The Epic Tale of Chaos vs Order

Chapter 2309: Taking down a Middle Alpha-Omega Overgod

Cain’s eyes flared, molten with scarlet radiance, as the Power of Chaos detonated inside him. Imperium surged to a new threshold, deeper and more vicious, as the full power of his soul and body was unleashed.

"Cognitive Sovereignty—Override."

The declaration didn’t echo; it devoured. The mental weight freezing his thoughts was instantly annihilated. The Neo-Angel’s temporal pressure—meant to slow cognition—did not merely vanish. It inverted, rewired into acceleration. Every synaptic process sharpened. Every thought multiplied. Every calculation arrived a breath before instinct.

Cain roared as he made his power explode. Strength, innate ability, destructive essence, and scarlet flame converged into Sky Devourer. Heat bled across the metal. Space warped around the blade.

He kicked off the ground—one brutal launch—and met the falling sword of the Neo-Angel head-on.

For one suspended heartbeat, everything fell silent. Then the two swords collided, reality quivering between them. Density folded; light smeared; energy compacted into a finite singular boundary around their weapons—

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM."

The explosion did not simply propagate—it rolled across the sky like a detonation-chain. The atmosphere cracked. The earth buckled. The shockwave punched through cloud walls, shredding moisture into vapor. Far below, strata split open, and fractures raced across the continent.

The force was catastrophic—so overwhelming that for an instant, both Neo-Demon and Neo-Angel glimpsed the faint silhouette of the World Matrix manifesting across the horizon. A warning from the system that governed their realm.

Both pairs of eyes narrowed. The implication was clear: continue harming the landmass, and the World Matrix would intervene. They had breached unacceptable destructive thresholds.

Neither hesitated.

Weapons disengaged. Bodies phased. The Neo-Demon and Neo-Angel teleported into the highest sky and resumed the assault.

Their blades bit into space again.

And again.

And again.

Each collision arrived faster, weightier—higher harmonics of force. Cain’s arms trembled. Every clash sent cracks spiraling along his skeleton—micro-fractures laced with agony. Depravity Aura knitted them instantly, but the resource was finite. He could not sustain this tempo forever.

Crowley, meanwhile, adapted. Every swing expressed eons of curated instinct. He wasted nothing. Where Cain shredded, Crowley bent.

Cain clenched his teeth, tasted copper, and accepted that he could not drag this out.

Determination and brutality appeared in the eyes of the Neo-Demon.

He broke distance, letting momentum slip. Chaos Wings flared open at full span, and his aura punched upward. He triggered the World Matrix and generated a synchronization.

Crowley’s pupils dilated.

"So it was you," he muttered—a low, lethal revelation.

The Neo-Angel had hunted for the anomaly influencing the World Matrix inside the Heart of Sin. Now he finally had his answer. But recognition did nothing to slow the crisis—the destructive pressure pouring from Cain was reaching unprecedented amplitude. Crowley’s instincts screamed danger. Fatal danger.

He didn’t wait.

Crowley’s soul force detonated, gravity shearing around his body. Space collapsed. He literally moved space, putting Cain right before his descending sword. The Neo-Angel intended to kill him before the attack matured.

Cain’s eyes widened—not in fear, but acknowledgment. The Neo-Angel’s authority was obscene—refining relativity into weaponry—but Cain didn’t lose focus. He let his expression twist into a cold smile.

Then he vanished.

Crowley’s blade slashed empty sky, shaking him to the core.

"Negative Teleportation? How—"

The question never finished. Pressure surged behind him as Cain manifested. He wasn’t going to explain the ability granted through his connection to Meylin. He simply acted.

"Chaos of Worldbreak—Ragnarök."

Darkness poured across several continents—a black tide swallowing color, draining light. Within the void, an arc of incandescent destruction ignited—white-hot, merciless. It snapped toward Crowley’s exposed spine.

The Neo-Angel felt death exhale against his neck.

Ragnarök descended.

A crack echoed inside Crowley’s core, and a mantle of darkness erupted around him. Hundreds of watching eyes blinked into existence across the barrier, forming a cocoon of primeval energy.

The shield arrived a fraction of a heartbeat before impact.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM."

The explosion hammered the barrier down to the earth, plowing a canyon across the continent—a ravine forged by one strike. Soil vaporized. Mountainsides collapsed. The shock pulse rolled outward for leagues.

Silence returned in jagged fragments.

Five seconds. Maybe less.

Crowley rose from the gouged terrain—bleeding heavily. A wound cut across his back, down to the bone. White spinal ridges glistened beneath charred flesh. Pain surged like molten iron.

Yet pain was nothing compared to the hatred burning in him.

That mantle—the shield of eyes—was a one-time gift from the Ancient One. A divine insurance meant to save his life from anyone. A trump card reserved for existential threats.

And he had been forced to spend it against an Early Alpha-Omega Overgod.

His jaw flexed. Rage crested. A low snarl built in his chest. He scanned the surroundings—vision slicing through dust and vapor. All he wanted in that moment was Cain’s corpse. Killing him was the only remedy for humiliation.

But Cain was gone.

No matter how Crowley probed, he couldn’t find a trace.

"Bastard!"

The roar emptied a valley, full of rage, but did not last long.

Then discipline reasserted itself—like steel cooling in water. His breathing leveled. His pulse normalized. Crowley analyzed the situation with cold professionalism.

The Prophetess’s death was a logistical catastrophe. He needed to consolidate information and secure the Freedom Path domains as soon as possible.

He cast one final murderous look across the distance, then pivoted and flew toward the Freedom Path headquarters.

Cain saw none of it.

He was already gone—fleeing the moment Ragnarök struck. A fragment of him wanted to remain. To press the assault. To carve deeper. But the instant he saw that cocoon—the Ancient One’s intervention—he understood the strike had failed to cripple Crowley.

And he knew what followed.

Chaos Art backlash.

The price for invoking Ragnarök.

Running was not fear—it was survival.

"Disappointing that I didn’t carve him open," he admitted inwardly, "but irrelevant."

Cain exhaled once, dismissing frustration. He focused on the Scarlet Throne, letting the Prophetess’s memories—her images, her secrets, her coordinates—flood into him. Every shred of spiritual information was now his.

He smiled—slow and predatory.

"The hunt begins."

Scarlet aura flared outward. Time contracted. The Fourth Realm unfolded before him like a banquet.