Irene's mind and body entered a state of perfect focus as she immediately began the healing process without hesitation. From her position, a soft yet powerful green dome expanded outward, covering every Supreme Monarch present. They sat in silence, their chests rising and falling as they tried to steady their breathing.

Each inhale was labored, and each exhale carried exhaustion. Their lungs felt heavy, and even the most composed among them struggled to maintain dignity. It sounded simple to say they were merely catching their breath, but in truth, it was far from an easy task. They had been fighting not for minutes or hours, but for days. Even before Anthony and the Military Base Alpha-9 mission to purge the Forsaken Cult began, their battle had already started, stretching beyond what most beings could endure.

But despite Irene's mana and magic steadily weaving through their bodies in real time, the signs of damage were undeniable. One of them suddenly lurched forward and vomited a mouthful of blood. However, instead of the familiar crimson, the liquid that splattered onto the ground was pitch black.

The moment it touched the earth, it hissed and corroded the ground beneath, releasing a faint sizzling sound that made a few eyes narrow. Some of the Supreme Monarchs immediately paled, their skin losing color, yet not a single one reacted outwardly. They simply straightened their spines, sat in a lotus position, and closed their eyes, falling into disciplined meditation as if this level of injury was nothing more than a common inconvenience.

They left the matter of healing entirely in Irene's hands. She was known among many as the Saintess of the World, a title not officially tied to hierarchy but one spoken with reverence. This wasn't their first encounter with grievous injuries, nor was it the first time they had returned from war on the brink of collapse.

They held absolute faith in Irene, not blind faith, but the kind honed through repeated survival under her care. Although she bore no official title of Supreme Monarch, her power and status were undeniably on par with theirs. Her healing abilities and spells were overwhelmingly potent, strong enough to treat them all at the same time without weakening.

This was precisely why the Supreme Monarchs could allow themselves to be reckless in battle. As long as they did not fall into True Death, as long as even a single shallow breath remained within them, Irene could bring them back.

Mana surged steadily from Irene's body, though she showed no sign of strain. She poured life into every cell of the Supreme Monarchs, working with the precision of someone who had long transcended ordinary healing techniques. Healing beings of their level required an immense amount of energy, yet she possessed more than enough. Her eyes, calm yet observant, shifted briefly toward her son, Michael, who sat nearby, his entire form cloaked not in chaos or desperation but in sword intent.

Michael was not merely waiting for her to finish. He was healing himself as well, though in a vastly different manner compared to the others. Within him, the remnants of demonic energy from the Demon Monarchs rampaged like wild beasts. Instead of resisting passively, he channeled his sword intent inward, guiding it like an invisible blade to sever and cleanse the corrupted energy within his body. His expression did not reveal pain, only focus.

Subtle glances were exchanged among the Supreme Monarchs, particularly toward the Fifth, Eighth, and Ninth, Collins, Michael, and Mitchelle. Through this recent battle, they had witnessed firsthand how outrageously powerful these three humans had grown. However, their attention did not stop there. It shifted naturally toward the First and Second Supreme Monarchs, the Dragon and the Vampire, the two long-standing pillars among them.

The First Supreme Monarch, the Dragon, stood as the absolute strongest, undefeated across eras through the mastery of Time and Space Magic. His existence alone was a declaration of supremacy. Standing beside him, the Second Supreme Monarch, the Vampire, remained outwardly calm, his expression unreadable. But beneath that composed visage, his mind was in turmoil.

For he had made a decision that now weighed heavily on his thoughts: he had sent one of his descendants to eliminate the child of the Eighth and Ninth Supreme Monarchs, Anthony.

In his mind, there had never been a shred of doubt that Anthony was dead. He considered it an inevitability. To him, Anthony could never win against a Warlord. How could a child like that possibly survive an assassination attempt carried out by one of his direct descendants? It was unthinkable, or so he believed.

But now, reality loomed with a different shape. With Anthony's assumed death, he knew very well that Mitchelle and Michael would not remain calm. They were not the type to accept loss quietly. This galaxy was not a simple world where one could erase fingerprints or destroy DNA to hide evidence. Here, abilities, bloodline powers, and unique senses existed. Mitchelle alone, with her affinity and perception, could trace even the faintest remnant of energy and uncover the truth. There was nowhere to hide, not truly.

The implications began to settle in his mind like a creeping shadow. With this knowledge, it meant he would inevitably clash with Michael and Mitchelle. Although he had clashed with Michael before and had somewhat lost, he leaned on the illusion that he had not been going all out back then. But after the battle they had all just returned from, that illusion began to crumble. Deep down, he understood the truth, he had been deluding himself.

Could he call upon the other Supreme Monarchs to stand by him? Could he rely on the First Supreme Monarch's protection?

The thought lingered only for a moment before he dismissed it. Even though he and the First Supreme Monarch were the earliest among their kind, the universe did not operate on sentiment. It ran on benefits and survival. Would the Dragon risk his life simply due to old familiarity? The answer was clear and resounding.

No.

He did not even need to ask to know. No one would stake their existence for him without something incomparable in return. His thoughts spun faster. He was certain that Collins, Michael, and Mitchelle had gained some kind of ancient resource or power that enabled their outrageous growth. That it happened right under his observation without his knowledge gnawed at his pride. He was certain the others had arrived at the same suspicion, but none possessed the power to demand answers from those three.

His mind shifted back to the root of everything, Anthony.

This entire chain of events had begun because he sensed something in that child's blood. Something different. Something old and valuable. He had wanted it. He had felt, instinctively, that it held the key to elevating him further, beyond his current limitations.

'I hope he managed to secure the blood,' he thought, clinging to that possibility like a gambler awaiting a final card.

He had sent his descendant not just to kill Anthony, but to extract his blood. There was no reason to eliminate him without gaining anything in return. If his descendant succeeded, then he would acquire it before Michael, Mitchelle, or Collins made their move against him. The scenario played vividly in his mind, gaining that power, rising above them, turning the tables entirely.

'Then I will finally surpass that damned Dragon,' he thought, an ember of ambition flickering within his gaze as it drifted briefly toward the First Supreme Monarch.

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