"…It seems the long-awaited support — coming from afar— has finally arrived, heh."

Fargus' tone carried a subtle thrill as his lips curved into a faint smile. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, fixed on a distant point amid the void of stars.

"Hmm?" The Marshal of the Allied Army didn't dare take his eyes off Fargus—not even for a heartbeat. Yet, he quietly expanded his soul sense in that direction, spreading it across hundreds kilometers of burning space to sense what kind of 'support' this monster could possibly be referring to.

And indeed—something was moving toward them. Something large, steady… yet unimpressive.

But…

"Mumumumumu!!" The massive bull-like being laughed thunderously, his voice rolling through the comms like a storm. "A cargo vessel from the Shattering Meteors Empire? What kind of support are you expecting from that exactly? Will they throw boxes at us?!"

"I don't know." Fargus didn't even turn his head. His calm smile widened slightly as he watched the dull gray vessel draw closer through the debris fields. "But we're about to find out."

"Hmm…" The Marshal tilted his head, still cautious. He wasn't in a rush to attack Fargus. He knew the truth: killing this being was beyond his means. His aim was simple—contain him, stall him, prevent his retreat to the mothership until reinforcements arrived to surround him.

So if Fargus wanted to stand there and watch something, let him.

In fact… perhaps he'd watch with him.

A cargo ship from an empire deep within the Young Sector—nothing extraordinary. At best, it might be carrying talismans or modified weapons… perhaps some weapons meant to empower World Cataclysms or amplify Nexus States.

But could they really deliver anything in the midst of such chaos?

"Send a message to Fleet 167," the bull suddenly growled. "There's a small ship approaching their perimeter. I want it vaporized."

"Confirmed!" came a mechanical voice from within one of the nearby warships.

Then—

ZOOOOOM!

Ten warships from Fleet 167 broke formation simultaneously, abandoning their synchronized bombardment of the Doomsday Warden. They pivoted sharply, engines blazing like comets, and accelerated to maximum velocity. The four forward cannons of each vessel began to glow, humming as energy gathered within their barrels.

Krrrrkkrrrkkk!

Across the vast cosmic battlefield—where hundreds of thousands of warships clashed and millions of shells crossed paths every second—the lone cargo ship kept moving forward. Not with urgency, not with fear, but with a steady, almost comedic calmness, as though completely unaware of the incoming death aimed at it.

DSSSH!

Finally, as the ten warships closed into engagement range, the cargo ship halted. Its engines dimmed, its hull silent. Then, with a slow mechanical groan, the massive gate at its front began to open.

A shadow began to emerge.

"Enemy emerging into open space. Repeat—enemy emerging into open space!"

"Enemy identified as a World Cataclysm-class entity. Cease engagement!"

"Abort mission! Abort mission immediately!"

The ten warships, moments ago arranged in a straight assault line at full speed, suddenly broke formation in panic. Their pilots pulled hard in opposite directions, forming a circular retreat pattern—a radiant flower of light blooming in the vacuum, with the cargo ship at its center.

But—

The shadow kept advancing. Step by step, it emerged from the gate until its full form was revealed—a towering being, three meters tall, with two jagged horns curving upward from its head. Crimson armor covered its body, pulsating faintly with blood energy, as though it breathed.

"Hmph."

With a single, effortless wave of his arm, ten crimson arrows burst from his hand—each one blazing like molten spears—shooting out in ten different directions. The sheer force of their acceleration tore the nearby dust clouds apart, and the arrows caught up to the fleeing warships before their evasive maneuvers were even complete.

BAM! BAM! BAM! BOOM!

One after another, brilliant detonations filled the void. The radiant "flower" the fleet had formed bloomed into destruction—ten petals of light vanishing into fiery shrapnel and expanding shockwaves.

And as the flames faded, only the crimson-armored figure remained—floating silently in the dark, his horns casting a faint shadow over the shattered remains of Fleet 167 battleships.

"This…?!"

The Marshal of the Allied Army was forced to twist his colossal frame, his armor creaking under the sudden motion as he glared toward the cargo ship with disbelief—and barely contained hostility. The glow of burning debris around the battlefield reflected in his wide eyes, amplifying the shock on his beastly face.

"That shape… that aura… that crimson armor—aren't those Crimson Soldiers, the same ones who guard the surface of Verilion?!"

"That's what it seems…" Fargus murmured, his voice low but edged with tension as his eyes narrowed to slits.

He knew—without any doubt—that this specific vessel had departed from within Verilion, and had jumped through a space gate to vanish into unknown coordinates. But where had it gone? What had it encountered out there in the void?

And why in the hells were there a Crimson Soldier aboard it now?

"What do you mean, 'that's what it seems'?! Are you toying with me, Fargus?" the Marshal barked, his tone sharp with suspicion. Yet before Fargus could answer, the bull-like commander shook his head roughly, his horns scraping the air and releasing sparks. "No… forget it. It doesn't matter. Do you truly believe that a single World Cataclysm will save your cursed neck today?!"

Step… step… step…

A deep, echoing rhythm resounded from the open bay of the cargo ship. Beside the first Crimson Soldier, several new shadows began to emerge—each radiating a fierce, burning aura that twisted the light around them. They stepped forward with precision, drifting out of the ship's hull and into the open void behind their commander.

Three… five… ten… fifteen… twenty…

"What… what kind of joke is this supposed to be?!" The Marshal's furious voice echoed through the command channels, layered with shock and dread. Twenty World Cataclysms—entities of such destruction—could completely change the flow of battle. With that number, they could tear through entire fleets, suppress enemy Nexus States, and shatter the siege against the Crumbled Dreams Empire's forces.

The scales of war were beginning to tremble.

"…" Fargus said nothing. His smile had long faded; his eyes, once calm, had become razor sharp, narrowing further as though trying to pierce the veil of mystery around that ship.

And then—something even more impossible happened.

A new figure stepped through the gate. A Crimson Soldier, but larger than any before him—five full meters of scarlet armor and raw killing intent. His horns were like twin blades, and each step he took sent ripples through space itself. Behind him… came more.

Thirty… forty… fifty… sixty!

"That accursed ship!!" The Marshal's fury burst like a volcano. His eyes blazed crimson, his nostrils flared, and streams of hot vapor blasted from them as if his body were on fire. His massive hands clenched into fists, each large enough to crush a shuttle, his muscles bulging under the strain of his rising power. He could no longer stand still.

He had to destroy that ship before it unleashed any more of those monstrosities.

But what was happening inside it?

Had the ship become a gate—a portal to a secret World Cataclysm Nest hidden among the fleets?!

Whoooosh!

Despite his confusion, Fargus' battle instincts remained razor sharp. He blinked once—and in the next instant, his figure vanished.

He reappeared directly before the bull's massive snout, his cloak whipping around him as his aura surged. One hand was held calmly behind his back, while the other took the form of a hooked claw wreathed in black light.

"Control yourself," he said coldly. "Stay here—with me. If you want to reach them, you'll have to go through me first. Are you certain you can do that, Marshal?"

"MOOOO!!" The bull roared, shaking the very void, his rage clawing at his restraint. For a brief moment, he actually lowered his head, ready to charge—but his instincts screamed at him. He knew too well the monstrous strength hidden behind Fargus' calm posture. To force his way through would mean mutual destruction.

Grinding his teeth, he turned instead toward his fleets and shouted with explosive force:

"Send an emergency alert to Fleets 160 through 170! Repeat—enemy contact confirmed! New threat: World Cataclysm entities—sixty of them! Sixty!!"

Step… step… step…

And then, once more, came the sound of footsteps.

Soft. Faint. Almost inaudible amid the thunder of hundreds of fleets clashing behind them, amid the chaos surrounding Verilion's orbit. Yet somehow, each slow step that echoed from the hull of that small cargo ship struck deep into both their chests—like a heavy drumbeat echoing through the battlefield's heart.

Another Crimson Soldier appeared.

But this one… was different.

His horns were not rising from his skull like the rest—but instead, they extended from the places where his eyes should have been. They curved outward and upward, glowing faintly as if carved from molten stone. His presence alone was suffocating.

As he emerged, the flood continued. More Crimson Soldiers followed in steady formation.

Seventy… eighty… ninety…

One hundred.

One hundred World Cataclysms!

"Out of my way!!"

The bull could no longer contain himself. His roar split the comms, a sound of primal rage and dread intertwined. The ancient, chaotic energy within him surged like an erupting star, igniting his veins with molten fury as he charged forward.

"Over my dead body!!" Fargus' voice thundered back. His claw, wrapped in dark energy, came crashing down like a divine hammer—

slamming through the void with unstoppable force.

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