​Chapter 173: ​The absolute, world-shaking resonance of Sly’s uncapped mecha-dragon roar tore through the silver fluid rivers of Sector-14, instantly scrambling the targeting matrices and thermodynamic sensors of every remaining [Sentinel Gear] across the quadrant. The massive anti-matter loops that had previously threatened to age-regress Mark’s armada into raw iron scraps froze mid-vacuum, completely paralyzed by the sheer gravimetric weight of an active, real-world 7,000 CP Primordial Abyssal World-Devourer Dragon.​ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!​Sly’s five-mile-long cybernetic frame coiled majestically through the silver time-streams, his jagged diamond spine fins crackling with volatile, toxic-green plasma acid arches. He didn't wait for a secondary tactical coordinate command from the flagship deck. Opening his colossal, machine-spiked jaws, he activated his legendary [World-Eater Ledger] at 100% capacity, creating a localized black-hole suction vortex

Chapter 175: The interior chambers of the Grand Paradox Citadel groaned with a thunderous, low-frequency acoustic vibration as thousands of tons of siphoned gold-and-black chronological code were forcefully channeled straight through the Valerion’s main processing lines. The standard silver-circuit boards of the baseline system remained completely dead and dark across Mark Shola’s vision, yet the physical dark-matter hull plates of his entire fifty-ship armada vibrated with an unyielding, reality-breaking kinetic friction. Mark Shola stood perfectly upright on the primary command deck balcony, his hands casually tucked deep inside his combat jacket pockets. His vertical green pupils narrowed into sharp, predatory slashes as his neon-purple crown of celestial plasma cast an eerie, multi-dimensional glow across the high-tech structural steel of the master vault. Down below, millions of streams of liquidized time and golden administrative currency swirled like

Chapter 179: ​The global gateway vortex of the newly upgraded Sovereign's Capital Citadel did not merely propel Mark Shola’s armada into another territorial plane; it violently ripped them clean through the extra-systemic fabric of the deep multiverse. In a single, universe-rending collective flash of spatial acceleration, the fifty [Reality-Warping Abyssal Dreadnoughts] burst out of the hyperspace slipstream, their shifting dark-matter and crystal-glass hulls immediately snapping into an interlocking defensive triad formation to stabilize against a terrifying, non-linear environmental vacuum. ​Mark Shola stood perfectly upright on the primary external balcony deck of the Valerion. His hands were casually tucked deep inside his combat jacket pockets, his vertical green pupils narrowing into sharp, predatory slashes as he scanned the mind-bending landscape of Sector-15. ​Space here did not consist of stars, blood mist, or silver time-streams. The e

​Chapter 181​The massive, planet-sized metallic gateway ring of the [Multiverse Sovereign Gateway] enveloping the exosphere of Sector-1 violently groaned, its gold-bordered reality-warping glyphs bursting into a brilliant, blinding cascade of neon-purple and toxic-green starlight. In a single, universe-rending collective flash of spatial acceleration, the mile-long flagship Valerion burst back through the roaring vortex, smoothly flanked by the forty-seven Reality-Warping Abyssal Dreadnoughts of Mark Shola’s personal armada. Their newly retrofitted [Concept-Deconstruction Array Cannons] cast an ominous, absolute emerald eclipse across the entire North American continent, plunging the baseline world below into an instantaneous standstill.​Mark Shola stood perfectly upright on the external hull balcony of the Valerion. His hands were casually buried deep inside his combat jacket pockets, his vertical green pupils reflecting the staggering, automated transformation that

Chapter 183: ​The dark green, polarized exosphere of Sector-1 violently groaned, its localized atmospheric density rippling with a sudden, multi-vector gravimetric displacement as forty-seven colossal, spiked silhouettes dropped smoothly out of the higher-plane hyperspace rifts. The [Reality-Warping Abyssal Dreadnoughts] of Mark Shola’s personal armada moved in a flawless, interlocking defensive triad formation, their non-reflective dark matter hulls casting a terrifying cosmic eclipse across the entire North American continent. Flanking the mile-long warships were the ten thousand newly forged [Clockwork Guardian Sentinels], their vertical, toxic-green plasma slash eyes lighting up the clouds with an ominous, absolute administrative glare. ​Mark Shola stood perfectly upright on the external hull balcony of the Valerion. His hands were casually buried deep inside his combat jacket pockets, his vertical green pupils narrowing into razor-sharp slashes as his eyes locked onto the maste