The Guardian gods-Chapter 578

There were uncountable layers of the Abyss, an infinite cosmos of damnation, and among them, many unconquered ones. These were Vorenza’s true objective. But to reach a layer such as this, a pristine unclaimed domain without risking her very own being, a steep price was demanded. Given her current, formidable strength as a sixth tier demon, the Abyss required a sixth-tier soul as payment to get her safely to an unconquered Abyssal layer.

Of course, she could try and travel without paying the price, but that was bound to condemning herself to death. The chaotic currents between layers, the raw, untamed energies, would tear apart any unwarded traveler. Moreover, no established Abyssal Lord would tolerate someone who so brazenly aimed for their seat to simply walk freely within their realm. Such an uninvited guest would be crushed, their ambition extinguished before it could even ignite.

With this grim, decisive new goal meticulously mapped out, Vorenza remained poised, unmoving, within her crumbling domain. She was no longer waiting for the Empire’s army as an enemy, but as a grim, vital resource. They were her ticket, her way out, the final, crucial sacrifice. Her confidence, stemmed from her own strength, the little information she got on the two mages left and the general followed by the clarity of her renewed purpose.

Her past encounter with Zarvok, and more recently, the intoxicating experience of the Abyss’s raw, untamed grace after the earlier battle, had awakened a profound, insatiable greed within her for that very same grace. She yearned to put on a spectacle so magnificent, so utterly devastating, that it would offset the immense loss of face and power she would incur once she formally proclaimed her withdrawal from the battle for this layer’s throne. This final, brutal flourish would be her payment, ensuring her future ascension in a new, unconquered realm.

As for her remaining generals and the tattered remnants of her army, Vorenza harbored no benevolent intention of ordering their retreat to safety. She was keenly aware of their hesitant actions, their thinly veiled desire to abandon her, but she needed them here. They were a crucial, expendable shield, intended to tie down the Imperial army—what little of it remained. She had no desire to expend more of her own precious power than absolutely necessary.

Her true focus lay on the mages and the generals. She had already meticulously planned a series of counter-concepts specifically designed to unravel them. Vorenza, after all, had once been a mage herself, and she knew that a mage’s greatest strengths lay not just in raw power, but in insight, in acute awareness, and in the profound depth of their knowledge. These were the very foundations she intended to exploit.

Back at the newly established fortress, hastily erected before the churning Abyss portal, Kaelen and the two remaining sixth-tier mages, Lyra and Korvin, sat for a brief, somber meeting. The air in the tent was heavy, thick with the unasked questions of their new reality.

The discussion wasn’t about strategy or the remaining demons; it was about the new Abyssal armor, or more precisely, them adorning it. They had finally pushed the enemy back to the Abyss’s doorstep, but they all knew the grim truth: once they stepped into that chaotic realm, their inherent strength would be suppressed. This was a fundamental being a plane not of one’s own, a smothering weight that dampened external magic and power. It was a reality none of the three liked or wanted. They needed to be at full strength, every ounce of their formidable power available, to deal with Vorenza. Anything less was an invitation to disaster.

Lyra ran a hand through her short-cropped hair, her expression tight. "We can’t afford to be half-strength. Not against Vorenza, not in her domain. It’s a gamble just to step through, let alone fight at a disadvantage."

Kaelen’s gaze swept over them, cold and analytical. "My calculations confirm the suppression. However, the armor’s unique integration with Abyssal essence might provide a workaround. It not only will resiste the Abyss’s nature, but mimicking it. If we present ourselves as partially integrated, the suppression might be lessened, or at least less debilitating."

"Might?" Lyra scoffed, a rare show of frustration. "That’s a slim thread to hang our lives on. What if it accelerates the full corruption once we’re inside? What if it turns us into the very abominations we’ve been fighting?"

"The risk is inherent," Kaelen stated, his voice flat. "But the alternative is facing Vorenza at perhaps 80 percent of our true power, while she, presumably, operates at full capacity. Beside we three are sixth tier being, while suspictable to the abyss corruption, it would take far more before it get’s it’s hold on us and It’s the only way we stand a chance of operating near peak efficiency in a hostile environment."

Korvin looked from Kaelen to the churning portal outside the tent. "So, we become what we fight, to fight what we are. A necessary evil, then?"

"A necessary adaptation," Kaelen corrected, his eyes holding no warmth. "The Abyss demands a price for entry. We will pay it, but we will twist the payment to our advantage. The question is, are you willing to accept that price?"

Both mages nodded, a grim acceptance settling over their faces. Someone else, however, was not taking this new development well: Rattan. Because of his unique status within the current army, not a direct combatant, but a vital engineer and technician, he had not been forced to adorn the Abyssal armor if he didn’t want to. But now, in this grim, final situation, it was no longer a matter of choice.

Looking at the sleek, dark form of the armor laid out before him, its surface humming with a faint, predatory energy, Rattan took a shaky breath. His nimble fingers, usually so confident in their craft, trembled slightly as he picked up and began to wear something he himself had helped create. He was immediately met with the unsettling sensation of donning another skin instead of an armor, as it shifted and adjusted itself, actively merging with his body with an almost organic fluidity.

Once the armor settled in, a slight, insidious tendril of sensation began to probe at his mental shield. The armor, it seemed, was immediately testing its wearer’s will, a silent, psychological grapple for dominance.

Deep within Rattan’s consciousness, a vast, abstract space where his thoughts resided, Phantom, a being of pure will and ambition, waved an incorporeal hand. Immediately, a deep yellow flame erupted, not burning, but enveloping Rattan’s entire consciousness space. Phantom stood at its serene core, eyes closed, radiating an immense, silent power.

The Abyssal tendrils, probing Rattan’s mind, recoiled instantly upon contact with this sudden, blazing inferno. They writhed back, defeated, as the yellow flames fiercely enveloped and reinforced Rattan’s mental shield, making it an impregnable bastion. Rattan immediately noticed the abrupt cessation of the mental assault. His shoulders shook, and he repressed the powerful urge to laugh out loud a burst of defiant, almost maniacal triumph that threatened to bubble to the surface.

Rattan’s shoulders continued to shake, his silent mirth barely contained. He found it deliciously ironic that Chief had dared to compare his guardian, the entity that effortlessly protected his mind, to the insidious force that had made Chief’s own life a living hell. With Phantom’s unwavering support, Rattan found it surprisingly easy to impose his will upon the Abyssal armor, commanding its newly integrated parts to move precisely as he desired. He was able to welcome the raw empowerment it offered, feeling its strength course through him, all without paying the terrifying mental price that plagued the other soldiers.

Before the final, decisive battle, deep within the churning chaos of Vorenza’s rapidly diminishing domain, Zarvok stood in his own formidable, dark armor before a vast war table. Flickering projections of arcane light detailed the shifting battle lines, the dwindling demonic forces, and the unexpectedly resilient Imperial army. Facing him was Ikenga, his hand resting thoughtfully on his chin, his gaze calm but piercing.

"What do you think of my proposal, Ikenga?" Zarvok asked, his voice a low rumble, smoke subtly coiling from his helmet.

"Has this been your plan this whole time," Ikenga mused, his eyes narrowing slightly, "or was it something you adjusted on the fly?" A hint of genuine curiosity laced his words, something Zarvok noticed was a common trait of Ikenga.

Zarvok let out a dismissive, guttural laugh, waving a gauntleted hand through the smoky air. "You think too highly of me, my friend. This was indeed something concocted on the fly, and only then did I decide to inform you."

"Why do this, then," Ikenga pressed, his voice even, "when it serves you no immediate benefit, or rather, enables a potentially more unstable factor?"

Zarvok turned, his glowing, fiery eyes fixing on Ikenga. The intensity of his gaze was a challenge, a declaration. "I believe in you," he stated, the words resonating with a strange weight. "Or rather, I wanted to hand you more chess pieces."

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