"Target those battlecruisers. Confirm their unit designation," Colonel Lundstein ordered the missile tower control officers.
Angus turned slightly and spoke to a Revolutionary technician at the main screen console.
On the main command screen, the flagship of the Confederate fleet began to enlarge gradually. Within seconds, a distinct X-shaped skull emblem appeared before them.
"Omega Squadron," the operations officer began reading aloud, mechanically reciting the intelligence provided by Umoja's covert agency: "Deadman's Skull, Black Bones, the Grim Reaper's Head, Death Legion. This fleet roams the Dylar System. Their primary base is located on Dylar IV, deep within Terran Confederacy territory. The unit is composed mainly of resocialized soldiers—recruited from prison planets across the Confederacy."
"When purging these criminals of their antisocial tendencies and reprogramming their memories, the 'doctors' in Terran resocialization facilities deliberately preserved the most aggressive aspects of their personalities. This allows commanding officers to trigger their most deranged instincts in battle—unleashing savage, brutal slaughter upon the Confederacy's enemies."
"Reportedly, the doctors enhanced some of the inmates' most depraved traits to the point where, after combat, allied forces often find Omega marines and drop troopers feasting on Kel-Morian corpses—devouring raw flesh, roasting enemy livers, or desecrating the dead. These grotesque, cruel acts are frequently tied to the reasons they were imprisoned in the first place."
"The Terran Confederacy is turning living human beings into weapons," Angus murmured, watching in silence as interceptor missiles from Ursa's base collided mid-air with those launched by Omega Squadron. The result was a dazzling cascade of explosions—brilliant flares lighting up the sky in an unending chain.
Though a number of warheads still struck the military fortress on Ursa's surface, it became clear that fewer than 5% of them were armed with nuclear payloads.
These nuclear missiles leveled entire Revolutionary fortresses, even destabilizing geological structures—but Ursa itself wouldn't meet the same fate as its sister moon, Canis.
That fact alone revealed something crucial: the Confederate fleet didn't have an unlimited stockpile of nuclear arms. They were not yet at the point of reckless indulgence.
From sporadic bursts of incoming communications, Angus learned that two additional orbital defense platforms and a space-based weapons station had already been surrounded by other Confederate fleets. The enemy's ammunition supply seemed limitless—they were bombarding those positions without pause, unleashing their fury with overwhelming firepower.
The command center was a fully sealed facility; Angus could only monitor the battle above Ursa through the fortress's external camera feeds. Omega Squadron's battlecruisers remained stationed above the moon, and it was only after more than two relentless hours of bombardment that their assault finally began to subside.
Both sides were rapidly depleting their ammunition and energy reserves. Circular shockwaves occasionally flared across Ursa's surface—rippling outward from the smoldering remains of destroyed Revolutionary fortresses.
By this point, the Confederacy fleet's commander had to concede: breaking through the Korhal Revolutionary Army's defenses in a short timeframe was proving far more difficult than expected. The people of Korhal had poured more than a decade's worth of weapons and resources into this defensive stand, erecting unmatched orbital defense bases in the vacuum of space.
As early as one year ago, Umoja had begun channeling military supplies to Korhal IV through trade routes—alongside a significant portion of advanced AI systems and robotic R&D technologies.
The Umojan government's economic assistance program had been the cornerstone of Korhal's financial stability throughout the Guild Wars. In fact, the wartime boom in Korhal's economy was largely due to Umoja's massive financial and technological lifeline.
From military forces to industrial complexes, much of Korhal's defense infrastructure had been built with Umojan support. Moreover, Umoja had gone to great lengths to provide parts and raw materials, enabling Korhal's engineers to construct orbital defense platforms and space-based weapons stations in just six months.
Had they relied solely on their own capabilities, the Korhalites wouldn't have been able to prevent the Federation fleet from casually jumping into the system, launching orbital strikes, and dropping nuclear payloads at will.
After six hours of sustained bombardment, roughly one-third of all structures on Ursa had been reduced to rubble. But Omega Squadron had not emerged unscathed: five of their twelve Behemoth-class battlecruisers had sustained heavy damage from anti-air missile batteries and long-range pulse cannons—some powerful enough to hit targets as far away as Korhal itself.
Yet without a fleet of their own to deliver a decisive counterstrike, the Revolutionary Army could only watch helplessly as those wounded warships either limped away or were hauled off by larger vessels using tractor beams.
More than twelve hours passed from the start of the assault to the moment the Confederate fleet finally ceased fire. During that time, neither Omega Squadron nor any other fleet deployed landing forces. When Omega's ships eventually pulled back to a safe distance and drifted silently in deep space, many Revolutionary soldiers breathed a sigh of relief—believing, if only for a moment, that the Confederacy might be backing down.
Even without formal military training, Angus could sense the truth with disturbing clarity: the Confederacy wasn't retreating. They were either preparing a new form of attack—or laying the groundwork for a complete blockade of Ursa and the orbital platforms, surrounding them with pressure, but not yet striking again.
"The Confederacy fleet's commander isn't in a hurry to defeat us quickly," Colonel Lundstein said as he handed over a dry towel.
"What's the casualty report, Colonel?" Angus asked, wiping the cold sweat from his face before turning to look at Lundstein.
Angus held great respect for the young officer—barely older than his own second son. A descendant of nobility, Lundstein was also one of Augustus's most trusted commanders.
In terms of battlefield command, Lundstein wasn't particularly outstanding. He was no genius strategist, but he had a calm demeanor and the discipline to carry out Augustus's orders with absolute precision.
If given a detailed battle plan, Lundstein would execute it flawlessly, step by step. Unfortunately, as they all knew, war rarely followed a script.
"Assuming 5,000 troops per fortress, we've lost at least 300,000 soldiers, Speaker Angus."
Lundstein's face had turned pale. He couldn't hide his grief—many of the dead had once been his classmates.
"Mm—" Angus began to say they should build a monument to honor the fallen soldiers, but quickly caught himself.
This wasn't the political stage he was used to. It wasn't the time for speeches.
The dead and their families needed no more promises.
"Perhaps they're trying to starve us out," Lundstein said grimly. "We don't have enough synthetic food or hydroponic farms on-site. If the Confederate fleet maintains this blockade for a week, our soldiers will go hungry. Two weeks in, and combat effectiveness will drop sharply. By the third week, the army could collapse entirely."
"No. If they're not planning a quick victory, then that's exactly what we need," Angus replied, shaking his head.
But what happened next caught both of them off guard.
They suddenly noticed three of Omega Squadron's battlecruisers breaking formation and entering hyperspace—ships that had clearly been too damaged to reach jump orbit under their own power.
Within minutes, all remaining Confederacy fleets had jumped out of the Korhal system—leaving behind seven crippled battlecruisers, completely abandoned.
An intercepted encrypted transmission began playing through the command center speakers—
It was the voice of the Speaker of the Confederacy Parliament: "All fleets, return to Tarsonis immediately!"
"They're retreating! Ha—Korhal IV is saved!"
The command center erupted in celebration. Officers and technicians embraced each other, elated.
They knew what must have happened. Just as planned, Augustus's fleet must have launched a surprise assault on Tarsonis.
Angus's smile faded quickly. Without missing a beat, he gave a new order: "Redirect all satellite cameras toward Korhal."
The joyful cheers in the command center of the Revolutionary Army came to an abrupt halt.
On the main screen, several bright flashes were visible to the naked eye. While the Confederacy fleet had been engaging Revolutionary forces in space, part of their fleet had already begun executing a nuclear strike against Korhal. Yet, judging by the current detonation points, the number of warheads was far fewer than the thousand that had been anticipated. A significant portion of the Apocalypse-class nukes originally meant for Korhal had instead struck Canis, Ursa, and the two orbital defense platforms.
Because of this, Korhal had not been reduced to a charred, glassy wasteland as in the original timeline. In fact, most regions remained untouched—at least in the immediate aftermath.
The Confederacy had deployed only around 150 to 200 nuclear warheads to Korhal's surface, but their targets were anything but random.
Nearly every major city and industrial zone on Korhal IV had been subjected to precision nuclear strikes. The towering columns of black smoke rising from the blast sites would soon reach over 15 kilometers into the atmosphere. These dense, dark clouds would block sunlight for months, triggering a sharp drop in surface temperature.
Korhal was now on the brink of a prolonged nuclear winter—one that would likely last for years. Over 95% of the planet's surface flora and fauna would perish, unable to survive the sudden climate collapse and the intense radiation fallout. The once-lush and beautiful Korhal would be lost forever.
For the foreseeable future—and possibly for centuries, unless massive environmental restoration efforts were undertaken—this planet would no longer be habitable for humans.
"No matter what happens, we have no choice but to leave Korhal," Angus said, his eyes fixed on the main screen, where brilliant flashes continued to bloom across the wounded world.
"Let us bury the ones who died today—and set sail."
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