Reborn with Infinity Skill Points, I Enslaved All Universes

Damn it, why do I feel… insulted by this sight?

But of course, how could I not? These flesh-born creatures were hideous, twisted mockeries, obviously modeled after us. The resemblance was crude, imperfect, but unmistakable. It was as though Fleshheart had copied their forms, only to produce grotesque imitations with poor craftsmanship.

And yet, despite their ugly appearance, their strength was undeniable. Every single one of them carried the aura of a demigod-level existence. In sheer numbers, there were dozens—no, hundreds—standing here.

Such a display was proof enough of Fleshheart's power as a Fake God-tier being. Its methods were terrifying indeed.

But so what?

No matter how clever or resourceful Fleshheart was, once it had been targeted by our Emperor Daniel, there was only one possible ending—death.

And as expected, events unfolded exactly as the human awakeners had foreseen.

The flesh copies might look strong, but their bodies were far more fragile than the originals. The difference became obvious once the true devotees of the gods joined the fight.

One by one, the god devotees unleashed their might, cutting down the abominations with casual ease. To them, the battle was no different from brushing aside brittle puppets.

The awakeners of humanity had initially felt uneasy. After all, even if their ranks had risen to the level of demigod rank, there was still an unbridgeable chasm between themselves and true demigod-level beings. In their eyes, the copies should have been overwhelming.

But when the god devotees struck, their confidence returned in an instant. With those champions present, what was there to fear?

The battle erupted again, fiercer and more violent than before.

This time, however, things were different. With the god devotees taking the lead and the former prisoners eagerly joining the fray, the balance of the battlefield shifted once more. Humanity and its allies seized the advantage.

In less than half an hour, the flesh copies—those grotesque imitations of adventurers—were wiped out completely.

Now, all eyes turned toward a single target: the massive, pulsating heart at the deepest point of the underground chamber.

Alice stepped forward, summoning the radiant force of the stellar currents, while Charlotte raised her hands, calling forth her most fearsome abyssal beast.

Everyone knew the truth: destroying that colossal heart would weaken Fleshheart itself. Severely.

But their optimism quickly faltered.

The heart's defenses were far stronger than anyone had imagined.

Even Charlotte and Alice, both at demigod rank but wielding power that rivaled true demigod-level combatants, found their strikes almost useless. Their combined assault barely left a scratch upon the organ.

Frowns spread across the faces of the awakeners. A heavy silence settled over the chamber.

Then, without warning, the prisoners moved.

"What worthless garbage! Taste the greatsword of the Darkborn Sword Demon Clan!" one roared.

"Our Mecha-Witch Clan despises all things of flesh—allow us to show you why!" shouted another.

In an instant, the area around the massive heart erupted in chaos once more. This time, however, the prisoners were not holding back. They attacked with full force, abandoning hesitation.

Shallow wounds began to mar the surface of the heart. Thin cracks of blood spread like spiderwebs.

Yet the progress was minimal. The colossal organ's resilience was utterly unnatural, shrugging off blows that would have split mountains.

The lack of progress only enraged the warriors of the Darkborn Sword Demon Clan further.

"Damnable flesh! Let me consume it… consume it all!" one of them bellowed.

Under the astonished gazes of everyone present, the warrior's body exuded an aura so dark it seemed to devour the very light around him. That darkness grew denser and denser, until his divine form itself dissolved into a billowing shroud of black mist.

And then—out of that mist—emerged a weapon.

A long, pitch-black sword of eerie design, pulsing with killing intent.

The blade seemed to lock onto its target instinctively. Without hesitation, it shot forward, piercing directly into the faint wound already carved into the heart.

With a sickening sound, the weapon sank deep into the organ's flesh.

The massive heart shuddered, its once steady rhythm faltering. For the first time, its beat grew sluggish.

Elsewhere, a Mecha-Witch warrior watched the scene unfold. She saw how the Darkborn swordsman had sacrificed his own body, transforming into a blade of pure destruction.

A thought struck her.

If those muscle-brained maniacs from the Darkborn Clan could give up their lives without hesitation… then why should she, a noble daughter of the Mecha-Witch Clan, feel fear?

After all, death was temporary. Resurrection was possible.

A strange light of anticipation flickered in her eyes. She turned quickly, pulling out a crystalline orb and tossing it into the hands of a nearby human captain.

"Record this for me," she said with a bright grin. "I'll come back to find you later."

The captain froze. His name was Mejir.

Recognition flashed in his mind, followed by dawning horror.

Through years of effort, Mejir had clawed his way to the upper echelons of humanity's strength. He now stood among the top-tier awakeners. Yet even so, there was one figure above all others—one name that towered like a divine mountain.

Daniel.

In every heart, Daniel was unique. Singular. If any human were destined to ascend as a true god, there was no doubt it would be him.

Mejir had long since let go of the grudges of the past. His loyalty to Daniel was absolute.

But why had this Mecha-Witch chosen him, of all people, to be her witness?

Before he could ask, the battlefield itself answered.

At the very front of the giant heart, a dazzling explosion burst forth—like a firework blooming in the depths of the earth.

Colors bright and vivid lit the cavern, blinding in their brilliance. For a moment, it was as though day had broken underground.

But this was no ordinary firework.

As its sparks scattered, they condensed into a caustic liquid, dripping like molten acid onto the surface of the organ.

The massive heart hissed in pain as the fluid corroded its surface, burning a crater into its flesh.

Mejir's jaw dropped. He had never expected the battle to escalate this far.

The prisoners—these warriors—were throwing their very lives away!

They weren't fighting cautiously, preserving their strength. They were burning their souls, sacrificing everything for the sake of damage.

Imagine it: a demigod-level warrior, igniting their life essence in a single strike against the colossal heart.

Even with its absurd defenses, even as a piece of Fleshheart itself, the organ could not withstand such suicidal fury. Damage was inevitable.

And Fleshheart, despite its power, could not allocate its full strength here. It was still locked in mortal combat against Daniel's endless assaults.

Now, Mejir finally understood. He realized why the Mecha-Witch had tossed him that crystal orb.

She wanted him to record her self-destruction. She wanted proof of her moment of glory.

Before he could even recover from his shock, the Mecha-Witch appeared before him again, eyes blazing with manic determination.

"Well? Did you record it? Show me—quickly!"