Beyond the Apocalypse

Vlad could feel the weight of countless gazes locked onto him, but he did not care.

Thanks to the Leviathan War, his mind and battle awareness had reached a level that other warriors would need decades—if not centuries—to achieve. His instincts were razor-sharp, his mind utterly focused, filtering out anything irrelevant to the fight.

Distractions meant death.

Runic lines flared to life across his skin, pulsing with dark energy as he tightened his grip on his sword. His body flickered, his figure a blur as he surged forward, his weapon humming with power.

With a series of fluid, precise swings, he unleashed arcs of dark energy that sliced through the battlefield, tearing into the Elementals before him.

Each arc carried condensed Force generated by his sword, allowing his attack to cut deeper than ordinary strikes. The black slashes left deep, jagged wounds across the Elementals’ rocky forms, carving through hardened stone as though it were nothing more than flesh.

However, despite the devastating wounds, not a single Elemental fell.

A cold, mocking smile crept onto Decimus’ face as he observed Vlad’s attacks.

"Mediocre." That was the first word that came to mind. And he was not alone in that sentiment.

Among the other teams, many were visibly relaxed, losing interest, and their expectations were lowered. Compared to the devastation wrought by the other Depravitas, Vlad’s attacks seemed almost underwhelming.

But then, just as they were about to dismiss him—