At this moment, outside the Void Rift, with the First Generation back in formation—everyone but Queen Dreamlan—the Elves’ strength felt like a bow restrung.

The news swept the allied ranks like wind through banners. They returned to drum thunder and shouting lanes, sparks in every gaze, hands flexing for steel and spell, itching for the final counterattack.

The Nacha Tribe had already tilted the fight in their favor. Now these one-against-ten-thousand titans stood among them again. The field seemed to lean, like a river cutting new banks, entirely to their side.

If nothing went wrong, they just had to keep it steady: encircle the remaining Chaos Spawn, pen the Chaos Beast within a boundary, and seal this once-in-a-millennium disaster with a clean stroke. Even the most cautious of the First Generation, Silan, felt her doubts thin like mist. Bingxia, Ayu, and the others looked near unscathed, spirits rising fast. For a heartbeat, she let optimism breathe.

And as the saying goes—

If nothing goes wrong, something’s about to.

Silan had been dazzled by Bingxia’s intact return. She forgot the sour taste of her earlier foreboding.

Its source—an almost blood-red human male—sat lazy on the Chaos Beast’s crown. He watched the allied lines swelling with zeal. His mouth, for once, held no playful curve.

He looked… put out, like a performer denied an encore.

For the blood-red man—Follower of Pleasure Krus—that was not a common face.

His sour mood had nothing to do with his shoddy Chaos Spawn.

“What a waste. Truly a waste. I even gave you a defense scroll inked in Nuhaman blood…”

He chuckled and shook his head. His words floated, tied to nothing in the immediate battle.

He didn’t care that Chaos was losing ground at the front.

Adelaide had handed Bingxia the scroll. The old monsters lived because of it. He didn’t care at all.

What soured him was missing the show he’d planned.

He had gifted Adelaide that scroll to watch Mira break the defense array. He wanted the product of desecrated Nuhaman remains to save the person Mira now held most dear.

Gods, what a delectable scene that should’ve been. Facing scar wound and present love, what knotted, painful face would that Nuhaman orphan wear?

Unlike many of his cruel delights, this wasn’t improv. He had set it up long ago, so long he couldn’t say when the anticipation began.

So when the plan fell through, and Mira didn’t sway, only fixated on the fact the magic did not include her sister, his letdown was real. The smiley believer wore a shadow, and the beast beneath him answered with a shuddering roar.

“Ah. The gods have saddled me with a rebellious fiancée. She could’ve just followed the script,” he sighed. “But she has to thrash, to sprinkle regret on this perfect ‘wedding’…”

He stroked the Chaos Beast’s crown. A gray gloom climbed from his palm like frost on bark. His crimson leather jacket sleeves tore open. A black hollow gaped in his chest. Flesh and skin along the spreading gray rotted and oozed, then knit back together in a heartbeat, the blood-slime’s rapid regeneration bubbling beneath.

The ashen hue kept climbing. His arm flickered between decay and growth, grotesque and ceaseless. Yet Krus’s face brightened, that habitual delight returning like a dawn grin.

“But that’s exactly why I like her. Without the futile fight, this ‘wedding’ would be boring. Right, my friend?”

Only that version of her fit his idea of a best fiancée. As the thought chimed, the gray corruption finally crested his shoulder, then poured straight into the hollow in his chest.

The moment they met, some unknown rite completed.

The black cavity sealed under a rush of dark power. The Chaos Beast, gnawing at the World Tree, convulsed. From Krus, a tide of energy broke, the shockwave ringing like the Rift’s first tear. Minds buckled nearby, an instinctive dread rising from soul-deep wells.

“Whew. So this is chaos in full. What a power.”

He spread his fingers. The gray didn’t eat him anymore. He basked in the finished pact, a touch of wistfulness in his eyes.

Then he arched his back and stretched, casual as a retiree walking his dog through a park.

“All right. The warm-up’s over, even if I didn’t get my fill. Time for the real leads to take the stage. Can’t keep everyone waiting over a hiccup.”

His voice had bounce. His smile was almost gentle. But his “dog” wasn’t a park breed. It was a mountain-sized Chaos Beast, twitching like a quake.

It grew restless, every polyp swelling. A forest of eyes spun like storm wheels. The mouthparts chewing the World Tree creaked and snapped, fighting some command. Krus patted its head, voice soft as rain: “Easy. Once we shoo the pesky bugs, this tree will be ours for the picking.”

The biting stopped. All eyes fixed on Krus, a cold focus questioning its chosen partner. He held the stare, unflinching.

After a long breath, the Chaos Beast looked away. The insect mandibles that hadn’t loosened even under Varie’s heavy strike finally opened. They compressed, warping into thick, twisted tentacles. It unwound from the World Tree’s trunk, its bulk knitting countless thin legs made of human hands, and dropped to the ground with a thunder like a falling mountain.

“A wise choice, my friend.”

His praise rang true—and with it came a roar no ear could catch.

Tentacles coiled and knotted, weaving a temporary “head.” The toothy ridges on their skin rubbed together, grinding out an uncanny sound.

The many sounds folded into one. A wave warped the air and blasted out from the tentacle sphere. It spread like invisible surf, and no one heard it—its frequency was beyond any living eardrum. You only sensed it like a pressure behind the eyes. No one could say if it was a war-cry or a post-meal burp.

It had no meaning, or rather, its lack of meaning was the point.

The allied lines learned fast. Their first volley of spells shattered as they entered the wave, breaking into a storm of junk.

Yes—junk.

Mana-forged bolts fell apart the instant they crossed the boundary, becoming strange things: donuts, a leather sofa, steel handcuffs locked to a bubble tea cup, the boxy turret of a Type-59 tank…

As if a dictionary had been hit with random, the wreckage had no pattern. Real objects mingled with cobbled concepts, making a scene even a fairy-tale author couldn’t sketch.

It flashed and died in a blink. Everything broke further into jagged, abstract glyphs, then thinned into the void, never touching the Chaos Beast’s body.

Nacha warriors and younger Elves drew sharp breaths as one.

So this was the true power of the Deconstruction Field.

If the early field had cut all spell strength by three tiers and already muzzled an Elven army, then the Chaos Beast’s current deconstruction was absurdly stronger. The new generation who hadn’t seen the final battle of the Chaos Uprising stood mute with shock.

And it wasn’t just them. Even the First Generation who survived that war widened their eyes.

“No… no, that thing shouldn’t be able to leave the Rift!”

Panic first, logic second. Silan watched the centipede mass of it inch their way, her voice breaking with disbelief.

It was natural. A Chaos Beast, the highest class of Chaos Spawn, could end a world. But it bore a heavy chain: it couldn’t leave the Void Rift’s supply range. Without that limit, even three races’ leaders together might have failed to kill it.

That leash was the root of Silan’s optimism. Now it had crawled beyond the Rift’s core. It broke every First Generation rule they knew.

“Is it that human…”

Bingxia narrowed her eyes at the beast’s crown—no, at the blood-red man floating there. The thought cut in cold: if he offered enough sacrifices and signed a pact with the Lord of Chaos at any price, he could be a live wire, a cable linking tram to line, bridging the Rift’s energy. He could lift the Chaos Beast’s movement limit.

But who from any living faction would do that?

It was suicide. No matter how tough his flesh, the void would corrode him during transmission. He’d end scattered soul and ash.

Even Soul Devourer Sormaidon hadn’t stepped there for power. Bingxia couldn’t believe any living mind would choose it.

Belief didn’t matter. The beast had left the Rift’s heart.

A clutch of tentacles atop its head reshaped. In a blink they squared off, like a Type-59’s head module—only a hundred times larger.

“What the hell is that?” Hos bared his teeth in the driver’s seat. The first shock rolled off, replaced by anger. “It’s mimicking us? That #%&$ thing—swore in Nacha—like it understands our genius design. I spit!”

Hos ranted. Tela, seeing it unfold, ran cold sweat. The tank’s voice snapped into an urgent alert.

Warning. Extremely high-value target—

You could hear urgency even in the machine tone, which was wrong on its own. The sped-up voice cut off mid-report.

In its place came a distant, muffled, error-like mechanical murmur.

—Module Five: Precision Elimination…

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Hos stared, dumbstruck, at the screen feed. The Chaos Beast was mimicking their broadcast tone. Its head opened like a Type-59, but what slid out wasn’t a quad cannon. Hundreds of barrels extended, each thicker than the tank’s, all leveled at the original it copied.

—Execute.

A gray-white energy beam tore the air.

Hos and Tela barely had time to blink. The Type-59’s auto-system seized command, shields and every defense surging to overload like a storm-battered bastion. The four brow-mounted plasma turrets roared at maximum, hurling blue suns to blunt the incoming lance of light.

Even at full fury, the counterfire only tilted the foe’s focus cannon a hair off course, like a stray gust nudging an arrow.

The next heartbeat, alarms shrieked—the shield shattered like glass under a hammer. Weight vanished; Hos and Tela tumbled on a thundercrack, heads spinning like tops.

[Warning: left hydraulic section missing; Warning: observation camera unit destroyed; Warning: shield offline; Warning: frame unstable…]

Errors poured like hard rain at their ears. The cockpit screens snowed with static, the outside world snuffed like a drowned lantern.

Dizzy and furious, Tela steadied her head, then pried the hatch open as if lifting the lid on a boiling cauldron.

Not azure—an ink-dark sky spilled before her, night thick as lacquer.

…

Obviously, the Type-59’s last strike had mattered. It had nudged the focus shot enough to spare the cockpit; otherwise, she’d be staring up at the Moon Goddess Isylia.

Relief didn’t thaw her face; no joy broke the chill.

Instead, she wheeled around and slammed a fist onto Hos’s crown, knuckles falling like a meteor. “You jinx! Aaah!”

The Chaos Beast’s focus cannon had sheared the five left-side hydraulic legs clean through. The chassis lay on its flank like a toppled beetle, no aim, no bite.

“I’m—so—mad I could die!!!”

Bitter as gall, Tela hurled a howl at the sky. What burned most wasn’t losing her proud chariot duel—it was the beast’s disdain. It didn’t even bother with a killing blow. Judging the Type-59 a heap of scrap, its head collapsed back into a writhing ball of tentacles, a sea anemone of hunger.

Then it spun and charged, straight as a spear, at the joint lines of both races.

“Open shields, fast!” “Down!” “Brace for impact!”

Panic rippled through the trenches like wind through reeds. The beast’s centipede legs—woven from tens of thousands of human hands—moved uncanny-fast. The first line had barely lit shields when it slammed in, a tidal wall.

As expected, conjured shields unraveled the instant they touched its personal deconstruction field, collapsing into meaningless trash like frost under sunrise. The Nacha Tribe’s physical frames lasted mere milliseconds longer. At this range, both Nacha tech and magic lost the will to hold shape.

The next breath brought a storm of screams. Gear fragments and bodies spiraled upward, a tornado hooking stray leaves and men alike.

Since the Void Rift tore open, this was Chaos’s first true breach into the living’s close range. On the very first step, blood-flowers bloomed.

And this was only the prelude.

The front ranks were mostly tough, self-healing Nacha. The beast looked ferocious, but its aim wasn’t the very tip. Most Nacha were flung by spillover, wounds that would knit like bark.

Its true target lay behind—the Elf mage phalanx the Nacha guarded—soft leaves under a hail.

Elves were lighter of body, and these practiced mind over muscle. The beast’s deconstruction field flushed their faces scarlet. The frailer ones knelt, nosebleeds dripping down chins onto uniforms, eyes glassy as carp in winter ice. Above, tentacles folded into countless maws and dove; their bodies refused even a token defense.

Before they could be gulped like chicks, a chain of molten iron, sheathed in blue-red flame, snapped onto the tentacles like a dragon’s tether and held them short.

“You will not… harm these children!”

Lady Silan’s roar ripped through the chaos, with Bingxia standing at her side like winter and forge.

Inside this lethal field, only spells of the First Generation could keep their shape like stones in a flood.

Their chants braided; metal and fire danced at their fingertips, a composite spell born like twins under moonlight. It locked the beast’s mouthparts in a deadly tug-of-war, ember versus abyss.

Meanwhile, bat-shaped shadows knifed into the fray, hauling collars of immobilized Elf mages toward safety like night porters. Emerald vines erupted from the soil, twining the beast’s legs and weaving shields, their leaves catching scaled-down focus shots like rain on lotus.

As more First Generation reacted, spells layered like waves. The beast slowed; before the Elf phalanx fully scattered, it swallowed few.

Yet that was the edge of their gains.

Under normal skies, Silan and Bingxia—standouts among the First Generation—could fling legion-level spells with casual grace. Together, their synergy made one plus one tower far beyond three, sweeping like a monsoon.

Now, they could only barely pin the head-tentacles. Vine shields blocked at most one focus shot. And those bat-shadows—Ayu’s beloved Berserk Hellbats, each once the size of several adult Nacha males, a human per bite—now fluttered like tiny sprites, cute wings a bitter joke.

Worst of all, none of them could land true harm.

An invisible membrane sheathed the Chaos Beast, a deconstruction barrier stronger than its spread field. Even First Generation sorcery couldn’t sink an inch.

“Ah… are the famed Elf First Generation only this much? How disappointing. I wanted grander fireworks for my ‘wedding’…”

Crus—the Follower of Pleasure—floated in midair, cheek propped in his palm, boredom dripping like slow honey. He looked down at the Chaos Beast as a cat watches ants.

“Eh, my friend, how did you lose to them ten million years ago? Shouldn’t have. Really shouldn’t~”

He made sure everyone heard; his voice rose over the thunder of magical detonations like a bell over surf.

“You—!” Lady Silan’s lashes sparked, true anger striking like flint. She re-aimed her power. A fire-drill shot toward the blood-red silhouette on the beast’s crown, the collision booming, heat billowing like a sandstorm.

It still failed to pierce the barrier.

“Pff—pff, hahahaha!”

The Follower of Pleasure watched the drill, flame enough to darken the sky, stuck in the barrier like a moth on glass. He slapped his thigh and laughed.

“Ha—haha—s-sorry! I didn’t mean to laugh at you, senior,” he cooed, voice soft and false as silk. “As an attack it’s lacking, but as fireworks, quite pretty—”

His taunt cut off under a thunderclap.

Within the sight-cloaking flame, a thin blue-violet line appeared. The next instant, it surged, light washing everything clean like noon over frost. Even Crus raised a hand to shade his eyes.

When he lowered it, a sword hung inches from his nose, a needle of storm.

“Oh? So the senior’s attack was just your cover,” he said, truly surprised for once.

“I will never… let you touch her!”

The ragged, teeth-gritted voice came from the sword’s master—Mira.

Purple lightning danced along her grip. The tip, trembling as it breached the field, had sunk deeper than any First Generation strike had managed, a thorn pushing into shadow.

Crus nodded, oddly approving, like a judge at a grotesque contest. “Bound by Tessmi’s Lament, and you still reach this far. Firefly wasn’t wrong: you don’t seem human—more like some monster…”

“Hmm… so what are you, really?” He propped his chin, thought, then shook his head, tossing the question away like ash. “Why bother? In a moment, none of it will matter.”

He flicked a hand. A repulsive wave hurled Mira like a sparrow in a gale, smashing a dust plume from a distant cliff.

The tiny “wound” she’d carved into the beast’s field sealed in the next heartbeat, a ripple swallowed by black water.

Silan’s breath went cold; the ambush she had bought for Mira turned to smoke. Her face paled, frost blooming under fire.

If even this couldn’t kill him…

Joy at finding Bingxia, Ayu, and the others drowned again beneath despair’s tide. She turned toward the Void Rift, heart whispering to the last hope she knew.

—Your Highness Menglan… and the Lionheart Hero.

—Please come back, quickly. Or else…