The Prince of Olympia

Mors had never tried to force his way directly into the opulent palace surrounded by rings, and he didn't plan to try this time – in fact, he didn't know where the Lord of Pleasure of Elysium was specifically located.

So he decided to start by tackling the problem at the core of the anomaly occurring in the real universe, which was the royal palace of Lokos. Multiple energies were converging there, and he could already smell enough corruption.

If he could stabilize the veil separating reality from the Sea of the Unseen without entering the vast ocean, he wouldn't have to expend any more power.

Before Mors headed to the palace built of marble and gold, another unfolding event caught his attention.

He unreservedly unleashed his annoyance at being interrupted onto the long prince, who was being dragged on the ground because he was too tired to stand. This took the form of him kicking the bastard's spine in and snapping it.

A light chuckle circled his ears like fine sand, and the rusty smell of dripping blood grew stronger.

"What kind of important tool are you, child," Mors muttered softly.

The attention Peturabo was paying to certain things seemed to be to an absurd degree. He had never seen the myriad voices behind the veil so uniformly consume power in the real universe.

Then, a possibility so terrible that even the simultaneous descent of four wills wouldn't be as dreadful finally, stubbornly, poked out from the corner of his mind that he had subconsciously ignored, entering his consciousness.

He wasn't really doing this for that guy…

Mors gritted his teeth, cursing the Throne of Bones as rage flared.

Damn it…

Over tens of thousands of years, he had collected countless obscenities, so much so that he had even compiled an extremely thick catalog for them in his mind. He followed his self-compiled catalog to passionately unleash his simple attacks.

Of course, he wasn't using words that could be used in casual secular conversation.

Runes were invisibly released from within his black Greek toga. The language, older than the old night, was the foundation of his survival. Humans once used it to spread their names, and thus their language was corrupted.

Conceptual blood spilled from the corners of Mors's mouth. This was not a physical depletion that quickly became imperceptible in the real universe.

His defenses were effective, and the noise in his ears was barely audible. However, he knew that for the gods in the vast ocean, there was one thing they often failed to learn: knowing when to cut their losses.

He needed to preserve some strength for their descent and for the stabilization of the veil here.

The next moment, Mors appeared at the side gate of Lokos's capital city. Several heavily guarded gates, which were being opened to allow enemy troops to enter stealthily, saw the soldiers under the long prince instantly collapse.

After a simple inspection, Mors destroyed their forms.

Even a Dark Lord would not waste a blessing on any common soul who prostrated themselves under its veils.

Harkon had made thorough preparations for this coup d'état. The plan likely began with Kardis's assassination of the envoy: they couldn't have been unaware that this would first attract the currently ascendant Peturabo of Olympia, along with his spears and guns, which far surpassed the technological level of other nations.

The subsequent escape was meant to lower others' guard, making it easier for him to rendezvous with reinforcements from other countries and religious factions outside of Lokos, which was relatively empty of troops. They would then coordinate with the contacts inside the capital to control the situation and attack the seat of power.

Considering Harkon's personal limitations, Mors had to believe that the church contributed significantly.

And regardless of whether this rebellion was initially infused with a tiny bit of favor from the Lord of Ten Thousand Colors, the current rebel group had clearly become inseparable from the powers of Chaos.

So killing them all was for the best.

Mors temporarily hung the long prince atop a spire, freeing his hands to accelerate his actions.

His already meager patience was being consumed faster than the lives of the fallen. The use of relatively cumbersome conventional psychic abilities gradually decreased, and more obscure, almost unimaginable human pronunciations directly leveraged the very foundations of reality through basic encoding.

Thirty minutes later, Mors decided to temporarily abandon his throat – until the torn windpipe recovered, he wouldn't be able to say another word. All keyholders, attendants, artisans, cooks, cleaners, as well as high-ranking courtiers, officials, doctors, judges, and writers connected to this rebellion, turned into blood from the inside out. The blood then ignited with a dazzling golden void fire, and outside the illusory flames, countless evil spirits screamed and died in the flickering light.

In Lokos's ten bell towers, all the night watchmen died simultaneously. One of them was holding an oil lamp that spilled onto the wooden stairs of the bell tower.

The summer of this year was particularly dry, and this bell tower, due to a calculation error in material allocation during repairs last week, had only been half-renovated. The flame from the wick burned into the bell tower itself, and the mixed structure of wood and stone began to shake precariously.

This purge was not limited to Lokos's capital city. Crossing numerous mountains and ridges, the entire surface of the planet, wherever there were people, saw suddenly fallen corpses.

Such phenomena caused widespread gasps and panic everywhere. Countless people cried out in terror and wailed incessantly. The night of half the planet and the day of the other half were filled with fallen rebels who had been slapped into eternal death.

Extreme fear and anger were spreading across Olympia like a disaster. Such waves of emotion were enough to make any unborn entity salivate, but a part of the composite command, used to counter the erosion of the Empyrean, acted like a steel anchor in the depths of the tide, blocking further probing by the power of destruction.

The twinkling of the stars became more apparent. In the deepest, darkest parts of the vast darkness, endless voices laughed joyfully because a small pawn had added value to the chessboard. The pawns moved, the stakes increased, and all things changed infinitely.

The most advantageous condition for Mors now was the relatively superior environment of Olympia, which meant it had not been particularly favored in the endless past: no wars of excessive intensity, no harmony born of satiety, no desire for excessive technological advancement, no rotten foundations.

This planet was far enough from the boundary of the veil to limit the large-scale intrusion of chaotic forces.

Within Mors's field of vision, blood, fire, and smoke were appearing in multiple directions.

It was approaching the time when the sun would rise from the horizon, yet the sun remained dark, and the moon showed an illusion of bleeding. The situation was changing dramatically.

The dazzling royal palace, adorned with gold, silver, and jade, was located at the very center of the myriad illusions. Before entering the main hall, Mors finally made his last preparations with determination.

He returned to his workshop, uncovered the white cloth, revealing the statue he had carved over the years.

Before Peturabo descended, he spent three years carving the old statue. After that child came to him, the statue was re-carved, and another ten years passed. Now was the most fitting time.

Back then, he had only wanted to create a work of art, so he had deliberately avoided all occult-related details, but if he wanted to complete it, it would be effortless.

He pressed his fingertips onto the surface of the statue. Fragments of stone scattered, and in an instant, all the emblems and imagery were linked to the object the statue represented. The runes on the sword blade it held were all re-carved, leaving only the last unfinished rune.

If completed, this blade would emit an extremely bright light, piercing the galaxy like a lighthouse beacon in the vast ocean of the night, clearly marking a guiding path.

Mors drew the long sword from the statue's hand, then took the long prince from the previous spire, and walked towards the palace with these two items.

If absolutely necessary, he would complete the last rune. Of course, he didn't think things would escalate to that point.

As he stepped through the palace gates, the burning bell tower finally collapsed.

A flock of birds was startled by this and scattered aimlessly towards the remaining nine bell towers.

It's a 50/50 chance of getting a princess from ten stones ( )