Talent Awakening: Draconic Overlord Of The Apocalypse - Chapter 511: • It's All A Part Of The Plan

Chapter 511: • It’s All A Part Of The Plan

“You think Alister’s gonna be the next Union President now?” the first one asked, eyes still flicking back toward the smoldering epicenter. “I mean, with a stunt like that, the people might actually want him in charge.”

The second officer scoffed, shaking his head as they passed a collapsed barricade.

“Pfft. Not a chance. The other Union Directors would never answer to him. They’ve spent years keeping people like him in check. Guy’s dangerous—too dangerous. He’s not one of them. He’s…”

“…something else.”

As their voices faded down the alleyway, lost in their little chat—

Back in the van—

The body bag moved.

Barely perceptible at first: a slight twitch beneath the reinforced fiber.

Then a shimmer—veins of red-hot light began threading faintly under the black fabric, like molten metal seeping through cracks in stone. The rune lamp above flickered violently, responding to the surge of mana. Sparks danced across the roof.

The glow intensified.

Zzzrrppppp…

The zipper unfastened itself, sliding down slowly with a grinding hum.

Steam hissed out of the bag.

Aiku rose.

His upper body unfolded like a machine reactivating—shoulders squared, spine rigid, the skin on his neck still crackling from where the head had once been severed. But now it was whole again—flesh regrown, smooth, pale, laced with glowing lines of seething energy. Wisps of smoke rose from his collarbones, and his hair clung damply to his forehead as though he’d been submerged in lava.

He sat up fully, his back straight, breath steady.

Then—

Crack.

He tilted his head sharply to one side, neck bones popping.

“…Tch. I can’t even remember the last time someone beheaded me. Even Galisk didn’t manage that.”

His hands curled into fists, fingers flexing slowly as if testing the limits of his restored body. The mana glow beneath his skin pulsed—rhythmic, alive, angry.

“Alister…”

His voice was low, but it carried the venom of a curse.

His teeth clenched. The corners of his mouth pulled back into a feral grin, one that twisted his youthful features into something monstrous.

“A being who stands outside of fate… how interesting.”

He gritted his teeth in anger as he said, “What is a king’s path without challenges… And so… as a king, I shall emerge victorious at the end of this ordeal. It doesn’t matter if I no longer have luck by my side. My victory is inevitable… No… To face a godlike being… I myself must become a god.”

His mouth pulled back into a feral grin… his eyes crackling with golden mana.

A final surge of light exploded outward in a flare of red-gold fury—and then, with a sound like snapping lightning and a gust of displaced air, Aiku vanished.

All that remained was a scorched imprint on the floor of the van.

And the sudden silence that followed.

…

…

The highways leading toward Sector I glowed dimly beneath tall neon lampposts, their lights stretching over guardrails and advertisements.

The convoy of armored Union vans rumbled down the road like a chain of beasts, engines humming in sync as they cut through the city.

Inside one of the rear transport vans, the atmosphere was humid, heavy with sweat.

Criminals in bright orange inmate uniforms sat shoulder to shoulder, wrists cuffed to restraining rails bolted to the seats.

Most of them had bruises, dried blood, and soot marking their skin—remnants of the failed prison break earlier that night. The interior smelled of iron, mana residue, and frustration.

Among them sat Claus—though he did not wear the orange like the rest of them.

His hands were shackled in mana-suppression cuffs, silver bands engraved with glowing blue sigils. He sat calmly, back straight, head slightly tilted, glasses somehow glinting on his face. The sheath where his katana once rested was gone, confiscated and locked in a separate containment crate.

And that alone set him apart.

The other prisoners didn’t miss it.

“Tch,” one of them, a muscular bald man with a gang tattoo across his throat, sneered from across the aisle.

“Look at this guy. Doesn’t even got the orange on. Thinks he’s special or somethin’.”

Another inmate leaned forward, a younger man with cybernetic implants spiraling into the side of his skull. “Yeah. Ain’t you that guy’s partner? The psycho who tried to break out and got his head cut off?” He grinned wickedly. “Bet you thought you were gonna be some big-shot freedom fighter.”

The van shook slightly as it hit a bump, but Claus didn’t flinch. His calm demeanor only made the others angrier.

“Because of you clowns,” the bald man growled, “our sentences are gonna be doubled. I was two weeks from parole, and now I gotta rot for another fuckin’ year ’cause of your little stunt.”

Claus slowly turned his head, adjusting his glasses with a slow motion of his cuffed hand, the chain clinking softly as he sighed.

“Correction,” Claus began, voice smooth as glass. “Your sentence is being extended because you made the decision to escape alongside the others. Your culpability is not a byproduct of my actions, but the direct consequence of your own.”

He glanced at the younger inmate with the implants.

“Moreover, anyone with even the most elementary grasp of the Union’s penal framework would know that escape attempts are penalized as individual offenses under subsection B-17 of the Reformation Act. That means: your sentence extension is not collective—it’s personal.”

The van was silent for a moment. Then—

“…What the fuck did he just say?” the bald man muttered, his expression tightening.

Claus’s gaze swept across the van slowly, like a professor scanning a class of underperforming students.

“Your anger is misdirected,” he added, tone growing colder. “Perhaps instead of blaming others for your failures, you should reflect on the poor impulse control and lack of foresight that led you here.”

The younger inmate’s eye implant blinked red.

“You smug little sh—”

“I hope they lock your smartass up forever!” another shouted from the back.

Claus simply smiled, unfazed, and lifted his head slightly.

“Correction,” he said again, calmly. “I won’t be entering any cell again today.”

That set them off.

The van filled with harsh laughter.

One inmate clapped mockingly. “Ohhh, listen to this guy! Thinks he’s some kinda big shot or somethin’. Who the hell do you think you are, huh? You hit your head in the crossfire? You delusional now?”

Another chimed in, “Lemme guess—secret prince? Hidden heir to the Union throne? Pfft.”

Claus leaned back slightly, a faint smirk on his lips. His next words were laced with such quiet certainty that, for just a moment, it shut them all up.

“No,” he said, voice almost a whisper.

“I’m simply a man who planned for everything.”

He turned to look at them, his black scleral blue moon all-seeing eye—

Then smiled chillingly.