Mid-Space — Collision Point

Two beams surged through the battlefield.

One was pure—precisely focused, infused with condensed destruction energy, engineered for perfection:

The Oblivion Maw.

The other was raw—chaotic, unstable, a fusion of multiple energy types with a trace of destructive mana, empowered by sheer will and desperation:

The Gigasol Hyper-Battery.

They raced toward each other, converging in a climactic clash that cracked the very fabric of space.

For a heartbeat, it looked like a deadlock—blinding energy grinding against itself.

But it wasn’t.

There was no contest.

After a single breath’s pause—so brief it barely registered—the Oblivion Maw began to overwhelm the Gigasol beam.

Not slice through it.

Erase it.

Unmake it atom by atom.

The unstable red torrent collapsed in on itself, and the Oblivion Maw’s beam surged forward uninterrupted, roaring toward Taurus Prime.

⸻

Aboard Taurus Prime

Panic.

Silence.

Then horror.

The command deck stared at their displays, watching the last symbol of Minotaur pride—their own superweapon—disintegrate in real time.

If anyone had looked into a mirror at that moment, they would’ve seen it clearly:

The same helplessness their enemies must’ve once felt… right before being destroyed.

Even Jarkon—Grand Admiral of a thousand victories—felt it.

The cold recognition in his gut.

“This is… defeat.”

He muttered to himself, voice dry.

“No. No, not defeat. I wasn’t ready. That’s all.”

His thoughts raced. His glory, his history—flawless, untouchable—now collapsing.

“I’ll survive this. Retreat. Regroup. Return to the mother planet. I’ll rebuild. I’ll get revenge.”

The delusion became a plan.

He raised his head sharply.

“Pull all power into our forward shields—NOW!”

Then, turning to his Right and Left High Admirals:

“All of it. I want your mana—every drop. Hold that shield for five to ten seconds. That’s all I need.”

“W-what? Grand Admiral…?” the Left High Admiral stammered.

Jarkon ignored the doubt.

His aura flared—heavy with killing intent. Desperate. Final.

“DO IT NOW!”

The Right High Admiral obeyed first, stepping forward, placing his hands on the arcane emitter beside the command platform.

The Left hesitated—until the force of Jarkon’s presence overrode his will. He joined in silence.

Together, they began pouring mana into the central shield generator.

⸻

Outside — The Beam Descends

The Oblivion Maw tore through what remained of the Minotaur front.

well, what was in the fire range of Oblivion Maw were torn through

Battle carriers.

Heavy cruisers.

Battle ships

Corvettes.

Gone.

Not destroyed—erased.

Nothing remained in its path. No wreckage. No flame.

Just absence.

And then—

Impact imminent!

The navigation officer’s voice cracked as he shouted, breaking the paralyzing silence on the bridge.

The Oblivion Maw’s beam struck the forward shield.

The barrier rippled violently—like water on the verge of evaporation.

It held. But just barely.

Only through the combined effort of both High Admirals channeling their mana did it not collapse immediately.

Jarkon stood with eyes closed, his aura rising with each breath.

His energy surged—not naturally, but because of a forbidden power rooted in his blood.

A legacy skill—a technique inherited from an ancient ancestor, one who had once ascended to the rank of World Builder.

Its name was lost, unknown even to him.

But its function was clear: grant a surge of power far beyond normal limits—briefly—at the cost of crippling weakness afterward.

In those eight seconds, Jarkon’s strength climbed to the absolute peak of the World Building realm.

And he bet everything on that moment.

⸻

“Grand Admiral… I—I can’t hold on much longer!” the Right High Admiral cried out.

“Me either!” the Left added, sweat pouring down their faces like buckets of water. Both of them were trembling, pale, close to collapse.

Jarkon opened his eyes, golden with power.

“You’ve done enough,” he said calmly. “Let me handle the rest.”

He raised one hand—and space itself rippled.

From the fracture, a staff emerged.

Formed of bone-like crystal, it radiated a dark, oppressive aura.

Its name: Staff of Rage—a legend-grade artifact, passed down through bloodlines meant to rule.

He gripped it tightly.

“Shield.”

At his command, a new barrier materialized—golden, glowing—just beneath Taurus Prime’s faltering main shield.

But Jarkon wasn’t finished.

“Reinforce,” he muttered.

The golden shield thickened, gained mass, texture—more solid, more durable.

“Indestructible.”A rare spell that activates when the shield is on the verge of collapse, reinforcing it with a surge of power and granting 10 to 15 seconds of total invulnerability.

Then—he raised the staff and slammed it down.

Meanwhile — Aboard Obliterator

From deep within the hidden command chamber, I sat — eyes open, silent, watching.

Using the authority of my Eyes, I observed every shift in the battlefield, every pulse of mana, every trace of movement.

And then… I saw it.

The surge.

Jarkon’s aura — once steady — jumped.

From Stage Seven of World Building… to the very peak in seconds.

So that’s what this is, I thought.

“A legacy skill,” I muttered.

It confirmed it.

The Minotaurs did have someone in their ranks descended from a realm beyond the World Building stage.

Someone whose ancestor had touched something greater.

And yet… they were weak.

Here.

Now.

In this galaxy.

Why?

They weren’t thriving.

They were surviving — barely — holding onto technology they didn’t create.

That’s when it clicked.

“They’re not native to this galaxy,” I said aloud, more to myself than anyone.

“They came from elsewhere. Another galaxy.”

“Correct,” said Empress, manifesting beside me in a flicker of light.

“Right… I remember now.”

“When they stumbled into this quadrant… they inherited the ruins of the mechanical race. Claimed it. Adapted it.”

“A side branch,” Empress added.

“Not the true Minotaur bloodline.”

I nodded slowly.

“So the ones we face now… they’re the offspring of a splinter line—borrowed blood, borrowed weapons. And somewhere, the true Minotaur clan still waits.”

“Yes. And we will likely face them in the not-so-distant future,” Empress replied, her voice level.

“That’s for later,” I said, waving a hand.

“Right now, it’s not the bloodline that has my attention… it’s the spells.”

I watched as Jarkon called forth the Staff of Rage, layered shield after shield, and fought to hold back the Oblivion Maw’s final strike.

“Hmm. Efficient. Direct. Brutally refined. A race designed for war, built on brute force — but this much spell mastery? That’s legacy influence.”

“Possible,” Empress replied. “Or simply raw talent. He has potential.”

“Yes… I won’t deny it,” I said.

“This Jarkon is something.”

His spellwork wasn’t elegant—but it was functional.

His barriers layered.

His energy control sharp.

His sacrifice? Immediate.

“No doubt,” I continued, “his ancestor—whoever they were—must’ve reached into a realm far beyond this galaxy’s understanding. That blood would carry talent.”

“But talent doesn’t rewrite outcomes,” I said calmly.

“Not when the enemy is the Oblivion Maw.”

Empress nodded.

“Those shields may have slowed it… but they will not stop it.”

“No,” I said, watching the white-red beam begin to break down his final golden wall.

“They won’t. Not for long.”

And as the last of Jarkon’s defenses began to fracture, I sat back.

Silent.

Observing.

Waiting for the Void to do what it always did.

Then—he raised the staff and slammed it down.

The moment he did—

CRACK!

Taurus Prime’s original shield shattered like glass.

Both High Admirals were thrown backward from the backlash, their bodies slamming hard into the floor.

They hit with sickening force, coughing blood, eyes wide with shock as they twitched in pain, unconscious.

⸻

But the Oblivion Maw’s beam kept going.

Weakened—but still deadly.

It struck Jarkon’s summoned barrier—the golden wall.

It held longer.

Longer than any Minotaur shield had.

It managed to absorb the last dying pulses of the Void weapon’s energy.

But it still broke.

The final burst of power cracked the barrier—and pushed Jarkon back across the deck.

He caught himself, gritting his teeth as blood ran from his lips.

The beam, spent and dying, still struck the upper hull of Taurus Prime—bending thick armor, tearing open compartments, and vaporizing key systems.

Then finally—silence.

The Oblivion Maw went dark.

The beam faded.

Aboard Eclipse Wraith — First Battle Group Flagship, Void Fleet

The Oblivion Maw fell silent.

Its massive barrel dimmed, the white-hot glow fading into dull, cooling steel.

All of its power—every last fraction of charged destructive energy—had been expelled in that one final shot.

The cannon had spoken. And space itself had listened.

⸻

On the command deck, Admiral Ezra now sat.

He leaned back in his seat, elbows resting on the armrests, hands steepled beneath his chin.

His eyes remained fixed on the main holoprojection.

Most of the display had shifted to focus on a single, broken shape:

The Taurus Prime.

What had once been the pride of the Minotaur fleet was now a gutted shadow of its former self.

Its systems—offline.

Life support—flickering.

Hull integrity—compromised.

Shields—gone.

Weapons—half melted.

The only things still functioning: basic propulsion and a scattering of auxiliary turrets.

A sitting target.

A crippled leviathan drifting through the graveyard it helped create.

⸻

Ezra didn’t blink.

He simply turned his head toward the flickering, semi-transparent figure of Eclipse, the ship’s main AI.

“Status, Eclipse,” he said calmly.

Eclipse’s form shimmered to full clarity, his tone clinical and cold, yet measured.

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