The Demon Cataclysms—those crimson horrors born from slaughter—faced none of the same limitations that troubled the other races.

Their pace hadn't slowed even a heartbeat; if anything, their frenzy seemed to grow sharper, more ravenous, with every passing minute.

Unlike most warriors who relied on the delicate flow of natural energy, the demons drew their might from a much darker source—

the power of blood.

Every motion they made, every roar, every swing of their colossal weapons throbbed with the rhythm of living veins.

Perhaps this reliance on blood would have been a terrible disadvantage had they fought unarmed or exposed—

but they did not.

Those black-and-crimson suits of armor they wore, pulsing with glowing veins, were not mere protection;

they were lined with coiling blood-tubes that snaked across every joint and plate.

Each of those tubes hade space path runes to enlargen them from within like space rings.

Each tube filled with immense reserves of blood essence, harvested from the slain of hundreds of conquered worlds,

stored and refined for more than one hundred and forty years of methodical, industrial-scale genocide.

Would that reserve ever run dry?

Inevitably—

but at this pace, they could fight for three entire days and nights before the last drop lost its pulse.

As for their survival in the freezing vacuum of space, the demons had already mastered that as well.

The inner layer of their suits carried the runes of preservation,

sealing their bodies from the raw violence of the void and providing stored air and pressure enough for extended warfare.

They could breathe, fight, and roar amid the starfire for an entire day without pause.

A full day of relentless combat from the demons—

while the World Cataclysms of both the Alliance Armies and the Crumbled Dreams Empire were already faltering,

their strength fading, their will beginning to crumble under the strain.

Once again, the legendary True Beginning Empire's armor had proven its unmatched dominance on the battlefield.

It was no mere defensive construct—it was a living fortress, a triumph of technology.

The moment all the other world cataclysmss began to retreat,

Amon, Fyron, and sixty World Cataclysms would surge forward in formation,

reinforcing the five Nexus States of the Crumbled Dreams Empire.

Together, they would turn their might against the sixteen Nexus States of the Alliance,

and though the outcome was uncertain,

it would surely be better than their current struggle.

Victory in that front was no longer a dream—it was only a matter of time and endurance.

...Only those endless ripples in the void troubled Sakaar's hearts.

"...." He shook his head slowly, his gaze shifting to the final front,

a battle so devastating that it demanded its own theater of war—

a duel between marshals.

There stood the First Marshal of Lord Hedrick,

clashing against a Marshal serving Lord Zaryon—

a half-step Guardian versus a half-step Monarch,

the mightiest warriors beneath the Children of the Behemoths themselves.

Below the seventh stage of power, none could rival their strength.

Then it came—

a roar, deep and ancient, shaking through the ether.

The massive brown bull, a beast over three hundred meters tall,

charged forward with his three spiraling horns gleaming like forged suns.

For a heartbeat, his entire form vanished—

the space before him folded like silk under pressure,

and then—THOOOOOM!—

it snapped back violently, triggering a spatial implosion so fierce

that several nearby warships disintegrated instantly.

"Hmph!"

Facing the raging monster, Fargus slammed his colossal leg forward,

the motion reverberating through the battlefield as if he had kicked a planet itself.

It was no ordinary strike.

From his foot blazed five radiant streams of light,

each slicing through the air like divine ribbons,

tearing open the fabric of space wherever they brushed.

And then—

BOOOOOOOOOOM!

The collision between raw might and the Law of Crumbling

turned the void even darker.

A curtain of abyssal smoke rolled outward, swallowing sound and light alike,

before being drawn sharply back into itself with a thunderous MMMMMMM!

The spatial rift snapped closed,

sending both marshals hurtling backward like meteors,

their bodies vanishing into streaks of light.

"Arghhh!"

Sakaar instinctively raised his forearms before his face,

bracing against the titanic shockwave that followed,

the force so immense it made his bones vibrate within his armor.

BABABABABA–DOOM!

His expression twisted beneath his smooth silver mask—

What was happening?

Why was no one else alarmed by what was being done to the weave of space itself?

Could he truly be the only one perceiving it?

No—impossible.

The warships were staggering, their engines flaring uncontrollably,

and even the two marshals were being flung about like puppets cut from their strings,

their balance shattered by the distortions rippling through the cosmos.

When the duel had begun, it hadn't been nearly this bad—

but after two relentless hours, the battlefield had changed beyond recognition.

Every blow from a Nexus State now carried cosmic weight,

and even Amon's strikes began to leave tremors in the void.

No… space could no longer be compared to the surface of water.

Not anymore.

Now, it was closer to a slab of raw flesh — a vast, pulsating mass that, with every strike of the hammer, grew softer and weaker, its fibers loosening, its structure collapsing. Every impact seemed to echo across existence itself, and each tremor made the very fabric of the void feel fragile… vulnerable.

Was this a phenomenon born only today?

Or was it the culmination of centuries—hundreds of years of endless wars fought around Verilion, each one tearing at the same wound, widening it until the universe itself began to bleed?

BOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Another violent collision between the two Marshals tore through the battlefield, and the result was the same—space itself cracked open. This time, however, the rift didn't fade immediately; it lingered… stretching… trembling for more than a full second before mending.

"Enough…" Sakaar stepped forward, his tone quiet yet carrying an unshakable weight, his voice rumbling like thunder trapped beneath the skin of the world.

BAM BAM BAM

From the side of the Nexus States and the World Catastrophes, the vibrations didn't stop for even a heartbeat. Waves of distorted energy rolled outward, and new fractures glimmered faintly across the void.

"That's enough…" Sakaar's voice rose with every word, his composure unraveling into anger. "Enough! Can't you see what's happening around you?! Can't you feel it—a disaster that's closing in on us all!?"

SWOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!

At that exact instant, Demon King Baron, accompanied by two of his high generals, surrounded a mothership and struck as one. The impact was cataclysmic. The destruction of a mothership, with all the compressed energy stored within it, unleashed a titanic explosion that twisted the already-wounded space. The resulting surge bent reality upon itself, birthing something that looked like a fleeting black hole—a gaping void that dragged every nearby ship toward its devouring heart.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

But it lasted only for fractions of a second before imploding violently, sending Baron and all nearby vessels hurtling away like debris caught in a cosmic storm.

"...!!"

If Sakaar had possessed eyes, they would have widened in disbelief, his soul trembling.

Through his heightened soul sense, he caught the fading signatures of three small battleships—dragged into that black hole… and gone. Not destroyed. Not disintegrated. Gone. Simply erased from existence.

But… where? Where had they gone?!

"Damn it!!" Sakaar poured his soul force into the sound sigil engraved within his armor, his voice booming across all channels. "To all Demon forces—RETREAT! Abandon your positions, leave everything behind, and fall back immediately!"

"Hah?" Amon took a step back, breaking contact with his opponent just long enough to respond. "What are you saying, big brother? We still have the upper ha—AAGH!!"

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Another collision between the two Marshals erupted, even fiercer than before.

The force ripped open another rift in space, and the detonation that followed shook the entire warzone. The blast wave struck through the fleets, through the atmosphere of the planet below, reaching even Helga and the others.

"Oh no…" Sakaar stumbled backward, his voice trembling with realization.

…This time, the rift didn't heal.

It grew instead.

A darkness deeper than black appeared—a void so absolute it devoured light itself. From within it, the dreaded dark matter began to flow outward like a flood, twisting and writhing, expanding into tendrils of annihilation.

And then—

BANG!

A strike came from the other side.

A strike unlike anything before—stronger, purer, more destructive. It roared through existence, a sound so deafening it silenced everything else.

That blow alone made every soldier clutch their chest as their breath was crushed out of them. Whether inside their ships or adrift in the void, all of them felt it— that was a force that transcended war.

"No…" Fargus whispered, his voice barely audible.

And he took a step back.

BAAAAAANG!

BAAAAAAAAAAANG!

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