Capítulo 749: Counting Down

(Meanwhile, within the Blackhole, Soron’s POV)

The pressure was endless.

It pressed down on him from every direction, an invisible ocean of gravity that could crush entire planets into dust, yet Soron sat in the heart of it all, unmoving, his body surrounded by a faint field of protective aura that bent space itself just enough to let him exist.

Around him, the abyss churned and screamed. The air, if it could be called that, rippled like molten glass. Fragments of light tore themselves apart before they could reach him, swallowed by the black maw that devoured even the idea of color.

And through it all, Soron breathed, slow and steady, his every exhale scattering flecks of condensed metal essence into the storm.

The Origin Metal floated before him, half-melted, half-solid, a sliver of divine substance capable of rewriting history itself. It pulsed faintly, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat, as though it, too, struggled to survive in the gravitational madness that surrounded them both.

“Ninety-five percent,” Soron murmured, his voice barely more than a thought inside the collapsing silence. “Just a little more.”

He could sense the refinement reaching its threshold, the final layers of metallic bonds dissolving into the void as the Origin Metal yielded to his will.

Each second of progress was paid for with pain that defied description. His mana circuits screamed in protest, his bones hummed like forged steel, and his consciousness trembled between existence and annihilation. Yet, his focus never faltered.

He had not come here to die.

He had come here to perfect what even other gods feared to touch.

Two weeks….. That was how long he calculated it would take before the refinement reached its absolute completion, after which he could finally return.

Two weeks before he could once again set foot in the universe and see what had become of the Cult in his absence, and how it was faring after Charles’s death.

*Sigh*

He exhaled again, his breath rippling with moldy black spores that betrayed the true condition of his body.

Maintaining his full strength for such a long time had taken a heavy toll on his body, with the infection from the origin metal wounds now passing through to his lungs.

He had difficulty breathing now, and whenever he exhaled too sharply, black moldy spores made their way out of his mouth, which showed him just how fast he was hollowing from the inside out.

“Just a little more… I only need to live a little longer,” he whispered to himself, the words drifting into the crushing void around him like a vow rather than a plea.

He had long abandoned the notion of surviving another century the moment he stepped into this blackhole, for he knew the cost of refining the Origin Metal better than anyone.

By pushing his body beyond the edge of reason, he had burned away the years he might have had left, trading them for power that would last only once more— enough for a single, final battle.

After that, the cancer that had already begun to consume his organs would finish what the black hole could not, if his opponent’s blade did not claim him first.

And yet, in the face of that certainty, Soron felt no fear.

Only exhilaration.

The quiet thrill of a warrior who knew his end was near, and who welcomed it with the serenity of purpose.

Very soon, he would leave this place.

Very soon, he would stand once again on the battlefield against the men who betrayed his father.

And when that day came, he would have a blade capable of killing them in his hands, and a hope to find vindication at last.

—————-

(Within the Time-Stilled World, Skyshard City, Chaosbringer’s POV)

The air inside the office was utterly still, save for the faint hum of the mana-heart mechanism embedded within the walls, quietly purifying the atmosphere of even the slightest trace of tainted mana.

The scent of cold incense lingered in the air, sharp and clean, masking the tension that weighed down the room like lead.

Chaosbringer sat behind his desk, fingers laced together, his tired eyes fixed on the five Monarchs kneeling before him.

They were some of the strongest beings in the Cult, commanders of vast divisions, leaders who could burn cities and split mountains with a single gesture—yet here they stood, heads bowed, too afraid to even meet the eyes of a mere mortal.

The past twenty years had not been kind to Chaosbringer.

The lines on his face ran deeper now, and the faint shimmer of youth that once danced in his eyes had dulled into the patient fatigue of a man who had seen too much.

His hair, still long and silky, was now tinted with faint streaks of silver, which completely killed any remaining boyish charm that he had, as he now looked like a distinguished gentleman with good hygiene, rather than the once flamboyant hipster that he used to be.

Before him stood Su Pei, Darnell Nuna, Dupravel Nuna, Mickey James, and Anderson Silva, five Monarchs who had taken up the Command of various up and coming Cult divisions.

Yet today, it seemed like their battle strength meant little in the face of the task before them.

“Lord Chaosbringer,” Darnell began softly, his usual confident tone replaced by something almost pleading. “Please, it has to be you. Apart from his family, the Lord is only mindful of restraining his aura around you. I’m afraid he won’t do the same for us.”

The others nodded wordlessly, each avoiding the other’s gaze, ashamed of their own reluctance, as Chaosbringer let out a slow sigh before rubbing his forehead as he leaned back in his chair.

The faint light from the projector on his desk flickered against his face, still playing the looping image of Aegon Veyr’s humiliation in the outside world.

He had watched it only once, but that was more than enough. The fury that had crawled up his spine back then still lingered like a poison in his chest.

And now they wanted him to show it to Leo.

He could already imagine the silence that would follow. The stillness before the storm. The tremor in the air when Leo’s aura would finally slip free.

And hence, he did not blame them for not wanting to be around for that disaster.

“Fine,” he said at last, his voice calm but heavy. “I’ll do it myself.”

None of the Monarchs moved. None dared to even thank him.

They simply bowed deeper, relief and guilt written across their faces, as Chaosbringer rose from his chair and turned toward the door.

A storm was coming.

The Righteous Faction had dared to provoke an already infuriated Cult.

And a response was sure to follow.