Chapter 1193: War between Angels and Fallen Angels

Before long, Vashno emerged onto the surface. From this vantage, the prison seemed deceptively small, yet he knew its depths stretched over a hundred floors underground. Around it, sprawling structures and facilities dotted the landscape—but many belched thick, dark smoke into the night sky. People ran through the chaos, their screams swallowed by the roar of destruction.

The white fog that enveloped much of the continent seemed to avoid this area. The settlements of the locals remained untouched, shrouded only in darkness. Vashno considered investigating why, but instinct told him that survival came first.

"This is...?"

He craned his neck upward and his eyes widened in disbelief.

The sky was alive with a storm of energy. Blinding flashes of color lit the night as the earth trembled violently beneath him. The air itself seemed to boil, an invisible pressure forcing ordinary people to collapse, clutching their heads in agony.

Above, countless silhouettes clashed with staggering force, sending shockwaves tearing across the land. One thing unified them all: wings—gleaming, terrifying, and godlike.

Angels. Fallen angels.

Vashno’s lips parted as he muttered under his breath, almost to himself: "A day hasn’t even passed..."

The carnage above was only beginning. And whatever was happening here... it was beyond anything he had imagined.

Above the battlefield, an even more shocking sight awaited. A gigantic spatial crack ripped through the sky, stretching hundreds of thousands of kilometers like the gaping eye of a god, staring down at mortals with unblinking judgment. The air trembled under its presence, charged with unimaginable energy.

"They even damaged the secret realm..." Vashno muttered, his voice barely audible over the tremors.

And this was only the first day. Already, the carnage had reached a scale he had never imagined. Vashno had expected days—three, maybe five—before the conflict escalated this far. Yet the angels and fallen angels were relentless, their fury and bloodlust accelerating the destruction beyond comprehension.

No one who had ventured into the secret realm could have predicted this. Perhaps only the angels and fallen angels themselves had understood the storm they were unleashing.

Vashno moved with quiet precision, each step calculated, even as the ground shuddered beneath the fury above.

Boom! Boom!

Explosions of divine energy rumbled across the land. Angels clad in resplendent armor tore through the forces of other factions, their blades and spells cutting a swath of death. Soldiers fled desperately, stumbling over debris, the screams of the dying blending with the roar of the battle.

Everywhere he looked, the battlefield was alive with chaos: shattered buildings, scorched earth, and bodies strewn in every direction. The clash above and below was unstoppable, a relentless testament to the divine wrath of immortal beings unleashed.

Vashno’s eyes narrowed. The world had changed in a single day, and the true scale of the war was only beginning to reveal itself.

The locals of this secret realm had not fared any better. Countless corpses littered the ground, their blood soaking the earth in rivers of crimson. Homes, markets, and streets were reduced to smoldering ruins, the screams of the living barely audible over the thunder of battle above.

’Just how did this fight even start...’ Vashno muttered under his breath, moving carefully across the battlefield. He kept to the shadows, avoiding clashes between high-level experts whose blows could obliterate him in an instant.

His eyes scanned the distance and froze. A massive palace loomed roughly a hundred kilometers away, its spires reaching like claws into the turbulent sky.

And above it hovered a figure.

A middle-aged man with sharp, commanding features, eyes wide with desperation as he scanned the heavens.

He was the Emperor of the Empire.

The sole ruler of the Great Spirit Continent’s only empire. His status was unmatched, his strength formidable. Yet now, faced with the outsiders, all his power meant nothing.

He had once stood above countless lives, commanding armies, bending nations to his will. But here, he could do nothing but look up at the unstoppable force raining destruction from above.

The empire had become a battlefield for outsiders within hours. Citizens lay slaughtered in the streets, their blood soaking the ground. Towers that had stood for centuries were reduced to rubble, and the grandeur of the palace itself seemed fragile under the relentless assault.

In a matter of hours, the mighty empire, the symbol of strength and order across the continent, was reduced to chaos, ruins, and despair.

"Why?!" the Emperor roared, his voice cracking with rage and disbelief as he stared up at the chaos above.

The envoy of their goddess had vanished the moment the outsiders struck. He had believed—no, hoped—that his empire could withstand the assault. Even with the divine potions gifted by the envoy, it had been in vain. They had failed miserably. Every strategy, every troop, every ounce of power—useless against the merciless outsiders plundering their lands.

Across the empire, chaos reigned. Factions clashed and scattered, invading from every border. The outsiders targeted the empire not just for conquest, but because it was the largest territory untouched by the white fog, rich with resources ripe for the taking.

Blood Hunters and other factions struck like wolves. At first, their attacks were scattered, almost opportunistic. But now... it had grown into a storm of carnage, a tide of destruction that ripped the empire apart.

The Emperor’s eyes fell to the streets below, rivers of blood glinting in the dim moonlight. Palaces reduced to rubble, citizens fleeing and falling in equal measure, the proud banners of his empire tattered and soaked in crimson.

"This... is the end," he whispered, voice heavy with the weight of despair, staring down at the ruin that had been his life’s work.

...

Meanwhile, Vashno dashed across the battlefield, moving at a speed that blurred the ground beneath him. The towering palace rose ahead, its spires clawing at the night sky. A faint glow revealed a protective formation surrounding it, but it was fractured—riddled with massive holes, flickering like a dying flame, barely holding against the chaos.

He didn’t know how the formation had been breached, but he didn’t have time to ponder.

With a powerful leap, Vashno soared into the air and slipped through one of the gaps. He landed inside the palace grounds, where over a hundred bodies lay strewn across the blood-soaked marble. His eyes narrowed, expression tightening as the gravity of the massacre pressed down on him.

Without hesitation, he moved forward, cutting through the palace courtyard like a shadow. The doors offered no resistance; the structure itself seemed abandoned in the wake of the carnage.

Inside, the hallways mirrored the horrors outside. Corpses littered the floors, torn and broken, the stench of blood and iron thick in the air, clinging to every surface. The once-grand palace had become a tomb.

Vashno froze mid-step. Something was wrong.

Above him, just faint, almost imperceptible, a presence lingered. Cold, subtle, but unmistakable. Someone, or something, was watching.

His eyes narrowed further, body tensing as he readied himself. In this palace of death, the danger was far from over.

Whoosh!!

A blinding flash of light erupted, forcing Vashno to step back. His fist shot forward, sending a ripple through the air as the figure he struck smash‑landed against the wall.

"You’re skilled in stealth," Vashno’s eyes glinted with cold malice, "but it’s never enough!"

He surged forward, energy crackling around his fist like a storm.

[Destruction Stars of Fist]!!

The figure struggled to rise, face paling as the massive fist bore down. Without hesitation, he unleashed his combat arts, daggers swinging in a desperate attempt to stop the unstoppable.

Bang!!

The daggers collided with Vashno’s fist. The impact rattled the walls, shaking the ground beneath them. But it was meaningless. In the next heartbeat, the attack shattered. The fist slammed into the assassin’s body with devastating force. Bones splintered, blood vessels ruptured, and organs were crushed. The pressure didn’t stop until—his body erupted in a grotesque explosion, scattering flesh and bone across the hallway.

Vashno retracted his fist, eyes cold and disdainful as he glanced at the gruesome pile.

"A Sixth Shackle Realm... daring to attack me," he muttered, voice low, almost bored.

He floated in midair, moving through the carnage littering the hallway. His senses stretched, scanning every shadow, every corner, for other threats.

At the end of the hallway, his hand pressed against a painting.

"This is impressive work," he murmured. "High-level materials... but..."

With a flicker of mana, the painting lifted aside, revealing a flickering rune etched into the wall. His perception tunneled through the stone beyond, confirming that no hidden compartment existed behind it.

Vashno’s gaze swept the hallway once more, calm yet lethal, like a predator that had just reminded its prey of the price of audacity.

A faint, pulsating glow ignited across Vashno’s palm. He pressed it against the rune, and a ripple of raw mana surged outward, crawling across the wall like liquid fire.

Ohm!!

The air before him warped violently. The rune flared, and a spatial passage tore open, swallowing light and shadow alike. Objects around the opening bent and twisted as if reality itself was trembling under the pressure.

Without hesitation, Vashno stepped forward. The hallway behind him seemed to stretch and distort, the palace fading from view as he entered the warped corridor.

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