"..."

Sakaar remained silent, his gaze cold yet contemplative, observing as the entire battlefield twisted upon itself like a dying star collapsing inward. What was once an ordered theater of war had now devolved into a vortex of chaos—an ocean of screams, flame, and shattered energy barriers colliding endlessly.

Amon, alongside his thirty elite subordinates, stood as the anchor of that chaos. Each one of them radiated pure destructive and defensive might; their tactics were brutally straightforward, like blades honed for nothing but carnage.

Yet simplicity didn't mean weakness—each of them alone could bear the burden of an entire army. Together, they were a moving catastrophe. Whenever one of them faltered, the three closest would rush to his side in a perfect triangle of protection, their coordination precise as if they shared one mind, one breath.

Amon himself had designed that flawless formation. He was no mere general—he was an architect of destruction. With his own hands, he had forged them and personally passed down to them the Inflation Technique, a forbidden power that let their bodies expand to monstrous proportions, magnifying both strength and resilience. The very sight of those titans rising on the battlefield was enough to tilt the balance of war entirely in their favor.

It was true that the Crumbled Dreams Empire possessed only five Nexus States outside of Marshal Fargus, while the alliance boasted sixteen. But in battles of such scale, numbers meant nothing. Nexus States were unpredictable beings—half gods, half cowards.

As the ancient saying went, "Nexus States are cowards." The phrase, though scornful, held truth. Few among them would ever risk their lives to land a fatal strike, and fewer still would fight until death. Unless a Nexus was defending his bloodline or the soil of his home world, he would flee at the slightest shift in the current of battle. It wasn't weakness, but rather the arrogance of power—those who possessed too much often feared losing it.

And besides, the gap between World Cataclysms and Nexus States was narrower than most dared to believe. Ten seasoned experts standing at the very peak of the World Cataclysm realm could corner a low-tier Nexus, force him into retreat, and carve both his pride and his armor into pieces.

Yet Amon's task wasn't to challenge any Nexus directly. His objective was cleaner, sharper, and far more vital: liberate the Crumbled Dreams Empire's Nexus warriors from their encirclement, then guard their retreat and annihilate whatever forces pursued them. It was the kind of mission that could only be entrusted to someone who didn't fail.

But Amon and his men were not the only terrors unleashed that day.

Across the opposite flank, Fyron's squad advanced—equally fearsome, equally disciplined. Fyron, the King of Demons, was more than a warrior; he was a symbol of dread. It was said that he hungered for power as much as he thirsted for blood, and his subordinates reflected that obsession perfectly. They were not soldiers—they were living statues of precision, copies of their merciless king carved from flame and will.

Normally, World Cataclysms were arrogant creatures who acted alone, creatures guided only by instinct and pride. But Fayron had done the impossible—he had forged their egos into unity. Under his banner, those thirty abominations moved as one colossal organism, a living artillery battery whose synchronized barrages could vaporize anything in their sights. Should a Nexus ever find himself fully surrounded by them, even his godlike defenses would crumble under their relentless bombardment.

Of course, surrounding a Nexus was an impossible dream for most… but Fyron did not chase impossibilities. His mission was to capitalize on the chaos Amon had ignited—to shatter the enemy siege, rescue their trapped Nexus allies, and then rain annihilation upon the enemy's World Cataclysms and the warships blotting out the sky.

And that was exactly what he was doing.

Together, Amon's and Fyron's forces—sixty World Cataclysms united under one cause—became a storm of pure destruction. The tide of war shifted, the very rhythm of battle rewritten. Where once the alliance had dominated, now their fleets burned, their formations shattered into drifting fragments of molten steel and bone.

"My King, shall we move as well?" a voice called from behind Sakaar, carrying both respect and barely contained hunger.

Another followed swiftly, "My liege, please give the order."

"Sayir, Baron... why the rush?" Sakaar's tone was calm, composed, the faintest trace of amusement echoing beneath his mask. "Do you see any need to intervene just yet?"

Behind him stood forty more Demon World Cataclysms, his personal division—monsters of the void, silent and still as carved obsidian. Two of them, Sayir and Baron, stepped forward as the leaders of his vanguard.

"We see through your vision, my king," Sayir said solemnly, his voice vibrating with devotion.

"Please, don't leave us standing idle," Baron added, his aura flaring like molten glass.

"My King!" several others echoed, their eagerness cracking the stillness like thunder.

"Heh~" Sakaar chuckled softly. He understood their restlessness well. It wasn't born of necessity—it was born of pride. They feared being excluded from the glory that awaited beyond.

"No problem," he replied, his voice a calm storm. "Consider this a lesson in spatial warfare. Watch carefully, fight freely. It may not be your last chance to do so."

Then, extending one hand toward the far reaches of the burning void, he commanded with quiet finality,

"Crush them... but take the long path."

In that direction, the ships battle raged— thousands burning ships tearing through the dark like wounded beasts. Nearly a hundred fleets of the Crumbled Dreams Empire and the Shattering Meteors Empire clashed against hundreds more from the enemy coalition. Energy lances, plasma shells, and gravitational pulses screamed across space like divine thunderbolts!

"Understood!!"

Sayir and Baron's morale ignited like wildfire. Each gathered twenty World Cataclysms, splitting into two crescent wings that flanked the horizon, their movements perfectly synchronized to avoid the cataclysmic duel raging between Fargus and the Titan Bull.

The battle that unfolded above was not merely a conflict of armies—it was a cataclysm that made space itself writhe and tremble with every strike, every explosion, every clash of cosmic power.

The fabric of the void twisted under the pressure, stars flickered dimly in fear, and the shattered remnants of warships drifted like dying embers across the horizon.

"..."

Sakaar stood motionless amid the silent observation decks of his vessel, his expression unreadable.

He continued to watch the chaos from afar, letting the rumbling echoes of destruction play out across the heavens. For a long moment, he observed the colossal struggle between titans above—beings whose might could alter planetary orbits—and then, with a subtle shift of focus, he let go of that spectacle.

Each side was now locked in their own bloody rhythm; no need for his interference.

Instead, he titled his head downwards, toward the planet.

Instead, he extended his soul sense, a ripple of invisible consciousness that cascaded over the entire planet like a tidal wave, descending layer by layer until it reached the last continent—the final stretch of land still under the control of his forces and the Shattering Meteors Empire.

According to his design, now that the bombardment had ceased completely, something critical was supposed to begin—a hidden contingency prepared for this exact moment.

Clatter... Clatter...

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!"

Indeed... it had begun.

The Alliance forces, who had long surrounded the continent like a tightening noose, were now flooding inward from every direction—land, sea, and sky. It was a massive tide of flesh and metal. At least three million soldiers formed the vanguard alone, their banners rising like waves on an endless ocean. The deeper Sakar expanded his spiritual awareness, the more he saw—regiments after regiments, like ants crawling toward their doom.

The ground troops believed that the bombardment phase had ended, that the skies had fallen silent because victory was near. This was, to them, their moment of conquest—a time to march proudly and cleanse what little remained of resistance. Every fortress had been flattened, every mountain reduced to gravel, every palace vaporized, every arcane formation dismantled.

There was, they thought, nothing left but bodies to burn and enemies to butcher.

"AAAHHH!! AAAAHHHHH!!!"

A sudden roar tore through the smoke and ash. The Emperor of the Shattering Meteors Empire emerged from what had once been his majestic palace, now reduced to a landscape of rubble and molten stone. His voice was raw with fury and despair.

In an instant, his human shape ruptured and reshaped itself—muscles bulging, scales bursting forth, bones creaking and snapping into place—until a gigantic draconic beast stood where the Planetary Emperor once had been.

It was Beast King Nagarath.

He bellowed once more, a thunderous roar that shattered the air and shook the seas, then launched himself into the battlefield with burning wings and flaming claws. The ruler of the Shattered Meteors no longer had a throne to command from—his throne now was war itself.

To the Alliance, and even to the Emperor himself, it appeared that the ground battle was over.

Victory was at hand.

But—

KA-CHAAAAAA!!

A single sound cut through the chaos like the wrath of a god.

At the narrow coastal strait, a crimson figure emerged from the smoke, his armor glistening like blood under starlight. In his hands, he held two colossal whips, each one the length of a hundred arms, pulsing and dripping with boiling blood that hissed and steamed with a stench that corroded the air.

"HA! HAHAHAHA!! HAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!! FIGHT! FIGHT! SLAUGHTER!!!"

KA-CHAAAA!!

Each swing of those demonic whips split the ground open, carving canyons into the soil and hurling corpses high into the air. Flesh vaporized. Armor melted. The frontlines crumbled like sand before the tide.

It was Helga.

Her laughter echoed like thunder, wild and beautiful in its insanity.

DUM! DUM! DUM!

Then came the others.

From the underground city, the earth itself began to tremble. Crimson soldiers—hundreds of them—burst forth from beneath the surface like a swarm of enraged hornets. Their bodies gleamed with liquid metal veins, their auras burned like small suns. Each took to a different direction—some sprinting across land faster than sound, others diving into the seas, and dozens soaring high into the atmosphere like falling comets reversing their path.

Their soul senses spread outward in every direction, blanketing the entire continent. Without needing orders, they began to divide and position themselves, forming a web of power that covered every front.

Each one of them carried a simple command:

"Stop the enemy. Alone if you must."

These were Helga's personal division—thirty Demon Kings.

And now, as the scarlet light of their awakening painted the horizon red, it became clear that the real ground war…

had only just begun.

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