Legacy of the Void Fleet

Inside the hangar, towering above everything else, stood a black and gold mecha — The Black Wing.

It was massive, even by mecha standards:

• 40 meters tall

• 20 meters wide

• Wielding a dual-edged sword as tall as itself

The Black Wing wasn't just a machine — it was a weapon of terror.

It had been gifted long ago by me — Kallus — to one of my finest commanders: Damien, head of the Void Fleet's Mecha Division. While I had originally claimed the Black Wing from a rare family login, I eventually passed it on, knowing Damien could unleash its true potential.

Like Titan bane, the Black Wing was one-of-a-kind. While Raj's Titan bane was faster, Black Wing had its own terrifying strengths — raw, overwhelming destructive power without limits.

And Damien used it well.

⸻

Where Raj's battle was chaotic, weaving through enemy lines like a phantom, Damien's style was direct. Brutal. Overwhelming.

As the Minotaur fighters, numbering over 4,000 strong, converged on the right flank, Damien activated Black Wing and moved to meet them head-on.

Standing still, like a towering shadow before the storm, Damien lifted the giant sword and pointed it directly at the incoming swarm.

The Void Fleet's mecha squadrons under his command split into formation, opening a path for their leader.

Damien poured mana into Black Wing.

The sword's housing cracked open slightly — arcs of pure energy and lightning bursting from the seams. In a heartbeat, a mass of swirling blue power built up between the twin blades.

Satisfied with the charge, Damien gave the blade a small push forward — and unleashed hell.

A blinding beam of compressed energy roared out from the sword, tearing across space.

The Aura Beam — Black Wing's unique signature attack.

Where it passed, nothing survived.

Hundreds of Minotaur fighters caught in its expanding radius were disintegrated instantly, their bodies and ships vaporized without a trace.

It was raw annihilation.

⸻

After that devastating strike, Damien didn't push further. He allowed his mecha division — composed of highly-trained and talented operators — to sweep the remnants clean.

Compared to Raj's hyperactive assault, Damien's method was slower, methodical… but just as inevitable.

⸻

It took Damien's division a bit longer than Raj's squadrons to completely clear the battlefield — but the difference was only in style, not effectiveness.

Raj, of course, took great pride in beating Damien this time.

Across the fleet-wide private comms, he boasted loudly to Damien:

"Looks like fighters are better after all, Damien!

""You see that? Speed kills!"

Raj was full of pride — finally able to claim a clear win over Damien in real combat.

Damien, hearing it, only sighed.

He wasn't angry — just mildly frustrated .For Damien, the real goal today had been to train his division, sharpen them under real battlefield conditions. Victory was expected — and polishing his soldiers mattered more to him than any rivalry.

Still, in spirit, Raj and Damien were born competitors. Always pushing each other, from arguments to simulator duels. Hundreds of virtual battles fought — half won by Raj, half by Damien.

Today, Raj claimed a small, but undeniable victory

And even if Damien didn't say it aloud, he filed it away quietly.

Because in this war, there would always be another battle — and another chance.

Hidden Layer of Space — Aboard Obliterator

Inside the command deck of the Obliterator, hidden deep within the folds of stealth fields, I listened to the fleet-wide chatter.

Hearing Raj's prideful boasting toward Damien made my eye twitch slightly.

"These two…" I muttered, shaking my head. "They never learn."

I wasn't surprised anymore—just mildly exasperated by their antics.

Still, deep inside, I felt satisfied. Both of them had displayed their unique weapons well, and their strength had shifted the battlefield in our favor.

Wait a minute, that wasn't right — the battlefield was in our favor to begin with, no?"

⸻

Minotaur Command — Aboard Taurus Prime

Meanwhile, chaos was erupting aboard the Minotaur flagship.

Grand Admiral Jarkon stared at the tactical displays in growing horror.

Entire wings of Minotaur fighters—gone.

Slaughtered.

They hadn't even managed to inflict minor damage in return.

Jarkon slammed his fist into the console, shouting in frustration:

"What the hell is happening to our fighter corps?!"

On the holoprojector, he watched as the right and left flanks collapsed completely—thousands of fighters erased by two enemy units: a single fighter and a single mecha.

"Sir…!" stammered the Right High Admiral, Domaks, his voice shaking.

"It's the enemy ships… leading the attack!

A single fighter… and a single armored machine.

They're tearing through our forces—and their support ships are crushing the rest.

We… we're helpless against these two!"

Jarkon's blood ran cold.

He focused the Taurus Prime's tactical tracking systems onto the two enemy units.

Titanbane.

Black Wing.

As he stared at their glowing outlines, he paled.

Before he could even speak, the Left High Admiral, Daumo, muttered under his breath:

"Sir… look at them.

They're using mana… They're absorbing ambient mana around them."

Silence fell across the bridge.

Jarkon's heart pounded violently in his chest.

"Impossible…" he whispered.

He stared, wide-eyed, at the tactical feed as Titanbane and Black Wing—two enemy machines—drew in ambient mana as naturally as breathing, then weaponized it into total destruction.

Mana manipulation at this level wasn't just rare—it was supposed to be extinct, locked away in ancient bloodlines and lost empires.

"No… no…" Jarkon shook his head, trying to deny what he saw.

But denial changed nothing.

Titanbane and Black Wing carved mercilessly through the Minotaur lines, obliterating ships with terrifying precision.

Desperation gripped him.

"I won't let this continue!" Jarkon roared, spinning toward the weapons control station.

⸻

Before he could say anything more, a new siren howled across the bridge.

Urgent, panicked voices filled the comms.

One of the forward-line heavy cruisers—his frontline defense—was transmitting in a desperate, broken tone:

"Grand Admiral! We—we're losing our shields!

The enemy is concentrating fire—targeting us specifically!

They're shifting tactics—they plan to destroy us one by one!"

Before the transmission finished, another scream cut across the channel:

"Sir! Shields are down!"

"Then reactivate the auxiliary shields—NOW!" the cruiser's commander shouted.

"We—we tried, sir!

Enemy systems are jamming our shield relays! We can't bring them up!"

"What—WHAT?!" Jarkon bellowed, panic leaking into his voice.

"Fall back! FALL BACK—immediately!" barked the cruiser commander.

But it was too late.

"Incoming enemy missiles!" screamed another officer.

"Activate point-defense! Take them down!"

Gunfire roared.

Anti-missile turrets fired in rapid succession, shredding some of the incoming salvos—but not all.

Several missiles broke through.

They struck the cruiser dead-center along its hull.

The impact tore the ship apart from the inside out.

The thick armor plating split open like paper, fire and debris erupting in every direction.

In seconds, the proud vessel was nothing but a wreck drifting in space—another dead ship lost to the Void Fleet.

⸻

Back on the Taurus Prime Bridge

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Jarkon heard everything—the final cries for help, the crackling explosions, the deaths of thousands—all live in his ears.

His fists shook.

"Enough!" Jarkon roared, veins bulging at his forehead.

His frustration exploded beyond any limit.

From the start of the battle until now—everything he had done, every maneuver, every sacrifice to gain an advantage over this unknown enemy from the Forbidden Region—all of it had been torn down as if it were meaningless.

He had fought for time.

Bought it with blood and wreckage.

But time alone wasn't enough.

He needed power.

And the enemy—though small in number, far smaller than his own—possessed it.

His fleet outnumbered them nearly ten to one.

But what good were numbers against a force that shrugged off their attacks like gnats?

What good was pride when they couldn't even bring down a single one of the enemy's frontline ships—couldn't even destroy a single fighter?

Meanwhile, his own ships were being toyed with—dismantled systematically, ship by ship, until only wreckage remained.

And now, the enemy had shifted tactics, focusing fire to eliminate his vessels one at a time—slowly gutting him.

That realization—the brutal, undeniable collapse of his forces—that was what finally snapped him.

Jarkon's fists slammed down onto the console.

"I will NOT let this continue!"

He would burn everything if he had to.

But he would not—could not—let his fleet die without a fight.

Though he didn't realize it yet, it wasn't truly his will driving him.

Not his desire for an ultimate sacrifice.

Not a noble last stand.

No. Far from it.

Something else—something unseen—was speaking to him. That something was his unwillingness.

That unwillingness was feeding his anger. Twisting his desperation.

And Jarkon, blind to it, obeyed. not obeyed, but he listing to his own unwillingness to lose

Very soon, Jarkon would come to understand a brutal truth: willingness, pride, even desperation meant nothing before something absolute.In the end, only power mattered.

But by then, it would already be too late.

"FOCUS our main secondary weapons on their command ship!

Bring it DOWN!"

The weapons officers scrambled.

"Power up the Gigasol Hyper-Batteries!" Jarkon barked.

"But sir—the charge isn't ready—!"

"I'll supply it myself!" Jarkon snarled.

"NOW!"

Without hesitation, he slammed his hands onto the emergency override control.

Raw energy surged from his body—mana bleeding out of him and flooding into the Taurus Prime's main cannon systems.

The lights aboard the flagship flickered violently, half the bridge darkening.