Chapter 915: Devils from Sector 3

Just like Hazon, Barkial had been forced to display the full extent of his might. His body warped into a colossus of living nightmare, a towering monstrosity so vast that mountains looked like rubble beneath his steps. His form was a grotesque mass of bloated, scarred red flesh, bound tightly by chains of gold and iron that clinked and dragged across his bulk like trophies from long-forgotten wars. Jagged blackened armor clung to parts of his body, as though grafted into his flesh, amplifying his already terrifying presence. His head had become a cavernous maw, a yawning inferno lined with rows of dripping golden teeth that glowed faintly like molten daggers in the dark. From his back emerged enormous obsidian spikes, curving outward to form a fortress of bone and shadow. In his colossal hands, he carried a weapon almost as dreadful as himself—a massive, broken machete, its rusted edge caked with the dried blood of countless victims. Each swing of that weapon was like a collapsing star; its weight and force seemed capable of shattering moons.

Yet, for all his brute might, Barkial was being countered. His raw strength was met not with equal force but with cunning sorcery.

The Devil Lord who opposed him was small in comparison—barely five meters tall, a speck of dust against Barkial’s towering form. But size was a lie. This Devil radiated corruption and power with every movement. His skin was pale and ashen, stretched tight over a muscular frame that pulsed with dark vitality. His long, clawed fingers danced in constant motion, weaving incantations of immense power. A skeletal face crowned with sharp fangs and curved horns gave him the appearance of a death-god, one who had long since abandoned flesh for sheer power.

A tattered black skirt drifted around his waist like smoke, adorned with jagged metal plating that seemed to drink the energy from the air itself. Behind him, wings stretched wide—broken, feathered, carrion-like—symbols of his dominion over corruption. In his grasp glowed a blazing orb of fire, pulsing with cosmic energy. He wielded it like a second heart, unleashing its fury in relentless torrents of infernal plasma.

Each time Barkial’s machete came crashing down, the orb would pulse, summoning vast, mousturous hands of molten shadow that rose to meet the blade, slowing it just enough for the sorcerer to sidestep and release another barrage of flames into Barkial’s titanic body.

"Moroir, you snake!" Barkial roared, the ground trembling with his fury. His voice was a thunderclap of hatred. He not only recognized this enemy but remembered the battles they had fought before. Their enmity was ancient. Moroir served Orous, the Master of Sector 3—Nebolex’s eternal rival, locked in a war that had consumed millennia.

"Hahahaha! Barkial, I see you are still nothing more than a brute who only knows how to swing that rusted blade!" Moroir’s mocking laughter echoed across the battlefield, even as his firestorm carved bloody wounds into Barkial’s vast frame.

Though Barkial’s body radiated shocking vitality, even his titanic form had limits. Blood and magma oozed from his injuries. Each strike weakened him further, and it seemed inevitable that Sector 4’s forces would be pushed back.

But then, the tide shifted.

A spike of energy erupted in the distance, so immense that even the battling Lords turned their heads. From the horizon rose the gargantuan body of a snake, his scales shimmering with the Laws of Lightning and Life. Jormungandr had released his colossal form, embodying the essence of endless consumption, constantly devouring the energy of the realm around him.

Before Moroir could react, the True Depravita of Gluttony unleashed his might. All the energy he had swallowed was compressed into a single devastating cannon of lightning. It fired with a brilliance that tore through the air faster than the eye could follow.he Devils surrendered their hard-won trophies. Even Jormungandr, whose lightning cannon had turned the tide, was not spared. Barkial demanded his share without hesitation, ignoring the Depravita’s contribution as though it were nothing.

The small yellow cat did not argue. Gratitude was a fool’s expectation when dealing with Devils. He had not intervened for Barkial’s sake, but for strategy. He needed to keep the team united if he wanted to succeed in his goal of learning the location of the Zanis Homeworld’s portal. That was worth more than any pile of corpses or treasures.