Strongest Among the Heavens
Chapter 493: Judgement

Chapter 493: Judgement

The Castle of Mehan. A God’s Territory.

"Equip."

His black gauntlets returned. The slaughter before the judgement.

"Electro-step."

The face and voice of the god faded completely.

Venomous snakes dripped and seeped from the corridor. Dasha’s feet barely touched the ground as he tore through the corridor. Electro-step over Electro-step.

A serpent lunged from the left—he sidestepped, his palm striking outward with a Qi-infused shockwave. The snake’s skull caved inward, its body twisting violently before crashing against the wall.

Another one struck from above, fangs dripping venom. Dasha didn’t even look—his fist shot up, gripping its lower jaw mid-air. With a flick of his wrist, he ripped it clean off, tossing the body aside like a discarded rag.

The corridor shook with his mad dash. The very walls hated his presence.

Monsters began pouring out of the cracks in the architecture—jackal-headed beasts bearing the faces of Anubis, their bodies wrapped in tattered linen, wielding rusted khopesh blades. Others crawled forth on all fours, blackened creatures with the heads of falcons, their shrieks echoing through the halls.

Dasha did not stop.

A jackal warrior swung its blade in a horizontal slash—Dasha ducked, his palm slamming against its stomach. A shockwave erupted, tearing through its ribcage, the force blasting through four more behind it.

Dasha Pang was many things. A Cultivator third, a martial artist second, and a scientist first. When he wasn’t playing around, when he intended to kill, nothing could stop him from hitting critical points. Blows that led simply to death.

A falcon-headed beast leaped from a pillar, claws extended.

Dasha’s eyes barely flicked toward it.

His hand shot out.

Two fingers—

Straight through its skull.

The corpse twitched for a moment before he yanked his hand free, flicking off the blackened blood.

The onslaught was endless.

But Dasha’s expression never changed.

His body moved mechanically, perfectly, effortlessly. Every strike was calculated, every dodge perfectly timed, his mind analyzing patterns faster than they could form.

He was not fighting.

He was cleansing.

The hallway ended.

A massive iron door stood before him, covered in hieroglyphs that pulsed with faint golden light.

Dasha tilted his head.

Something old was waiting. Something different.

He struck the doors open with an open palm.

The chamber was vast. A throne room, but ruined—columns crumbled, the ceiling split open to a swirling abyss above. A pool of black water stretched across the floor, reflecting nothing.

At the end of the room—

A scale.

A massive, ancient balance scale, covered in gold and dust, resting on a dais of cracked stone.

Guarding the scale, a creature out of legend.

The creature’s body was that of a lion, powerful and muscled, with golden fur matted with age. Its hind legs were those of a hippopotamus, thick and grotesque, its claws dragging against the stone with unnatural weight. Its head was that of a crocodile, its maw stretched into an eternal grin, rows of teeth shifting as it breathed.

Ammit.

The Devourer of the Dead.

The one who ate the souls deemed unworthy.

The beast watched him.

Dasha said nothing.

In deep, rattling voice, Ammit spoke:

"Your heart... I will weigh it."

This whole time, Dasha had been supercharging his gauntlets. His Qi Sense pulsed repeatedly, listening and scanning for its heartbeat and breath.

Ammit moved. Not like the slow, lumbering beast it resembled—but fast.

’Too fast.’

A claw the size of a sword ripped aimed straight for Dasha’s throat. He barely leaped back.

The sheer force of the swipe tore through the stone pillar behind him, sending it crashing into the black water.

Dasha was floating and analyzing. He opened his inventory, flipping three times, and landed with his newly equipped Seven-league Boots.

This thing was different. He had to be different too. His legs tensed up with newfound Qi and he attacked. His palm lunged at Ammit’s exposed side—and the beast tanked it.

Its tail snapped forward like a whip. Dasha blocked with his forearm, but the force sent him skidding backward, the Seven-league Boots carving trails into the thin black water.

His bones rattled.

Heavy.

Too heavy.

He exhaled when he came to a stop, immediately analyzing.

’Lion’s body for its strength. Hippopotamus legs for its weight and endurance.Crocodile’s head...bite force and to protect its brain. No explicit weakpoint. Stronger than the Scylla.’

A monster designed for judgment.

A living executioner.

Ammit charged.

Dasha leapt to the far left, barely, his hair whipping from the sheer force of the rush. His feet slid across the water—his Qi flared, stabilizing his balance.

Ammit didn’t stop. The hippo-legged creature pivoted and swung a claw. A golden arc ripped through. An attack of pure golden mana.

Dasha ducked and darted into its space. His fingers struck forward, jabbing at its ribs.

"Thunder Clap Palm."

A direct hit.

The shockwave exploded.

But—

Ammit did not move.

Dasha’s eyes narrowed—and then teeth. The crocodile maw snapped forward.

He threw himself between its legs, barely escaping the jaws. The creature’s breath was hot, rancid, ancient.

’Strength, durability, and speed. It possesses all in spades. I have to end this now.’

Dasha landed lightly and turned to face it, inhaling. Then he exhaled. His Qi shifted. His stance changed.

Ammit lunged again, this time swiping both claws gold and in tandem.

Dasha had already planned out his move. He dropped down and slammed both palms down—not attacking Ammit directly, but the water and the ground beneath.

The entire floor bounced. Ammit was cut off and suddenly on the air.

The moment Ammit’s body began to drop, Dasha was above it, mid-air.

One hand outstretched. Qi condensed.

For one second, the world stood still.

"Eyða."

Lay waste.

Destroy everything.

He struck.

His palm slammed into Ammit’s back and everything ruptured.

The black lightning exploded downward, the very air cracking under the pressure and the water evaporating. The creature let out a distorted roar, its body swallowed by the dark lightning.

Dasha landed lightly, exhaling.

He looked toward the scale.

Still standing.

Still waiting.

Blood dripped down his forearm. He must have exerted too much on his physical body. "I don’t need judgment."

Dasha’s feet barely left the ruined wet platform when the space twisted.

The black water returned like a flood and massive black claws burst forth, grasping the shattered stone edges. And then another. And another.

Dasha’s eyes narrowed.

More.

From the void, four more Ammits crawled forward, dragging themselves from the abyss, their golden eyes gleaming with hunger.

The first Ammit had been overwhelming.

Now there were five.

Dasha’s Qi Sense tingled. Something was happening. Something did happen.

The scale, the platform, the walls—they stretched. Warped. Changed. The throne room was gone, now twisting into a grand amphitheater of black stone, lined with rows of hieroglyph-covered seats.

The carvings glowed.

Incantations pulsed into this new amphitheater, filling the battlefield with binding magic.

Dasha felt it immediately. His Qi slowed. The air itself resisted him.

A Territory-type curse.

This place was designed for judgment.

A place where resistance was futile.

A place where only the worthy survived. The Ammits came down on him for judgement.

Two lunged forward at once. Dasha’s body flickered—he sidestepped one, leapt over another. The air, heavy as tar, resisted him, his speed dropping ever so slightly. Tu Na Breathing was the perfect counter to this. Sucking in what little was good and expelling the rest in a rapid cycle of breaths.

The third Ammit whipped its tail—snap!

Dasha blocked.

A mistake.

The tail sent him slamming into the amphitheater steps, cracking stone. He had no time to think before another claw came down.

Boom!

Stone shattered. Dasha had already rolled away, but the curse weighed on his movements.

’Too many.’

They were pressing him.

"Black Cards." He threw six of them. They penetrated at vital points. They did mild damage. Nothing more. Nothing critical. They were still coming at him.

’It seems our time together will bear fruit, Grace.’

Dasha plunged both hands into the ground.

"I speak the names of the hands who built the kingdom. The hands who bled, who toiled, who reached for eternity. Black Despair."

The Dark Sorcerer was a Class he was given due to being bestowed Jack the Ripper’s soul. It was a test from Daughter to see if altering the soul could speed up progress in the System.

In Dasha’s opinion, it was an excellent test—on anyone besides him.

Hundreds of black, spectral arms erupted from the ground, wrapping around the Ammits’ legs, arms, tails. Despite being equipped with an Intermediate Martial Artist Class, Dasha Pang was already on the level of a Dark Sorcerer. Already capable of great spells.

That was what it meant to be the Great Sin—the Great Genius.

He rushed forward—not attacking, but ascending. He leapt high, his foot catching on a midair step made of the dark appendages of his own creation. Another step. Another.

His hands made seals. Seal after seal. Mutter after mutter. A long incantation combined seamlessly with hand signs.

He rose above the battlefield.

The Ammits broke free, shrieking.

Too late. The final incarnation was set:

"Engrave the laws upon me.

Bolster my strength.

Etch the Will of Sin upon my soul.

Final Draw: Black Cards."

Six Black Cards, all bigger than himself, all bigger than the creatures, all bigger than pillars.

His arms burned. His Qi erupted, coiling like a dragon.

Arms crossed in an X, Dasha hurled the cards and the amphitheater shattered. The Ammits howled as shockwaves ruptured everything. The seats, the floor, the hieroglyphs—all obliterated in a tidal wave of dark fiery cards.

A cloud of shadows engulfed the battlefield.

For a long moment, silence.

Until growls erupted. The Ammits were still standing. Wounded. Legs and arms burned. But not dead. They were regenerating.

One of them opened its black burn mouth. Not to bite, to speak.

"Your judgment... is not yet complete."

The appendages holding up Dasha Pang weakened and he slowly dropped lower and lower.

’Is this the power of Territory Creation...?’

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