Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 1073: Ouroboros’s evolution

Once the princes had departed, Overlord turned back toward the Sovereigns. His expression grew sharp and solemn, the faint pride from moments earlier replaced by focused calculation.

"As with the Second Layer," he began, "my scout larvae have already infiltrated the Third Layer of Hell."

The Sovereigns immediately grew alert.

"There is news," Overlord continued, his tone heavy. "As you all know, most of the Third Layer is a gargantuan city divided into sectors. Theoretically, this should make conquest easier. Structured territory, clear divisions, predictable control points."

He paused.

"But the Devil Lords are prepared."

The weight of those words settled over the group.

"They have learned," Overlord said. "They know that standing alone leads to annihilation. They also know that gathering together is no longer viable—not after what happened in the City of Unkept Promises."

Merlin frowned, his gaze thoughtful. "If they are neither gathering nor fighting alone... then what is their plan? Are they attempting to abandon the layer and return after we move on?"

Overlord immediately shook his head.

"If they did that, we could drain every iota of Origin Power from the layer," he replied. "They would cripple themselves beyond recovery."

A rare frown appeared on Overlord’s face, revealing just how dangerous the situation truly was.

"No," he said quietly. "What they are planning is far worse."

The air seemed to tighten around them.

"They are preparing for guerrilla warfare."

Silence followed.

Each Sovereign understood the implications instantly. Hidden strikes. Endless ambushes. Attrition without decisive battles. A war designed not to win—but to bleed them slowly.

"A battle of attrition will certainly be problematic," Brightkin said, his voice steady as his gaze swept across the gathered Sovereigns. "But the Devil Lords should know that their chances of killing one of us through such methods are extremely low. As long as we continue to advance, sooner or later they will be cornered and destroyed."

His words resonated through the chamber. One by one, the Sovereigns nodded in agreement. Even Overlord inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the truth in Brightkin’s assessment.

"You are correct," Overlord replied calmly. "Guerrilla warfare alone will not kill us. But killing us is not their objective."

The faint approval in his eyes vanished, replaced by something colder.

"They seek to weaken us," he continued. "To exhaust us. To bleed us slowly, strike after strike, until the final confrontation arrives."

A heavy silence followed.

"And when that final battle comes," Overlord said, his voice lowering, "we will be weakened enough that the White Death will be forced to take the field."

The frowns among the Sovereigns deepened instantly.

To draw Alexandro into battle was not a strategic victory. It was an act bordering on madness. No being in the Third Layer of Hell could face him directly and survive. To seek his involvement was equivalent to seeking one’s own annihilation.

There was no logical reason for the Devil Lords to desire this.

At least, that was what they had believed.

"They know they cannot defeat us alone," Overlord continued, his gaze sharp as steel. "So their objective is to weaken us and force the White Death to expend his energy. If both conditions are met..."

He paused, letting the implication settle.

"...then a Paragon from the Ninth Layer of Hell will inevitably seize the opportunity to appear on the battlefield."

The eyes of the Sovereigns widened as understanding dawned.

After the defeat of Beelzebub, no Paragon in their right mind would dare to challenge the White Death at full strength. That would be suicide, regardless of their power. But if Alexandro were forced into prolonged combat—if his energy were drained while facing enemies stronger than the Sovereigns themselves—

Then the situation would change entirely.

"If the White Death is weakened," Merlin said quietly, "and the Devil Lords manage to surpass us... then a Paragon would no longer be facing an unstoppable force."

"Exactly," Overlord replied. "A Beelzebub... or something far worse."

A chill ran through the chamber.

"If we split into groups as we did before," Orkin said grimly, "the Devil Lords of the Third Layer will certainly be waiting for us in teams. They will strike when we are separated, deal maximum damage in the shortest time possible, and retreat before we can retaliate."

Though the Sovereigns had supreme confidence in their own strength, this concern was not unfounded. Several Devil Lords of the Third Layer had reached the Peak of the Lord Tier. Facing an ambush by more than one of them could easily result in crippling injuries—or worse.

"I could use Heaven’s Gate to obliterate everything in our path," Overlord said slowly. "But ruins would only serve them. Collapsed cities, shattered sectors, broken terrain—these would make hiding and ambushing us even easier."

The expressions around him darkened further.

If they remained together as a single force, they would be nearly invincible—but the conquest of the Third Layer would become a monumental ordeal, one that could drag on for decades. Time, however, was not on their side.

The longer they delayed, the greater the chance that the Alien Powers would act.

The Primordial God’s Tomb remained sealed for now, but that would not last forever. If an agent of the Alien Powers reached it, Dream of Madness could be freed.

And if that happened—

Even thinking about it sent a shiver through their souls.

The only reason they dared to confront that Empyrean at all was because it was weakened, imprisoned, and unable to recover its full power. Should Dream of Madness ever regain its peak strength, every single one of them would perish without exception.

"There is a path forward," Overlord said at last, breaking the silence. "A way to negate the advantages of guerrilla warfare."

The Sovereigns turned their full attention to him.

"But to do so," he continued, "each of us must give up one of the Devil Lords we have captured alive."

Complicated expressions appeared on their faces.

Capturing a Devil Lord alive was an extraordinary feat. Killing them was far easier, but the Sovereigns had taken great risks—enduring grievous wounds and exhausting their strength—to preserve those captives. Living Devil Lords were invaluable assets for future plans.

And now Overlord was asking them to relinquish one.

Yet hesitation lasted only a moment.

One after another, their eyes burned with determination.

They were not tyrants invading an infernal realm for wealth or glory. They were Sovereigns whose actions would shape the fate of the entire universe. When weighed against the greater picture, wealth meant nothing.

Vlad watched them closely, a wide smile spreading across his face as he saw their reactions. Pride stirred in his chest. These were the kind of people he wanted beside him in a war that would decide existence itself.

Without wasting time, each Sovereign raised a hand.

Space distorted as imposing Devil Lords appeared, their bodies wrapped in countless chains and seals. Their souls were bound, their minds frozen, their strength utterly suppressed. Escape was impossible. Even suicide had been denied to them.

"Good," Overlord said simply. "Then we begin."

With those words, his focus shifted to the True Depravita of Wrath—or more precisely, to the yellow eye embedded in Vlad’s forehead.

In the next instant, the True Depravita of Greed emerged from Vlad’s soul.

His massive werewolf-draconic form radiated overwhelming presence, scales and fur shimmering with ancient power. He inhaled deeply as his gaze met Overlord’s, instantly understanding the task placed upon him.

It was an immense responsibility.

And he had been entrusted with an equally immense amount of fuel.

Failure was not an option.

For an entire week, the True Depravita of Greed did nothing but consume.

He devoured the souls of the captured Devil Lords, stripping them of every trace of consciousness. He consumed their flesh, their blood, their bones—down to the final cell. Nothing was wasted. Nothing was left behind.

When the week ended, the change was unmistakable.

The aura of the True Depravita of Greed erupted with overwhelming force. He rose into the sky, his body glowing with majestic brilliance as his Depravita Sun ignited.

Then it exploded.

A vast, awe-inspiring ocean of golden flames spread across the heavens of the Second Layer of Hell, illuminating the infernal sky like a false dawn.

Overlord acted immediately.

He commanded the Infernal Obelisks, channeling Origin Power directly into the sea of psychic flames. The yellow inferno expanded further, its reach consuming vitality, energy, and even the underlying laws within its range.

Life withered. Power was drained. Rules themselves were devoured.

The damage to the Second Layer was immense—but acceptable.

At most, only ten percent of it would remain inhabitable.

That was a fair trade.

After all, the Six Sun Alliance did not possess nearly enough people or infrastructure to occupy even half of the Second Layer.