I Awakened The SSS Class Abyssal Warlord

In a dimly lit room, the faint glow of a communication artifact pulsed ominously.

A hooded figure stood before it, his face shrouded in darkness as he addressed the shadowy projection before him.

The projection flickered slightly, its form concealed by layers of distortion, ensuring that neither party could be identified.

"We need to change our plans," the man in the dark room stated, his voice cold and decisive.

The figure in the projection tilted his head slightly. "Change our plans? We've already informed Damien of the plan. What could possibly warrant a shift now?"

A low chuckle escaped the man in the room. "Damien won't be able to do anything," he said, his voice filled with certainty.

"The best he can manage is to hold him off."

The projection flickered again, the hidden figure adjusting his stance. "Hold who off?"

A pause. Then, with an unreadable tone, the man in the dark room uttered a name. "Oliver Lancaster."

Silence filled the space between them.

The figure in the projection did not move, but the tension in the air was palpable. When he finally spoke, his voice was slow and measured. "Are you certain?"

The man in the room nodded. "It's suspected that his class is above A-rank."

The projection trembled slightly, and though the figure's face was obscured, there was no mistaking his reaction.

A revelation like this was not one to be taken lightly.

For this was no minor development—it invoked the unshakable principle of Meta Essence Ascendancy.

Meta Essence Ascendancy was one of the absolute laws of the Main World.

It decreed that the higher the class rank, the purer the Meta Essence coursing through one's being.

And quality was everything. No matter the quantity, no matter the experience, a lower-class individual would always be overwhelmed by one of a higher class—unless the difference in sheer volume was insurmountable.

But this law was even more ruthless beyond A-rank.

The disparity between each tier past A-rank was like the distance between a candle's flame and the sun itself.

No technique, no sheer willpower could bridge the gap once it was set in stone.

And if Oliver Lancaster truly possessed such a class, then Damien, for all his strength, was merely a delaying tactic.

The projection's voice hardened. "If that's the case, then what do you suggest?"

The man in the dark room leaned forward, his expression hidden in the shadows.

He spoke in a hushed tone, laying out a revised plan—one with new contingencies, new measures to account for this dangerous anomaly.

The projection remained silent, absorbing every detail.

Finally, when all was said and done, the projection flickered once more before vanishing.

The room was dark again, save for the dim afterglow of the artifact.

The man straightened his posture, dusted himself off, and exited the room.

As he stepped back into the light, his features betrayed no sign of the conversation that had just taken place.

He rejoined his teammates with the same ease as before, his expression neutral—calm, composed, unreadable.

As if nothing had happened.

The waiting room hummed with quiet tension as Oliver and his teammates gathered, discussing their strategy for the upcoming Team Battle.

Despite being the newest addition to the team, Oliver had been made the de facto leader—a decision that even Dante, the original leader, did not object to.

The sheer dominance Oliver displayed in his previous fight had made it impossible to challenge his authority.

Standing at the center, Oliver crossed his arms and got straight to the point.

"We don't know what tomorrow will bring," he said, his tone firm.

"The Crucible has a habit of withholding information about the challengers. The only time we'll find out who we're up against is when we step into the arena."

His teammates nodded, fully aware of the Crucible's twisted rules.

With so many criminals participating, it was impossible to predict the abilities of every opponent. Too many variables and too little time.

"So instead of trying to analyze each opponent," Oliver continued, "we'll go with a simple approach—" his crimson eyes sharpened, "Crush them before they have the chance to retaliate."

A moment of silence followed.

His teammates blinked.

That was his 'simple approach'?

They exchanged glances, slightly baffled, before chuckling in resignation.

This was probably the privilege of the strong—to view raw destruction as the easiest path forward.

And considering what Oliver had already done… maybe he was right.

"But," Oliver added, "in case things don't go as planned, you need to know your roles." His gaze swept across the team.

"Aiko, you're in charge of defense."

The dark-haired girl nodded. Her barriers and reinforcement skills were the strongest among them.

"Dante, you'll be our ranger."

He smirked, already anticipating the chaos he would rain down from afar.

"Rin, you'll handle crowd control."

She gave him a simple nod in response.

Finally, Oliver's gaze settled on Tariq.

For a moment, he said nothing. Tariq raised a brow, waiting.

Then Oliver smirked. "You're fighting up front with me." His tone was almost amused. "So try to keep up."

Tariq exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a grin. "I'll try my best."

The setup was simple.

But who needed an elaborate strategy when they had unrelenting force?

In another waiting room, the atmosphere was far from comfortable.

Unlike Oliver's team, which enjoyed the privileges of registered participants, Damien and his teammates—The Blackthorn Vultures—sat in a room barely fit for human occupancy.

The walls were damp, the air stale, and the only source of light flickered ominously as if mocking them.

Damien sat on a worn-out bench, his calloused fingers tracing the edges of a faded photograph. His wife and daughter.

Their smiles frozen in time, a cruel contrast to the hell he now lived in.

Memories flooded back—his little girl running into his arms, his wife's warm embrace—

But just before he could relive those painful moments, a rough tap on his shoulder jolted him back to reality.

"It's time," one of his teammates muttered.

Damien clenched his jaw and tucked the photo away.

He had received a mission. So he had to follow through.

Yet, as they neared the entrance, something felt off.

They had expected cheers—the roar of the crowd calling their name. After all, The Blackthorn Vultures had been fan favorites.

But instead—

"DIVINE VANGUARD! DIVINE VANGUARD! DIVINE VANGUARD!"

Damien and his team froze mid-step.

"What the hell…?" one of his teammates whispered.

Divine Vanguard? Who were they?

None of Damien's men had been told who they were fighting. That was the Crucible's way. It kept everyone on edge, forcing them to adapt.

But the crowd's reaction told them everything he needed to know.

In just two days, the fan favorites had changed.

A new force had taken center stage.

A bad feeling crept up Damien's spine, but he pushed it down. No matter who they were up against, he couldn't afford to hesitate.

For his wife.

For his daughter.

He had to follow the mission.