Reincarnated with a lucky draw system

Chapter 475: SOVEREIGNS’ BATTLE XVIII

Dracula, wrenching himself free from the impaling trident and bident with a guttural growl, unleashed a violent wave of mingled blood and water that surged outward like a tidal fury, shoving his assailants back and granting him a fleeting moment to catch his breath, his chest heaving under the strain.

"I will not give you the satisfaction of resting. Not after killing so many of our people," Seraphim whispered to Dracula, his voice laced with venomous resolve, the words cutting through the din like a sharpened blade.

The archangel’s hatred burned fiercer than any other, a seething inferno fueled by losses that scarred his immortal soul.

No one harbored a deeper desire for Dracula’s demise than he did now, his gaze locked on the enemy with unblinking intensity.

It was an ability that rendered him utterly invincible to any attack or force for precisely one second, a fleeting heartbeat of absolute invulnerability.

But for a sovereign of Seraphim’s caliber, one second stretched into eternity.

It was more than enough time to close the impossible distance, to become an unstoppable force bearing down on his prey.

Dracula, for the first time in the endless clash, was caught completely off guard.

His crimson eyes widened fractionally as Seraphim materialized before him in a blaze of blinding radiance, sword already raised high, its edge humming with concentrated holy wrath.

Seraphim drove the blade forward with merciless precision, straight toward Dracula’s chest, poised to end the ancient being who had held the entire universe in a suffocating stranglehold for far too long.

"Die!" Seraphim uttered the word coldly, his voice like cracking ice over a frozen abyss.

The sword plunged through Dracula’s chest, slicing clean through the protective veil of blood threads that had thwarted so many before, the metal singing as it met resistance and then found none.

"Not today."

Seraphim froze, stunned into stillness.

A voice he did not recognize slithered into his ears, deep, resonant, impossibly ancient.

It carried the weight of eons, the rumble of mountains grinding against one another, the roar of something colossal and primordial awakening.

Before the archangel could even twist to face the source, before he could glimpse the entity that spoke, his head was simply gone.

In a single, horrifying instant, massive jaws clamped down and tore it away in a spray of golden light and divine essence.

The decapitation was so swift, so absolute, that Seraphim’s body remained upright for a heartbeat longer, sword still buried in Dracula’s chest, before it crumpled lifelessly to the scorched earth.

Flameborn had arrived at the very nick of time.

The enormous dragon, scales gleaming like molten obsidian streaked with living fire, hovered above the battlefield, jaws dripping with the last flickers of Seraphim’s radiant blood.

His presence alone warped the air, heat radiating in pulsing waves that made the ground crack and steam.

"Seraphim!!!!!" Michael’s scream ripped across the chaos, raw and guttural.

His eyes blazed blood-red, pupils narrowed to furious slits as he launched himself toward Flameborn, wings beating with unrestrained, suicidal rage.

Every feather on his wings seemed to ignite with the fury boiling inside him.

But Flameborn paid the charging archangel no mind.

His cavernous maw opened wider still, revealing rows of serrated teeth wreathed in infernal flame.

A deep, rumbling inhale filled the space around him.

There was no need for breath weapon, no need for claw or tail.

Michael simply disintegrated.

One moment he was hurtling forward, sword raised; the next, his entire form unraveled into motes of fading golden light, scattering like ash on a dying wind.

Not just him, every angel still standing on the battlefield suffered the same fate.

Their bodies shimmered, then collapsed inward, dissolving into nothingness as though they had never existed.

Wings, armor, halos, all erased in silent, merciless erasure.

Baal, of course, stood as the untouched benefactor of the sudden annihilation, his expression calm, almost amused, as the divine light faded from the field.

"What’s going on?" Mephistopheles demanded, his voice low and edged with suspicion.

Deep lines creased his brow as he turned a piercing, accusatory stare toward Baal.

Baal met the look without flinching, his face a mask of perfect neutrality.

Not a single muscle twitched; he seemed utterly unperturbed by the scrutiny, as though the massacre of celestial hosts was merely another Tuesday.

"Who are you? I have never seen a dragon like you before," Zeus called from a distance, his powerful wings carrying him swiftly until he hovered close to Flameborn.

Thunder rumbled in the background, mirroring the tension coiling in his voice.

Flameborn tilted his massive, horned head slightly, golden eyes gleaming with lazy amusement.

"Consider me a helping hand, old man," he rumbled, voice like distant volcanoes stirring.

"And I brought someone to aid me," he added casually.

With a lazy flick of one clawed forelimb, he tore open a jagged rift in reality itself.

The air screamed as the tear widened, edges crackling with violet-black energy.

From within stepped Odin, the sovereign of the Norse pantheon at long last making his entrance.

The Allfather’s single eye burned with cold, calculating light beneath his wide-brimmed hat; Gungnir rested lightly in his grip, already humming with restrained power.

Ravens circled his shoulders, cawing softly.

Poseidon surged forward through the air to join Zeus, taking position at his brother’s side.

His trident gleamed wetly, seawater dripping from its prongs even though no ocean lay nearby.

His aura flared outward in a violent surge, waves of pressure rolling off him like an approaching storm front.

"Then you all will be dying together with him," Poseidon declared, his voice cold and final as arctic depths.

His eyes darkened to the color of the deepest trench, pupils vanishing into abyssal blue.

"Armageddon –Tsunami," he intoned, invoking his ultimate move.

The words alone seemed to summon the cataclysm.

The void split open with thunderous cracks.

From nowhere, an impossible wall of water rose, towering higher than mountains, black and roiling, flecked with foam and lightning.

It curled forward like a living beast, ready to crash down and drown everything in its path: gods, dragons, sovereigns, and the blood-soaked battlefield beneath them all.

The roar of the oncoming deluge drowned out every other sound, promising oblivion in a single, apocalyptic surge.