Clank Clank

"There's a breach attempt at direction 27 degrees!"

"The General of the Northern Front has successfully neutralized the breach at 110 degrees!"

"Fires in direction 270 degrees have intensified — they've doubled in magnitude!, we need to doubled the defenses there!"

"...…."

Inside a colossal control chamber aboard the fleet's main mothership, the atmosphere was thick with urgency — alarms flashing crimson, data streams cascading across transparent screens, and the metallic hum of endless transmissions echoing from every direction.

And yet, amidst this storm of chaos, one man sat perfectly still.

He occupied the captain's chair — a massive, throne-like seat at the center of the command deck — his posture calm, his presence commanding. It was as if the raging inferno of war outside couldn't reach him.

He appeared to be in his thirties, his face defined by a small hollow between his brows and another in the middle of his clean, sharp chin. His features were carved with deliberate precision — thin, angled eyebrows, a narrow face that seemed sculpted by a master artist's brush. His hair was long, silky, and impossibly smooth, glinting faintly under the cabin lights as though soaked in oil. It draped perfectly down his back in one even length — not a single rebellious strand touched his shoulders or chest.

He was, without question, a man of refined elegance — someone who valued control, grace, and appearance. Yet now, at the heart of this fiery storm, even he had no luxury for such things. Every breath he took was measured; every decision he made could determine the fate of millions.

In that command bridge, he sat at the nucleus — eyes fixed on the grand panoramic display that showed the raging void outside. Around him, dozens of officers worked feverishly, voices overlapping in desperate coordination, their hands dancing over holographic panels to relay commands between the countless ships engaged in battle.

Beyond this room, in an even grander scale, the scene was terrifyingly vast.

The mothership — his ship — was the core of an immense fleet formation. Around it orbited nearly a hundred fleets arranged in a perfect sphere, a colossal defensive globe covering half the heavens of the massive planet Verillion below.

The sphere's surface was lined with small warships and support crafts, weaving in synchronized patterns of light and fire. Behind them were around a hundred motherships, firing through carefully calibrated openings between fleets, striking any enemy that dared approach the perimeter. The coordination was near-perfect — a mechanical ballet of survival.

But even such precision was under siege. From every possible angle, more than three hundred and fifty enemy fleets were converging, launching endless barrages of energy beams. The heavens themselves trembled under the assault.

They sought only one thing — a single breach in the iron wall. A small tear that would allow them to strike the command vessel at its heart, destroy the formation, assassinate the marshal, and claim victory in the bloodiest war the sector had ever witnessed.

As for him — the man in the captain's chair — he was gambling everything. Every life, every ship, every ounce of power under his command. His only goal was to endure until the day's close. If his enemy exhausted their strength first, they might retreat; if not, his entire force would burn in orbit.

He knew this. And yet he did not move.

He would not abandon this post unless he did so as a corpse.

But that fate would not come easily — not for either side.

Hundreds of thousands of ships exchanged fire in an endless ocean of light. The void between stars had become a graveyard — torn metal, dying flames, and the drifting remains of soldiers scattered like autumn leaves in a storm. Every minute, at least one vessel exploded into a blossom of fire, its crew vaporized in an instant. Every few minutes, a support ship — housing tens of thousands of souls — would vanish under concentrated bombardment.

At this stage, it was no longer a war of intellect or formation.

No cunning strategy could survive the sheer brutality of such a battle.

It had become a test of endurance — a matter of who could lose more, and still remain standing.

And then… that man, the one with the smooth silver-black hair, lowered his gaze toward the immense screen before him — toward Verillion, glowing beneath the clouds of war.

The monitoring devices confirmed the worst: enemy ships were now bombarding the planet's surface, crushing the last pockets of resistance that had taken refuge among its cities and mountain ranges.

He could almost feel the tremors — the silent screams echoing up from below — and yet, he could do nothing.

If he broke the formation to send reinforcements, even a handful of ships, the entire defense network would unravel.

The sphere would collapse. The motherships would be exposed.

And everything — every soul still alive under his command — would be lost in the void.

So he stayed still. Silent. Watching a planet burn, knowing that the only way to save it… was not to move at all.

If he were to break formation now — to send ships down in a desperate attempt to rescue the ground forces — no one would come to save him in return. The defensive wall would crumble in an instant, their entire formation shattered like glass under pressure. The enemy fleets would surge through the opening, crush his remaining lines, and then move straight on to completely annihilate Verillion.

He knew it well… and yet that knowledge did nothing to ease the weight in his chest.

All he could do now was stay silent and pray — pray that the planet's crust wouldn't be pierced before the enemy finally exhausted themselves and pulled back.

If they ever did.

"Marshal Varghoth!!"

A sudden shout snapped through the tension-filled air, slicing his dark thoughts like a blade.

"There's a transmission from the ground forces!"

"Tell them there's nothing left for us to do," Varghoth said sharply, his voice cold, though fatigue edged every syllable. The young man's long black hair shimmered faintly in the emergency lights as his expression twisted in irritation — could those fools not see what was happening around them? Could they not understand the scale of this battle?!

"Sir Marshal, the transmission is for you personally," the officer pressed, his voice trembling yet insistent. "It's the commander of the Crimson Forces!"

"...?" Varghoth's brows drew together for a moment, a flicker of surprise piercing his calm. Then, after a short pause, he gave a single nod.

"Put him on the main screen."

Click

A heavy crackle filled the room before the holographic screen came alive, projecting an image before the marshal and every officer on the bridge.

The figure that appeared was striking — a warrior encased in full crimson armor, faceless behind a smooth mask adorned with two great, curved horns rising from his helm. His presence carried a silent power, a gravitational authority that pressed against the hearts of those watching. Even through the transmission, they could feel it — that strange, unwavering confidence that only a man forged in endless wars could emanate.

Then, the armored figure finally spoke. His voice was deep and resonant, yet calm — the kind that demanded attention.

"Marshal Varghoth, greetings."

"Marshal Sakaar, I presume?" Varghoth replied flatly, his tone devoid of emotion. "You have my thanks for protecting Verillion's territories all this time. But now… is not the right moment."

"On the contrary," Sakaar's voice cut in immediately, his tone firm, "there has never been a better one. I have a proposal — one I sincerely hope you'll listen to."

Varghoth's fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair. "...Speak."

His brows furrowed slightly, though his gaze remained steady.

He knew this man — knew his reputation. Without Sakar and his Crimson Forces, Verillion would have fallen long ago. Even now, when the entire sector was on the brink of collapse, Varghoth could not refuse to hear him out.

"I understand that Marshal Varghoth is holding off ninety percent of the enemy's fleets," Sakaar began, his tone direct, "but there are another ten percent surrounding the rest of the planet's orbit right now. I need you to drive them away — or at least divert their attention for a few minutes."

Varghoth let out a short, derisive laugh. "Oh, what a brilliant plan!" he said with heavy sarcasm, a mocking smile curling on his face. "You think I can just spare a few minutes while I'm drowning in a war against three hundred fleets?"

"Marshal Varghoth!" Sakar raised his voice slightly, his tone hardening, cutting through the noise of the bridge. "We have received new orders, and reinforcements are already on their way to your position. Please — do as I say if you want this day to end with even a fraction of your army still alive."

"...What orders? And what kind of reinforcements?" For the first time, Varghoth's expression shifted — his sharp eyes narrowing with suspicion, yet laced with a spark of hope he dared not trust.

"You'll know when it succeeds," Saakar replied curtly. "Or we'll remain silent if it fails. Everything depends on whether you can draw their eyes toward you… or not."

He paused, then continued in a lower, deliberate tone:

"I was told that you are the second man in the Crumbled Dreams Empire — the one who commands everything under Lord Hedrick. A strategist of the highest order, standing at the peak of the Nexus State, a warrior prepared to ascend as a Guardian. If that's true, then I believe someone like you can give me… just a few minutes."

"...A few minutes?" Varghoth repeated quietly, his frown deepening.

Reinforcements, in this situation? Impossible.

Lord Hedrick would never dispatch aid — not now, not under these conditions. There was no one strong enough, no force capable of cutting through that storm of fire surrounding them.

And yet… something within him, an old soldier's instinct perhaps, whispered that he should not dismiss Sakar's words so easily.

The silence on the bridge was heavy — even the hum of the engines seemed to quiet as both men stared at each other through the flickering screen.

Then, Sakaar gave a firm nod, his confidence unshaken, his voice steady and absolute.

"A few minutes, Marshal. That's all I need."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.