In one of the multiverse’s few shared universes, a new, miniature nebula had appeared. While significantly smaller in size than its natural gaseous counterpart, this nebula was in no way less impressive of a sight. Within its confines were reflected an incalculable amount of shades of color, each formed by the mixture of the same eight to nine tones, all dancing around one another like different paints poured into a bowl.
This event was given a particularly spectacular feature as, the shine of the warm color of autumns, the buzzing blue of thunder, and the blinding brightness of pure light shone over the particles of gold and platinum, and sand made entirely out of microscopic diamonds, emerald and other precious gems, making the nebula look like a universe in itself.
The peculiarity of this show of colors was so vast that even the grim spectacle it hid could not be noticed. In fact, within the many sparks of bright light, and the waves of dirt and fragmented ice, were hundreds of millions of corpses, ravaged by the brutality of each color that, unbothered by the presence of the victims’ immortal bodies, cut them to pieces, burnt them to a crisp, buried them in roots, dirt, metallic coffins, and absolute darkness.
Within the nebula’s further reaches, a group of red-skinned cultivators, barely counting in the thousands, unleashed the full extent of their power onto the iridescent trap. In their mad attacks, the group of cultivators hoped to disrupt the workings of the formation so that its core could be reached, and yet, regardless of how many attacks were sent, any form of damage was absorbed by the fluid powers of nature before disappearing behind new waves of elemental essence.
Eventually, after several minutes of failed attempts, the blind rage that had clouded the minds of the group of cultivators dissipated, allowing their consciousness to be recovered. “Patriarch.. I-There is nothing we can..” One of the cultivators stuttered frightfully as his eyes lingered within the magnificent show of lights.
The Patriarch of the Golden Peak Mountain sect, after regaining his composure, stared at the nebula in amazement. His original plan was to absorb the large armies of the Immortal Armada and Elemental Army, like he had done many times before throughout the past several thousand years. To do that, he had made use of the entirety of his sect’s powers.
An army that was ten times the size of their own, a power that made them immune to the authority of the Warlord, and resistant to the strength of the primordial elements. So why were they losing? And why was Roley so much more powerful than they remembered him to be? He kept asking himself as several more voices voiced their doubts and worries to his deaf ears.
His entire army had been decimated, and those who hadn’t retreated already had been swept up by powers capable of erasing an entire section of the galaxy. It was only thanks to their superior cultivation that the patriarch and his family and disciples were able to avoid such a fate. Nevertheless, while capable of bearing the brutality of the elements, they too felt the constant zapping of thunder, the heat of fire and light, the bone chilling ice, steel, wind and darkness all beating onto their skin, eager to pierce, burn and cut through.
While many complained to him, however, the only person who caught the attention of the sect’s leader was the woman who had handed their demands over to Der and Roley. She had appeared by her master’s side, covered in bruises and cuts, shaking for a multitude of reasons, and clothed in what could hardly be called tatters. “Patriarch, we won’t last much longer. We must retreat.” She said in between trembling lips and chattering teeth.
She was the weakest of the survivors, the patriarch though. If the assault continued, she before anybody else would die like millions of his men had-All dead at the hands of the monster that was hiding in the core of that nebula.
Maybe he had asked for too much, maybe he had been too greedy.. Or maybe he had failed in making his sect keep up with the powers of other independent forces. He could not tell what the true reason for his failure was, and yet, he knew that it was something he had done-something he had to put a remedy to on his own.
As he came to this realization, the large man’s bushy brows relaxed. His tree-like arms rose to his chest, as his palm landed onto his stomach and bulky pectorals. Then, with the same effort it would take for an adult man to shred a sheet of paper, the patriarch ripped his clothes off, revealing his immense gray-colored chest.
“From now on, I will fight on my own.” His voice resounded across thousands of light years, and even breaching the soundless mist of colors that had engulfed him and his strongest and most loyal followers, reaching the ears of Roley and Der. What the latter two were not able to witness from a distance, however, was the formation that, originally carved within the back of the patriarch, had been uncovered for his followers to see.
This formation was simple in its concept, with a shape resembling that of a common vortex, or a whirlpool. At the core of which was a deep hole of incomplete darkness-A hole which, contrary to the complete darkness that danced within the nebula Roley had created, was only composed of the concept of absorption.
As soon as the members of the sect saw this formation, their faces grimaced with anguish. A feeling that was caused by the realization that their patriarch had lost hope in their strength.
While they despised the idea of being useless, however, this state of mind only lasted for a moment, as another more pressing matter took precedence over their feelings-One by one the patriarch’s disciples and children approached the massive man, placing their hands onto his back, right by the edge of the whirlpool.
As if reacting to the presence of immortal essence, the moment the first palm touched the formation the vortex came to life, pulling the power contained within the bodies of his followers into the core of the formation, leaving them with just enough power to attempt a retreat.
Every few moments, a new cultivator was drained of their power, and forced to retreat from the nebula in a desperate attempt to preserve their lives-until finally, a few minutes later, only the patriarch was left.
The once stern expression of the sect leader had gone, now replaced by one of pure pain and suffering. His gray skin, previously sturdy and shiny with sweat, was now covered in black patches caused by the foreign powers clashing against his personal immortal essence.
With muscles flexing on their own, bloodshot eyes, and veins on the verge of exploding, the patriarch quietly let go of any form of resistance, allowing the foreign powers to ravage through the atoms of his body freely.
Every moment this pain reached a new height, gradually increasing until finally, these powers came in contact with his consciousness.
As soon as the two clashed, his consciousness became fuzzy and unstable, and the pain he had felt ended. His naturally gray skin had turned completely pseudo-black in color, tainted by the sanguine property of the darkest type of blood. Then, in an instant, his body disappeared.
Like a fiery meteor entering orbit, the body of the sect leader clashed against the nebula of elemental powers, creating blasts of residual power that cut chunks of the latter the same way a set of teeth would an apple. Each blast caused the fiery individual to bounce back, allowing him to make use of the newly created distance to gain momentum, and make another attempt.
As the massive cluster of colors was damaged, however, the essences would not dissipate, and instead merge back together, forming a gradually smaller yet denser agglomerate of natural essences. Yet, the power of the sect leader seemed unstoppable, as each of his attacks would rip apart a portion of the nebula regardless of how dense it was.
This series of clashes went on for several minutes, until finally, the nebula reached the limit of density possible, turning into a planet-sized sphere of dense natural elements. A smooth glass-like orb whose interiors kept shifting, flowing about and merging together.
While the sect leader had managed to suppress Roley’s power, however, that was not without taking damage. A damage that was not inflicted by the latter’s powers, but the very essences contained within his body which, alongside giving him a godly strength, were also thrashed his veins, muscles and organs whenever he would move.
After so many attacks, his skin, as well as the external part of each of his organs had started to crack. It was only thanks to his berserker powers that he was still capable of moving, fueled by a rage that made him little different than a bull chasing its target regardless of injuries, or other predators clawing at its back.
To his followers’ surprise, once the sphere reached the limits of compression the sphere lost its elastic property, allowing for the attacks that followed to form cracks on it. Cracks that became larger and larger with every hit. A fist-sized dent turned to a volcano, then into a crater.. With the fourth strike the colorful masses had split, and by the tenth strike, the body of the raging cultivator found no more obstacles.
Once into the crack that had formed, the large blood-red cultivator kept pushing, shattering the world of elements layer by layer, until finally, his fist pierced the innermost part, the core where Der and Roley were hiding.
Like a beast blinded by rage, the cultivator grabbed the edge of the hole and pulled it apart with all the strength his body could muster.. A strength so vast that the sphere, yet to recover from his deep dive, could not wrestle against, ending up splitting in half, and revealing the two waiting figures of the Warlord of the Immortal Armada, and the monster that led the Elemental Army.
The strength required to break the innermost layer apart seemed to be too much for the patriarch’s body to handle, as the cracks that had covered his skin had turned into deep gashes, and reached as far as the bones, which were on the verge of snapping.
An indescribable pain flushed his mind alongside the realization that his consciousness had returned. His body, once dark red in color, was now back to a more sickly gray shade than it originally was, and completely covered in black blotches. He could feel that he had only one more attack in him before the many powers within his body would completely destroy him.. Just one attack and his followers would be able to go back, and rebuild what his greed had lost them.
His fist tightened, and moved behind his head.. It was then that he saw it. A small sphere. A fingernail-sized bead of elemental power that, despite its forgettable size, felt more powerful than the nebula he had almost died breaking into. At the sight of this small sphere, his fist, which had destroyed countless enemies in the past, felt quite puny.
Without any word of notice, the small bead shone an impossible light, and dashed in his direction. His powerful and domineering figure relaxed for the first time in forever, refusing to even attempt to block the attack. He could feel its destructive power. A small bead of condensed sphere that seemed capable of creating a universe as much as it could destroy it.
He was going to die from this attack, he was certain.. Or at least, until a delicate yet familiar figure appeared in front of him. A figure in front of which the immensely powerful attack stopped, before dissipating into nothingness.
