Mid Sector one hundred one - The Southern Strip of the Cosmic Hammer Starfield "We must hold this position at any cost!" Inside a massive chamber cluttered with neglected maps and filled with officers seated before enormous communication devices, a huge man rose to his feet and roared with all his might, his voice shaking the dust on the old charts around him. His skin was a deep brown covered with irregular crimson patches, and from his skull emerged three sharp, distinctive spikes-resembling biological sensory tools crafted by evolution itself to grant heightened perception and instinct. That man now stared intensely at what lay far beyond his vast command room -beyond even the colossal defensive walls surrounding his gargantuan city- with eyes blazing with fury and lips trembling uncontrollably, as though he were forcing himself not to break down under the weight of what he was witnessing. At that very moment, the Golden Army was launching a relentless and coordinated assault on the city. The entire allied force was stationed outside the fortifications, relying heavily on the activated defensive arrays and the robust war equipment mounted across the battlements to provide covering fire. Yet, despite all that support, the three-spiked commander could clearly see his soldiers being cut down mercilessly, collapsing one by one as if they were standing before a divine storm. The human Golden Army -those merciless bastards- were nothing short of a perfectly engineered war machine, moving with mechanical precision and terrifying discipline! At first, everyone across Mid Sector one hundred one had wondered where those dreadful fleets had come from-fleets that appeared out of nowhere, coated in glimmering silver, the familiar color traditionally associated with Lord Hedrick's armadas. People also questioned the origin of those unstoppable human warriors who showed no hesitation, no retreat, no fear-soldiers who advanced even when death brushed against their armor. The allies had begun gathering every scrap of information they could from every sector, and soon a rumor spread rapidly, whispering that these mysterious forces were tied to the Cradle Empire in the neighboring region. The rumor further claimed that these terrifying vessels shared unmistakable features with the Note family's legendary fleets-the same fleets that had struck fear into Mid Sector one hundred for decades. Some immediately believed the rumor, while others mocked it, insisting that the Cradle Empire would be marching toward suicide if they truly sent reinforcements while they themselves were already struggling to hold their ground against their own enemies. But all doubt vanished quickly. The Cradle Empire issued an official declaration of support, sending wave after wave of troops-along with an enormous armada that shook the balance of the entire front! Following that statement, the Note fleets stationed in Mid Sector one hundred one removed their silver coating in unison, revealing their true identity: brilliant, blinding golden hulls that shimmered like blazing suns. From that moment on. the reinforcements pouring in from the Cradle Empire became overwhelmingly intense, almost suffocating in their magnitude! Immediately after a fresh armada of nearly fifty Note fleets arrived, Marshal Fargus executed a decisive and controversial maneuver-he withdrew entirely along with his full army. His immense armada, consisting of about eighty-five fleets, vanished from the southern strip and rushed instead to aid Lord Hedrick amidst the chaotic, all-consuming battle raging at the starfield's center. And the southern strip? Its full responsibility-every inch from beginning to end-was handed over entirely to General Alexander. This was the same general who already commanded forty Note fleets, and after the reinforcements, his command now expanded to a total of ninety fleets, each one gleaming with golden brilliance. But was that truly enough? The allied forces arrayed against them possessed nearly three hundred fleets-a staggering numerical advantage. How could Marshal Fargus justify withdrawing after receiving only fifty additional fleets? Even if he gathered every vessel under his authority, he would still fall far short of the allies' overpowering numbers. And yet he withdrew without hesitation, leaving Alexander and his ninety fleets to stand alone against an armada of three hundred allied fleets. And the human general Alexander, against all odds, did not disappoint! The border strip had not witnessed a single breach since that day-not a single crack, not even the faintest tremor of instability. The presence of the ninety fleets was like an immovable mountain range carved into the fabric of space itself, a colossal and unshakable fortress that refused to budge no matter how violently the storms of war battered against it. The allied forces found themselves unable to advance east or west; they were trapped, suffocated, and outmaneuvered. Regardless of how desperately they attempted to exploit their numerical superiority, they could never surpass the enormous gap in quality and precision. The ninety fleets sealed the skies entirely, turning the heavens above the southern strip into a locked, unreachable domain. Even World Cataclysm and Nexus State experts-who were typically able to force breakthroughs through raw power-found no opening to slip through. At their absolute best, they could compel the fleet before them to spread out or momentarily pull back. But that small advantage did nothing, it only allowed the extremely fast Note vessels to capitalize with terrifying efficiency, striking from afar with flawless coordination. This seal-this outrageous, oppressive, nearly supernatural lockdown created by the mysterious armada of the Cradle Empire-spread across the starfields like wildfire. Reports, rumors, and analyses flooded every corner of the Soul Society. Countless strategic analysts, tacticians, and curious observers became fixated, watching each new development like hawks, dissecting every maneuver of this strange war machine, hoping to uncover a weakness or devise a strategy capable of breaking through its impenetrable defenses. Out of despair, Marshal Brontor and his generals began experimenting with these random public suggestions circulating on the Soul Society network. None of them were refined; many were absurd. But desperation forced their hand. They tried them all, hoping that maybe-just maybe-one strategy would succeed. Instead, every attempt ended in the same predictable result: frustration, shouting, and the bitter taste of humiliation. Marshal Brontor, a marshal serving under Lord Zarion, had failed-utterly failed -to break through the Cradle Empire's armada. The most humiliating part was that this armada wasn't even commanded by a famous name or legendary figure. It was a faceless force that had unexpectedly risen to prominence. The event crushed his reputation, a blow so severe it echoed across multiple sectors. Meanwhile, the Cradle Empire and its fleets shone brighter than ever on a battlefield where they weren't even supposed to compete, let alone Forced into a corner, Marshal Brontor had no choice but to revert to capturing planets, just as he had attempted in the past. He couldn't exploit the astonishing withdrawal of his long-time rival, Fargus-a retreat that should have been an opportunity. Instead, it became another stain on his campaign. But even that fallback plan collapsed- "We've lost the main gate!"
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