Legacy of the Void Fleet

The Grand Admiral of the 7th Fleet—jarkon hailed as one of the Minotaur clan’s greatest warriors, a symbol of their pride and invincibility—now stood barely upright in the half-destroyed wreckage of his command bridge.

Once a marvel of Minotaur engineering and military precision, the command room around him had now become a shattered husk of what it once was. Consoles sparked, walls twisted inwards, and smoke curled in from cracks in the ceiling.

And beyond those crumbling bulkheads, his once-unbeaten fleet—thousands of ships strong—was nothing but drifting debris.

Annihilated by a force smaller in number, but infinitely more terrifying.

causing his pride to take a hit.

He, a peak World-Building realm cultivator, a being who had never tasted defeat.

Now, he survived—barely—only because of an ancient shielding artifact, flaring weakly around him. After exhausting all his strength trying to defend himself and his flagship, he collapsed, defeated and humiliated. And now, being protected by the artifact alone filled him with bitter shame. He was this weak… that he couldn’t even protect himself.

The artifact had blocked the initial barrage—barely.

And now... the enemy had come.

Through the blasted and twisted remains of the bridge doors, footsteps echoed in the smoke. Rhythmic. Cold. Dark shadows moved in. Dozens, no, Hundreds of humanoid figures stepped in, each clad in jet-black exoskeletons, each radiating a calm, terrifying efficiency.

These were the ones who had torn through and down his elite minotaur warriors as if they were nothing. These were the humans—if they were even that.

Now they surrounded him their last prey.

They surrounded him without hesitation, rifles steady, in a perfect formation, like death given form.

And then, another sound—sharper, slower, deliberate.

Footsteps, heavy with authority, cut through the room’s haze. The formation split, parting for a single figure.

A new figure emerged.

Clad in the same black exoskeletal armor, this one moved with the precision of a blade and the calm of inevitability.

He stepped forward—closer, step by step—until he stood not far from Jarkon, face hidden, no aura, yet the pressure he exuded was undeniable.

Jarkon stared, body battered, soul wounded.

The undefeated Jarkon now stood face to face with what he saw as his own reckoning. If he didn’t get away—if he didn’t escape—this would be the premature end he had always feared.

Cut short to the...The figure in black that appeared before Jarkon—the proud Minotaur leader—was none other than the Chief General of the Void Fleet Marines… Marcus.

Marcu ignored Jarkon’s rage-filled gaze, locking onto him as he turned back. With a hiss of hydraulics, his exoskeleton armor’s visor slid open, revealing his face beneath the cold, gleaming metal.

When Jarkon saw Maruc’s face, a brief flicker of surprise flashed in his eyes—quick, hidden—but inside, certainty took root: they were human.

But then the question returned, sharper than ever.

How?How could this lowly race of humans possess such power?How were they emerging from the Forbidden Zone—where mana should be completely dead?

How did they cultivate?No... this wasn’t even just cultivation. This was something beyond.And those ships—what the hell were those things? How could they be this strong?

Could it be…?

Could it be that this human—this one who survived the Forbidden Zone—somehow inherited the legacy of the civilization that once lived there?

It was the only possibility that made sense.

Through that legacy, maybe they’d found a way to cultivate. Maybe they’d used ancient resources long buried and forgotten.Yes… that had to be it.

It was because of that legacy that they’d become this powerful.A legacy that belonged to us.Minotus’ blood ran through its claim.

How dare this pathetic race lay their hands on it?How dare they use it against us?

Jarkon’s rage only grew as the thought seared deeper into his mind.

Not for a second that he think otherwise, for they were human.

Back to Marucs

One of his officers stepped forward, handing him a tactical data feed.

”General, the command bridge is secure. The power core has been locked down by Group P. Other sections of the ship are still being swept, but any remaining Minotaur resistance is being dealt with—whether they pose a threat or not.”

Marcus nodded, his expression neutral at best. There was no need for emotion—everything was unfolding exactly as his reports had predicted. His gaze shifted back, cold and unwavering, locking dead center on the only Minotaur still standing amidst the wreckage of Tarrus Prime’s shattered bridge.

”Well, well,” Marcus said, voice dripping with venom-laced amusement as he eyed the bloodied and half-standing Jarkon. ”Look who we have here. The Grand Admiral of the mighty Minotaur clan... or should I say, what used to be the Seventh Fleet? Your so-called special fleet, huh?”

The words landed like knives.

His voice carried with it the screams of a thousand fallen warriors, their deaths now twisted into cruel mockery. Jarkon flinched, rage flickering again in his weary eyes, but Marcus was unfazed—unimpressed, unmoved.

He stepped closer.

”Look,” he said, gesturing to the projection screen that showed the battlefield outside: drifting hulls, burning wreckage, shattered carriers—all that remained of the once-proud Minotaur armada.

”It barely took effort,” Marcus said with a cold laugh. ”Our fleet didn’t even break a sweat wiping yours off the map.”

He pointed to the broken walls and flickering lights of the once-mighty flagship.

”Your precious Tarrus Prime—your crown jewel—was taken down by a single ship. And not even at full power.” He shook his head, voice rising. ”And you—you-you-the almighty Jarkon—gave everything just to barely survive that attack.”

He laughed again. Harsh.

Hollow.

Cruel.

Jarkon snapped out of his thoughts the moment he heard Maruc speak the truth. His fury exploded. He let out a thunderous roar, mustering all his might, as if exhaling his very last breath.

”Shut up, you lowlife human!” he bellowed, unwilling to accept defeat—especially not from what he saw as a lesser race. And worse, not with powers that weren’t even theirs to wield.

But Maruc only laughed harder.

”You hear that, everyone?” he called out, his voice echoing through the fleet, piped through every comm channel. ”He still dares to call us lowlife—after all this.”

His soldiers laughed with him.

”Looks like the Grand Admiral of Nothing has finally snapped.”

”Delusional?!” Jarkon growled. ”And who needs to be delusional now, you worthless excuse of a race? You stumbled onto power by pure chance, and now you dare to stand before me and claim victory?” His voice cracked with rage. ”You think luck makes you strong? You think this fluke gives you the right to talk down to me?”

He stood tall, his gaze burning with contempt, as if the mighty void fleet before him were nothing more than thieves squatting on a legacy they didn’t deserve.

”What the hell are you even talking about, Minotus?” Maruc snapped back. ”You sound insane.”

”Hah! Now you pretend not to know? You dare to play dumb with me?” Jarkon sneered. ”You slaves… just because you stumbled upon the legacy of a dead civilization, you dare act like gods? You dare to be arrogant?”

Back on the Eclipse Wrath, Admiral Ezzra frowned, listening to the rambling fury pouring from the Minotus leader.

”What the hell is he even talking about?” she muttered, baffled.

Ryn Velos, standing nearby, gave a dry snort. ”Looks like that Jarkon or whatever has finally lost it. ’Legacy of a dead civilization’? What nonsense is that?”

Meanwhile, aboard the Obliterator, still cloaked deep within a folded layer of space, Kallus burst into laughter.

He had been watching Jarkon through a psychic lens, his eyes gleaming with quiet dominance. He could see what the Minotus warlord was thinking—his fears, his delusions—and it was pathetic.

”Ha! That stupid Minotura actually believes all our power came from some ancient legacy we unearthed?” Kallus said aloud, almost choking on the absurdity. ”That’s pure madness.”

Without hesitation, he opened a direct line to the shared fleet comms so everyone could hear.

”This is Kallus,” he said, voice echoing clear. ”And in case anyone missed it—Jarkon here thinks we’re strong because we found some old scraps of civilization and got lucky. Can you believe that? This guy’s falling apart so hard, he’s writing fan fiction in his head.”

”He thinks what?” Commander Aked Marcus asked, eyebrows raised, as if he’d misheard.

Ryn Velos nodded, barely containing his grin. ”You heard right.”

And that’s when Marcus lost it—bursting into laughter just as Jarkon heard the mockery over the comms. Rage twisted across the Minotus leader’s face.

But Marcus quickly pulled himself together, straightening as he processed the absurdity—the ridiculous fanfiction Jarkon had conjured in his fractured mind.

Maruc, however, didn’t laugh.

His face hardened. He stepped forward. Then again. Slowly.

With each step, the once barely-there aura around him intensified. The air in the ruined command chamber grew heavy—dense with raw, oppressive power.

A third step—and the pressure surged.

The very ground of Tarrus Prime cracked beneath his feet. Reinforced alloy trembled. Even Jarkon, behind his shimmering green shield, faltered. Only that barrier saved him from collapsing outright.

Maruc’s aura stabilized—Tier Five of Word-Building Realm. Not yet at its peak, but powerful enough to overwhelm a shield strong enough to survive the Gensai Law Realm’s initial compression state.

And that shook Jarkon to his core.

When Maruc finally stood before him, the Minotus warlord was kneeling—not by choice, but by sheer force. Yet, thanks to his race’s raw physicality, he still managed to raise his head and meet Maruc’s eyes.

Maruc stared coldly down.

”We dominate you,” he said, his voice low and unflinching. ”Your people. Your fleet. Your pride. And now, even your delusions. They mean nothing to us—nothing to those you dare call ’lowlife.’”