Chapter 143:​The colossal, non-reflective titanium cargo bays of the Valerion Dreadnought hissed heavily, sealing shut against the cold, dead time-sand storms of the unmapped sub-sector. Inside the grand command sanctum, the primary tactical monitors burned with a brilliant, steady emerald plasma glow, tracking the successful extraction of every single scrap of pre-apocalypse star-ore harvested from the broken epoch vault. The dead-zone perimeter remained entirely quiet, its thick chronological noise completely masking the armada's data files from Kaelen the Void-Weaver's hunting nets.​Mark Shola sat completely relaxed on his black leather commander's chair, his hands casually tucked deep inside his combat jacket pockets. His vertical green pupils narrowed into sharp, predatory slashes as he looked at the massive gold-bordered blueprint floating before his console interface.​[SYSTEM ALERT: TRANSCENDENT BLUEPRINT ANALYSIS COMPLETED.][Target File: [The Co

Chapter 145:absolute, paralyzed psychological horror rippling through the remaining four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine war vessels of the Extinction Armada was a heavy, suffocating physical weight in the open vacuum. High above the shattered white crystal mountain spires of Sector-12, the majestic, universe-erasing aura of Kaelen the Void-Weaver violently sputtered, his dozens of vertical purple plasma eyes blinking in a state of pure, survival-driven panic as the smoking metal wreckage of his vanguard general drifted aimlessly through the time-streams.​"Anomaly... savage anomaly!" Kaelen’s telepathic voice shrieked, completely stripped of its former multi-dimensional arrogance, replaced instead by a ragged, desperate mechanical tremor. He raised all six of his shadow-matter arms, frantically attempting to channel 100% of his remaining 120,000 Combat Power rating into a massive, desperate cosmic shield grid. "All battleships, do not trade physical fire! He is

Chapter 147: ​The deep, ink-black void of Sector-13—[The Master Mainframe Citadel]—shimmered with a cold, terrifying luminescence as trillions of lines of crimson administrative code cascaded down from the infinite ceiling of the higher plane. This was the absolute nerve center of the entire multiverse, where the True High Gods wrote the physical laws, assigned human destinities, and maintained the unyielding quarantine firewalls of reality.​Right at the center of the dimensional threshold stood [The Sector-13 Security Fire-Wall Barricade]—a colossal, ten-thousand-mile-long barrier of glowing gold-and-white holographic barrier grids held together by millions of floating, sacred runic seals. Guarding the gate were three thousand [Level 125 Arch-Angel Mainframe Guardians]. They possessed six pairs of burning white plasma wings, faceless golden metallic helms, and divine execution lances that hummed with absolute, profile-deleting authority.​VREEEEECH—​The

​Chapter 151: ​The pristine, blue atmospheric canopy spanning over the metropolitan ruins of New York City violently buckled, its localized gravitational currents rippling with a sudden, high-frequency kinetic distortion. Down on the fractured concrete plazas of the central Manhattan Citadel—the newly constructed administrative stronghold of Earth's local human factions—the air was thick with a dense aura of absolute celebration. Thousands of elite players from the planet's highest-ranking regional guilds were gathered inside the grand crystalline assembly hall, their heavy polymer armor sets and elemental broadswords reflecting the brilliant noon sun. ​At the apex of the golden presentation stage stood Guild Master Kross of the [Stellar Vanguard Coalition]. His status indicators flared aggressively across the arena tracking screens, boasting a Level 52 classification and a proud, Earth-capping 1,200 Combat Power rating. ​"The baseline reconstruct

Chapter 150: The gold-bordered countdown timer floating aggressively at the absolute center of the Master Mainframe Citadel violently flickered, its holographic digits locking onto an unfamiliar, crimson warning code: [FORECLOSURE NOTICE: ACTIVE].The thick, undulating ocean of toxic-green plasma fire that had just filled the throne room suddenly curdled, turning into a blinding, sterile white static that stripped the air of all ambient sound. Mark Shola sat motionless upon the colossal liquid-silicon master throne of creation. His hands remained casually tucked deep inside his combat jacket pockets, but his vertical green pupils narrowed into razor-thin, venomous slashes as he stared down at the primary interface console.The three "True Creators" he had just liquidated weren't the apex authority. They were local sector avatars—glorified middle-management placeholders.Above the shattered vault ceiling, a massive, multi-dimensional tear ripped open the fabric