The Epic Tale of Chaos vs Order - Chapter 1941

In that gray, lifeless world—where motion no longer existed, where the sea below froze mid-wave and the clouds hung in place like strokes on a dead canvas—Azazel advanced.

Here, nothing moved. Not the air, not the light, not even thought itself unless it belonged to him. This was the domain of his ultimate art, a realm of absolute stillness where only he could act. And even for a True Depravita, every centimeter he gained exacted a price. Each step consumed his life force, eroded his soul, and left hairline cracks in the fortress of his immortal constitution.

It was a place no one should linger in for long. Normally, Azazel would have used this ability for a single, fast strike—no wasted movement, no drawn-out engagement, no preparation. But the power of the Scarlet King changed everything.

The Depravita’s aura, sharpened to a killing edge, pressed like the weight of a collapsing star. Azazel knew a careless blow would not end this. It would take precision, perfect form, and absolute intent.

His eyes were chips of frozen steel. Raising his sword high above, he poured every fragment of his gathered strength into the blade. This time, he aimed for the head!

The sword began its descent—unstoppable, inevitable.

But even inevitability has limits. The moment his blade touched something in this frozen realm, the strain would break the stillness and allow time to resume. Azazel knew it. He accepted it.

"This time," he thought, "it will be over."

The tip of his blade brushed a strand of Cain’s hair—

—and the world broke open.

Sound crashed back into existence. Light resumed its flow. The stillness shattered like glass as reality remembered how to move.

For anyone else, there had been no pause at all—only the sight of Azazel’s sword suddenly less than a finger’s breadth from Cain’s skull.

Cain’s mind went white. His instincts screamed with a clarity sharper than pain as he felt the blade less than four millimeters away from contact with his head. Even if he poured everything into movement, there was no way to block or evade in time. Death was already there, cold and certain.

And then—his right hand burned.

The purple seal etched into his skin ignited with light. Life, soul, and will flared together in a single, violent surge. His power spiked, not gradually but in an explosion that warped the air around him.

Muscles tore under the strain, bones groaned in protest—but he forced his head and torso back just enough that the killing blow missed.

It did not save him completely. The sword’s edge ripped a line across his face, carving from cheek to jaw, before biting into his chest and slicing downward. Blood burst outward in a crimson arc, clouding his vision and raining into the sea below.

Pain erupted like fire under his skin, but Cain shoved it aside. Pain could wait. Death could not.

Instinct took over. His fist, wrapped in raging flame and powered by the newfound surge, drove forward.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"

The sound was apocalyptic. His strike slammed into Azazel’s chestplate with such force that the armor bent inward. The impact blasted the Depravita backward, his body cutting through the air like a meteor and leaving ripples in space itself. The ocean boiled beneath the shockwave.

Azazel tumbled for kilometers before catching himself. Blood streamed from his mouth, thick and heavy. The blow had been devastating—made worse by the fact that he had received it while in a weakened state from using his stillness.

But all that faded as his gaze locked on the glowing purple rune in Cain’s hand.

"A Samsara Seal!?"

Cain’s eyes narrowed. That reaction... Azazel had recognized it instantly. That should have been impossible. No one else had been in the Third Level of the Samsara Realm Module yet. No one should even be able to identify it.

Questions flickered through Cain’s mind—fragments of possible answers, threads of dangerous implications—but they were all burned away in the firestorm of a single thought.

Kill.

He moved without hesitation, erasing distance as if space itself no longer applied. The world seemed to buckle under his acceleration.

Azazel’s surprise hardened into focus, but the damage from Cain’s punch slowed him. Even his immortal body couldn’t fully repair itself in time.

He barely managed to bring his sword up as a shield before the next punch arrived, carrying with it the weight of the surrounding world. The blow crashed into the blade with the weight of the sky behind it.

Azazel’s arms trembled. His bones cracked under the force.

The second punch knocked the blade sideways.

The third tore it completely away.

And then came the storm.

"BOOM." "BOOM." "BOOM." "BOOM." "BOOM." "BOOM." "BOOM."

Each strike detonated like a siege weapon, but the force didn’t dissipate into the air. Cain’s control was surgical—every shred of energy packed into Azazel’s body, each hit compounding the last.

Armor fractured in spiderweb patterns. Flesh tore beneath it. Internal organs collapsed under the relentless pressure. Even the Depravita’s regeneration faltered, unable to keep up with the sheer volume of destruction.

Blood streamed down Cain’s own face from the cut across his brow and cheek, dripping into the raging ocean below. His life, soul, and mind were burning away to keep his strikes coming, but he didn’t slow.

Azazel’s body shook, the cracks in his armor spreading wider. And yet, just before his stance could break, something else flared in his eyes—pure, unyielding determination.

Then his form exploded.

Not into gore, but into billions of tiny motes of light and energy, scattering outward like a shattering constellation.

Cain’s eyes widened. He turned instantly, scanning the battlefield—just in time to see the motes gathering far in the distance.

Azazel reformed, his body riddled with wounds, his armor fractured in multiple places. He was breathing hard, but the fire in his gaze burned as bright as ever.

Cain felt it this time—a gathering force, the same that had heralded the sword strike to his head. If Azazel completed the technique again, the next strike might be fatal.

The Primordial’s eyes lit with a will equal to his enemy’s. He clenched his fists and spoke two words.

But before the sound of his voice could carry, the colors drained from the world once more.

Motion bled away. The sea froze mid-surge. The air thickened into immobility.

And the gray stillness claimed them again.