Chapter 652: The Kryptonian's Judge
"You didn't kill him because of that guy?"
Rhongomyniad could naturally tell that the wild beast's arm bore a highly distinct mark of a [Black King]. In the current generation of Reincarnators, barely anyone had touched that boundary.
Within [The Black King Assembly], every single Black King harbored their own unique personality and individual preferences. Their operational stances regarding Reincarnators and the Infinite Dimension Space similarly possessed subtle variations.
She could comprehend his leniency. After all, that specific individual was historically the one who had been the most passionate, harboring the grandest threshold of hope for Reincarnators. If that entity had proactively left this limb behind, then choosing to refrain from executing this wild beast was entirely logical.
Clark Kent merely shook his head. With a subtle movement of his eyes, the heart of the man lying on the Listing terrain below—a framework that had been as silent and dead as a corpse moments earlier—abruptly initiated a fresh concussive thud.
The [Life Equation], activated.
In the very next fraction of a second, across a New York that had been nearly completely submerged beneath the golden ocean, a massive concentration of human civilians who had been lying helplessly on the asphalt—their operational status unknown—slowly and methodically began to stand up.
Even those corpses whose physical vessels had sustained terrifying, irreversible structural dismemberment were executing a rapid, flawless biological reconstruction.
The [Life Equation]: ceding a boundless promise of hope to a world.
And simultaneously... ceding an absolute, unyielding judgment to sin.
The Tree Herder violently shook his head, his severely blurred visual field steadily clearing. Located at the center of his brow, the intricate black crucifix armor was entirely dry, the divine blood housed within completely drained, rendering the sigil exceptionally dim.
Chronological memories and visual frames rapidly flooded back into his cerebral matrix, which had only just completed a sequence of total cellular death and subsequent restoration. He began to meticulously recall the parameters governing his end.
Having been completely pinned and immobilized within the deep rock strata under the authority of the [Anti-Life Equation], a lone hand had cleanly grabbed his frame. Immediately after, an ocean of absolute terror and unadulterated despair had completely drowned his psyche, systematically stripping his soul of every wisp of hope and individual courage to live. He had been forced to passively monitor the thudding velocity of his own heart grinding to an absolute halt before his vessel expired.
Pant... Pant!
I'm... I'm alive?!
In the next microsecond, the Tree Herder caught sight of the resplendent golden luminescence flaring across the upper atmosphere. A boundless ocean of pure magical energy was violently boiling upward from the Atlantic basin, and his eyes could faintly discern hundreds of thousands of microscopic fairies dancing across the clouds, while winged pegasi elegantly sliced through the skies.
This sector had completely ceased to function as a standard Marvel cinematic universe; a brand-new, high-tier layout of conceptual laws had forcefully established entry onto this world.
The Tree Herder shifted his narrow eyes, only to lock his focus straight onto a pair of pupils that were as detached, cold, and monolithic as a supreme deity.
Superman. Clark Kent!
The Black King.
His pupils violently contracted. Before his nervous system could execute a single motor response, the Space panel cleanly finalized a fresh block of text right before his eyes:
[You have encountered the direct influence of the active Capability: Anti-Life Equation.]
"Again..."
The Tree Herder felt his cerebral matrix being forcefully contorted. An infinite loop of visual frames flashed across his consciousness: he saw a dense succession of Reincarnators whose countenances were completely masked by a blur of static, aggressively launching a non-discriminatory mass execution across numerous derivative universes and secondary worlds.
His vision even captured the low-altitude angel casually waving his hand to unleash thousands of colossal Holy Lances, followed by a monster whose raw Ki blacked out the sky driving a single physical punch to force a continental submersion across New York.
This... this is the absolute standard behavior, the cruel, malicious, and entirely unjust reality of what Reincarnators do?
The Tree Herder rigidly froze. He failed to comprehend why his own cognitive functions were suddenly utilizing vocabulary of this classification to paint a Reincarnator's campaign, yet his inner soul genuinely registered a profound, unyielding wave of absolute disgust and deep-seated rejection toward his own breed.
[You have encountered the direct influence of the active Capability: Life Equation.]
A fresh system prompt refreshed across his sight, but the Tree Herder possessed zero baseline focus left to evaluate the text. He could distinctly, sharply perceive that this perspective had completely and flawlessly become his true, unblemished intent.
This was structurally distinct from a standard psychological hijacking or a low-tier hypnotic control; at this exact microsecond, he genuinely harbored a deep, unyielding hatred and total enmity toward the active generation of Reincarnators operating across the Space.
"To speak with absolute professional candor... they are nothing more than a swarm of subhuman scum who rely on proprietary narrative data resources and structural power advantages to aggressively draw their blades against the weak..."
This was his finalized evaluation.
Subsequently, the Tree Herder dropped onto a lone knee, completely and flawslessly bowing his head in absolute, heart-felt submission before the Kryptonian whose battle armor was currently radiating that intertwined black-and-white luminescence.
"From this day forth, I shall dedicate my existence to launching an absolute, unyielding Judgment against that breed."
The Goddess Rhongomyniad cede a completely detached, indifferent silence to his declaration. Following the total integration of the world's underlying conceptual laws, [The Inner Sea of the Planet] completed its materialization, and the high-tier laws governing the fantasy side of reality were steadily initiating a full re-emergence across the sector.
From this microsecond onward, this world line would continuously experience a non-stop, miraculous evolution. The ancient chronicles anchoring the age of fantasy would methodically crawl back into material reality.
Should future generations of Reincarnators attempt to barge into this grid to farm assets using their standard narrative data advantages, they would highly, statistically likely harvest nothing but her absolute, unyielding malice.
Rhongomyniad cast one final glance toward the black-armored Artoria Pendragon, who was currently pushing her velocity mechanics to its absolute thresholds, frantically racing toward the open ocean.
It appears... she intends to salvage that wild beast?
Hum!
A colossal, spiral-like spatial vortex violently cleaved through the sky once more. The Goddess Rhongomyniad stepped into the breach, vanishing completely from the logs of the universe.
And the Black King · Clark Kent methodically steered his narrow gaze to track the displacement of a small, young child. The boy's frame was enveloped in a layer of energy and absolute martial presence that cede his memory a striking, deeply familiar correlation.
And that power held a direct, unyielding spiritual anchor connecting straight to the soul of that wild beast.
Splash!
Young Parker violently launched his small frame straight into the golden ocean, executing his rescue dive a few fractions of a second faster than even the black-armored King of Knights.
[Hope is not a parameter that can be mathematically mapped or proven across an Equation. It is entirely the absolute choice an individual life form executes when pinned within a total vacuum of despair.]
Even a synthetic construct engineered to mirror a human being possessed the capacity to execute an independent choice.
Clark Kent captured a brand-new layout of structural potential within that child. Consequently, he refrained from finalizing the boy's execution, choosing instead to cede him a vastly more monumental threshold of Judgment.
Settling the calculation, the white-clad Kryptonian slowly ascended toward the clouds. He evaluated the twin equations pulsing across his skin, paired with the massive weight of the planetary consciousness wrapping his frame.
This was a development that flawlessly aligned with the collective will of the universe. Staring down at the golden ocean, his clinical mind compiled a final diagnostic query: Had I forced my engine to execute a terminal liquidation against that wild beast at all costs, what would the structural outcome have been?
Would that absolute Monarch of Souls lurking behind the cosmic veil have chosen to forcefully materialize on the grid to blockade my hand? Or would that Phoenix Feather anchored within his flesh continuously ignite to force a succession of upgraded Nirvanas, re-engineering his biology in direct violation of all cosmic laws?
Or... would it have forcefully stripped away the thin mask of flesh this wild beast wears, prematurely exposing his true form to the cosmos...
With a sharp swish, the Kryptonian morphed into a blinding wisp of light, vanishing completely from the coordinates. Wielding his full, unrestricted velocity, his displacement metrics far eclipsed the peak parameters Kaito Shirogane could execute under his Eight-Fold Kaio-ken.
Down on the listing bedrock, Hela finally took a slow step forward. Her countenance carried a rare wave of deep suspicion and severe dread. Since when had a cluster of entities wielding this caliber of monumental power naturally operated within this world...
Her memory automatically recalled an ancient chronicle her All-Father, Odin, had once walked her through during her youth: Every few world cycles, a dense wave of trans-dimensional interlopers would forcefully breach the barriers of Midgard. The absolute weakest, yet structurally most perilous classification among those entities was uniformly revered by the ancient pantheons as—[The Seeds of Total Slaughter].
That was a specialized classification of entity that could continuously harvest raw, unmitigated power metrics solely by executing the mass termination of lives.
Every single time they emerged, they would violently unleash an apocalyptic catastrophe across the realms.
Hela evaluated Thor, who had plummeted several hundred meters deep into the subterranean geology, and suddenly lost every wisp of professional interest in finalizing his execution.
The current baseline parameters of this world had turned intensely, entirely alien to her senses.
The Tree Herder drove his palms deep into the fractured dirt. Utilizing his specialized capabilities, hundreds of thousands of towering ancient trees violently punched through the field of smoldering ruins, systematically hoisting the debris to salvage the screaming, panicked human survivors trapped beneath the concrete.
A genuine, unblemished smile cleanly spread across his face—until he navigated his sensory grid into the interior layout of a ruined skyscraper, locking his focus onto a bound yin spirit clad in a black trench coat, whose ears were actively bleeding streams of dark essence.
The mercenary remained propped against the collapsed concrete of a structural stairwell, his eyelids lowered. The Tree Herder's features underwent a sharp, microsecond mutation.
"The Millennium Bug?!"
The Millennium Bug had completely lost his capacity for acoustic processing. A spiritual vessel, when examined through a clinical lens, operated on a layout that was exceptionally close to a standard biological framework, identically housing a dense network of specialized organs and spiritual sensory channels; the exact millisecond a high-tier frequency liquefied those structures, a corresponding percentage of operational efficiency was permanently lost.
This was an immutable rule governing cursed spirits and Shinigami alike.
Unless the soul executed an upgraded mutation to evolve into a highly specialized classification of vengeful spirit, the underlying structural limitations remained absolute.
However, merely tracking the motor movements of the Tree Herder's lips, he cleanly deduced that the man was articulating his historical handle. The Millennium Bug and the Tree Herder could be classified as seasoned professional acquaintances.
Historically, the exact microsecond the Millennium Bug had accepted a tracking directive to breach the B711 universe to execute a clean liquidation against a Mercenary Tao who had severely violated the Iron Law, his campaign had been explicitly and jointly financed by both the [Tree Herder] and the [Chaos Sage].
Neither man had calculated that their next professional encounter would materialize under a layout of this nature.
"Hey, hey, hey. You little tree-demon brat. Could I ask you to hurry your scrawny legs up to pull that maniac back into the sector?"
"Operating under a status of this classification is highly, professionally embarrassing for my ego~"
Satoru Gojo's flippant, thoroughly self-mocking chuckle echoed from an adjacent alcove. His physical eyes had been completely vaporized, and his frame was pulsing with a chaotic, highly unstable emission of cursed energy. He appeared entirely unable to even channel a standard Reverse Cursed Technique; his status was a total, unmitigated mess.
The Tree Herder lowered his eyelids, his highly accelerated processing speed measuring the two spiritual assets, instantly arriving at a sharp tactical realization: that monster Mercenary Tao had failed to be systematically executed by the Black King.
Currently, both Satoru Gojo and the Millennium Bug were trapped within a critically depressed operational baseline. Did his system possess the capital to forcefully [Exorcise] them from the logs right now?
Eliminating these two high-tier generals—particularly an entity of Satoru Gojo's caliber—would undoubtedly inflict a severe, structural blow against Mercenary Tao's collective resource ledger.
The smile splitting Gojo's face slowly and cleanly dissolved. Having sustained a total structural collapse of his Six Eyes under the authority of [Saint's Collapse], he lacked the capacity to mathematically govern his cursed energy.
Yet, his absolute predatory instincts still effortlessly, flawlessly captured a rising thread of pure malice locking onto his coordinates.
Ever since his historical execution under Hakumen's specialized curse, Gojo had found his soul becoming monumentally, hyper-sensitively attuned to the processing of external malice. Highly, statistically likely, this was the absolute initial baseline signaling his total, irreversible transformation into a full cursed spirit.
"Heh. You've certainly amassed a striking threshold of nerve, brat~"
"Holding a perfect understanding that the monster is still breathing, yet your mind is actually calculating a lethal play against our forms."
"Are you... genuinely prepared to accept your termination?"
Gojo's vocal cadence remained exceptionally casual, but right on the heels of his voice, a freezing, monumentally terrifying wave of pure Reiatsu plummeted from the heavens to clamp onto the sector.
The Tree Herder rigidly froze. In the very next fraction of a second, the slow, rhythmic sound of heavy footsteps methodically echoed from the corridor directly behind his back.
A humanoid spiritual aberration, its entire countenance completely masked beneath a dense network of pitch-black runic execution curses, materialized from the shadows, its obsidian palm lazily wrapped around the hilt of that white, exceptionally eerie odachi.
The absolute tier of conceptual pressure radiating from this entity far eclipsed the peak metrics Satoru Gojo could execute.
And furthermore...
"Hmph. A cluster of genuinely pathetic, incompetent freaks, to think you've allowed your frameworks to enter a depressed status of this classification..."
A voice that sounded identical to two massive mountain crags violently grinding together at the floor of an abyss cut through the masonry. The Tree Herder snapped his frame around, his eyes locking onto Madara Uchiha, who was fully clad in his iconic crimson armor, a massive uchiwa fan slung across his shoulder plates as he marched into the room.
And trailing directly behind his massive silhouette stood a young girl whose eyes were completely shrouded in a dark, gloomy weight, her long bangs masking over half of her face. This asset was none other than... Hakumen!
The Tree Herder's mind instantaneously locked onto a terrifying, absolute realization: that bastard Mercenary Tao possessed the high-priority authority to systematically convert every single Reincarnator he slaughtered into a bound yin general general general?!
The vessels within his legs frantically mutated to bore deep into the bedrock once more, but a freezing, razor-sharp edge of an unyielding blade was already cleanly and flawlessly resting against his jugular plate.
"Tch. The Tree Herder... as expected, you remain a thoroughly hollow piece of useless garbage!"
Hakumen had only just navigated through a frantic loop of psychological panic upon registering the Black King's entry, followed immediately by a wave of near-hysterical ecstasy upon realizing her host hadn't died—ensuring her hope of resurrection remained completely intact—before her thoughts settled back into a deep, burning resentment toward the reality that Mercenary Tao was still breathing.
She unblinkingly hurled her contempt straight at the Tree Herder's face, before smoothly shifting her focus to evaluate the heavily maimed frameworks of the Millennium Bug and Satoru Gojo resting in the corners. Her internal mood experienced a sharp, pleasant upgrade.
"Finalize his execution. An asset of this low-tier classification retains absolutely zero structural utility for the ledger~"
The exact millisecond Hakumen finalized the directive, not a single general in the room voiced a line of professional objection. An infinite horde of pitch-black yin spirits continuously materialized from the shadows to clog the corridors, completely blockading the coordinates of a Minato Namikaze who was currently returning from his sector with a slightly disappointed posture, having failed to secure his optional mission rewards.
"Wait... please, do not execute him. Lord Kaito, I ask that you refrain from finalizing his termination, okay? I just watched his arrays save thousands of human lives..."
A fierce, high-pitched childish voice rang out from the broken exterior of the high-rise. In the very next fraction of a second, the infinite swarm of pitch-black yin spirits instantaneously dissolved back into the shadows like a receding tide, exposing the form of the black-haired man who was currently being held by the collar under Artoria Pendragon's lone hand.
His entire frame was completely drenched in golden seawater, his skin exceptionally pale and cold.
The intricate black markings covering his muscles had turned so profoundly dim they were virtually imperceptible to the naked eye, and from the ragged, severed stump anchoring his right shoulder, a wisp of fresh, bright red blood was lazily bleeding out.
Standing right beside his frame, young Parker was carefully and frantically bracing Kaito's weight, his narrow eyes tensely evaluating the cluster of hyper-advanced, exceptionally dangerous freaks clogging the ruined floor as he firmly articulated his request.
Every single general in the room violently raised their eyes, locking their collective focus straight onto their host.
He was caught within a state of total, unprecedented, and absolute physical vulnerability.
"Haha... Hahaha... To think even an absolute freak like you can be reduced to a pathetic status of this classification..."
Satoru Gojo's loud, maniacal laughter violently erupted, echoing through the broken masonry of the skyscraper.
(End of Chapter)
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