The Epic Tale of Chaos vs Order

Chapter 2119: Meylin and Bradly

Of course, not everyone carried divine and unique power like the Scarlet King or the Crimson Exarch. Some had to face the challenges of the world with wits alone.

”What should we do, big sister?”

The voice came from a being who looked as though she had stepped from the pages of a myth. Her fur was thick and white as mountain snow, cascading over her shoulders like a regal mantle. Dark markings of black and crimson traced her body, pulsing faintly with inner light.

From her forehead curved a long obsidian horn, smooth and deadly, giving her the air of both nobility and danger. Her eyes glowed a deep, shimmering red, intelligent and sharp, framed by faint crimson streaks that shimmered when she moved.

”I don’t know, little sister,” came the answer, quiet yet edged with the weight of command.

The speaker was a warrior of equal majesty. The upper half of her form was humanoid—elegant, strong, every line of her body shaped by discipline and conflict. Yet below her waist, the sleek power of a beast emerged: fur and muscle blending seamlessly with armor. Her eyes burned brighter.

The sisters were Anita and Akita, Peak ArchDeities of the higher realms who had descended with Tiramisu into the Third Realm of the Crimson World. Though they looked less ferocious than the legends claimed, their names were whispered across realms with both awe and fear. They were conquerors, tacticians, and symbols of divine might.

Yet this challenge before them was different. It did not demand brutality or sheer power but insight—a deep understanding of emotion, and mastery over The Flow.

Fortunately, along with them was a master of The Flow. She was a woman draped in power and grace, her presence bending the air itself. Of course, she was no other than the True Depravita of Original Sin.

Meylin inhaled slowly. Below her, the army of soul-forged soldiers moved in silent precision, each one born from the essence of her will. Their armor shimmered faintly with spectral light.

Anita and Akita watched her work, exchanging a single, knowing glance. Though they often appeared easygoing, when it came to command, the sisters were sharp, disciplined, and utterly in sync. A nod passed between them and the Depravita, and in an instant, their forces adjusted formation—silent, flawless.

The village before them was small, half-buried in fog and ruin. Wooden homes leaned under the weight of time. Torches flickered weakly against the crimson twilight. Villagers gathered in trembling ranks, clutching spears and rusted blades, their faces pale with fear yet lit by desperate resolve.

”Hold your ground!” one of them shouted, his voice cracking.

The soul-forged army stopped. The only sound was the whisper of wind over steel.

Then Meylin raised her hand.

The air itself seemed to ripple as she connected her soldiers’ spirits into a single psychic thread, channeling her consciousness through them. In that instant, she felt the hearts of the villagers—their terror. She wove those emotions using her Depravita abilities, amplifying them until fear bloomed so fiercely it swallowed every other sensation.

One by one, the villagers faltered. Weapons trembled, then fell. Eyes widened with animal panic. Someone screamed. Then, as though possessed by survival itself, they turned and fled, scattering into their homes like leaves before a storm.

A breathless silence followed.

The soul-forged soldiers did not move. Their eyes—cold and luminous—remained fixed on the retreating humans until Meylin lowered her hand. Only then did the army advance again, the sound of their march echoing like thunder against the hollow village walls.

Intimidating the weak was never nice, but it was sometimes necessary. Between terror and bloodshed, mercy took the form of fear. To pass through the village without massacre was the best path forward for the group.

Meylin’s pace was steady. Though slower than Cain or the Crimson Exarch, the six golden lotuses that glowed upon her forehead marked the depth of her growth. She was advancing rapidly, mastering The Flow without guidance—her evolution driven purely by instinct and hard work.

Eight months passed in that endless crimson realm as the trio pressed forward, and then a new figure reached the Third Ring.

Bradly.

His eyes burned with hatred, and his expression twisted into rage as he scanned the crystalline plains around him. But there was no prey to be found, only the vast expanse of glass-like ground stretching to the horizon.

He stepped forward.

The moment his foot touched the crystal floor, his body convulsed. A surge of energy erupted from within him—soul separating from flesh. In a blinding flash, his essence fragmented and reformed into legions: an army of mortal soldiers.

Bradly staggered but did not fall. His army stood before him, five times the size of Cain’s—proof of the Neo-Angel’s unmatched soul strength. Yet as he gazed upon them, his expression darkened. Anger twisted through him, but willpower soon triumphed, his mind sharpening like tempered glass. Clarity returned to his eyes.

”The Flow,” he murmured. ”It’s always The Flow.”

He remembered Cain—remembered the humiliation, the trap, the lesson carved into his pride. From that day, Bradly had sworn to master what had shamed him. Power alone meant nothing without control, and emotion without understanding was a storm that devoured itself.

Kneeling, he placed his palm upon the crystal floor. The surface pulsed beneath his hand like a heartbeat. He could feel the rhythm of the realm—the pulse of emotion. Slowly, he began to understand the essence of Resonance.

And then, his army moved.

He connected with the emotions and intent in the heart of every soldier, guiding them, giving them purpose, and making sure they remain at their peak.

The march began.

Step by step, the soul-forged army advanced down the road, their armor glinting beneath the ghostly crimson sun. The wind carried the echo of their discipline, a sound like the heartbeat of gods.

Eventually, as it had for the others before him, a village appeared on the horizon—fragile, human, and doomed to test his resolve. Figures gathered with weapons drawn, blocking the road.