Published at 15th of December 2025 8:25 am

Chapter 1832 Land Cleansing 1

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Mid Sector 101 - 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 101 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 100 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 101 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 50 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 85 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 40 Note fleets, and after the reinforcements, his command now expanded to a total of 90 fleets, each one gleaming with golden brilliance.

But was that truly enough?

The allied forces arrayed against them possessed nearly 300 fleets-a staggering numerical advantage. How could Marshal Fargus justify withdrawing after receiving only 50 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 90 fleets to stand alone against an armada of 300 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

dominate.

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-

BOOOOOOOOOOM

"We've lost the main gate!"

"Our surviving forces outside the walls have been completely surrounded!"

"The World Cataclysmunits are reporting they can't intervene!"

"Sir, what are your orders?!"

"Six Destruction Note-class Vessels are blocking the airspace! Reinforcements

can't break through!"

"SIR!!"

POOF

The three-spiked man sank weakly into his seat, his massive frame trembling.

He wanted-deeply, desperately-to issue a miraculous command. Something legendary. Something capable of turning the tide and ensuring that history would honor him as a commander who defied the impossible. But his mind was blank. No words came.

This city wasn't just another military outpost-it was the final stronghold of the

allied army in the entire southern strip.

If it fell, the allied forces would be completely erased from this region. No

refuge. No fallback position. Nothing.

They will be pushed back to the Young Belt!!

BOOM-BOOM

SLASH

The three-spiked general drew a razor-thin sword, its shimmering edge slicing

through the silence. He stood tall and resolute.

"We cannot let this city fall! Execute the final siege plan!" "Sir-that's suicide!!" one of the officers protested, his voice cracking, The plan was brutally straightforward: their last special squad would surge forward to re-seal the destroyed main gate. Then the general-alongside every remaining soldier-would storm out of the city and annihilate the invading enemy forces already inside. But such a reckless move would provoke the attackers severely. The enemy ships hovering above might ignore the risk of collateral damage and simply bombard the city directly into rubble.

The three-spiked man leapt onto his massive desk, raising his fragile-looking blade like a torch of defiance, shouting with burning determination: "We'll do it! We'll kill every last one of them!! Even if today's record says I was

defeated, it must also say that I inflicted catastrophic losses upon them! I

refuse to gghhh-!"

CRAAAAAASH

The walls of the sealed room exploded inward, engulfed in swirling green

flames. In the blink of an eye, a young, white haired man appeared, gripping the general by the throat as if he weighed nothing. A calm, bright, strangely comforting smile rested on his face.

"Alright, everyone... the war is over. Drop your weapons."

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