Chapter 854: [Sealing Floors]

The echoes of Jack Kaiser’s absolute condemnation had barely faded into the frozen stone of the colosseum when the ambient temperature of Floor Thirteen collapsed.

It was not the sharp, crystalline bite of Pho’s ancient ice magic, nor the pressurized chill of Rhys’s newly awakened permafrost.

This cold bypassed the flesh entirely.

It sank immediately through muscle and bone, coiling directly around the metaphysical marrow of the soul.

The violet spectral flames burning in the perimeter braziers sputtered and died, their light shrinking into dull, lightless embers. The edges of the shadows cast across the arena floor began to stretch, elongate, and pool into thick, oily black reservoirs.

The air grew intolerably dense, tasting of damp graveyard loam, embalming spices, and ancient, oxidized copper coins laid over dead men’s eyes.

Space tore open in the center of the royal viewing box.

Reality did not fracture with the violent crack of Jack’s dark mana. It parted silently, dissolving into a vertical slit of absolute, bottomless void.

Stepping through the threshold was a towering figure clad in armor forged from the nightmares of dying stars.

The metal was black as the void between worlds, shot through with thick veins of crimson that pulsed with a slow, heavy heartbeat.

Massive pauldrons rose from his shoulders, and his head was encased in a helm wrought in the shape of a skull. His eye sockets burned with the terrifying, pale gray light of collapsing suns.

The God of Death had arrived.

The moment his armored boots brushed the granite platform, the ten highborn Council members collapsed.

They did not kneel in reverence. Their biological functions simply gave out under the crushing, gravitational weight of divine mortality.

Elowen Ashwood dropped sideways out of her ornate chair, her emerald velvet skirts pooling around her as she clutched her throat.

Her chest heaved in violent, agonizing spasms as her body starved for air that her lungs could no longer process.

Sylvea Starling violently retched onto the dark stone, coughing up bile mixed with flecks of black fluid as her mana core seized within her chest.

Sable Malakor pressed her forehead hard against the floorboards. Her crimson silks soaked instantly with cold sweat.

Her teeth chattered with enough force to crack the enamel. Her amethyst eyes were blown wide, staring at the armored boots of the deity with a primal, hysterical terror that far surpassed anything the demon army had inflicted.

Beside them, Sirius Anake dug his fingernails into the granite until the nail beds ruptured and bled. His veteran discipline proved completely useless. His soul registered the presence of an apex predator that predated the concept of elves, grinding his consciousness into the dirt.

King Maelor leaned heavily on his greatsword, the ancient steel groaning under his trembling weight. The veins in the old monarch’s neck bulged like thick cords, his golden eyes wide with unadulterated awe and primal recognition.

He refused to drop to his knees, but the sheer metaphysical pressure drove his boots half an inch into the granite, forcing his teeth to grind until blood seeped between his lips as he held his ground.

Down in the arena, the forty thousand demonic troops did not cheer or ready their weapons. At the exact same microsecond, every dread rank minotaur, every shadow stalker, and every dark elf dropped their weapons and pressed their foreheads entirely flat against the permafrost in absolute, instinctual submission.

The silence from forty thousand killers was suffocating.

Only three figures in the entire colosseum remained unaffected by the suffocating divine presence.

Ren Ryzard stood leaning against the bone throne, his thumbs hooked casually over the pommels of his katana.

His dark eyes flickered toward the armored deity with steady, relaxed indifference, his heart rate unchanged, untouched by the aura of mortality.

Beside the granite stairs, Prince Rhys stood upright upon the frozen floor. The green contractual markings beneath his skin pulsed with a faint, steady light, and the lingering spiritual resonance of Sylph shielded his newly forged core from the pressure. He kept his chin raised, watching the manifestation without fear.

And Jack Kaiser did not move an inch.

He stood three paces before his monolithic throne, his hands remaining casually buried within the pockets of his dark coat. His white hair ruffled slightly by the dead breeze flowing from the deity’s armor.

His heterochromic eyes met the twin gray flames burning within the skull helm with unbroken, immovable calm.

Jack looked down at the writhing, vomiting Councilors. A faint, cold smirk of absolute pity touched the corners of his lips.

"Pathetic," Jack said. His voice sliced cleanly through the wheezing gasps of the noble lineage heads. "You call yourselves the supreme rulers of the First Sun, yet you choke on your own bile the moment a true master walks into the room. Keep your foreheads in the dirt. You are looking upon the God of Death."

The Councilors could not answer. They could only tremble, their bleeding fingernails scraping the stone in desperate, silent agony.

The God of Death turned his helm toward the bleeding heart of Theo Althalos resting on the stone, then swept his pale gaze over the flash frozen colosseum where the legions lay prostrate.

A low, thunderous chuckle rumbled from deep within the massive armor. The sound rolled across the colosseum like distant thunder passing over a graveyard.

"Well, well, well," the God of Death spoke. His tone carried the casual, irreverent authority of a cosmic merchant reviewing a profitable ledger. "You work quickly, lightning boy. You turned this petrified tomb into a functional war machine in less time than it takes an empire to draft a trade treaty. The winged boy wears your brand very well."

"Rhys is efficient when he stops overthinking," Jack answered smoothly. He took a single, measured step forward. "He did what was required. Which brings us to business. I have completed the clearing of the assigned sectors. I need the floors sealed. Floors Eleven through Twenty Two must be locked under my permanent administrative authority."

The armored deity tilted his skull helm slightly. The gray flames in his sockets flared with dark amusement.

"Sealing sovereign domains is not charity, Jack," the God of Death replied. He raised a massive, gauntleted hand, his armored fingers tapping together with the heavy sound of bells. "The ancient covenants of the Tartarus Spire demand payment in blood and tokens. The lower thresholds are cheap, but the high floors carry the weight of ancient warlords. You know the tariff."

Jack did not blink. "State the price."

"Floors Eleven through Nineteen require five million Death Tokens each to sever their primordial anchors," the God of Death stated. Each syllable fell like a heavy stone. "Forty five million tokens for the intermediate run. Floors Twenty, Twenty One, and Twenty Two sit upon deep veins. They demand ten million tokens each. Thirty million for the upper triad. You owe me seventy five million Death Tokens in total to seal all twelve floors into your eternal ledger."

Jack reached into his system interface with a single mental command.

Over the course of his campaigns, his slaughter of rogue clans, and the mass harvesting of demon legions, his spiritual treasury had accumulated astronomical reserves of the underworld currency.

He felt no hesitation, no reluctance to part with the staggering sum. Currency was merely raw fuel for his absolute ascension.

"Take it," Jack said flatly.

[System Notification: Death Token Transfer Initiated.]

[Deducting: 75,000,000 Death Tokens.]

[Target: Sovereign Authority, The God of Death.]

[Floor Sealing Protocol: Engaged.]