Chapter 686: Improvement
A crushing pressure weighed upon every warrior of the Korokor Stronghold after General Tiberius spoke. Some felt it like an endless wave, a suffocating force that threatened to drown them in despair. Others burned with renewed determination, a fierce inner fire prompting them to grow stronger at any cost.
Tiberius took in the mingled expressions of fear and grim resolve from his soldiers. Though he, himself, was wounded—blood trickling from cuts and bruises, and fatigue etched into every muscle—he hovered in midair, refusing to show weakness.
His eyes shone with an almost monstrous battle spirit, an unspoken vow that he would never compromise the defense of the fortress. To those on the edge of panic, he became a guiding light. To those burning for vengeance, he served as a catalyst, intensifying their fighting will.
Having said his piece, Tiberius finally nodded in satisfaction and, with the other two Graecia Legends, flashed toward the highest tower of the stronghold. The defenders below watched him depart in solemn silence, his words echoing in their minds. Then, one by one, they dispersed, heading to their residences for healing, rest, and, above all, the urgent need to grow stronger.
Amid the exodus of soldiers, Vlad remained within his own quarters. He had been there the entire time—coughing up mouthfuls of blood, the result of the spiked club’s devastating blow that had crushed several of his ribs and left deep internal injuries. Still, he had heard every word Tiberius uttered, and those words stirred something fierce in his heart.
If Vlad were honest with himself, he’d never nursed any particular hatred for the Vorometallicae race. To him, the Land of the Three Calamities was originally just a stepping stone to hone his skills and strengthen himself.
Yet, over the months of constant warfare, that perspective had shifted. He had seen men and women—valiant, selfless, and resolute—lay down their lives to protect their homeland. He had bonded with warriors whose camaraderie ran deeper than mere battlefield cooperation. And he had witnessed the Graecia high command, men and women of high rank, personally risking their own lives in the front lines for their soldiers’ sake.
Bit by bit, a sense of kinship and brotherhood bloomed within him, transforming his view of the war. No longer did he see it as merely a convenient stage for personal gain. Now, it felt like his war as well—one he would fight with everything he had. Even if that ’distant land’ that these soldiers called home was unfamiliar to him, the sacrifice and ideals they represented had become dear.
"If I can be strong enough here, I can be strong enough to protect those I care about," The Sky Seed Depravita murmured, many faces crossing his mind, the most striking one that of a fierce young woman.
Despite the fiery pain flaring in every breath, Vlad forced himself into a meditative posture. His injuries were nowhere near fully healed, yet he reached for another vial of black potion, swallowing it in one gulp.
Every second mattered. The sooner he broke through into a True Depravita, the greater impact he could have on the battlefield. He refused to let his body’s protest slow him down.
A few minutes later, the door to his quarters swung open, and Jormungandr, Ouroboros, and Fafnir entered. The three Sky Seed Depravitas, each wore their own wounds and fatigue from the last battle.