The Epic Tale of Chaos vs Order

Chapter 2260: Kill them one by one

Cain stared at the gathered powerhouses for a long, steady moment, letting the silence weigh upon them. He drew in a deep breath, and as he exhaled, his eyes sharpened to a razor edge.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried the clarity of an oath carved into stone. "First of all, let me make one thing perfectly clear. Even if I, and everyone I care about, stand at the brink of death, the entity that rampaged through the Heart of the Root will not appear again."

His gaze hardened further, ensuring that no one could mistake his meaning. "From now on, we are on our own."

Cipher and the others stiffened. Cain’s tone left no room for hope, misinterpretation, or naïve expectation. If any among them walked into battle with the belief that some mysterious savior would intervene when disaster struck, the entire plan would crumble. Overconfidence would tempt them into reckless maneuvers. Fear of relying on their own limits would keep them from fighting with their full strength. Either mistake would doom them.

Cain needed them to understand this truth—not accept it half-heartedly, not quietly doubt it in the back of their minds, but truly understand it.

No matter how horrific things became, the entity would not return. No hidden master would save them. The only ones who could seize survival were those present in the Golden Hall—and no one else.

Cipher, Amara, Zephirax, Arkam, and Uriel each felt the weight behind Cain’s words. None of them sensed any deception in him. They silently nodded. The realization settled heavily on their shoulders like chains of responsibility, but none dared deny it.

Seeing comprehension settle over the group, Cain released a slow breath. His eyes glowed with a subdued golden radiance as he raised a hand. The power of his soul surged outward, manifesting an image upon the high ceiling of the chamber. The air rippled faintly, and then the projected visions took form—memories carved directly from Cain’s soul.

All eyes lifted, focusing intently on the spectral images above.

They witnessed Cain’s silent journey through the layers of the Heart of the Root, feeling how every breath he took was measured, how every movement flirted with exposure, how even the smallest mistake could have sounded the alarm and doomed everything. The danger he endured was palpable.

When the image reached the seventh layer, the atmosphere in the hall thickened. The eighteen cocoons appeared, each pulsing with dormant might. Because the vision came from Cain’s soul, they could sense the weight within each cocoon exactly as he had—eighteen Champions of the Root. Eighteen Alpha Omega Overgods.

Even if each of them fought two at a time, they would still fall short. The numbers alone were suffocating.

Yet matters only worsened as the image shifted to the eighth layer.

A hush fell over the hall as they beheld the cocoons of the eight High Lords and Radagon. They all knew how terrible a High Lord of the Root was. At least two of them would be required to confront even one High Lord directly. And Radagon... Radagon’s strength alone dwarfed that of any single person in the room.

And then, just when they thought they had reached the peak of despair, the image shifted to the ninth layer.

The decapitated head floated at the center of the projection. Even through the manifested memory, they could feel the cosmic principles woven into it. Understanding dawned upon them like thunder.

"A portal..." Arkam whispered, trembling—a rare crack in the composure of one usually unshakable.

None of them knew where the portal connected, but all of them felt the same instinctive truth: if that gateway completed its formation, it would be over. They, everyone they loved, and every world they had sworn to protect would be consumed by the will of the Root.

Cain allowed that dread to sink in. They needed to feel it. They needed to truly grasp the scale of what approached. Only then could they steel their spirits for what had to be done.

And when he saw their wills beginning to steady—seen in the hardening of their expressions and the subtle straightening of their backs—Cain continued.

"Not everything is bad," he said, his voice returning to its calm, steady cadence. "There is good news."

The group turned toward him at once.

"Less than half of the Champions of the Root are capable of fighting. Many are still incomplete or dormant. The situation is even worse for the High Lords—nearly two-thirds remain in deep gestation."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Cain’s lips.

"And more importantly, several of them died. Radagon himself is gravely wounded. I do not know the details, but if my instincts are correct, the King of the Root’s battle power has fallen sharply. Strong he may remain, but he is no longer undefeatable."

The shift in the room was immediate. The suffocating dread loosened its grip. Shoulders relaxed. Eyes brightened. Hearts, previously sinking, found purchase again. The idea of fighting back—of achieving something meaningful—no longer felt like delusion.

They had a chance.

Anark glanced at the powerhouses, then at Cain. He could not stop the quiet nod. Within minutes, Cain had reshaped the group’s mindset with precision—subtle nudges, deliberate reveals, and measured reassurance.

Their earlier resolve to pursue a defensive war, which each of them had clung to with grim determination, had already dissolved. Now, the only thought filling their minds was charging into the Heart of the Root and destroying the decapitated head before catastrophe struck.

Cain struck while the iron was still burning hot.

"We cannot stand and wait," he said, his voice resonating through the hall like a commandment. "We must act, taking advantage of the weakened state of their soldiers and the damage done to the layers."

The powerhouses turned their attention fully toward him, eyes sharp, wills ignited. They were not submitting to his leadership—but they were undeniably drawn by the clarity, logic, and conviction in his words.

"Our goal will not be to kill Radagon or to destroy the Heart of the Root. Even if we could, it would be a pyrrhic victory—most of us would die. Instead, our objective is simple."

Cain raised his hand, and the projected image of the decapitated head reappeared.

"We reach the ninth layer. We destroy the head. Without it, Radagon will no longer be able to contact the Emptiness. He will be alone. Isolated. Cut off."

Cain’s eyes glowed—not with hope, but with cold resolve, brutal clarity, and killing intent.

"Then," he finished, "we will kill them one by one."