Soul God Dominates the Mortal World

"All formations in place," General Zephyr reported. "Every teleportation array is primed. If the portal destabilizes, we'll fall back to phase two."

Ivana gave a nod, but her gaze was distant. She could feel it—something crawling across the threads of fate. Her mind briefly flashed to Deus... and the silent assurance he gave her days ago.

'When they come, let them. I want them to see what happens when mortals defy me.'

Ivana breathed deeply.

Today wasn't just a battle.

It was a warning.

And Earth would deliver it loud and clear.

The red moon hung low in the sky like a bleeding omen.

It was the day of reckoning.

Before the gaping portal, a rippling curtain of void energy stood tall and silent, humming faintly as if aware of the bloodlust building around it. The werewolves had gathered en masse—tens of thousands strong. Towering inhuman figures, rippling with muscle, bone, and claw, each exuding primal fury and battle-hardened strength. The earth beneath them trembled beneath the weight of their gathered might.

The Progenitor stood at the forefront, elevated on a jagged obsidian rock. His white fur bristled with power, his broad chest heaving steadily with each breath, glowing red runes pulsing across his body like ancient scars of war. His silver eyes gleamed with dominance and purpose, locking onto every warrior in his horde.

Then, he raised a single clawed hand—silence spread like wildfire.

And when he spoke, it was like thunder rumbling through the very marrow of the pack.

"Warriors of the Moon! Children of Blood and Fang!" His voice was cold, rich, and resonant—carried by a power older than steel. "Today, we bare our fangs against a world unworthy of its god. Today, we shatter the illusions of their safety and crush their will beneath our paws!"

A collective growl rumbled from the crowd. The sky itself seemed to darken at their fury.

"You are no mere beasts. You are the bloodline of war itself! A race tempered in conquest, shaped by hunger and forged through generations of victorious slaughter! Three worlds have fallen to our might—and now, Earth stands at our feet, trembling behind its fragile veil of courage!"

Howls burst across the gathering like thunderclaps.

"Let no human live who dares raise a weapon against our kind! Let no Souler escape the wrath of our claws! Let their soil drink their blood, and their cities be repaved with their bones!"

More howls.

"You do not march as one—you march as ALL. As a tidal wave of destiny! We will not fall... because this world was never theirs to begin with."

And with that, the Progenitor howled. A deep, guttural, ancient sound that reverberated across the realm—an ancient war cry passed down from the first wolves to walk under the red moon.

The portal surged open like a gaping maw, the wind howling with unholy noise.

The horde moved.

With primal force and the discipline of a world-conquering army, the werewolves marched into the black curtain of the portal, their claws clashing against the cracked soil, their snarls sharp as daggers.

The war had begun.

---

Meanwhile… on the other side.

The outlands of the Great Lumen Empire were deathly quiet.

But that calm was deceptive—tens of thousands stood prepared.

A coalition army.

From the icy north to the desert south, warriors had come. Souler generals from different Empires stood ready, with flags fluttering in the cold breeze. Bounty hunters, mercenary kings, elite mages, awakened cultivators, all present—each clad in enchanted armors and Soul Armaments glowing with suppressed might.

But at the very front… was Ivana Frost.

The Empress stood in full battle regalia, silver armor with frozen etchings hugging her curves like a second skin, her cape of frost trailing in the wind like a banner of winter itself. Twin fans hung at her side, and four Mythical Beast Souls hovered in her aura—primed for war.

She turned, slowly facing the tens of thousands of troops behind her.

And then she spoke, her voice laced with calm certainty and unshakable resolve.

"I see warriors. Fighters. Men and women who stood up when the world asked, 'Who will protect us?' And without hesitation, you all answered: 'We will.'"

The army stood silent, every eye on her.

"These invaders think our world is weak. That they can tear down what we've built and silence the legacies we've carved with our blood. But they forget—this is Earth. Our home. Our battlefields are ancient. Our ancestors sleep in this soil, and today, they rise with us."

She stepped forward, frost blooming beneath her boot.

"We are more than nations. We are more than empires. Today… we are one."

A thunderous roar erupted from the coalition forces.

"And we fight—not because we are unafraid—but because we refuse to bow."

She raised one hand.

"Souler Army. Cultivator Guilds. Bounty Leagues. Mercenary forces… Lumen, Dame, Caliphate, Frostborne, and all others…" she smiled coldly. "Follow me into the storm."

At that moment, the first ripple came.

The portal began to shimmer violently—like a curtain of oil beginning to tear.

A low growl echoed from its depths.

They were coming.

And Ivana's voice rang out one last time.

"All units—battle positions!"

The wind howled.

The portal flared.

The moment the portal tore fully open, a stifling wave of otherworldly pressure rolled into the outlands like a fog of war.

And then… they came.

The first clawed hand gripped the cracked earth.

Another.

Then a dozen.

And with a feral surge, the front line of werewolves spilled forth from the black veil of the portal, muscle-bound bodies ripping through the dimensional tear with snarls of bloodlust and raw confidence.

But they didn't charge.

They stopped.

Because what they saw… was not what they expected.

Before them stretched a vast, cold plain — a frozen battlefield carved by magic and preparation. Rows upon rows of fortifications, defensive ice walls etched with runes, trenches brimming with Spirit Talismans, and Soul Array pylons pulsing with energy lined the land like a massive fortress.

Tens of thousands of human warriors stood beyond those lines, shoulder to shoulder, a tide of disciplined resolve.

Their weapons glowed. Their beast souls stirred. Their eyes… had no fear.

And at the center, just behind the front formation, stood a figure the werewolf vanguard recognized instantly.

Ivana Frost.

And flanking her…

Lancelot of the Great Dame, wielding his armored gauntlets and a Soul Core emitting black lightning.

Kaeryx, standing still, expression unreadable as the light of multiple systems reflected in his eyes.

David the Strategist, issuing commands through ethereal marks in the air with calm precision.

And the rest of the Seven Bounty Hunters—each infamous in their own right, now lined up together like a wall of myth.

The werewolves halted. Not because they feared, but because they were stunned.

They had been told this world was weak.

Unprepared.

Panicked.

But what they saw?

This was not weakness. This was war.

That moment, a ripple of authority pulsed from behind the first line of wolves—forcing them to part like tides.

The Werewolf Progenitor emerged, his footfalls making the earth tremble slightly beneath him. Towering in height, with white fur and a body carved from ancient strength, his eyes gleamed with primal light.

And beside him, at his right hand, stood the spy werewolf Ivana had sent back. She was silent. Watching. Marked subtly with the Deus sigil that none of the werewolves recognized.

The Progenitor's gaze swept the battlefield—taking in everything. The frozen terrain. The unified forces. The countless glowing eyes locked on him.

He scoffed.

"So they were ready…" he said coldly, his voice carrying across the field. "Hmph. Let them be. Thought they'll be dumb enough to continue with the event, but it seems these humans aren't as dumb as expected from the spy report... whatever, It changes nothing."

He turned to his people.

"Let your hearts not tremble! Let your claws not hesitate! If they have chosen to greet us with swords—then they shall fall by our fangs! FORWARD!!"

A roar answered him.

Thousands of throats.

The sound of beasts claiming battle.

Then, just as the werewolves started to tense, preparing to charge—

A voice answered back.

Ivana Frost stepped forward, raising her fans. Wind and frost coiled at her heels.

"Progenitor." Her voice rang out like ice cracking across a lake. "You think this world will crumble beneath your feet because others did. But this world is not like others."

Her eyes narrowed, her expression calm.

"This world has me."

With a cold, graceful motion, she extended one arm—and the silver-antlered stag materialized in a burst of crystalline mist behind her.

"And we will not fall."

Another figure stepped forward. Lancelot, his black gauntlets cracking with surging power.

"Come and see, monster. If you think this is a war you can win."

Kaeryx's eyes gleamed faintly.

"I've waited for this," he whispered, too low for anyone to hear. "Let them come."

The battlefield fell into silence once more.

Then… it began.

The Progenitor slammed a foot forward—cracking the earth.