Sector 101 — Mid Region, Southeastern Border

"Hold the line!! HOLD THE DAMN LINE!!"

The command thundered across the trenches, echoing through dust, explosions, and the desperate cries of men locked in a battlefield that had long since crossed the boundary between strategy… and sheer survival.

Alexander inhaled slowly — calm, steady, unshaken — despite the chaos clawing at reality around him. With practiced precision, he drew his Mid-Epic-Rank Bow, its frame humming with eldritch resonance and faint violet runes.

Then—he released.

FWOOOOOSH—

The arrow didn't merely fly; it vanished, consumed by velocity.

CRAAAAAACK—!!

A sonic boom tore the sound barrier apart, the shockwave rippling outward as a violent storm of toxic wind spiraled around the spinning projectile. In less than the span of a heartbeat, the arrow punched through three defensive layers, bypassed shields, nullified reinforcing formations…

…and bloomed.

BOOOOM.

A massive explosion erupted at the exact point Alexander targeted — not a meter off. From the arrowhead, a vast maelstrom of dark-emerald poison unfurled, spreading like a plague given wings.

Bodies dropped instantly.

Dozens at first.

Then hundreds.

Soldiers convulsed, choking, eyes wide with disbelief — then silence swallowed them whole. Panic tore through the enemy lines as their formation collapsed, abandoning the contaminated soil in a frantic retreat. The carefully prepared trap meant to crush the Empire's formation evaporated like smoke.

Only when the screams quieted and the dust settled did Alexander lower the bow.

His expression did not change.

His breathing did not quicken.

His gaze remained sharp — predatory — calculating.

"...."

Before him, twenty thousand soldiers of the True Beginning Empire fought tooth and nail against nearly one hundred thousand troops belonging to the Allied Army.

And yet — even now — there was no sign of victory for either side.

Nearly twelve years ago, history had been carved in this very sector — when Lord Scorvian descended to support the Allied forces.

During that grand duel of legends, Lord Hedrick struck a single world-shaking blow that forced Scorvian to retreat bleeding and furious. Marshal Fargos was also driven back, pursued relentlessly by an overwhelming Armada made of nearly 220 fleets when he only got 60 at that time.

That alone should've sealed the outcome.

But the battlefield is never merciful…

and never predictable.

For in a moment that shook records across the galactic front, the entire right flank of the Allied Army collapsed.

That day, Alexander unleashed a strategy never before documented — a doctrine of forward pressure disguised as defensive entrenchment. What appeared as a stable defensive line was actually a relentless creeping advance — establishing fortifications directly inside enemy territory while denying them space to breathe.

This shattered the coordination of the Allied swarm, especially the infamous Four Serpents, whose destructive rampages had crippled fleets for decades. Neutralizing them should've taken weeks — yet that day, they were cornered, destabilized, and severed from command.

And then… came the killing blow.

Marshal Fargos deployed thirty reinforcement fleets, striking the right flank from behind in a perfect encirclement.

The result was catastrophic.

More than thirty-five fleets out of seventy belonging to the Allied Army were wiped from existence before the remnants broke formation and fled in scattered chaos. In their retreat, they lost additional military hardware — enough to assemble five more fleets.

In a single rotation —

The Allies lost forty fleets.

In exchange, Alexander's forces suffered:

900 battle ships, Note of the Flood, destroyed

17 Note of Destruction-class warships lost

1 Note of Supremacy fallen

And Fargos's reinforcements paid the price of nearly three fleets.

That day became legend.

The war analysts named it:

/The Shock of the Century/

Reports, simulations, and tactical breakdowns spread across sectors like sacred scripture. And at the heart of every discussion were the mysterious formation patterns and impossible Arrays deployed by those ten unidentified fleets — fleets whose origin remained unknown and whose technology seemed almost… forbidden.

Three days later, Marshal Fargos returned — battered yet determined, his forces intact enough to remain relevant.

He walked personally to Alexander's command center.

Requested a private audience.

And finally asked for a complete inspection of the three Note warship classes.

He received the tour.

When it ended, Vargos said nothing. Not a word. His expression carved from stone itself.

Only after a long, heavy silence did he bow slightly, ask for permission to withdraw…

…and leave.

He went straight to Hedrick—not walking, not requesting a meeting, not waiting for protocol.

He stormed in.

His voice carried no diplomacy, no strategy—only raw necessity.

He demanded that Hedrick purchase as many of those fleets as existed, regardless of cost, politics, or consequence.

Pay with credits.

Pay with cities.

Pay with planets.

Whatever it took.

Hedrick, who had already understood the gravity of what occurred in that battle, contacted Theo with a chest weighted by the kind of anxiety only commanders know—the kind built from responsibility, pride, and fear of being too late.

He conveyed Fargos' request word for word.

And as expected…

Theo did not simply refuse.

He negotiated like a wolf who smelled blood.

He demanded planetary-grade weapon, premium stabilizers— and other resources reserved only empire-shifting events.

In short: Hedrick shut the deal down.

Not out of ego—not even out of anger—

But because reality left him no choice.

His supply of strategic materiel and stabilizers was nearly exhausted—what remained was needed for emergencies of existential scale.

And besides—

Theo had already sworn to defend that front. So why should they pay for what was already promised?

Fargos fell silent after hearing the refusal.

But giving up the strategic advantage?

No.

Never.

So he reorganized his military structure and designated the Note fleets as the core, the heart, the command anchor.

It was the highest honor he could give to a foreign force.

A statement that echoed across every tactical channel:

"This fleet decides the battle."

But Alexander declined.

He said he preferred independence, preferred to operate as a lone front—because accepting that position meant that high-ranking officers from Fargos' command would board the Note vessels and use them as the central nerve of battlefield control.

Allowing foreign hands to dictate how those fleets were used?

That was unacceptable.

Especially when those individuals were not members of the Empire of the Cradle.

Some boundaries were strategic.

Others were sacred.

This one was both.

After that colossal engagement, the warfront—once roaring like a storm—fell eerily silent.

Three years passed.

Three long years where both sides watched, rebuilt, adapted—and waited.

Lord Scorvian and Marshal Brontor gathered what remained of the shattered Allied Armada—around 260 fleets—and settled them along the barren fringe worlds at the southeastern border of Sector 101.

Rumors spread like wildfire through bars, command rooms, encrypted channels, and battlefield memorial halls.

Some claimed Scorvian was still bedridden—recovering from Hedrick's brutal strike.

Others said the fleets needed extreme reconstruction—that entire reactor cores had burned out and required partial rebuilding.

But no matter the truth…

Silence ruled.

Until the day it shattered like glass.

Three years after the battle—reinforcements arrived.

Over eleven brand-new Note fleets entered the battlefield theater—immediately joining Alexander's command.

Ten were the flawless mirror-replicas that Zara made.

The remaining fleets came directly from the deepest military foundries of the Cradle Empire.

After replacing what was lost in the catastrophic battle, the total number reached:

Twenty fully operational Note fleets.

The highest concentration ever deployed in a single conflict since their creation over five centuries ago.

When Marshal Brontor —already a sector-wide joke because of what ten Note fleets achieved— learned there were now twenty?

He snapped.

A silent humiliation turned into a burning obsession.

He launched an offensive the same day.

This time, not charging toward Shazar Planet in a predictable spear formation.

This time, he unleashed his entire force.

All 260 fleets spread like a massive metallic web across orbital corridors—locking down space routes, seizing inhabited and uninhabited planets without pause.

He couldn't advance in a straight line without Scorvian's overwhelming spearhead force.

But he also couldn't sit still while his enemy grew stronger—and stronger—and stronger.

So he chose the only path left:

Expansion through suffocation.

But then…

Something unexpected happened.

The Note fleets didn't retreat when ground warfare began, Instead—

Their hulls opened. Hatches unlocked. Deployment gates spread wide—

And from the shadowed depths of those ships…

Hell descended upon the battlefield.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.