Soul God Dominates the Mortal World-Chapter 90: Vengeance!

"Move... and I’ll forget everything that happened when I retake what’s mine."

The general’s fists clenched tightly around his sword hilt. He hesitated.

The words stabbed deep. For Lancelot to survive the outlands—alone—was madness.

But to survive while being hunted by the seven deadliest bounty hunters in the Empire?

And to return with those same hunters as allies? Impossible. And yet... here he stood.

Bran Cutter’s heart churned violently.

’He’s not bluffing... He never moved unless the path ahead was certain. If he’s here, then something big must have happened, I definitely shouldn’t go against him.’

’But if I turn against Odin now... my family—my sons—what happens to them? We’ve all seen what Odin does to those who cross him...’

’But if I stand with Odin... will I live to see tomorrow when I fight Lord Lancelot? Will my soul forgive me?’

He glanced toward the former empress. Her beauty had turned lethal. The lightning in her aura snapped violently with every breath she took. A goddess of vengeance.

’Even her... what happened to her?’

He could feel his soldiers’ minds trembling.

And then, just as the entire square seemed ready to snap—

A voice rang out from behind...

Firm. Unyielding. Cold.

"Move."

But then, A path opened.

And from behind them... strode a man cloaked in shadows, his golden armor glinting with divine radiance.

Odin.

Black hair and a prominent jawline, he looked nothing like Lancelot. They weren’t born of the same womb—hell, not even blood brothers—but they had grown up together, raised under the same roof by Jane and Steve... the same Jane and Steve who murdered Lancelot’s father in cold blood. (See Chapter 22). Odin’s parents, and yet, they had raised Lancelot as well.

Once, the two had shared a bond stronger than blood. But Odin had walked down a different path, a darker path... One soaked in betrayal.

Behind Odin, fourteen men stood. Their stances unwavering, their eyes cold—mercenaries? Traitors? Each gaze a silent threat.

Odin’s lips curled into a smirk, his voice like frost and iron.

"So this is the man they now call ’Emperor’... You wear his crown, sit on his throne, and dare call yourself righteous... while your blood still reeks of peasantry and disgrace."

A pause. The wind seemed to stop.

"I should have crushed you back then... when you still begged me to call you ’brother’."

A golden orb of light flared into existence in Odin’s palm, glowing with condensed divine essence. Without warning, it rocketed through the air, aimed straight at Lancelot with terrifying speed.

"Undying Dread-Warden Phantom Summon!"

Lancelot’s voice rang like a whisper wrapped in death.

The moment he called it, a soul-wrenching shriek echoed across the place.

The air turned cold.

From the ground rose a gaunt, four-armed armored lich. Draped in withered soulcloth, its hollow eyes glowed an ominous green. Bone-plate armor clanked with each movement, chained and cursed. Its chest cavity held a black-glowing necroflame core—the Crest of Unrest, beating slowly like a ticking timebomb.

The light orb collided with the lich.

The glowing sphere was sucked into the core, devoured like it was nothing. In an instant, the black aura around the lich doubled in intensity. Its skeletal jaw opened, green flames licking between its teeth. Its stare burned like a dead god’s wrath.

Odin’s eyes widened.

"You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this, brother..." Lancelot’s voice was ice.

The lich opened its mouth, a beam of bright, cursed energy condensing in an instant—and then it fired.

It was like a concentrated soul cannon, twice as powerful as the light Odin had sent before. The beam shot forward, faster than thought.

The fourteen miscreants moved, but they were far too late.

The soulbeam struck Odin dead in the shoulder. The shockwave was devastating.

He was blasted backward like a ragdoll, a spray of blood trailing from his lips mid-air. He crashed through the Souler Army behind him—some moved instinctively to catch him, others simply cleared the way. Those who tried to help him grunted under the crushing force of his impact, bones cracking from the pressure.

When they finally caught him and came to a halt...

A small, bloody hole was visible on his chest—just above the heart. It hadn’t pierced all the way through, but it was close. Deadly close. If he wasn’t treated immediately, death was a certainty.

"Attack!" Odin screamed, eyes bloodshot, his voice broken—then he coughed violently, blood pouring out of his mouth.

The Souler Army hesitated. Lancelot’s gaze cut through them like blades. Behind him stood monsters... warriors... legends.

One of the fourteen miscreants, a bulky man with veins bulging from his forehead, stepped forward with a growl. "Escape with Lord Odin! I’ll hold them off!"

"Hmph." Lone Wolf stepped forward.

His fists clenched, knuckles cracking with anticipation. His eyes glowed with disdain, filled with the promise of violence.

Behind him, a blue phantom of a massive werewolf shimmered into existence. It mirrored his motion, rearing back its clawed fist.

BOOM—!!!

The bulky man was launched like a missile, crashing backward into the remaining miscreants. Odin groaned in agony, his wound tearing further open.

The entire group tumbled across the field like broken dolls.

The Souler Army stared—no one dared move.

This... This was power. Raw, undiluted power. Lone Wolf hadn’t even used his full strength. And yet, the damage was decisive.

And Lancelot?

Lancelot hadn’t even moved.

The implications settled into everyone’s hearts like iron. To defy Lancelot now... would be suicide.

At that moment, it was done.

Lancelot had reclaimed his throne—Emperor of the Great Dame once more.

"Lead him and the miscreants to a cell," Lancelot commanded calmly, his voice absolute.

His gaze flicked to the Souler General.

Then to Scar.

A silent signal.

Scar stepped forward, understanding what it meant. He would escort them personally.

As it stands, Lancelot trusted the Seven Bounty Hunters more than the Souler Army, more than the general himself. Left in the general’s hands alone, there was a real chance Odin might escape.

And Lancelot wasn’t taking any chances. Not anymore.

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