The fifth year of the great war began beneath a heavy shroud of exhaustion that seemed to hang over every fleet, every soldier, and every star that had borne witness to the carnage. Even the void itself — silent and infinite — seemed weary of the endless flashes of light and death that had scarred it for half a decade. Though Lord Zarion finally managed to keep his forces from fracturing after Hedrik’s merciless ambush on the deserters, that fragile unity came at a cost. The troops who returned to his side were loyal, yes — but their loyalty was born from fear and desperation, not faith. They were shadows of their former selves, carrying the ghosts of their fallen comrades in their eyes. Instead of pushing forward as Zarion had hoped, the allied armies began constructing vast encampments on the worlds they had seized — cities of steel and rubble surrounded by shimmering shields. Their engineers dug deep trenches and anchored colossal planetary fortresses, as though they planned not to conquer the stars anymore, but to hide from them. Even the mightiest admirals avoided eye contact with Zarion, terrified that another reckless order might drag them into another slaughter. He could see Hedrik’s empire from afar lying just beyond reach. Yet Zarion could not move. He could only wait. The irony was unbearable. This update ıs available on 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡~𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚~𝙣𝙚𝙩 Meanwhile, the situation on Hedrik’s side was hardly better. The once-proud ruler now commanded roughly five hundred remaining fleets, their formation stretched thin across multiple sectors. Of those, one hundred guarded the Galactic Seed of Verilion, the legendary seed with one of Hedrik’s three Grand Marshals stood watch there, ensuring no enemy could approach. Another hundred fleets were stationed in a tight defensive ring around Planet Shadhar, the crown jewel of his dominion and the seat of his divine authority. That left only three hundred to continue the fight — and among them were three hundred more, unmarked fleets painted in Hedrik’s color yet built from alien steel and forged by unknown hands. Their weapons gleamed differently. Their reactors thrummed at unfamiliar frequencies. Even their navigational routes did not align with Hedrik’s standard formations. Whispers spread across the star channels — Were these allies? Mercenaries? Or something else entirely? But one truth became clear as the years bled on — these mysterious fleets were dying faster than the rest. Of the 280 fleets lost in the previous four years, more than half belonged to those new, gray-painted reinforcements. Whoever had supplied them, they surely now regretted their alliance. The mounting losses forced Marshal Tharn and Marshal Livia to make a painful choice. They began to scale back their assaults, abandoning grand offensives in favor of sharp, surgical strikes. Even without direct protest from their allies, logic alone dictated restraint. Facing two thousand coalition fleets with barely three hundred and twenty of their own was no longer valor — it was madness wrapped in pride. Another half-year crawled by under that uneasy stalemate. The Allied forces, under Zarion’s command, advanced cautiously — taking fifty more worlds and annihilating twelve beyond saving. In response, Marshals Tharn and Livia unleashed a campaign of attrition — haunting the flanks of the allied armada like wolves, striking isolated squadrons, and retreating seconds before reinforcements arrived. It was as though they could see the future, always one step ahead, always out of reach. And then, the balance shifted again. From the distant Galaxy of the Behemoth of Curses, a new shadow entered the war. Marshal Galtan, servant of the dread Behemoth Darvion, arrived bearing gifts of horror and hope — enchantments of protection, spells of valor, waves of healing, and entire storms of blood curses mixed with pure, burning soul force. His support was carried aboard a single colossal vessel, draped in the banners of his galaxy. That ship’s arrival shook the cosmos. Every observer knew what it meant. Darvion, the Behemoth of Curses — one of the most feared cosmic sovereigns — had officially joined the war. Even though it was only one ship, its symbolic weight was immeasurable. It was a declaration, a warning, and a challenge all at once. And the Crumbled Dreams Empire — never one to wait, never one to yield — responded before the ink of fate had dried. They didn’t wait for the spells and curses to settle. In retaliation for that audacious act, Marshal Tharn wheeled around with ruthless determination, leading only three fleets under his direct command, and launched a daring, lightning-fast assault upon Marshal Galtan’s fortress — a mighty bastion that served as home to ten full fleets from the fearsome Behemoth Galaxy. When the battle finally subsided, little remained but drifting wreckage and silence. The majority of the fleets involved had been obliterated, and though Marshal Tharn survived, he emerged grievously wounded — his body battered, and his soul deeply scarred by a rare soul. And with that battle came the shocking demise of the legendary Marshal Galtan himself! Once again, no one could explain how Tharn had known of Galtan’s exact location, or how he struck with such precision and fury — as if guided by some mysterious force, or perhaps by fate itself. Thus ended the fifth year of the Great War — in a silence so heavy it felt as if the stars themselves were holding their breath, pressing down upon every bone and soul that had endured the struggle. On one side, Lord Zarion was on the edge of madness. His armies had survived, yes, but their spirits were fractured; morale had decayed to the point of despair. Every soldier who once looked to him with fiery faith now did so with weary, uncertain eyes. On the other, Lord Hedrick fought a different kind of battle — a desperate, invisible one. He exhausted every possible resource, searching for a cure to the dreadful curse that had stricken his second strongest marshal. ....After reviewing every report and fragmented message in the back of her mind, Helen exhaled a long, heavy sigh. "First brother’s situation is worsening by the day," she murmured gravely. "His army’s overwhelming brute strength has merely delayed the inevitable. The disparity between his forces and Zarion’s alliance is simply too vast. And now, with Tharn out of the equation, the balance has tipped against him even further." She rested her chin gently upon her hand, eyes unfocused as she thought aloud. "If I were him, I’d take to the field myself — lead the charge, enter every major battle personally. It would be reckless, yes, but it might buy him time, maybe even hope." "That would be insanity," Seraphina interjected sharply. "This isn’t a border conflict — it’s a cosmic-scale war! Officially, only Lord Zarion has revealed himself among the Monarch ranks. But if Lord Hedrick were to appear on the battlefield and get surrounded by three or four Monarchs and Guardians working together? That would be suicide. No one — absolutely no one — can predict the true scale or nature of the powers moving in this war." Helen nodded slowly, a few times in silent thought. "You’re right," she admitted softly. "But even so, sooner or later Hedrick will have to ask us — his four siblings — to send reinforcements. It will wound his pride more than any blade could... yet I only hope he doesn’t let that pride destroy him." "That’s not our burden, my lady," Seraphina replied with a small shrug, waving one hand lazily. "We don’t have the strength to contribute even if we wanted to. If you were to leave personally, we’d lose the Destruction Pit Planet the very next sunrise." "Hey!" Helen snapped, her voice sharp as she frowned deeply and pointed toward the shipyard beyond the window. "We have three fully operational fleets right now — we can send them to reinforce Hedrick’s forces!" "Hey, my lady, my lady~," Seraphina sing-songed, pretending she hadn’t heard a single word. "Why not just buy more fleets if you love them so much? It’s been nine whole months since our last mission with the Cradle Empire. There are new contracts piling up in our queue — and right now, that empire is actively striking against those allied with your elder brother’s enemies. Wouldn’t joining them count as direct support for your brother? And besides—" she grinned slyly, "—you’d be paid quite handsomely for it!" "Hmmm..." Helen pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. "The Pearls we still have... how long will they last us?" "Maybe a month, give or take, if we don’t make any large-scale purchases," Seraphina replied promptly. "Haah~" Helen sighed, lifting her narrow shoulders in a small gesture of resignation. "Then after a month, we’ll take on another mission." "Do we really have to wait that long?" Seraphina groaned, slapping her thigh in frustration. "With more Pearls, we could expand our empire so much faster!" "...That’s the limit I’ve set for myself," Helen said quietly, a faint smile forming on her lips. "Let me keep at least a shred of dignity." But even as she spoke, the air around them seemed to chill; her words carried a weight that lingered. Seraphina, however, was oblivious to the shift. "Then... can I go in your stead?" she asked eagerly. "They won’t pay me even ten percent of what they’d offer for your participation, but something’s better than nothing!" "Do as you wish," Helen replied simply, turning her gaze away toward the distant horizon. "Thank you, sir!!" Seraphina exclaimed, impulsively hugging Helen’s arm before dashing off. Moments later, she was gone — racing toward the shimmering gates of the void, laughter echoing faintly in her wake. As for Helen, she remained seated, unmoving. Her gaze lingered upon her newly forming harbor... her first mega project in ten thousand years.