Reincarnated with a lucky draw system

Chapter 462: SOVEREIGNS’ BATTLE VII

"We are at a disadvantage in this battle," Lucifer said quietly, materializing beside Baal in a ripple of dark wings and colder shadow.

"Those two complement each other perfectly," he added.

Baal’s third eye narrowed, still glowing with residual wrath.

The severed hand had already regenerated, flesh knitting together in dark, steaming threads, bones snapping back into place with faint, wet cracks.

The pain had been nothing more than a brief inconvenience; the humiliation lingered far longer, a slow-burning ember in his chest that refused to die.

"Our structure is crumbling," Zeus muttered, voice rough with barely-contained fury.

Lightning still crackled erratically around him.

From the very beginning of the battle to this ragged, blood-soaked moment, they had failed to gain even the slightest advantage.

Dracula’s blood essence slipped through every defense, impossible to prevent, impossible to counter without collateral devastation.

It invaded their bloodstreams with insidious ease, turning their own bodies into weapons against them.

Aaron’s unpredictable, bizarre mastery of space turned every strategy into a cruel joke, portals opening where none should exist, distances folding without warning, attacks redirected or simply erased.

The Sovereigns, ancient, invincible beings who had shaped realities, found themselves at a complete loss, their overwhelming power rendered impotent by two beings who refused to fight by any known rules of the universe.

"We need to stop holding back," Baal informed the regrouped cluster, stepping closer to the center.

His voice carried the low growl of barely-leashed rage. "The more we hold back, the more disadvantage we face."

His regenerated hand flexed once, knuckles popping audibly.

"Baal is right," Seraphim said, voice strained and ragged.

He had managed to rejoin them, mortally wounded from the arrow shot by the elf queen but refusing to stay down.

A massive, gaping wound stretched across his chest, golden blood still oozing in thick, sluggish rivulets, edges charred black from Baal’s earlier strike.

His wings hung at awkward angles, feathers singed and broken, some still smoldering at the tips. "We have lost too many of our combatants already just trying to hold back."

The angelic sovereign swayed slightly, one hand pressed to the injury as though sheer will could keep his divine essence from leaking out like water from a cracked vessel.

"Making use of our entire Sovereign strength will place an unbearable burden on the universe," Vorth was the first to refuse the suggestion, voice booming like distant thunder through mountains.

He stood his ground, massive frame rigid with conviction, red slit-pupils burning with the fire of absolute duty. "We cannot do that."

"I always knew that when the time comes you would be a pain in the ass, you bloody slave," Baal mocked, anger twisting his features into something almost feral, lips peeling back to reveal sharpened teeth.

"I’m not a slave," Vorth countered, red slit-pupils narrowing to razor-thin lines. "I’m the guardian."

"Whatever," Baal spat. "Who agrees with me? Vorth is getting in our way."

He raised the motion with deliberate, venomous calm, one that left Vorth visibly confused, almost stunned, his ancient mind struggling to process the sudden shift in allegiance.

"I agree," Zeus said immediately. "Proceed, Baal."

One after another, the other Sovereigns voiced their assent, some with cold pragmatism, others with barely-concealed reluctance, but all in agreement.

The chorus of affirmatives rolled over Vorth like a physical weight, leaving the Primordial Dragon stunned into momentary silence, his massive chest heaving with disbelief.

"Very well then," Baal said, a malevolent grin spreading slowly across his face until it showed far too many teeth. "Mephistopheles. Necros."

"What is going—urgh!" Vorth groaned, the first act of betrayal striking like a hidden blade buried deep in his core.

He clutched his chest, face contorting in sudden, searing pain that radiated outward in white-hot waves.

The biological weapon activated the instant the three creators gave their silent consent.

It was a masterpiece of corruption, engineered by Mephistopheles, Necros , and Baal himself, the living anthithesis of the universe, and with the aid of external figures know only to a few of the sovereigns.

The organism was no simple poison.

It was a living, adaptive plague, a microscopic horror designed specifically to target the races with the highest affinity to the universe: dragons and elves.

The effects began slowly at first, almost deceptively gentle, then exploded in full, merciless force.

It started in Vorth’s veins.

A faint, icy tingling spread from his heart, as if liquid nitrogen had been injected directly into his bloodstream.

Then the burning began.

His obsidian scales, thicker and harder than any armor forged in the universe, began to flake away in large, blackened patches, revealing raw, glistening flesh beneath that quickly turned an unhealthy, mottled gray.

The white flames that usually wreathed his form guttered and died one by one, leaving only faint, sickly smoke that smelled of rotting meat and corrupted divinity.

Pain radiated from his core in visible, throbbing waves.

Each heartbeat sent fresh agony lancing through his body, as though his very life force was being eaten from the inside.

His massive wings spasmed violently, membranes tearing with wet, ripping sounds.

His red slit-pupils dilated wildly, the ancient fire within them flickering and dimming like candles in a storm.

The air around him grew thick and heavy, charged with the metallic tang of failing divinity and the sour reek of a universe’s guardian being unmade.

Vorth dropped to one knee, the ground cracking beneath his weight.

His breath came in labored, ragged gasps, each exhale carrying flecks of dark, viscous blood that sizzled on the scorched earth.

The biological weapon was not content with mere physical destruction.

It attacked the very connection to the universe that made him the guardian.

Threads of cosmic energy that had bound him to reality for eons began to fray and snap, leaving him feeling hollow, severed, alone in a way no dragon had ever been.

The plague did not stop with Vorth.

Across the universe, the biological weapon spread like a silent wildfire.

Every dragon, whether ancient or newly hatched, whether slumbering in mountain lairs or soaring through the skies, felt the same icy tingle in their veins.

Scales began to flake.

Wings weakened.

The white-hot fire in their chests guttered and died.

The elves fared no better.

Their eternal grace faltered; their divine bows slipped from fingers that suddenly refused to obey.

Their connection to the world-tree, to the very pulse of the cosmos, began to wither and rot.

Entire dragon flights crashed from the skies in mid-flight, bodies convulsing as their internal organs liquefied.

Elven cities fell silent as their inhabitants collapsed in the streets, golden blood bubbling from their lips.

The universe itself seemed to groan in protest, the stars dimmed slightly, the cosmic currents stuttered, as the races that had always protected it were systematically unmade from within.

"What did you all do to me?" Vorth demanded, voice cracking with raw anger and dawning horror.

His massive frame trembled, scales continuing to slough off in sheets, revealing muscle and sinew that was already beginning to necrotize, turning black and mushy at the edges.

"Contingency plan," Baal informed him, cruel smile widening until it showed far too many teeth.

"For whenever Dracula appeared. A special meeting planned by those who had what it takes to end the universe’s greatest enemy should he ever come back."

---

Right after Dracula’s original fall at the hands of the Sovereigns, Baal, the ever-calculative perfectionist, had quietly created a secret conclave.

Only those he knew were willing to do whatever it took, cross any line, sacrifice any principle, were invited.

Together they had crafted multiple contingency plans: strategies for unforeseen resurgences, methods to deal with unexpected allies, ways to weed out obstacles that might stand in the way of final victory.

Everything had been meticulously plotted. Every variable accounted for.

And one of those variables, one of those weeds that needed to be uprooted, was the so-called "slaves of the universe."

The dragons and elves, races with the highest natural affinity to the cosmos, beings who would always choose the universe’s well-being over their own survival, over personal power, over victory at any cost.

The biological weapon needed the explicit consent of all three creators to be activated.

That consent had been given.

And now the plague was spreading.