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.
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