Legacy of the Void Fleet

What the…?"

He muttered it under his breath, barely audible—but loud enough for the officer at the console above to catch it.

"What happened?" his commanding officer asked, already stepping toward him.

No response.

The junior officer was frozen, eyes locked on the display. His mind barely able to process what he was seeing. It wasn't just one ship—it was a fleet. An entire armada. And it was closing fast.

Suddenly, his commanding officer leaned over—and his face went pale as he saw the same thing.

"Unknown FTL signatures—approaching fast. Huge formation—vector aligned directly with us…"

There was a split second of stunned silence.

Then the senior officer shouted—his voice echoing across the tier:

"Sound the alarm! Now!"

Fleet-wide alarm klaxons screamed to life.

Red lights bathed every corridor. Crew scrambled to battle stations. The warning tone—reserved only for catastrophic threats—reverberated through every deck of Tauros Prime and across the entire Minotaur 7th Fleet.

⸻

Back in the strategy room…

The alarm bells cut through the chamber like a blade.

Jarkon paused mid-sentence. He recognized the tone instantly—extreme danger.

"What the hell is going on…?" he muttered.

Without another word, his form shimmered and vanished—teleporting directly to the command bridge.

A moment later, he reappeared at the center of the chaos—crew racing across the bridge, systems blaring, warning screens filled with the same impossible data.

"Report!" he barked.

And before anyone could answer—

The Obliterator and the full force of the Void Fleet tore into realspace.

The wall of mana surged into view—

—as if space itself were bleeding.

The fabric of reality twisted, light bending and convulsing as the Obliterator's Transcendent Dark Matter FTL drive tore through the system. A massive rupture opened across the edge of the Rigid Star Sector.

Then—they came.

The dark membrane that cloaked the fleet began to dissolve, peeling away like mist under pressure. One by one, ships of the Void Fleet emerged—revealed in terrifying clarity. They had gigantic hulls of silver and alloy, carved with purpose and reinforced with impossible tech.

They had arrived.

All ships moved into position with precision, perfectly aligned into the seven battle groups we had previously discussed in previous chapters.

Leading the charge was the 1st Battle Group, commanded by Admiral Ezra himself. Flanking him were the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Battle Groups, holding the right wing of the formation. On the left flank, the 5th, 6th, and 7th Battle Groups took their positions, forming a wide, triangular assault formation.

Each battle group mirrored the others in structure—triangular in design, layered for function, not just force.

At the tip of each formation stood the vanguard—primarily Spearhead-class destroyers, slicing forward through space. Trailing closely were Titan-class frigates, forming a second wave. Together, they made up the front line: fast, aggressive, and reinforced.

Behind them, the heart of each group: the battlecruisers and battleships. These were the artillery backbone—providing heavy fire support while shielded by advanced barrier fields and the forward push of the vanguard.

And at the rear of each formation—the apex of the triangle—sat the Oblivion-class dreadnoughts, serving as the flagship of each group. These behemoths didn't just lead—they also provided support, with their linking tech systems with the vanguard through tactical energy networks, sharing shielding loads and firing solutions and energy support. Far enough to stay safe. Close enough to dominate.

Following each Oblivion-class Dreadnought, Battle Carriers trailed in tight formation. These massive vessels were not just fortresses of steel but flying hives of destruction, ready to unleash squadrons of fighters from their cavernous hangar bays.

Their role was clear:To provide long-range support, air superiority, and rapid-response interception.

Above and behind them all, towering like a myth in the void, was the super-dreadnought—Obliterator.

It did not fire. It did not move aggressively. But its mere presence anchored the entire fleet. Its silhouette cast long shadows across sensor feeds. Even though the Void Fleet was fewer in number, its structure, its scale, and its silence spoke volumes.

And the Minotaur felt it.

Even Jarkon, staring from the bridge of Tauros Prime, felt it.

He couldn't explain it. Neither could his officers. But the moment the Obliterator stabilized into RealSpace, a cold weight settled over them all.

This wasn't just another ship.

This was something else.

And it made him shiver.

Made every single Minotaur in the fleet shiver along with him.

And before the Minotaur's or their Grand Admiral Jarkon—could even begin to understand what was happening…

Before anyone could question reality itself—how a fleet of this scale, this power, had emerged from a region thought sealed, barren, dead for millions of years…

They were hit by something more terrifying than logic:

Fear.

Real fear.

A fear they had never known—not in generations of conquest, not even in the face of other great empires.

The pride that had always armored them vanished.

The unshakable confidence they had in their power—gone.

The plans they had carefully laid for the Genome Empire—dissolved. Useless.

Because what now floated in front of them was not just a fleet.

It was a reality they hadn't prepared for.

It was impossible.

And before they were given a second to react—the Void Fleet opened fire.

The silence of space was shattered by the roar of destruction.

Plasma cannons, railguns, and heavy turbolaser batteries roared to life.Dual turbolaser arrays shredded through enemy screens, their precision matched only by their ferocity.

Nova-class super plasma cannons — mounted exclusively on the battel cruisers — unleashed torrents of searing energy, melting through capital shields like butter.

Capital-grade railguns echoed across the battlefield, each shot a hypersonic spear of devastation.

And then came the Titan-class railguns — these titanic weapons were fired from dedicated ships the BC-211 Barracuda and others of the same class, shaking the very fabric of space with each discharge.

Torpedoes followed in swarms, dozens at a time, weaving fire and fury through the chaos.

Every weapon system that could fire did.

Except for Oblivion's main, or rather primary, weapons.

Streaks of molten energy, kinetic bursts, and devastating plasma lances tore across the star's cape. Highly concentrated kinetic projectiles cracked through the void, dragging shockwaves behind them. Turrets locked onto targets with mathematical precision. Firing sequences overlapped. Volleys rained down in waves.

The Minotaur's shields held. For a moment.

And then they didn't.

The first to fall were the corvettes—sliced clean through as if made of paper.

Then the frigates' hulls twisted and imploded under the concentrated barrages. However, the number of frigates falling wasn't significant..

The vacuum of space lit up with the brief, brutal glow of explosions—metal, debris, and plasma forming a storm of annihilation.

The Minotaur fleet hadn't just been caught off guard.

They had been outclassed.

Aboard a Minotaur corvette, one of the many ships stationed close to the edge of their fleet, the crew stared in frozen disbelief.

They had watched the Void Fleet tear into realspace—right in front of them. No warning. and certainly no time to react.

And then it fired.

They were the first to face the opening barrage.

"RAISE THE FRONTAL SHIELDS—NOW!" the corvette's captain barked, panic cutting through his voice.

He wasn't commanding. He was begging. Because he knew—if the shields didn't go up immediately, they were all dead.

He spun toward the comms officer.

"Request emergency support! Now! Tell fleet command we can't hold under this concentrated fire!"

The officer shouted into the channel. Once. Twice. Repeated the call. No reply. Only static.

"Captain—!"

The ship lurched, violently—cracks streaking across the internal displays like bleeding veins of light.

"Report! REPORT!"

"Shields are failing—frontals are down!"

"What!? How—?! Rotate! Bring the flank shields up—raise the port—!"

But he never finished the sentence.

"Incoming!"

A concentrated blast of plasma, railgun shells, and high-energy bursts from the Void Fleet's main artillery unit hit them directly.

BOOOOOOM.

The corvette erupted—ripped into fragments in a split second, its hull disintegrating into burning wreckage, lost in the silent chaos of the void.

The crew was gone. No survivors. No final messages. Just obliteration.

And across the battlefield, it was repeating.

One Corvette every two or so seconds.

Minotaur vessels, torn apart in rapid succession. Their frigates were barely holding. Coordination across the fleet was breaking down.

And worse?

Their main ships—the battleships and carriers—remained silent. Frozen. No orders. No movement.

While their frontline was being thoroughly shattered.

They were being slaughtered.

And yet—Grand Admiral Jarkon stood motionless.

Along with him, the entire main battle group remained silent.

Still frozen.

Still staring at the impossible reality unfolding before him.

The Void Fleet was tearing through his formation with cold, surgical precision. Ship after ship vanished in flashes of fire and twisted metal. Dozens gone. Then hundreds.

Each second passed like a blade across his pride.

He wasn't stunned by the strategy. He wasn't recalculating tactics.

He was in denial.

This couldn't be happening.

A sealed system—long abandoned, locked behind an artifact barrier—had just unleashed a fleet that defied logic. And now, everything he had prepared, everything he had built, was crumbling before his eyes.

"Commander—!"

A voice finally broke through the noise, urgent and close.

Jarkon turned slowly, mechanically, toward the voice. His top-level officer—his most trusted battle partner—stood rigid. Just minutes ago, his eyes had burned with confidence. Unshakable pride.

Now?

Shattered.

What Jarkon saw in him wasn't just fear.

It was hopelessness.

The kind that no plan could fix.

The kind that starts when a god walks into the battlefield—and you realize you brought a knife.