The final battle unfolded on the one hundredth layer of the Abyss.
This was no ordinary realm. The very fabric of existence here felt stretched thin, as if reality itself had been forced to bear the weight of countless wars and irreconcilable laws.
The sky was a fractured expanse of dark void and pale distortion. Every step carried an unnatural resistance, as though gravity was arguing with itself over which direction to fall.
And at the heart of this distorted domain stood the True Depravita of Wrath.
Vlad felt the weight of Valhalla more deeply than any of the others.
He had been the one to lead them there. The one who believed—wrongly—that they were ready. Though the enemy's schemes had reached far beyond reason, that crushing failure remained his burden to bear.
Vlad did not let those thoughts cloud his battle awareness, and his eyes were devoid of hesitation as he stared at the Demon Lord standing in the distance.
