants whose hearing was overwhelmed by its sheer sonic power.

Countless others found their vision seared by the blade's blinding brilliance.

Nevertheless, the permanent loss of sight and sound paled in comparison to the alternative—the ultimate price of losing one's life.

In the silent expanse of space, Snow remained motionless, utterly astounded by the magnitude of Abraham's offensive.

From his vantage point above, the scene unfolded with chilling clarity.

"The Ultras Continent… has been cleaved in two…"

One solitary strike.

A continent bisected.

Over eighty percent of the invading enemy forces...

were simply eradicated from existence.

As the residual light began to recede, Abraham emerged, his imposing figure radiating an intense heat that caused the very air around him to shimmer and boil.

He advanced deliberately, his formidable sword still clutched in hand, his demeanor remarkably composed.

It was as if he had not just unleashed a cataclysm of unimaginable proportions.

His gaze swept over the devastation wrought before him...

before shifting to encompass the weary allies positioned behind him.

Clearing his throat, his resonant voice addressed them all.

"Soldiers of the Empire—heed my words with utmost seriousness."

"Imprint this message upon your minds… and engrave it within your very souls."

"This crucible of battle… is reserved for those prepared to embrace their final moments."

"For the warriors who stand ready to sacrifice everything in the unyielding pursuit of victory."

"Should you harbor any reluctance to die… any lingering fear of mortality…"

"…this place holds no purpose for you."

As he continued to speak, Abraham moved forward purposefully...

relentlessly pursuing the scattered remnants of the enemy.

"If your desire is to live—then you must flee."

"Vanish from this ground. Do not contemplate a return."

"No judgment will be cast upon you."

"No one shall brand you a coward."

"Return to the safety of your homes."

"And harbor no apprehension… for I shall carry on the fight in your stead."

Abraham's pronouncement rendered many immobile, frozen by its unexpected nature.

It was a most peculiar address.

Utterly unforeseen.

A commander...

expected to rally his troops for the fray...

had instead commanded them to retreat.

If you are not prepared to face death—

then flee.

Seek your own survival.

It was...

an act of profound mercy.

A rarity in this tumultuous era...

an age consumed by relentless conflict and the desperate struggle for survival.

This was not the discourse of a conventional military leader.

Yet... no dissent was voiced.

For Abraham had already indisputably validated his assertion.

He had single-handedly annihilated the vast majority of the enemy forces.

And he continued his relentless pursuit of the remaining stragglers.

The necessity for additional soldiers...

for a supporting army...

had evaporated.

They were rendered... superfluous in this moment.

But instead of shame...

the soldiers of the Empire found themselves imbued with a different sentiment.

A deep and abiding gratitude.

Before the assembled luminaries of humanity and the formidable warriors of the Shadow Sect...

the exodus commenced.

Initially, a handful.

Then scores.

Soon, hundreds.

Soldiers of the Empire turned their backs upon the war-torn expanse... and began their withdrawal.

They did not break formation.

They did not succumb to panic.

They simply followed orders.

They executed a tactical retreat under the direct command of the very individual who had just secured their salvation—

the man who had chosen to extend them clemency.

Confronted with such an unprecedented spectacle, neither humanity's celebrated heroes nor the elite cadres of the Shadow Sect could definitively ascertain...

whether this action exemplified profound wisdom... or utter foolishness.

Even if one felt compelled to argue the point...

Abraham had already rendered all debate moot.

His overwhelming display of power left no room for contention.

However, high above them all...

one individual's outrage was anything but silent.

The Dragon Emperor let out a furious roar, his voice resonating with palpable anger.

"He possessed such immense power all this time—only to squander it upon worthless pawns?!"

"What could have served as a decisive trump card against our mightiest adversaries… has been carelessly dissipated!"

"What kind of commander would expose their full strength so prematurely?"

"What sort of leader instructs their own soldiers to flee from the battlefield?"

Kalameet's fury was undeniably understandable.

From a purely tactical perspective...

Abraham's decision teetered on the precipice of utter recklessness.

Fulghor, in contrast, maintained a stoic silence.

His gaze conveyed no objection—

only a quiet, profound reverence.

As for Frey...

he offered no verbal response.

Neither affirmation nor refutation.

Just keen observation.

And deep contemplation.

'Remarkable… while I focused on enhancing my own might… he was achieving the same.'

No trace of frustration marred his expression.

No flicker of doubt.

Only a serene, undeniable sense of satisfaction.

His father—

had ascended to a pinnacle far exceeding all prior expectations.

Two Ignitions.

Achieved in succession.

A Supernova.

A force so explosively potent that even Frey found himself incapable of immediately gauging its ultimate limits.

'Without a shadow of a doubt… in such a state, Abraham stands among the most formidable combatants in this entire war.'

Nameless's words resonated with genuine admiration.

This was not mere flattery...

but a profound acknowledgment.

Of raw power.

Of an overwhelming presence.

Of an inescapable destiny.

'And his actions… were far from meaningless.'

Frey offered a subtle nod.

"They have finally shown their true colors."

The near-instantaneous obliteration of the demonic legions had served to shock even the enemy ranks.

Consequently—

the principal actors on this cosmic stage began to make their moves.

Amidst a sea of puppets, a strange form began to manifest.

It was a grotesque, mutated entity, its form writhing with dozens of luminous blue appendages.

Where a head should have been, there was only a searing blue flame.

Simon Manus. No longer just a mere creator, but something reborn through the Devil's Seed and that mysterious blue substance.

Its sheer presence alone breached the SSS threshold.

From the west, another figure advanced—a demon.

Its gray skin was cracked like dying stone, its sunken eyes hollowed with an ancient despair, and its dark blue lips were curled in a silent, chilling stillness.

With every single step it took, the ground beneath it froze solid.

Its power was equally terrifying.

But the greatest danger—came from the east.

A monstrous surge of aura erupted, and with it, the very shadows came alive.

They slithered across the earth like colossal, deadly serpents.

This was the Third Seat of the Higher Demons—Vayne, the King of Shadows.

And yet—Amon had not appeared.

Still, Vayne alone was more than enough.

A true monster, indeed.

Sufficient to draw forth one of their own.

Fulghor stepped forward.

“At last,” he declared.

“My opponent has arrived.”

His voice was deep and steady.

“I will handle the Third Seat. The rest is up to you.”

Then—he moved.

A golden meteor tore through the sky as Fulghor descended like a vengeful god.

Unlike his previous actions—he held nothing back this time.

No divided power. No restraint whatsoever.

This time, he unleashed one hundred percent of his immense aura.

His intent was crystal clear.

To utterly annihilate Vayne.

Completely.

But this was no ordinary Third Seat.

Something far deeper, something much more dangerous—lurked beneath that demonic form.

This clash itself defied all prediction.

And then, as if the battlefield hadn’t already reached its absolute limit—something else appeared.

Not from below. But from above.

Far beyond the ravaged battlefield, in the silent vacuum of space.

Before Snow Leonhart, clad in his radiant white armor, the very fabric of reality began to distort.

A gray fracture split time and space apart—opening like a horrific wound.

From this rift, an old man stepped through.

Tall, with a long, flowing beard, he was wrapped in dark, imposing robes.

A weathered wooden staff rested firmly in his grasp.

There was no overwhelming pressure emanating from him, no suffocating aura.

And yet, cold sweat slid down Snow’s back.

Because this was no ordinary enemy.

This was the Dark Duke of Hell.

Maskith.

“Well now… this isn’t very reassuring, Lord of Light,” Maskith stated.

Maskith smiled faintly, baring his teeth.

“Afraid already? The battle hasn’t even truly begun.”

His tone was remarkably casual, almost bored.

“Forgive me for choosing you as my opponent.”

“This place… is simply quieter.”