Without a warning, the Red King's eyes widened in an abrupt flash of shock and confusion. That reaction had nothing to do with Radagon or the other Root powerhouses manifesting around the ninth layer. No, the reason for that sudden jolt was far more personal; it ca from the strange smile tugging at his own lips and the wave of
emotion rising from the confrontation with the decapitated head, emotions that should not have existed within him after so many cons of numbness.
"Excitent... thrill... the pure exhilaration of combat. They are flowing through again..." As he murmured the thought, the smile on the Red King's face stretched wider, almost serene, almost relieved. A sense of deep, almost forgotten satisfaction flooded his consciousness, echoing across the remnants of a soul that had endured ages of stillness.
"The Power of Chaos." The smile and thrill in the Red King only grew stronger as he uttered those words.
Those words ant nothing to the Root forces; even Radagon's formidable mind could not decipher their implication. But the Red King was not speaking for them. He spoke simply because the sensation demanded to be spoken aloud.
"It is raw, unstable, imperfect, yet undeniably present. It is far from the level I require," he expressed with rising excitent, "but it grows. That is enough."
A faint nod, almost approving, followed. "Good work, boy. This is enough for now."
Only after acknowledging Cain did the Red King turn his full attention toward the assembled powerhouses of the Root.
As their collective gaze t his, a visible shudder passed through them. Due to the nature of their creation, all Root entities shared fragnts of sensation and thought experienced by the severed head.
They had felt its terror. They had felt the red light devouring its essence. And they knew-down to the deepest echo of their shared will-that the man with red eyes possessed sothing capable of rewriting the structure of reality itself.
The Red King's expression shifted. The thrill, the excitent, the rediscovered joy of conflict-all of it vanished in an instant. What replaced it was hollow, bottomless, a pit of absolute order so cold that even the surrounding space felt as if it were shrinking away.
"Your kind was not part of my plan," he said quietly. "And I do not tolerate intruders."
Those words alone were enough to make even the mightiest of the Root take a step back. Their fists clenched. Their scales and marrow-armored limbs trembled. An overwhelming sense of dread pressed down on them; even Radagon-the King of the Root himself, an entity capable of moving Empyrean Worlds with brute force- could not completely suppress the tremor running through his immortal form.
But Radagon was still the King of the Root. He gathered himself in the next heartbeat, and the killing intent radiating from him ignited the instincts of every High Lord and Champion in the area.
Eleven Root entities aligned themselves across the ninth layer, adopting a formation capable of suppressing Alpha-Oga Overgods of the Supre Races.
The Red King glanced once at the formation, understanding their intent instantly. They were trying to circle him, encircle blind spots, press into the gaps in perception. None of it stirred even a flicker of concern in his eyes. Instead, his gaze shifted toward the severed tongue, now fully assimilated by his red light, and he tightened his
fist.
A mont later, the entire tongue erupted into streams of red radiance. The light surged into him, flowing across his limbs and spine, igniting his energy, life force, and soul force in a roaring bloom of power.
Then he spoke a single word.
"Resurrección." His body shifted instantly, rging with the Primarch of Conquest Leviathan. All Paths of Power fused in unison, and his strength detonated outward like a reborn star.
"Attack!" Radagon roared.
All eight Champions of the Root lunged forward at once. Radagon and the three High Lords held position behind them, observing. Before risking their highest combatants, the King of the Root intended to gauge the true scope of the threat before them.
The Red King did not move. Not a muscle. Not a flicker. Not until a spear-arm was already at the back of his skull did he twist his torso, shifting half an inch. The spear missed by less than a hair's breadth. His hand snapped up, seizing the Champion's skull.
Montum never faltered.
In one fluid breath, he swung the captured Champion's body sideways, using him as a shield to block a cleaving bone-blade from another attacker. The impact cracked the Champion's ribs, but the Red King released him instantly, unleashing a brutal kick that struck the chin of a third Champion and sent the giant hurtling backward, skidding across layers of rotted flesh.
A fourth Champion, this one with a bow grown into its arm, released a narrow bone-lance. The attack was flawless; silent, aura concealed until the final instant, trajectory perfect. By all logic, it could not be
dodged.
But the Red King tilted his head a fraction to the left, letting the lance pass, then snatched it from mid-air before it could continue its flight.
He spun, driving the sa lance directly into the skull of a shadow-born Champion erging from his blind spot.
Shock froze the Champion's eyes. His stealth arts were perfect. His
infiltration should have been inevitable. Yet the Red King had
perceived everything.
A twist of the lance embedded in the head broke the Champion's neck. A mont later, a kick hurled the corpse behind him like
discarded debris.
Two more Champions ca from opposite sides, fists and claws descending with enough force to tear through continental plates. The Red King lifted his left hand, reaching with his middle and index fingers, stopping the fist cold. He turned his head slightly just as the claws from the right slashed toward his throat. His eyes glowed, redirecting power, and a beam of red energy erupted point-blank, launching the attacking Champion backward in a spray of shattered
bone.
Not a single step had been taken, and he overwheld seven Champions of the Root.
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