The ground shook without end—massive fractures tearing through the earth—as the armies of the warring tribe and Scott's abominations raced toward each other. Neither Scott nor the Eight-Leg commander moved, each maintaining their respective positions while their forces closed the distance.

  These guys are even more insane than I expected. Scott's brows furrowed as he observed the arachnid warriors' unwavering charge. Their eight legs propelled them forward with mechanical precision, weapons held steady and eyes gleaming not with savagery, but the cold discipline of seasoned, battle-hardened soldiers.

  Scott's gaze flicked toward the lopsided abomination. It had planted its feet deep into the earth, spinning furiously and birthing countless gales and vortexes. Poisonous and corrosive fog billowed across the battlefield—but the Eight-Legs pressed on, their formation unbroken.

  Wait, don't tell me they're resistant to mental manipulation.

  His frown deepened as the windstorm scattered the toxic mist. Yet, the arachnid warriors showed no signs of poisoning or corrosion. Their gleaming armor and implacable march spoke of a terrifying resilience.

  This is going to be even more difficult than I thought.

  The clash came with cataclysmic force. The impact sent champions and abominations alike hurtling through the air as energy blasts, spatial distortions, and elemental surges erupted across the battlefield. The abominations wielded a vast array of powers—gravitational control, mental manipulation, and reality distortion—but the Eight-Legs met them with brutal efficiency. Each spear thrust pierced through space itself, shattering reality with sheer force.

  No matter how devastating the abominations' attacks, they could not penetrate the arachnids' armor. In contrast, the arachnid warriors' weapons struck true, ripping through the nightmarish entities. Wails of agony echoed as the abominations were torn apart piece by piece.

  How can a race with such cheat-like abilities exist?

  Scott's unease grew. The Eight-Legs were immune to physical, internal, and mental assaults. Their physical power alone seemed to defy natural law. Each strike threatened to unravel the fabric of reality itself.

  Is this the power of an Authority? He shook his head. No—I can't sense any other Authority. Then, is this just their raw physical prowess?

  A chill crawled down his spine. The thought of a timeline overrun by millions—billions—of these beings sent a cold shiver through him.

  Despite their overwhelming might, some abominations held their ground. Chief among them were the serpentine abomination with its many heads and the towering creature of pure muscle. The arachnids' reality-shattering thrusts barely scratched their sturdy forms.

  The serpent devoured throngs of champions in a single gulp, spitting their mangled remains as projectiles that tore through the battlefield. The muscle-bound beast waded through the arachnids like a force of nature, ignoring the spears shattering against its skin. Each swing of its massive limbs turned the battlefield into a slaughterhouse, sending limbs and blood flying in every direction.

  The territory descended into chaos. Rivers of molten magma and acid snaked through the battlefield, consuming everything in their path. Spatial distortions ripped champions and abominations alike from existence. The air itself trembled with the weight of unleashed power.

  Corpses piled high, yet not a single abomination had fallen. Broken and battered, they clung stubbornly to life. The Eight-Legs, by contrast, marched over the remains of their brethren without hesitation.

  Scott's gaze hardened as he extended his arm. The Chains of the Abyss uncoiled, writhing with malice. "Join them," he commanded.

  The chains lashed out, diving into the heart of the battlefield. As they struck, reality groaned beneath their weight, and the balance of carnage tipped further into madness.

  The chains clanked, hissing as they sprawled forward. Some latched onto unsuspecting champions, tightening like serpents. Others manifested imperceptible annihilation zones—only for the champions to shatter them with powerful thrusts, as if perfectly aware of the distortions.

  Those bound by the chains unleashed hellish screams, their muscles bulging as they began to wrench themselves free.

  This is becoming even more ridiculous. They're even immune to the chain's abilities? Scott noted, his frown deepening.

  Then—he noticed the commander move, and his grip tightened around the War Hammer of the Mad God.

  Unlike the other Eight-Legs, who were undoubtedly powerful, their commander was on an entirely different level.

  He strode forward, grip firm on his weapons. Each step measured—tranquility etched on his stoic features. Scott and the champion locked gazes, neither speaking nor averting their eyes.

  At that moment, several judges of madness launched themselves at the champion, their weapons coated with blackened flames.

  The arachnid swung a spear.

  A catastrophic explosion followed.

  All twenty judges were blown to smithereens, and everything in the path of that casual strike was reduced to nothing.

  For the first time since the battle commenced, the battlefield fell still. Contrasting emotions rippled through both factions. The Eight-Legs couldn’t hide their shame—needing their commander to intervene was a grievous blow to their pride.

  The abominations, on the other hand, fell into eerie silence. Even they could sense the profound wrongness radiating from the approaching figure—a power that defied comprehension. They felt no fear, but they knew this being could end them if he desired.

  The hulking abomination of pure muscle stepped forward.

  "No, he's mine," Scott called out.

  The creature retreated as Scott advanced, his steps slow but deliberate. The Chains of the Abyss stirred, attaching to his arms as their ominous clanking filled the silence.

  When Scott and the champion stood less than two hundred meters apart, they stopped simultaneously—as if rehearsed.

  "The nature of a commander can be gleaned by the nature of their subordinates," the champion declared, his voice calm, yet awe-inspiring.

  "Really now?" Scott's lips curled. "What have you learned about mine? Enlighten me."

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  "Insidious. Despicable. Maddening. Savage," the champion said, planting a spear into the ground with a violent thud. "Those are the words others might use to describe your nature."

  "And what about you?" Scott asked, intrigued.

  "That's why I've stepped forward," the champion replied. "That which I cannot see with my eyes, I will unravel with my hands." He straightened his stance. "My name is Thrax. I am a commander of the Eight-Legs, a proud warring race. What is your name?"

  "Scott," he answered, his grip tightening on his weapon. He could feel the clash looming.

  "I shall honor you with death, Scott," Thrax declared—and then he vanished.

  Scott's eyes widened. Four massive spears materialized inches from his form—each one large enough to obliterate him on impact.

  He blinked, and four nihilistic portals tore open in front of the incoming spears. A deafening crack echoed as the spears pierced the portals, unfazed.

  A deranged smile crept across Scott’s lips.

  The spears struck—obliterating his form.

  Yet another crack echoed, and reality distorted.

  Scott stood in the same position, untouched. The spears lay embedded deep in the earth beneath him.

  Above him, Thrax loomed, hands still gripping the spears.

  "You are no different from the other races I've encountered," Thrax said, voice cold. "You rely on external powers—powers that will fail you against those who are truly strong."

  "Big words for someone who hasn’t faced all the reality-defying powers in this tower," Scott countered with a chuckle.

  "No," Thrax retorted. "Reality is what I define it to be. My strength is earned—born from the demise of countless brothers. I have swung my spears longer than most species have existed. Even the gods you worship dare not defy us, for they know our power."

  His voice deepened with conviction. "If that were not true, they wouldn’t have locked our ancestors away. They knew we would have conquered every timeline in existence."

  Thrax stabbed again.

  Scott's form shattered—but the cracking echo returned.

  Reality warped, and Scott remained unharmed, the spears once again buried in the ground.

  Thrax pulled the spears free. "I showed you respect," he said, his tone like frost. "But you continue to dishonor me with these tricks."

  His muscles flexed as he raised his weapons again. "So be it. I was a fool to expect more from you."

  All four arms of the arachnid moved simultaneously, swelling to ten times their usual size. Two spears shot toward the sky, while the others flew toward seemingly random locations.

  A sharp crack echoed as the sky itself fractured, revealing a massive, all-seeing eye with jagged breaks across its surface. At the other point of impact, Scott's form emerged—surrounded by the thrashing Chains of the Abyss.

  Thrax raised his hand, and the spears returned to him, nestling in his rough palms. "Bloodlines, barriers, domains, authorities—none of them matter. In the face of true power, they will all fail."

  Scott vanished through a nihilistic portal as Thrax readied another strike. In an instant, ten more portals materialized around the arachnid.

  "Futile," Thrax remarked, his eyes scanning the portals. "Your tricks will never—"

  A portal opened beneath his feet, cutting him off. Yet, he remained firmly planted on the ground. He glanced down. "Is that it?"

  Above him, another portal flared open. Scott emerged, War Hammer of the Mad God in hand, and swung with brutal force, striking the unguarded crown of Thrax's head.

  A metallic chime rang out as the impact sent tremors through the air. Scott recoiled back into the abyss. Thrax barely tilted his head, unamused. "Futile," he repeated.

  He swung his arms, shattering the surrounding portals with ease. The battlefield fell silent for a heartbeat—until the sound of rattling chains filled the air.

  Several Chains of the Abyss shot forward, binding his limbs in an instant.

  "Do you think this is a joke?" Thrax roared. His muscles bulged as he tore through the chains in a single motion. "Fight me seriously!"

  His voice ripped through the remains of the fractured eye, and reality trembled.

  A few meters away, Scott reappeared, unscathed.

  This freak is resistant to everything—and his power is no joke, Scott thought, observing the devastation left in Thrax's wake through his territorial lord's omnipotent sight.

  How am I supposed to take him down if neither the nihilistic zone nor the Authority of Madness works? He scowled, watching as Thrax shifted his stance.

  Scott's fingers curled into fists. Do I really have to use that here? His face twisted with distaste. I didn’t want to go back to that place—but it doesn’t seem like I have a choice.

  Thrax's voice cut through his thoughts. "No matter how many illusions you create, I will always see through them. Your death is the only inevitable outcome." He took a step forward, spears glinting ominously.

  On his tenth step, he stopped.

  The world around him had changed.

  The war-torn battlefield had given way to a nightmarish landscape—a charnel ground littered with tens of millions of butchered corpses. A chilling silence hung heavy in the air.

  Thrax's grip tightened on his spears. He hadn't blinked. He knew he hadn't. Yet Scott's forces, his own armies—everything was gone.

  Above Scott, a colossal moon burned black with flame, its infernal light casting eerie shadows across the wasteland.

  And then—he heard them.

  Screams. Endless, maniacal screams, twisting and overlapping in a cacophony of suffering.

  Movement flickered at the edges of his vision—too many to track. Thrax blinked and the truth became clear.

  The figures locked in their brutal massacre—

  They were all Scott.

  "What kind of—" His words died in his throat as his eyes returned to Scott's motionless form.

  A blackened pool, thicker than tar and more viscous than blood, spread beneath Scott's feet, stretching outward beneath the burning moonlight.

  Thrax exhaled slowly. "You're still holding back," he noted, shifting into a new thrusting stance. "I will not be—"

  His voice faltered.

  Above the moon, an all-seeing eye had appeared—vast and unyielding, bearing the weight of existence itself. The slaughter intensified below, the countless versions of Scott hacking at each other in unrelenting madness.

  Behind Scott, a titanic door loomed, bound by thousands of chains. Two shadowed silhouettes flanked the door, their movements deliberate as they began to unseal its restraints.

  The door creaked open—barely an inch—and an almighty pressure descended, suffocating the broken world.

  The butchered corpses imploded into blackened goo. The frenzied figures fell to their knees, their forms shattering beneath the weight of unseen authority.

  Hundreds of thousands of tendrils slithered from the barely opened door, wrapping themselves around Scott's still form.

  Then came the whispers—low, ceaseless murmurs, brimming with arcane wisdom no sane mind could withstand.

  Thrax grinned. "Forgive me. Now, I can see your true nature," he said, showing no sign of fear. "Allow me to show you mine!"

  His spears began to glow, radiating a crimson brilliance as his arms bulged several times over, muscles straining with unbridled power. The air trembled around him, fissures of energy crackling through the shattered reality.

  "Gentlemen, I'm afraid I'll have to step in at this point. We can't have you inadvertently violating the rules now, can we?" The voice came suddenly—smooth, unhurried—and an examiner manifested between Scott and Thrax.

  "Let's calm down now, shall we?" the examiner clapped twice, and reality itself distorted.

  Thrax blinked, and the nightmarish world was gone. The howls of the damned, the writhing tendrils, the colossal door—all faded like an unspoken threat. Yet, the weight of Scott's presence lingered. Thrax could sense his brethren scattered across the ruined battlefield, but his focus never wavered from the man before him.

  Chains—thick, black, and glistening with an unnatural sheen—remained latched onto Scott's form, dragging at him with relentless force. They pulled from the remnants of the fading door, threatening to consume him entirely. Yet, even as they tried to drag him into the abyss, Scott resisted—each tremor of his form a declaration of defiance.

  Thrax blinked again. The chains and door vanished like a fading dream. Scott stood alone now—motionless, his eyes empty, like a puppet severed from its strings.

  Then, something shifted.

  Slowly, Scott lowered his gaze. When their eyes met, an involuntary chill traced its way down Thrax's spine. Something had changed—something fundamental. For the first time, he moved a half-step back.

  "What… what have you done?" Thrax managed to say, his voice quieter, less certain.

  Scott didn't respond. Instead, a twisted, deranged smile spread across his lips—a smile that held no humor, only a promise of madness. Without a word, his form dissolved into the swirling void of the nihilistic zone. The Chains of the Abyss emerged once more, writhing like serpents as they dragged the lingering abominations back into the darkness.

  And then—he was gone.

  Thrax exhaled, his grip tightening on his spears. Without turning, he addressed one of his subordinates. "Inform the general," he said, voice cold and resolute. "I have found a being worthy of conquest."