Chapter 20: The Ultimate Rebel vs. The Ultimate Conqueror

Without wasting another damn second, Spartacus descended like a falling meteor, his massive frame dwarfing the Roman legions like a titan stepping onto an anthill. The ground beneath him shattered and crumbled, a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward from the sheer force of his landing.

Then, he moved.

For a man of his sheer size, his speed was nothing short of monstrous. He charged forward like an unstoppable force, each step sending tremors through the battlefield.

"CRUSH THE OPPRESSORS! KILL THEM ALL!"

His roar wasn't just a battle cry—it was a declaration of pure, unrelenting carnage. The sound rolled through the battlefield like thunder, shaking the very souls of those who heard it. The Roman legions, despite their discipline, trembled as the mad Berserker rushed toward them with unchained fury.

But Khan? He wasn't afraid.

He wasn't some trembling soldier cowering before a rampaging beast—he was a conqueror, a god among men.

As Spartacus bore down on him, Khan let loose his divinity. Power erupted from him like a raging inferno, the air itself distorting around his form. His speed, his reflexes, his strength—all of it skyrocketed in an instant.

This was war.

The wind howled and screamed around them as they clashed head-on, neither of them willing to take a step back. Spartacus swung his colossal greatsword, a brutal arc meant to cleave Khan in half—but Khan's body moved like a phantom, weaving through the clash of steel with effortless precision.

His movements weren't just skill—they were divine. Imperial Privilege surged through his veins, granting him the footwork of the greatest warriors in history.

Then, the battlefield twisted.

"Zafkiel."

A golden clock materialized behind Khan, its gears grinding, its hands ticking.

His Angel of Time.

A power he had inherited from his other self—Kurumi.

Spartacus' blade came for him again, but this time, time itself bent to Khan's will. The flow of battle slowed in his favor. Spartacus was fast, but now he was crawling.

Sixth Bullet—Time Slow.

Khan sidestepped with inhuman ease, moving like a ghost through the sluggish battlefield. His blade blazed with fury, crackling with divine energy, and in one brutal motion, he slashed Spartacus across the torso.

The impact was savage—a deep, flesh-tearing wound that split through the Berserker's massive body. A fountain of blood erupted, splattering across Khan's face, warm and thick, painting him in crimson.

But Spartacus?

The motherfucker laughed.

He didn't scream, he didn't stagger—he roared in twisted ecstasy.

"PAIN MAKES ME STRONGER!"

His torn flesh knitted back together instantly, muscles bulging, expanding, strengthening. The more he suffered, the stronger he became—his reflexes sharper, his power even greater than before.

And then, his eyes locked onto Khan with pure unhinged madness.

"YOUR END IS HERE, OPPRESSOR!"

Spartacus retaliated, his greatsword cleaving through the air, each swing carrying enough force to split mountains in half. The sheer shockwaves from his strikes ripped through the battlefield, sending debris and bodies flying.

Khan barely lifted a hand.

Twelfth Bullet—Time Acceleration.

The world blurred.

His reaction speed multiplied tenfold, his body flickering like an untouchable phantom. Spartacus' greatsword smashed into the earth, obliterating the ground beneath them—but Khan was already gone.

Now floating above the battlefield, Khan smirked wickedly.

"You may grow faster, stronger, and tougher, Berserker…" His golden eyes glowed with mocking amusement, his voice dripping with raw dominance. "But I am still better than you in every way."

His blade burned hotter, divinity coiling around it like a serpent ready to strike.

"Surrender now, and I'll spare your men."

Then, his smirk widened.

"Refuse—and I will make an example out of you. Let the world see what happens to those who defy the Might of Rome."

For a brief moment, Spartacus hesitated.

But hesitation was not something a Berserker could hold onto. His instincts, his twisted ideals, his very nature—it wouldn't let him back down.

"I WILL CRUSH YOU, OPPRESSOR! I WILL CRUSH YOU!"

And with madness in his eyes, he charged again.

"You're wasting my time, Berserker." Khan yawned, stretching his arms, his tone laced with sheer boredom.

But before Spartacus could say another word, something shot through the air.

"VII—Time Erosion."

A bullet ripped through the battlefield, slamming into Spartacus's chest with brutal precision.

Time itself twisted around him, an unnatural force gnawing at his very existence.

His body, once a beacon of unrelenting regeneration, began to slow, the raw concept of decay sinking into his flesh, eating away at him from the inside.

Spartacus staggered, his muscles tensing against the foreign power, but his defiance burned just as fiercely.

His body should have already healed—but this was different. For the first time, his wounds did not immediately close.

But the Berserker of Rebellion was not one to kneel.

With a primal, guttural scream, he activated his Noble Phantasm.

"Cry! Scream! Wail in agony! Rebellion will NEVER perish!"

His flesh tore open, but instead of breaking him, his suffering fed him. Every wound, every shred of pain inflicted upon him became fuel—his very essence bathing in torment and growing stronger.

The battlefield shook as his body expanded, golden energy erupting from him like an untamed inferno.

His sword, no longer just a weapon, now carried the weight of every injury he had endured, every suffering he had overcome—magnified a thousandfold.

With rage-filled eyes, he charged.

Khan's expression darkened. His gaze narrowed.

This fucking cockroach just refused to die.

"You're a real pain in the ass, Spartacus," he muttered, cracking his knuckles. "But this is where you end."

Raising his hand, he summoned forth the legion of time itself.

A hundred temporal clones materialized, the air warping as Kurumi's power manifested in full force.

Each clone armed to the teeth, divine-infused weapons gleaming under the blood-soaked sky.

But none of them were him.

No, these were Kurumi's clones—her twisted, psychotic manifestations.

He could have chosen to summon Nero, Kaguya, or even Kurumi herself.

He didn't hesitate.

He chose Kurumi.

A chorus of dark, sultry laughter echoed across the battlefield as the clones grinned with wild, deranged delight.

"Ara, how is it, Berserker-kun?" One of them purred, tilting her head, eyes burning with pure insanity. "Doesn't it feel good? The pain... the suffering... isn't it just so delicious?"

Spartacus barely had time to react before hell descended upon him.

The onslaught was merciless.

Each blade carved into his flesh. Each bullet tore through his body. Each blast of energy shredded his limbs, his insides, his very soul.

He howled, his monstrous strength crumbling under the infinite assault of time and divinity.

His body fought. Endlessly.

But there was no escape.

Khan's form blurred, appearing before him in a flash. His blade sank deep, piercing Spartacus's flesh, the steel driving into his heart.

Spartacus choked on blood.

His breath hitched, his entire form shaking, collapsing beneath the weight of his own mortality.

But still... he smiled.

That same defiant grin, that same unbreakable spark in his dying eyes.

"Truly... glorious battle, Oppressor...! Truly...!" He gasped out, voice gurgling with blood. "But rebellion... never dies. I will return... again... and again... AND AGAIN! I WILL CRUSH YOU!"

With that final declaration, his body disintegrated, turning into golden dust that vanished into the void of history.

Silence.

The battlefield was quiet.

Khan let out a slow breath, dismissing Kurumi's clones as his divine aura faded.

His gaze lowered to the spot where Spartacus had fallen.

Then, he turned his eyes toward Capua.

"Surrender, or you will face the wrath of Rome!"

His voice thundered across the battlefield, shaking the very foundations of the city.

"Khan!"

"Khan!"

"Khan!"

A deafening roar erupted from the Roman legions behind him.

Thousands of voices rose in unison, their battle cry echoing into the night, shaking the resolve of the rebels like a divine decree.

The rebellion had been crushed. Their so-called leader lay broken in the dirt, his defiance amounting to nothing.

Inside, the rebels and slaves trembled. They had witnessed Spartacus's fierce resistance, seen him fight with all his might—yet, in the end, it hadn't mattered.

Because that's all they were.

A bunch of disorganized mobs.

They had no discipline, no structure. Just desperation and fleeting hope.

And now, both were gone.

Slowly, the gates of Capua creaked open. Rome had won.

"We surrender!"

The words rang out like a whimper, like a dying gasp of rebellion. The mighty uprising that had sought to defy the empire—reduced to nothing more than a pathetic plea for mercy.

Khan smirked.

This is the end. The rebellion is crushed. Capua is mine.

But even as he stood victorious, basking in the glory of conquest, he knew this was just the beginning.

Rome's past was crawling back from the grave—long-dead Emperors rising from history, vying for power, for control of his world.

And if that wasn't enough, there were still those pests—Chaldea and Alaya—watching from the shadows, waiting for their chance to interfere.

But all of that could wait.

Right now?

He had earned his victory.

He had conquered, crushed, and taken what was his.

Now, it was time to celebrate.

With wine, women, and a feast worthy of a fucking god.