Legacy of the Void Fleet-Chapter 133: ch the escape.

While humans across Earth were the most vocal about the changes, they weren't the only ones affected.

Animals were changing too.

Every creature—furred or feathered, scaled or skinned—was being subtly, but undeniably, altered.

Though the shift was still in its early stages, the effects were real. Forests, jungles, and natural preserves were growing denser—slowly, almost imperceptibly, but steadily. The common public hadn't noticed yet, but government agencies and specialized observers had.

Animals, however, were feeling the weight of Earth's new gravity even more intensely than humans. Gravity had effectively doubled, and for creatures not genetically enhanced like humans, the pressure was heavier. Movement slowed. Muscle strain increased.

But within that pressure… something was awakening.

The ambient presence of mana—still sparse, still forming—was beginning to interact with the biological structure of Earth's wildlife. And unlike humans, who were given the Awakening Serum, animals were adapting naturally.

Stronger bones. Enhanced reflexes. Regenerative responses. Early signs of mutation.

These weren't rapid or monstrous changes. Not yet. But the evolutionary path that had long been suppressed by Earth's previously desolate environment was stirring again. Mana wasn't just reviving the world—it was reshaping it.

This quiet, creeping evolution would take time to fully emerge.

And it wasn't just happening on Earth.

Across the Forbidden Sector, a larger transformation had begun.

As mana concentration increased, the long-dormant connection between that region and the Galactic Will—the natural force that governed the structure and balance of mana across the stars—was stabilizing.

The laws of that region, once distorted, were slowly returning to their natural state.

The mana-deprived zones within it had begun to shrink.

And with that shift, something extraordinary was beginning to stir:

Dead celestial planets, like Mars, were reacting. Some would eventually reawaken, their surfaces filled with new vitality.

Resources, once inert, would gradually transform—imbued with new properties as mana density increased.

Atmospheres, thin or broken, might mend themselves with time.

But all of it—this global, planetary, and interstellar metamorphosis—was a gradual process.

A long awakening.

But it had already begun.

While the Forbidden Sector was undergoing celestial transformation—bathed in waves of mana from the Galactic Will—just outside its edge, the Regal Star System bore witness to a different kind of change.

War.

The Void Fleet's siege on the Minotaur stronghold was all but complete.

The battle, fought over hours with precision and overwhelming force, had left the enemy fleet in ruins. Only their flagship, Taurus Prime, and its two escort vessels remained intact—survivors in name only.

The rest of the once-proud Minotaur fleet—over 10,000 ships strong—was now nothing more than floating wreckage. For thousands of kilometers, space was littered with the dead hulls of warships, broken wings of fighters, shattered carriers—all drifting silently in the cold void.

What had once been an empire's armada was now a graveyard.

Inside the Taurus PrimeGeneral Maruc Oralis – Void Fleet Alpha Legion Commander

Maruc stepped out of the captured main hangar, his armored boots echoing in the steel corridors of the enemy's flagship. Behind him, his elite Alpha Legion squads moved in formation, guided by internal structural maps decoded by Void Fleet AI.

They split into tactical teams, sweeping through the vessel.

At first, resistance was minimal. The hangars and adjacent halls were eerily empty.

But then it began.

Minotaur forces ambushed them—energy blasts cutting through the stale air. Plasma rifles and laser cannons fired from fortified positions.

Just as Maruc had predicted, the corridors were tight, allowing only ten soldiers to move shoulder to shoulder, forcing the rest to fall into staggered formation behind. It wasn't enough to halt them—but it slowed their momentum.

Maruc adjusted immediately.

"Switch to cold weapons. Form wave squads. Push rotation."

The first ten front-liners shifted, transforming their standard loadouts into plasma-infused melee gear: energy swords, spears, axes, and shields—designed for close-quarters ship combat.

The formation shifted.

The soldier at center—wielding a massive plasma axe—charged forward, cleaving through the packed Minotaur line in a single, brutal swing. His energy shield followed, smashing aside defenders as he advanced.

Flanking him were spearmen and swordsmen—sweeping the corridor's sides, clearing resistance with surgical precision.

As the front wave tired, they rotated out, fresh soldiers taking their place instantly—cover fire suppressing the rear guard of the Minotaur resistance.

They moved methodically—clearing room by room, corridor by corridor—minimizing damage to the ship itself while neutralizing enemies with ruthless efficiency.

The mission was massive. The pressure on Void Fleet marines was constant.

But they were trained for this.

They were masters of close-quarters boarding operations. Veterans of planetary sieges. Each squad moved like a single organism, clearing the Taurus Prime deck by deck, pushing deeper toward the command chamber of Taurus Prime.

And this slaughter did not go unnoticed by jarkon

Barely recovered, his strength still shaky, the High Commander and grand admiral of the Minotaur 7th fleet and a peak World-Building Realm cultivator, stood in the half-collapsed, otherwise damaged bridge of Taurus Prime, clutching to the central console for the support to even stand up as he watched the choas unfold through fractured tactical screens and display.

His face was grim, as his eyes were sunken deep, his weekend aura constantly flickering clearly still drained from his desperate struggle and defense against oblivion's maw.

All around the ship, he saw it—his ship, now breached by the enemy. A cold, efficient massacre was underway, cutting down what remained of his crew. The Minotaur warriors—elite, proud—were being dismantled with ruthless precision by enemies clad in sleek black exoskeleton armor.

Despite the peak-grade armor his enlisted crew wore, the enemy was cutting them down as if they were nothing. Blades and rounds that should've held the line barely slowed the attackers. Their black exoskeleton armor wasn't just durable—it was untouchable, not even scratched by the desperate strikes of his proud warriors.

Slowly but surely, the halls of his flagship ran red. Even now, the last pockets of resistance—mounted by the remaining 20,000 or so conscious Minotaur's—were being silenced, one brutal skirmish at a time.

His jaw clenched. His fists trembled.

His body trembled as he watched the two figures now sweeping through the corridors like a living storm.

He growled, his voice low and bitter.

"Damn it… who the hell are these people?"

How are they this strong?" His voice cracked under the weight of disbelief and rising fury.

"Wait… wait—this form…" he muttered, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the feed showing the black exoskeleton-clad enemy."That stature…" he whispered."Could it be… human?"

"Their energy signatures…" He could feel it—no, he could see it. The energy radiating from each of the attackers.

"they're all at the Master Realm. Just like our elites."

He slammed a gauntleted fist into the console.

And yet…

"Just like us, yet they're walking through our forces like we're nothing."

His pride burned as he realized the enemies—who could possibly be humans—were dominating them with ease. A species with little to no voice in the galactic structure…Because they weren't High Humans.

[

Now, some of you might be wondering—what exactly is a High Human?

Well, a High Human is a race that, while fundamentally human, is something far beyond it. I won't say much for now—neither is it important at this point, nor will Kallus encounter them for quite some time. But I'll give you a hint, subtle enough for you all to understand.

A High Human is essentially a refined, evolved racial aspect of humanity.

Yes, racial aspect. And while it's not directly tied to cultivation, the concept isn't entirely unrelated. After all, a regular human can ascend into becoming a High Human—if they reach a certain level of refinement, awakening something deep within their lineage.

But make no mistake: High Humans are fundamentally, irrevocably different.

And these High Humans… they hold far more power and influence—not just in this galaxy, but across the Super Universes as well. Where ordinary humans are often ignored, dismissed, or used as pawns, High Humans command respect, fear, and even reverence.

They walk among the rulers of empires, the architects of civilization, and the cultivators of cosmic law. for the are special]

"They're dominating us," he whispered, more to himself than to the others around him. "Like we're nothing."

How?

How were these unknown warriors—these humans—so strong?

As Jarkon stood watching the slaughter unfold aboard his flagship, his mind spiraled in disbelief.

When did humans become this powerful? he thought, trembling. Since when?

The Minotaur had once dominated this quadrant, razing civilizations that dared rise against them. Some of those civilizations still clung to life, but none had ever possessed strength like this. What he saw now shattered every assumption he held about this galaxy, about his enemies, about himself.

His pride—his identity as a conqueror—was bleeding out on the floor with every Minotaur soldier cut down.

A distant alarm blared again, briefly piercing the silence before going dead once more. The command deck flickered under the strain. Amid the ruins, one officer still conscious struggled to his console, hands trembling.

"Grand Admiral…" the officer coughed. "The reactor sector… it's been compromised…"

Urgency laced his words. But Jarkon said nothing.

He wasn't listening.

He stood frozen, eyes glazed over, not from shock—but from calculation. Contemplation. Escape.

He still had one last card: a teleportation scroll. Ancient. Priceless. A relic unearthed from the ruins of their mother planet, left behind by some long-forgotten civilization. His father had given it to him for one purpose—self-preservation in absolute defeat.

And this… this was it.

Just as he reached for it beneath his uniform, a deep boom echoed outside the sealed doors of the command bridge, jolting him from his thoughts.

He spun toward his High Admiral, who lay crumpled on the floor, still alive but barely.

"They're here," the High Admiral muttered coldly, his tone full of bitter blame. "They've come for you."

Before Jarkon could reply, the command bridge's doors exploded inward—blasted open by Void Fleet marines in gleaming exoskeletons. A storm of gunfire flooded the room.

Anyone still conscious was gunned down in seconds.

His High Admiral was among the first to fall.

But Jarkon—Jarkon remained untouched.

A green halo flared around him, shimmering with ancient power. The protective artifact woven into his armor had activated—his last shield, bought with bloodline and legacy.

He was alive.