"Hehehehehe!!! HIIIIYAAAAAAA///"

Before the eyes of millions of soldiers, Helga unleashed her true power for the very first time—an eruption of unrestrained madness and joy that echoed across the burning skies.

Those were the orders that had set her heart ablaze—commands so simple, so liberating, that they shattered the chains of restraint and filled her veins with divine frenzy. For the first time in her life, she was permitted to release everything—every drop of power, every ounce of destruction sleeping within her soul.

According to The King, Marshal Sakaar, once the higher forces clashed, no one would have the luxury to notice what occurred below. The sky would become chaos incarnate, filled with collapsing dimensions and ruptured fleets; every commander would be too consumed with survival to sense the slaughter at the planet's surface.

And as for the soldiers on the ground—would they even realize the kind of force that had descended upon them?

It didn't matter.

To them, Helga was no more than an insect, a glimmer of red in the endless tide of bodies pouring through the strait—millions of men storming forward like a living sea. Yet that "insect" swung the twin blood-crimson whips her master had gifted her, each as long as a hundred arms, each soaked in boiling blood and demonic blood energy. Every swing ripped through space and harvested hundreds, sometimes thousands of lives in a heartbeat.

The sky itself cracked beneath her wrath.

Some would notice—some terrified souls would recognize that the power behind those whips was not the strength of an ordinary martial emperor, not even close.

Some would glimpse the very fourth-stage space of Verilion fracturing apart with every strike, reality twisting like glass under her blows.

But those who saw the truth… were always the ones standing closest.

And by the time realization dawned in their trembling hearts—it was far too late.

Death had already taken them, and their bodies were scattered to dust upon the waves of blood.

"....."

Sakaar observed the slaughter at the strait for several long minutes.

So far—not a single enemy had crossed through.

He shifted his awareness upward, his perception spreading like a storm across the planet's fragile air, watching the other fronts unfold. The thirty Demon Kings had already scattered throughout the continent at terrifying speed, each moving like a blazing comet tearing across the heavens.

Their orders were simple, brutal, and final: Destroy everything without mercy or hesitation.

Only one restriction was set by their king— no wide-range attacks that might harm the planet's core.

Yet even with that restraint, as World Cataclysms, they didn't need to exert even half of their full might. Each motion, each swing of their demonic limbs, warped the brittle fabric of space within the planet. Each blow caused the atmosphere to tremble and sent shockwaves that erased everything that moved.

The ground forces of the enemy—millions strong—were shattered, swept away as if they were dust in a storm.

The Planetary Emperor of the Shattering Meteors Empire stood paralyzed with disbelief. His generals and what remained of his soldiers stared beside him in mute horror. They had gathered the last of their strength, rallied themselves for one final charge to defend their homeland—only to arrive at the strait and witness Helga blocking the entire front alone.

No fortress, no wall, no army—just a single woman drenched in crimson, her laughter drowning out the sound of war.

Ten minutes passed like an eternity. Finally, Sakqar drew his perception away from the planet and turned his gaze to the void—toward the distant fleet battle, where Baron and Sayir had arrived with their respective forces.

"....?!"

He turned his whole body in that direction—because what he sensed was not victory, but something unexpected and dangerous.

The forty World Cataclysms under their command had not instantly tipped the balance as expected. The enemy fleets had not fallen into retreat, nor had the siege been broken.

Instead—they were surrounded.

That stretch of space was no longer a battlefield—it was an apocalypse of metal and fire. Hundreds of thousands of warships of every class filled the void, each spewing endless storms of plasma and explosive shells. The darkness of space was no longer black—it was a sea of crimson light and molten debris.

Tens of thousands of rounds were exchanged every heartbeat, painting streaks of light across the void like burning veins of a dying god.

There was no longer such a thing as "space." Every inch of the void had been consumed by stray projectiles, each screaming across the dark, seeking a target to obliterate—or drifting endlessly through the cosmos, waiting to collide with some distant, unlucky world light-years away.

And amidst that storm, Sakaar's forces—forty of his most terrifying demons—were caught within the crossfire of a million suns, their silhouettes flickering in the blaze of a war that sought to devour even the stars themselves.

The arrival of Baron and Sayir to the side of the Crumbled Dreams Empire's fleets—both wielding their Blood Weapons in full glory—didn't improve the situation much. Instead, they found themselves treated the same as the ships around them: targets under relentless bombardment.

"Uuugh... mooooveeeeeeee!!" Sayer screamed beneath his armor as he tried to push forward through the void, now blindingly illuminated by waves of white and blue light. Yet, despite all his strength, he couldn't advance even an inch. Each pulse of light, each blast of shock, forced him back little by little.

Then—

BOOOOOOM

A single shell from a Mothership Cannon struck Sayer directly, throwing him backward dozens of meters!

The storm of firepower did not manage to crack his high-mid epic-grade armor—the one his lord had claimed to rival even a high-tier epic set. Not a single scratch marked its surface. But the sheer density of the bombardment rendered him useless; he couldn't move forward, couldn't even see clearly. His soul sense was overwhelmed, flooded by the chaos of hundreds of thousands of projectiles streaking in every direction, creating a storm of pure destruction.

"Damn iiiiiit!!!" Sayir roared, his temper breaking. He drew his beloved Blood Weapons, extended one finger toward the enemy lines, and began firing streams of compressed blood, mimicking the wild style of Fyron.

And as if in response, every member of Baron's and Sayir's squads followed his lead. Advancement was impossible in this hellish environment, so they adapted—acting as extensions of the allied fleets themselves, unleashing their attacks in synchronized volleys.

"Sayir, Baron! What in the void are you two doing? Did we come here to play games?" Sakaar's voice crackled through the sound-link embedded in their armor. "Fall back immediately, reorganize your formation, then circle around and hit the enemy fleets from behind!"

"Won't they just turn around and chase us, my king? What difference does it make whether we're here or there?" Sayer's tone wavered; this situation was unlike anything he had ever faced.

"If they turn, then retreat again, and strike once more—again and again if you must! Force them to spread thin. Once they do, the allied fleets will seize the chance. The key is to never stop moving! You are not stationary ships hiding behind shields. Forty new vessels standing idle are useless. Keep moving, and your task right now is simple—harass the enemy without pause!"

"Understood!"

"...." Sakaar's gaze lingered on the vastness of the fleet battle before him.

Forty World Cataclysms, beings powerful enough to tear continents apart, stood frozen amid the cosmic chaos, unable to do more than withstand the storm. Were it not for the extraordinary durability of their armor—each piece equivalent to an entire fleet's worth of protection—they would have already been severely damaged or outright annihilated.

At that moment, even Sakaar was forced to reassess the terrifying might of warships when they existed in such overwhelming numbers.

When he thought about it carefully... the fleets of the True Beginning Empire were several times stronger than this.

The last time he had seen them—some 140 years ago—they had possessed nine full fleets, and each one could utterly dominate any of the fleets he was seeing now.

Back then, he had used those ships mainly for interplanetary transport—moving soldiers and resources between distant regions to conserve his Pearls. He had never truly considered their military potential until now, witnessing firsthand how sheer numbers could tilt the balance of war between great powers.

Is this what a war between the mighty truly looks like?

He couldn't help but wonder—how many fleets does the Demon Army in the Young Sector 100 now command?

Could their numbers have reached twenty full fleets by this point?

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