Awakening a 10,000x Skill Proficiency Multiplier in the Apocalypse

His fingers wrapped around a perfectly spherical, violently pulsing orb of pitch-black light.

It was the World Core he had ripped out of the belly of the Level 70 Void Sandworm on Server 901. It was the condensed, raw foundational data of an entire, assimilated planet. It was heavy, radiating an aura of pure, desperate agony.

Sebastian pulled the dark Core out of his inventory.

[Item Recognized: World Core (Server 901).] [Raw Source Code: 2,800,000 Units.]

”System,” Sebastian commanded, his voice perfectly steady, entirely devoid of the horrific strain his body was about to endure. ”Initiate Law Synthesis.”

He didn’t just ask the system to run a spell.

He forcefully fed the World Core directly into the glitched module he had unlocked in Corbin’s bunker.

The pitch-black orb in his hand didn’t melt. It violently shattered.

CRACK!

Millions of units of raw, foundational Source Code exploded from the broken Core. It didn’t scatter into the wind. It shot directly up Sebastian’s arm like a torrential river of black lightning, plunging violently into his chest.

”Guh!” Sebastian grunted, his back arching slightly as the catastrophic data load hit his system.

It felt like swallowing a dying star. His thirty-percent synchronized biological muscles locked up, turning as dense as solid titanium. The silver runic scars etched into his pale skin flared with blinding, searing white light, actively fighting to keep his physical meat-suit from instantly un-rendering under the impossible data pressure.

He was burning the heart of a world to fuel a single command.

Up in the sky, the massive green UI updated in real-time for the entire armada to see.

[SYNTHESIS COMPLETE.] [LOADING CONCEPTUAL LAW: LAW OF ROTTING GRAVITY.]

Panic finally broke through the disciplined ranks of the Holy Crusade. The thousands of Saints hovering on their flight decks didn’t know what the ’Law of Rotting Gravity’ was, but they knew what an Administrator override looked like.

”Fire!” Grigori shrieked, entirely abandoning his majestic, charismatic persona. He slammed his fist against the comms console.

”Fire the main cannon! Erase him! Now!”

”Targeting systems are failing!” Jin yelled back, his cybernetic eyes flashing with critical red error codes. ”The Anomaly’s interface is blocking the spatial lock! The server doesn’t recognize the ground anymore!”

”I don’t care about the lock! Manually fire the weapon!”

The massive, skyscraper-sized cannon on the Righteous Dawn hummed to its absolute peak. The blue-white plasma practically screamed as it prepared to unleash planetary devastation.

Sebastian looked up. His eyes were no longer silver. They were burning, unhinged voids of pure, focused administrative wrath.

He didn’t need to dodge. He didn’t need a shield.

”Radius set: Ten miles,” Sebastian whispered, his voice carrying clearly over the roaring engines above.

He raised his right hand, pointing a single, black-gloved finger directly at the center of the massive Vanguard fleet.

He didn’t shout a dramatic incantation. He just executed the file.

”Apply.”

[EXECUTING LAW OF ROTTING GRAVITY.] [STATUS: ACTIVE.]

The transition wasn’t marked by an explosion.

There was no flashy beam of light or concussive shockwave of displaced air.

It was marked by absolute, terrifying silence.

The deafening roar of the dreadnoughts’ anti-gravity engines instantly vanished. The high-pitched, screaming whine of the charging planet-cracker cannon was abruptly cut off.

Even the ambient, howling wind of the Juncture simply ceased to exist within the ten-mile radius Sebastian had just defined.

The localized rules of physics were instantly, violently overwritten.

Sebastian stood on the dock, entirely untouched, breathing slowly as the agonizing strain of the data burn faded. He lowered his hand and casually shoved it back into his coat pocket.

He looked up at the sky.

The power dynamic hadn’t just shifted. It had been completely, fundamentally broken. The Sovereign of Laws had laid his trap, and ten thousand heavily armored zealots had just flown directly into it.

”Welcome to the patch notes,” Sebastian muttered.

The silence that blanketed the ten-mile radius above Outpost Rust was heavier than deep water.

High in the sky, the Righteous Dawn and its escort of hundreds of massive, city-sized dreadnoughts hung suspended for a fraction of a microsecond. The pristine white durasteel of their hulls gleamed under the ambient light of the Juncture. The tens of thousands of elite Saints stood on the decks, their heavy, gold-laced armor radiating absolute, untouchable power.

They were the apex predators of the Ethereal Plane. They were the conquerors of a hundred worlds.

And then, the [Law of Rotting Gravity] did exactly what Sebastian designed it to do.

Mass x Entropy = Accelerated Chronological Decay.

The effect was instantaneous and utterly catastrophic. The Law didn’t care about their Level 90 stats. It didn’t care about their magical Void Shields or their divine damage resistances. The Law simply looked at the physical mass of the objects within its domain and forcefully applied an equivalent amount of localized aging.

The dreadnoughts were the heaviest objects in the sector. They weighed millions of tons.

Therefore, they aged the fastest.

”What... what is happening to the ship?!” Saint Jin shrieked on the observation deck. The Cyber-Monk’s glowing green visual sensors violently glitched as he stared down at the pristine deck beneath his feet.

The flawless, white durasteel of the flagship didn’t just tarnish. It violently blistered.

In the span of a single second, the ship aged a thousand years. The thick, protective paint bubbled and peeled away like dead skin flaking off a corpse. The incredibly dense, magically reinforced metal beneath instantly turned a sickly, bruised brown, before rapidly degrading into a deep, flaky, rusted orange.

SCREEEEEECH!

The sound was absolutely deafening. It was the agonizing, collective groan of a hundred massive warships experiencing simultaneous, catastrophic structural failure.

The Righteous Dawn’s anti-gravity engines, previously burning with a blinding blue light, sputtered and violently seized. The intricately machined internal gears, suddenly burdened by centuries of hyper-accelerated rust and friction, simply locked up and shattered. Plumes of thick, black smoke and red dust erupted from the exhaust vents.

”The engines are dead!” a panicked cultist screamed from the navigation console, furiously tapping at holographic screens that were rapidly shorting out. ”We’re losing altitude!”

They weren’t just losing altitude. They were disintegrating.

The massive, skyscraper-sized planet-cracker cannon that had been milliseconds away from vaporizing Sebastian completely failed. The super-heated plasma contained within the barrel instantly cooled as the conductive coils rotted away. The massive weapon, too heavy for its rapidly decaying support struts, simply snapped off the underbelly of the ship.

It plummeted toward the void, crumbling into a shower of harmless, powdery red rust before it even fell a hundred feet.

”Brace!” Grigori roared, his charismatic facade entirely shattered. He desperately flared his holy aura, trying to cast a massive, ship-wide restorative spell to reverse the damage.

It was utterly useless. Healing magic restored hit points. It couldn’t cure the mathematical concept of time.

The dreadnoughts began to snap.

Without the structural integrity to support their own immense weight, the city-sized ships violently buckled. Massive, miles-long sections of the rusted hulls simply tore apart.

It looked like a child snapping dry, stale biscuits in half.

The sky was instantly choked with a terrifying, apocalyptic rain of rusted metal, shattered glass, and fine, red iron dust.

But the horror didn’t stop with the ships.

The Saints themselves were heavy. They wore thick, impenetrable high-tier armor forged from condensed starlight and bedrock.

They wielded massive, two-handed weapons that weighed hundreds of pounds.

The Law targeted them next.

”My armor! Get it off! Get it off!” a Level 85 Guardian screamed on the deck of a plunging cruiser.

His pristine, golden chest plate rapidly oxidized, turning black and brittle. But worse than the ruined gear was the weight. As the armor rapidly decayed, the physical density of the metal violently compressed. The Guardian was instantly crushed under the sheer, unyielding mass of his own rotting equipment. His legs snapped backward, and he collapsed onto the rusting deck, his health bar zeroing out as his internal organs were flattened.

All across the falling fleet, the scene repeated itself.

The elite, heavily armored colonizers of the Void found themselves trapped in customized iron maidens. The heavier their gear, the faster they died. Swords crumbled to dust in their hands. Helmets rusted shut, suffocating the screaming players inside.

It was the ultimate, flawlessly executed counter to the ”paramilitary guild” archetype. Sebastian had completely weaponized their reliance on heavy, static defenses.

Down on the rusted dock, Sebastian stood perfectly still. His hands remained casually stuffed into his coat pockets. The chaotic, deafening roar of falling warships and screaming zealots echoed around him, but he didn’t flinch.