Lord of the Truth

Chapter 2162 Final Throne of Ashes

Damirʼs death was a thunderous shock that swept across the entire field, a violent ripple that struck every corner without exception; the news spread like a detonation that did not distinguish between friend and foe, between those who wished for his fall and those who had once stood beneath his banner.

Some viewed it from a colder, more analytical angle-that this was the first individual of such immense standing to fall in modern wars; even in the brutal chronicles of ancient conflicts, figures of this caliber did not collapse so easily, did not simply vanish from the stage in a single confrontation. Not even the devastating internal war of the Destra family, a conflict that tore through its own bloodline with merciless intensity, had resulted in the death of the first son, Hedrick.

Others turned their gaze with quiet dread toward the Mid Sector 101, not at what had happened, but at what was about to unfold there-at the inevitable reaction that would come from Darvion. They did not fear the past... they feared the next move.

And some... some looked with a strange, almost hollow pity toward the soul path itself.

For a Royal Soul Master bearing nine stars, a peak existence, fully armed with three world arrays charged to their limits, to fall at the hands of a Monarch wielding a minor law-one who had only just stepped into that realm-was not merely defeat. It was an upheaval of hierarchy.

Damir had died, leaving behind not just a corpse... but a massive humiliation pressed down upon the shoulders of every Royal Soul Master in existence. But of course, that humiliation-and the growing sense of inferiority when compared to the energy path-was only one side of the scale... while the humiliation and fury that ignited within Darvion stood on an entirely different level, a far heavier, far more dangerous side that threatened to tilt everything.

Darvion did not step forward with declarations. He did not issue threats, nor did he attempt to justify or explain. Instead, he remained silent-unnaturally, oppressively silent-until the forces of the Savage Galaxy had fully passed through his sector. Only then did he move.

During that time, he unleashed his sons across the Mid Sector 101, sending them out not with orders of conquest, nor of strategy, but with a far simpler directive: destruction first... the hunt for Helene second. Everything else was secondary.

And the moment the last soldier departed from the sector, Darvion returned to the Mid Sector 101 once again. This time, there was no illusion left. He was not there to salvage remnants, not there to reorganize forces or reclaim what had been lost. No... he had accepted the truth of his situation.

Years ago, after the assault of the Destroyer Armada, only around 400 fleets of the Cursed Galaxy had remained. Those remnants scattered rapidly, fragmenting themselves across space in an attempt to make targeting them nearly impossible. But the Note Gen-4 fleets did not relent. They hunted patiently, relentlessly, finding those scattered fragments one by one and erasing them over the course of years, until what remained could barely be called an army.

Now, the Cursed Behemoth no longer possessed any true military presence within the Mid Sector 101... aside from his sons.

Within his own galaxy, only a few hundred fleets remained-shadows of what once was.

From a purely military perspective, Darvion had fallen to a state worse than that of a standard millennial empire. Even a newly crowned Behemoth, inexperienced and untested, would stand in a far stronger position than him. Thus, Damirʼs death became the final straw-the breaking point that forced Darvion himself back onto the battlefield.

No one knew where he was within the Mid Sector 101. No one could pinpoint his movements. All that was known... was that he was there. Watching. Acting. And releasing his sons like hunting hounds upon anything that moved, anything that resisted, anything that simply existed within his reach.

And more dangerously... he had opened the vaults of the Cursed Galaxy without restraint.

He began withdrawing vast quantities of emeralds-enough to sustain the extreme consumption of his sons as they waged continuous, unrelenting warfare. The destruction of planets was not symbolic... it required units, required constant expenditure, required fuel for annihilation.

At the same time, he began pulling out Pearls in staggering amounts, using them to purchase entire fleets to compensate for his catastrophic losses. These were not elite fleets. Most were primitive, many of them used, worn down by previous conflicts and long journeys. They would not arrive immediately. They would take decades-decades of travel across sectors- before reaching the Mid Sector 102, their new designated ground. And by the time they arrived, that journey alone would have them furt

But Darvion had no choice. Quantity had become necessity. Quality... could wait.

Militarily, financially, strategically, psychologically-even in terms of prestige and standing-Darvion had fallen in a terrifying, undeniable manner. A collapse not of a single aspect... but of an entire structure.

No one wished to witness his current state.

No one wished to stand before him and test the weight of that fury.

Not even Helene... wished to face him now.

Damir had afflicted her with a curse of the body... a vicious, invasive curse that gnawed relentlessly at her bones until they hollowed out from within, that burrowed through her lungs until they were riddled with invisible punctures. Every passing second was agony, a drawn-out torment that refused to dull, and the relentless pressure of flight-of forcing her body beyond its limits-only accelerated the damage, deepening the ruin spreading through her.

If not for the fact that she maintained the Minor Ashification Law upon her body day and night, without rest, without pause, forcing it to burn away the corruption again and again... if not for the fact that the Ashification Law favored her, almost indulgently, responding to her as though she were its chosen vessel... she would have died long ago, reduced to nothing before this pursuit had even reached its peak. ”...” Helene closed her mouth, sealing away any sign of weakness, somehow preserving an expression untouched by pain, and continued surging forward through the void.

She could not stop.

She could not turn.

She could not even spare the effort to counterattack. ”Youʼre only delaying the inevitable!” one of the Royal Soul Masters shouted, his voice cutting through space as he drew forth a Miserable World Array. With practiced precision, he began shaping a spear from the dense, compressed energy contained within it-layers upon layers of power folding into a single point-before releasing it in a violent burst.

Whoosh ”...!” Helene pressed forward, yet her heart trembled within her chest.

She understood. There was no avoiding that attack. Not something of that scale, not something carrying that much concentrated force.

She would have to destroy it.

But to do so... she would have to slow down.

To slow down... meant to open her defenses. And to open her defenses... was to offer her life willingly.

Seven Royal Soul Master were pursuing her. Seven.

If she blocked one, the others would strike.

If she hesitated once... it would end.

But thinking further would not change anything.

She had already made her decision.

She would not fall alone. ”.....” Helene came to an abrupt halt, her figure suspended in the void, and raised her pitch-black eyes toward the incoming strike-the spear that fractured into countless projectiles mid-flight, multiplying endlessly until it resembled a storm of millions of arrows closing in from every direction.

Her lips moved. ”Final Throne of Ash.” ”No!” The one who had launched the attack froze instantly. Instead of pressing the advantage, instead of capitalizing on her pause, instinct took over-he pulled back, retreating behind his array, shifting entirely into defense.

The rest of his brothers reacted the same way, retreating even further, widening the distance between them and her as if fleeing from a natural disaster.

Final Throne of Ash...

Her strongest technique.

The very same technique that had torn through Damirʼs defenses, shattered his protections, and ended his life.

And she had chosen to unleash it now-

In this state.

Rumble

Rumble

The incoming arrows dissolved the instant they touched the expanding field, reduced to ash before they could even graze her. Space itself began to warp, to soften, then fracture, as though reality was losing cohesion under the weight of the technique-until it too began to scatter like ash in a storm.

Crack

The Miserable World Array trembled violently, fractures racing across its surface before it collapsed inward, disintegrating into nothingness. The wave did not stop-it pressed forward, spilling beyond the broken array, reaching the third son. ”No!”

In that instant, the third son of Darvion made a decision born of survival. He abandoned the array he had spent centuries charging, casting it aside without hesitation, and turned to flee.

Too late.

The edge of the Ash Throne had already touched him.

His arm vanished-consumed, erased-leaving behind nothing but a torn absence. ”Argh!!”

His scream echoed as he retreated, clutching the void where his limb had once been.

Only after several seconds-long, suffocating seconds-did the brothers finally stop their retreat.

They turned.

The expansion had ceased.

The storm had ended.

And what remained...

Their eyes burned. Their hearts boiled with fury, rage rising like a tidal wave that demanded release. ”Helene!!”

Every single one of them looked ready to tear her apart with their bare hands, to devour her alive if they could. The fact that she had escaped them once more-after everything-was unbearable. But this time...

This time was different.

There was no empty space waiting for them.

No absence.

No illusion of escape.

Helene was still there.

Floating upright.

Silent.

Unmoving.

Yet... there was nothing left within her.

No fluctuation.

No presence. No sign of life.