An old general steadied himself against the edge of the table, his fingers trembling slightly as he muttered under his breath.
"Obsidian, Direbird, Owl, Bastion, Stronghold, Colossus, Dire Wolf… This… this is already…"
"Eight," another general finished the chilling number for him, his voice dry.
"That's equivalent to the full organization of an enhanced Imperial Sub-Fleet. And it was all done by the same Federation Fleet, outnumbered yet defeating them one by one, in less than a standard week."
"The Pluto Fleet…" The intelligence officer's voice betrayed unconcealed dread as he uttered the name. "Based on current intelligence analysis, the fleet's commander, Qin Bei Wang, fully exploited our delayed intelligence, dispersed forces, and… severe underestimation of his strength to execute a series of bold and precise deep penetrations, ambushes, and key-point strikes. His fleet demonstrated… coordination efficiency and tactical execution capability far beyond that of a conventional newly established fleet."
In the briefing room, the fury and thirst for revenge ignited by Obsidian's defeat had now been replaced by a deeper chill and disbelief. Anger still simmered, but it was overshadowed by bewilderment and heaviness in the face of losses that defied comprehension.
Eight Sub-Level Fleets! This was no minor loss from a border skirmish; this was a devastating failure severe enough to shake the local balance of power in the entire Savannah Star System, even the Opal Star Sector!
How many years had it been since the Empire suffered such a horrifying series of consecutive blows in such a short time, in the same region, against the same opponent?
The Pluto Fleet. Qin Bei Wang.
In the minds of the high command at the Imperial Theater Command, these two names had abruptly transformed from "provocateurs needing to be taught a lesson" into a lethal threat that must be eradicated at all costs, sparing no expense.
The earlier decision to mobilize four fleets for retaliation now seemed not only not an overreaction, but possibly… still insufficient.
Opal Starfield Theater Command, Commander's Office.
The final briefing summarizing the brutal battle reports from the Savannah Star System was placed gently on General Strauss's wide alloy desk by his adjutant, as if handling something immensely heavy.
The office's thick soundproof door had just closed, completely isolating the faint noise from the corridor outside.
Strauss picked up the briefing with an expressionless face, his eyes scanning the opening lines—already the third confirmation of Obsidian's losses. His fingers tightened slightly, creasing the edge of the paper.
He read on: Langkawi Star had fallen, two Bloodblade fleets annihilated in port… His breathing grew heavier.
When he saw that Iron Curtain and the other four Bloodblade fleets had been ambushed and crippled while on the move, with confirmed combat losses approaching "equivalent to eight Sub-Level Fleet organizations," the veins on the back of his hand holding the briefing suddenly bulged like earthworms.
Dead silence lasted for about five seconds.
Then—
"Bastards! Incompetents! A bunch of parasites of the Empire!!!"
Strauss's roar erupted like the bellow of a wounded tyrannosaurus, startling the guard stationed outside the soundproof door into a full-body shudder.
Inside the office, sound waves crashed against the walls, causing several old-style medals on the display shelf to tremble slightly.
He slammed the heavy battle report onto the desk with such force that papers scattered everywhere.
But that was far from enough.
"Eight!
A full eight Sub-Level Fleets!
Nearly one hundred and twenty Imperial Starships!"
His eyes were bloodshot, veins throbbing on his forehead as he paced back and forth, shouting at the air as if Lancaster, Isabella, and Zane Barrett were standing right before him.
"Even if they were one hundred and twenty pigs!
Let loose in a forest as vast as Savannah for the Federation bastards to hunt and slaughter!
They couldn't have died this fast!
This completely!!"
His rage grew with every word, and he suddenly kicked the nearby holographic tactical display console.
The sturdy alloy frame emitted a piercing groan, the surface tilted, and the projected star chart flickered and distorted before finally going dark.
"Lancaster!
Your Obsidian is supposed to be the elite of the border! Elite?
Punctured by a twenty-two-year-old rookie soldier!
Are your two 'Emperor-class' ships made of paper?!"
"Isabella Marlow!
Iron Curtain!
Defense expert?
Ambushed in your own star system, with both flanks destroyed?
Are your Reconnaissance Ships blind?!"
"And Zane Barrett!
You reckless fool!
What can you do besides shout?
Hunt, hunt—you chased your own fleet right into the enemy's slaughterhouse!
You couldn't even protect the ships in your own military port!!"
With each curse, he grabbed whatever was within reach and hurled it violently.
An exquisite crystal starship model, symbolizing victory in a past battle, was swept off the desk and shattered on the floor.
An electronic oil painting depicting an Imperial Fleet review was torn from the wall and smashed into the corner, the screen cracking and flickering before going completely dark.
A heavy alloy paperweight whistled through the air toward the bookshelf, smashing through several hardcover copies of ancient military regulations, sending books clattering to the floor in disarray.
Even his usual ceramic coffee cup, embedded with a military star, was seized and hurled against the opposite wall, exploding into a spray of brown stains and sharp fragments.
The office was in complete disarray, as if it had just weathered a minor storm.
Strauss's chest heaved violently, his ragged breaths starkly audible in the silence.
After the fury came a deeper, almost suffocating chill of humiliation and disgrace.
Eight fleets… such staggering losses, occurring within his jurisdiction, under his chain of command.
This was no longer just a military defeat—it was a devastating blow to his personal authority and the Empire's ruling prestige in the Opal Star Sector!
Once the news fully spread, how would he face the inquiries from High Command?
How would he endure the overt or covert mockery of his colleagues from other star domains?
He slowly straightened up, adjusting his slightly disheveled uniform collar. The flush of rage on his face gradually gave way to an ashen, almost sinister coldness.
His gaze fell on the scattered fragments of the battle report on the floor, where the names "Pluto Fleet" and "Qin Bei Wang" remained glaringly prominent.
The heavy door to the Commander's office slid open abruptly, slamming against the buffers with a dull thud.
General Strauss appeared at the doorway. His uniform remained impeccably pressed, but his collar was slightly askew, and a few strands of gray hair at his forehead were disheveled from his earlier rage.
What was most alarming was his complexion—a leaden, iron-gray hue, suppressed to the extreme like the heavy clouds before a storm. Paired with Eyes that shot forth tangible fury and chilling intensity, it instantly froze every officer who happened to be passing by or working nearby in their tracks, not daring to breathe.
He didn't even glance at the pale-faced majors and captains trembling in fear. His gaze swept across the corridor like an icy searchlight before he suddenly raised his voice. The hoarse roar, laden with terrifying authority, thundered through the entire floor like an explosion:
"All those with golden epaulettes—get your asses to the Operations Conference Room! Now! Immediately!"
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