Floating Island - Triple S Talent

The star portal located at the central pillar of the tower slowly opened, emitting a bluish-purple light that looked like a tear in the fabric of space-time. From within the portal, one by one, the star troops began to emerge.

They stood at nearly two meters tall, clad in dark, translucent armor that looked as if it was forged from the void of space itself. Tiny stars shimmered slowly beneath the surface of their bodies—as if the universe was beating within their chests. Each of them wielded a different weapon: some held glowing blue bows, others brandished nebula-coated longswords, and a few gripped staffs that pulsed with galactic particles.

Starlight surrounded their every movement, drenching the battlefield in a majestic yet lethal cosmic glow.

Lein looked at them with unwavering confidence.

"With this army," he thought, "those below tier-three shouldn't pose any threat."

All around him, disciples from various sects stood frozen in place, their mouths agape as they stared at the sky. The arrival of star soldiers from within the Galactic Fortress portal looked like a scene straight out of an ancient legend, suddenly brought to life before their very eyes. The aura emanating from the troops was overwhelming—burning with cosmic might that made the disciples feel like nothing more than specks of dust floating in the middle of a galaxy.

Line after line of star soldiers continued to pour out from the portal, each with steady steps and emotionless faces. They looked like beings who knew neither fear nor hesitation, born solely for one purpose: war. The more of them that emerged, the deeper the disciples' awe became. Some even swallowed nervously, fully realizing the vast difference in strength between them and these celestial warriors.

Meanwhile, Lein shifted his gaze elsewhere. In the distance, several other Galactic Fortresses stood tall but remained inactive. He knew they all needed to be activated soon if they were to maintain their advantage.

"You, come here," Lein said calmly, though his tone held absolute authority.

A few disciples from the Invictus Sect quickly approached. Without further explanation, Lein handed each of them a heavy black pouch. Inside, tens of thousands of units of power essence sparkled with energy.

"Go to every tower that's been built. Activate them all, and recharge them if they run low," Lein commanded, his tone firm but unhurried.

"Yes, Elder Lein!" they replied in unison. With the pouches in hand, the disciples sprinted off toward their assigned locations, their spirits ignited by the heavy responsibility they'd just received.

With distribution handled, Lein returned his focus to the central battlefield. On his tactical display, he watched as the lines of battle robots stormed the enemy's front lines with brutal efficiency. The enemy's defenses were collapsing, forcing several soul warriors—who had so far stayed hidden at the rear—to finally engage.

"Come on… show yourselves," Lein murmured softly, almost like a prayer.

He continued monitoring the battlefield. So far, only one Grandmaster had made an appearance. Lein knew their enemies had more than that. There should be at least three Grandmasters orchestrating things from the shadows.

"Three days, at most," he said again, this time in a flat tone, as if everything had already been calculated.

Lein had no intention of moving yet. It wasn't time. He was waiting—for the right moment to descend upon the battlefield and shake everything to its core.

***

Maledictus Sect Headquarters

In a grand chamber with black walls inscribed with protective runes, hurried footsteps echoed, replacing the tense silence. At the center of the room, the sect's high council sat in a circle. Standing at the head seat was an old man with white hair and a crimson robe, reading aloud a battlefield report.

His face was deeply lined—not just from age, but from the pressure and mounting frustration. His eyes narrowed sharply, brows furrowed, and jaw clenched as he read numbers he didn't want to believe.

"Damn it! What the hell is happening out there?!" he bellowed. His voice boomed through the chamber, shaking its rune-covered walls. "Weren't the Blood Forces already deployed?!"

His glare locked onto a young woman in formal uniform sitting across from him. Her face was pale, but she tried to maintain her composure as she answered.

"The Invictus Sect is using combat robots, sir. Their number... is estimated to exceed thirty million." Her voice caught in her throat. She took a deep breath to steady herself, but the elder's fury nearly made her lose control.

Bam!

The old man's palm slammed onto the stone table, leaving thin cracks across its surface. The impact rang in their ears, jolting the other elders from their silence.

"Are you sure?! Thirty million?!" His eyes bore into her, his face flushed with rage. His lips quivered slightly, his chest heaving.

The young woman bowed her head low. "Y-yes, sir. That… was a direct report from the battlefield."

An oppressive silence fell over the room. The sect's top figures exchanged glances, none daring to speak.

"With that much power…" the old man looked around, his eyes scanning the pale faces in the room. "Normal tactics are worthless. They've changed the rules of war!"

His gaze then shifted to a middle-aged man sitting quietly in the corner—his face hidden behind a black iron mask, revealing only a pair of cold, glowing violet eyes.

"Xyrael… any suggestions?" the old man asked. His tone softened slightly, filled with desperate hope.

The masked man didn't answer right away. He stared forward, weighing the situation. Then, in a deep, calm voice, he said, "Every path is closed. If we don't move now… we'll be nothing but bait."

His words were short, sharp, and cutting.

No one argued. Because they knew—Xyrael rarely spoke. And when he did, it meant they were teetering on the edge.

Hearing Xyrael's grim assessment, the old man—Velrath—gave a slow nod. His eyes turned to the end of the table, where another elderly figure sat, bald and calm amid the tension.

"Malchaezar, what's your take?" Velrath asked, his voice heavy, as if aware that every word from this man could shake the room.

Malchaezar didn't respond immediately. Silence hung thick for several seconds.

Then, a white piece of paper slowly materialized above his head, spinning gently in the air. His ancient eyes locked onto it with focused intensity.