Legacy of the Void Fleet

This only deepened the Republican pilots’ desperation, but to no avail. As the initial surge of manic energy began to fade, their flight speed and evasive maneuvers slowed. Left vulnerable, they became easy targets for the Obsidian fighters and were systematically obliterated over the next thirty minutes.

"Regroup, everyone," Varek ordered calmly, his voice revealing not a shred of fatigue despite the prolonged, high-stress maneuvering.

"Damage reports, one by one," he commanded once the squadron had reassembled into formation.

Samantha spoke first. "My group lost thirty percent shield integrity in that engagement. Factoring in the previous skirmish, overall shields across my flank are down below fifty percent, with slight variations from ship to ship."

"Hmm," Varek hummed, holding his thoughts and waiting for the rest to finish.

Cathy spoke next. "Same situation for my wing, Captain. No significant difference on our end."

Roxanne, lead of the Bulwarks, chimed in with her report. "We’re in pretty good shape. About sixty-five percent shield integrity remaining, along with four Ship-Breaker torpedoes and two dozen missiles."

Varek sighed, rubbing his forehead. After a brief pause, he replied, "That means we don’t have many attack runs left. Two more engagements like that and we’ll be forced to retreat. If we push beyond that, we’ll jeopardize our progress in the upcoming mission and miss out on chunks of merit points that could otherwise give us a massive edge."

Hearing this, Cathy and the others grimaced slightly. A touch of bitterness lingered, but they nodded in agreement—it was the cold, hard truth.

"It’s good you all understand the stakes," Varek continued. "Let’s make our remaining runs count. We’ll avoid any unnecessary dogfights and focus purely on maximizing our strike efficiency against enemy warships. If we execute this cleanly, we can still bag at least three more Republican capital ships. Even if things get messy, we should secure one or two."

"Let’s move! We’ve got a competition to win, rivals to beat, and a leaderboard to climb!"

With that, Varek surged forward, leading the Obsidian Squadron straight toward their next target drifting not too far ahead.

Similar disasters were unfolding across the entire rear of the Republican armada, throwing it into total chaos.

Defeat after crushing defeat battered the fleet. On the rear flagship, the command holomap glowed a suffocating crimson, flooded with casualty reports, tactical losses, and catastrophic structural failures.

The defensive bulwarks were gone. Two lunar fortresses and four stellar bastions had already been reduced to incandescent fields of drifting wreckage. Alongside them, over three thousand warships had transformed the battlespace into a burning graveyard, where secondary explosions still rippled through ruptured hulls.

Across both the port and starboard quarters, the Republican armada’s overwhelming numerical superiority had ceased to be an advantage at all.

Everywhere one looked was absolute carnage. Elite heavy starfighter squadrons and divisions of space mechs continuously launched into the fray, only to be torn apart by their human counterparts like scythes cutting through tall grass.

What few minor victories the Republicans managed to scrape together were meaningless—mere drops in a vast, uncaring ocean. Worse, every small triumph came at such a devastating cost that it brought more despair than relief.

Meanwhile, the human starfighters hunted like apex predators. Backed by terrifying coordination, raw speed, and superior technology, they effortlessly bypassed Republican point-defense grids. Shield-breaker torpedoes and missile salvos stripped capital ships bare in seconds, followed by merciless follow-up strikes that cracked the defenseless hulls wide open, sending them sinking into the void.

High Admiral Vane stood frozen before the central command dais. His knuckles had turned stark white, frustration and raw fury radiating from his clenched fists and tight jaw. Yet beneath the anger, a distinctly different emotion flickered in his eyes: sheer, horrifying awe.

How were they losing? They had the numbers. They had millennia of warfare and battle experience on their side. Yet here they were, being utterly dismantled with their faces dragged through the mud.

Vane couldn’t comprehend it at all.

Pushing these thoughts aside, Vane quickly realized that the rear command was in total disarray. Nothing he did seemed to improve their situation; instead, the frontline was deteriorating with every passing second.

Unable to resist, he cast his gaze toward the distance, where the main human fleet was steadily advancing toward their battle lines. They would arrive soon. What kind of nightmare would unfold then? If the chaos had already reached this catastrophic level, what would happen once the full human fleet engaged?

He dared not dwell on the thought. Frustrated and gritting his teeth, he slammed his fist hard onto the console.

"Report the situation in the rear to the Grand Marshal immediately!" Vane ordered, raising his hand sharply. "Deploy reserve units to bolster the rear! Prevent the humans from penetrating any deeper than they already have, no matter the cost!"

"Yes, High Admiral!" an officer nearby answered frantically.

Vane let out a heavy sigh and sank back into his command seat, his face lined with bitterness. His thoughts remained a mystery to those around him, but everyone on the bridge knew things looked grim.

Meanwhile, at the forefront of the Republican armada stood the Radiant Fortress. At the heart of this colossal stronghold, the Grand Marshal—known ominously as Dark Soul—listened to the endless cacophony of devastating updates.

The command bridge had devolved into a maelstrom of panic and confusion. Shouts of cascading damage assessments mingled with desperate calls for reinforcements and tactical support, echoing from both the heavily battered frontlines and the nearly collapsed rear.

Dark Soul’s expression was as dark as his moniker, his features set in a grim mask as he recognized how critical the situation had grown with every passing second.

Every countermeasure he devised after analyzing every possible tactical scenario had fallen flat. Centuries of warfare experience and strategic mastery seemed utterly useless. Even overwhelming brute force failed against the adversary before him.

The Radiant Fortress’s superweapons couldn’t land a decisive blow. Meanwhile, the staggering volleys launched from hundreds of thousands of missile batteries across tens of thousands of warships achieved little beyond briefly stripping the shields of a few human vessels—barely scratching hulls forged from materials only the gods could fathom.