Even though this was the first time anyone had ever seen that fleet, fear spread fast.
People hadn't even watched the ships fight yet. They didn't know what weapons the fleet carried, or what "hunting gods" truly looked like in action. But the moment the fleet began moving toward the solar system at a terrifying speed, panic and unease rose like floodwater. Across the world, fists clenched. Eyes stayed locked on the screen. Many prayed the same prayer in different languages:
Please let them only target the gods. Please spare the humans.
Finally, the scene shifted again. That strange, "magic-like" language—alien, impossible, yet somehow understandable—flowed out of the broadcast.
"The solar system contains nine subordinate fixed stars. Probability of unexpected variables: 76.834%."
"The processor has produced the most feasible assault plans."
Then the first plan appeared.
"Plan 1: Retrieve the historical snapshot of the solar system and fully delete all material concept systems within one light-year. This is the highest force level permitted by the resonance body."
For a moment, it felt like the entire live audience swallowed at the same time.
At S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury's temple twitched as cold sweat slid down his skin. Agents turned pale. A physics specialist—normally calm, steady, and proud of always understanding what he was looking at—went stiff like a man being sentenced. The cup in his hand slipped and spilled, water splashing across the floor.
He didn't even blink.
He just whispered one word, over and over.
"Crazy… crazy…"
Natasha Romanoff snapped her gaze to him. "Doctor. Does that mean Earth will be affected?"
The physicist looked at her as if she'd asked whether drowning affected breathing. He gave a bitter, broken smile.
"Not 'affected,'" he said quietly. "Erased."
He swallowed hard.
"Plan 1 doesn't just remove a few systems. It deletes material concept systems. Human civilization would disappear completely—like it never existed. Not ruins. Not ash. Nothing. A blank page."
Silence crushed the room.
Fury stared at the screen like it was staring back. The fleet was speaking in a calm, professional tone… discussing whether to wipe out the solar system like a smudge on glass. Fury's fear kept climbing.
"Where the hell did these things come from?" he muttered.
Then the next plan appeared, and Fury's face froze.
The fear didn't rise anymore.
It spiked.
"Plan 2: The engineering fleet will induce the release of large quantities of artificial micro black holes at the solar system's outer boundary, generating abnormal gravitational waves to tear apart system structure and divine entities."
"Feasibility proven in the Galactic Center campaign 10.5 billion years ago, when the 27th and 28th Legions hunted several supreme divinities. However, elimination efficiency did not reach ideal range for supreme targets."
The entire Marvel world went still, as if a cold needle had been pushed under everyone's skin.
Then, like a dam breaking, rage and terror exploded into the live chat.
"Artificial micro black holes?! They're insane!"
"They tested this before?!"
"10.5 billion years ago?! What kind of civilization even existed back then?!"
"Both plans would destroy Earth!"
At Kamar-Taj, the Ancient One's expression emptied, as if the blood had drained out of her face. The idea of "hunting gods" was already unthinkable. But now she was hearing that this civilization had been doing it ten billion years before human history even began.
"How… how is that possible?" she whispered.
And then she realized something worse.
They weren't done.
More plans kept appearing—each more horrifying than the last, as if the fleet was scrolling through old recipes for killing the divine.
Plan after plan.
Option after option.
Each one carried an ugly truth: they had done this before. Over and over. Across ages so vast they crushed the mind.
Until the final displayed option arrived.
"Plan 18: Force assault. Directly destroy divine physical bodies and conceptual entities."
"Feasible. However, this will prevent the fleet from joining other encirclement and hunting operations for an extended period."
By this point, many people watching had forgotten how to speak. The plans weren't theories—they were habits. This fleet didn't fear gods.
It scheduled them.
Then, after a long "thinking pause" measured in something the translation called a Planck time, the central host made its decision.
"Execute Plan 18. Immediate rope attack."
A wave of relief washed through the planet, strange and desperate.
Because compared to deleting reality or shredding the solar system with micro black holes, Plan 18 sounded—at least—focused. Cleaner. Targeted. Less like taking a chainsaw to the universe.
At S.H.I.E.L.D., agents exhaled without realizing they'd been holding their breath. Fury loosened his collar and only then noticed his shirt was damp. Cold sweat had soaked through his vest.
Still, a new question crawled into his mind like a worm.
Why choose the harder plan?
If the first seventeen options were simpler and more brutal, why pick the one that demanded precision and cost them time?
As if answering his thought, new orders appeared.
A secondary command unit relayed instructions to the lower fleet nodes:
"Strictly protect the third Earth-like planet of the solar system from war impact."
"Protect the primitive carbon-based biological community living on the planet."
Then the central host transmitted a special signal—something like a sealed directive—received and displayed for the audience:
"By direct command of resonance consciousness: these carbon-based intelligent entities will play a critical role in completing causality in the distant future."
At Stark Industries, Tony Stark looked like someone had punched him with a miracle.
"Protecting the carbon-based life?" he repeated. "So… they won't harm humans. They'll actually protect them?"
Rhodey stared, still stunned. "For them," he said slowly, "we're not even worth crushing. We're ants. And yet they're… choosing to step around us."
Stark leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Because we matter later."
At Kamar-Taj, the Ancient One tried to untangle the phrase "completion of causality," but her mind was messy and overloaded. Still, one thing was clear:
Humanity wasn't their target.
For now, that was the best possible outcome.
And yet, as relief settled, a dangerous thought rose in the Ancient One's mind—bright as a flame.
If this fleet could appear here… if something like this could enter the Marvel universe…
Would it also hunt the gods that threatened Earth?
Over the centuries, she had fought divine beings with cruel intentions. She had protected the planet again and again, paying for it with time, sacrifice, and damage to her own strength. Now she was weaker than before. The gods hadn't become kinder. Only bolder.
If a fleet like this existed… and if it ever turned its gaze toward the wrong gods—
Wouldn't that solve the problem forever?
While that dream burned in her imagination, the broadcast changed again.
The battle began.
When the first spherical assault ship reached the solar system's edge, two of the divine fixed stars—beings that looked like planets but behaved like living gods—reacted instantly. They released violent electromagnetic fields and gamma radiation toward the fleet without hesitation.
The attack should have been world-ending. The kind of burst that could strip a planet's ecosystem to bare rock.
But before the radiation even reached the fleet, a dark blue curve flashed—an interference line, like a boundary drawn by physics itself. The radiation burst struck the fleet's surface and left only a few ripples, like rain on a metal roof.
The audience went numb.
Many people had assumed "divine fixed star" was just a fancy title. A metaphor.
But no.
It was literal.
These were gods—living stars—attacking like cosmic predators.
And the fleet was ignoring them like they were annoying insects.
The live chat erupted again:
"WTF?! The divine fixed star is literally a conscious planet!"
"That attack could destroy worlds!"
"And the fleet doesn't even flinch?!"
"This is it—ultimate technology versus ultimate divine power!"
At Stark Industries, Tony Stark trembled—not with fear, but with raw excitement.
"It's insane," he breathed. "And it's… beautiful."
Rhodey nodded slowly, equally captivated. This was the dream of every scientist who ever looked at the sky and refused to accept limits.
But the fleet wasn't finished showing its hand.
On-screen, new combat updates appeared:
"Detect high-energy reactions. Confirm presence of massive divine entities."
"Hostile strike detected. Domain shield received minimal damage. Restoration complete."
"First wave heavy stealth bombers deployed. Second wave on standby."
Then the strangest line of all appeared—words that hit people's nervous systems like electricity:
"Complete conceptual division of this battle zone."
"Thaumaturgy Fleet: expand information correction."
And then those lines—the ones that made the hair rise on everyone's arms—appeared like a declaration carved into reality:
"Divinity is forbidden here."
"Everything here is reality."
"This place allows laws to be embodied."
The audience barely realized something important: their feelings were changing.
At first they had feared the fleet.
Now, they were rooting for it.
Because the fleet's existence proved something humanity had always secretly wanted to be true:
Gods are not invincible.
And when those three lines appeared—divinity forbidden, reality enforced, laws made physical—people felt an almost violent thrill. Like watching the universe finally obey the rules instead of laughing at them.
Everyone leaned in, waiting for an epic clash.
Then…
It didn't happen.
Instead, something far worse happened.
One of the divine fixed stars—the one leading the offense and defense—simply vanished.
No explosion.
No helium flash.
No dramatic collapse.
It didn't swell, didn't burn, didn't erupt.
It was like a soap bubble popping silently in the dark.
The only evidence it had ever existed was the sudden emptiness it left behind, causing nearby small planets to jerk and drift as chaotic gravity shifted.
A dead silence hit both the screen and the world watching it.
People stared upward as if the sky itself had betrayed them.
Someone whispered the question that everyone was thinking:
"What… happened?"
Where did the divine fixed star go?
No one had an answer.
Because this "god-level technology" had taken three seconds to erase a divine entity from existence.
And that was only the first step.
On-screen, the remaining divine fixed star reacted instantly. It increased its rotation speed and tried to jump deeper into the solar system, fleeing toward safety.
But it soon discovered something impossible.
This entire region had turned into a dead zone—a stagnation field where the speed of light was driven almost to zero. Space itself had become a trap.
Then the spherical warships—some of them so massive they looked like wandering moons—fired from every direction at once.
Invisible beams crossed the battlefield.
And the hunt continued.
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