CHAPTER 227: CH 223 THE FIRST CONTACT AND FEARS OF MINOTAUR ...

Murmurs of fear had begun spreading across the command deck—first stirred by Toro’s terrified outburst, then amplified by the operators’ own confirmation of the incoming fleet’s sheer numbers and power. But slowly, those whispers were silenced. Their commander’s brutal intervention and rousing words managed to divert their minds away from despair, reforging their wavering hearts into something harder—resolve. Resolve to fight, and perhaps even to win.

And in truth, they were not entirely wrong to feel some measure of confidence. Barely twenty Galactic days ago, after reaching out to the Star Empire with information about the so-called "Holy Region"—a place they themselves understood little about—they had been rewarded.

While the Minotaurs were curious about that mysterious region, what captured their attention far more were the gifts the clan received in exchange.

To the Star Empire, such gifts were nothing. But to the Minotaur clan, they were invaluable: blueprints for a new generation of Star Fortress, one tier above their existing models, as well as planetary defense weapon systems, and upgrades for their fleets’ warships. All of it quasi–Tier-1 technology.

By fortune—or perhaps fate itself—the fortress they now stood upon was the very first to receive these upgrades. And there was a reason. This system was home to billions upon billions of Minotaurs, spread across four habitable planets. It was a cornerstone of their civilization, and thus its defense had been deemed paramount above all others.

No race would willingly risk losing such a vast portion of its people, and the Minotaurs were no different.

Yet what the crew did not realize—what none of the Minotaurs knew—was the truth of these so-called gifts. To the Star Empire, they were not treasures, but scraps.

Experimental leftovers, discarded technologies, designs abandoned during the development of something far greater. What the Minotaurs had received was not the cutting edge of Imperial brilliance, but merely the by-products of it—fragments that happened to function.

But they did not know this.

For the Minotaur, it was good enough that they had finally gained quasi–Tier-1 technology. They were simply happy with that—content, even regretful. Unfortunately, they had no idea about the truth of it, nor would they ever know... at least not for now. Not in the few precious minutes of life that remained to them...

Korvus, seeing that his words had the effect he desired, allowed himself a brief moment of relief. Good, he thought. At least now, we have a chance to survive.

But his relief was fleeting. His gaze drifted beyond the walls of the Star Fortress, out into the endless black of space. With his enhanced vision, he could clearly make out the massive clusters of enemy ships moving steadily toward their positions. One group was bearing directly toward his fortress.

Another, equal in size, was pushing toward the four habitable planets under his protection. He had no doubt what their targets were—and whatever their intent, he assumed the worst.

So much was at stake. A single failure here could mean billions of lives lost, the very heart of their clan carved out in one brutal strike. He clenched his fists as the weight of responsibility pressed on his chest.

Then his eyes narrowed on a formation that stood out. A fleet larger than the others, moving with grim purpose. And just as he focused on it, the group that was advancing on his fortress suddenly split into three. The largest contingent—still numbering over 2,600 ships—continued on its course toward him. Two smaller detachments, perhaps 200 ships each, broke off in different directions.

Korvus frowned, confusion flickering across his face. Why split? And why into such small groups? What are they planning?

Yet despite his suspicion, a flicker of satisfaction rose in him. Good. If they divide, I might be able to crush them piece by piece. I have to end them quickly—before they can do something terrible to my people on the planets.

For a moment, he considered dispatching part of his defensive fleet to reinforce the planets, but he immediately crushed the thought. He couldn’t weaken the fortress now, not with the main enemy fleet still bearing down on him. If the fortress fell, it wouldn’t matter how many ships he sent elsewhere—his people would be slaughtered regardless.

But as he studied the scale of the approaching armada, a cold dread settled into his bones. The larger fleet lurking behind the others—moving slower, almost deliberately—was terrifying in its sheer scale. He counted at least 500 battleships, possibly more. The absurdity of such numbers gnawed at him. Who could even field this many warships in one fleet?

Grinding his teeth, Korvus turned his attention to his own forces—those meant to protect and support the fortress itself. His fleet looked pitiful in comparison: 20 battleships, 100 to 150 battlecruisers, 130 destroyers, and the rest frigates—barely 670 ships in all. Against an enemy that numbered nearly 11,000

, many of them hardened warmongers, his chest tightened with despair.

For a moment, he felt hope falter.

But within a few moments, Korvus regained his footing. He could not—would not—let fear take root within him. Not as a Minotaur. Not as a warrior. Fear was poison, and warriors of his kind did not bow to it. He clenched his jaw, steadying his breath, and reminded himself: numbers were just numbers. It was not the count of ships that decided victory, but how they were wielded. Utilization, precision, resolve—that was what determined who won, who lost, and how dearly they paid for it.

With that thought, he rekindled his own resolve. The fear was not gone—it lingered like a shadow—but he forced it down, suppressed it, caged it deep in his chest. True elimination would only come through battle, through defeating the adversary that now bore down upon him.

Meanwhile, out in the blankness of space, the left division of the Third Battle Fleet moved with terrible purpose. Thousands of warships of every class advanced in perfect formation, their blackened hulls gleaming like blades of the void itself, slicing through starlight as if the stars were nothing more than fragile glass.

At the very heart of this fleet surged a single anomaly—a ship unlike the rest. Where every other vessel was black, one burned white, its hull glimmering like frost under a cold sun. This was the White Frost, driving forward with momentum far greater than any ship around it. If the fleet was a thousand blades, the White Frost was the hand that wielded them.

Within its command bridge, surrounded by the hum of power and the glow of tactical projections, Macron sat in the command seat of his flagship. His gaze was locked on the massive Star Fortress looming in the distance, its protective fleet forming a fragile barrier before it. His eyes burned—not with doubt, but with anticipation.

Back inside the Fortress, the alarms screamed louder than before, their shrill wails saturating every corridor, every deck, until it felt as though the very void outside was trembling with the sound. Each level of the Star Fortress was bathed in pulsing red light, an unending warning that battle had come.

Fear lingered everywhere—heavy, suffocating—clutching the hearts of many within the Fortress and among the ships stationed around it. But there were others, those who had taken Korvus’ words to heart: commanders, captains, and operators whose resolve had been reforged in the fires of defiance. Reminded of the bloodline and race to which they belonged, they now hurled themselves against time, driving their crews to readiness.

Orders flew like lightning across the comms. Captains shouted, commanders roared, generals and admirals barked directives as crews scrambled to obey. Even those who had once been lax and lazy now worked frantically, desperation and duty burning away their lethargy. Every hand moved with urgency—for now they understood: any mistake, no matter how small, would mean death.

On the command deck, Korvus stood firm, his gaze locked on the encroaching enemy. Their banners, their allegiance—unknown. But their intent was clear enough. His voice cut across the din, filled with unyielding defiance:

"Lock targeting grids on those leading destroyers! They will enter our range soon. Charge the main and secondary batteries of the Fortress—and all ships under our command. I want full power at the ready!"

He turned sharply, his tone hard with urgency. "Raise shields to maximum output! Prepare the secondary shield generators to activate the instant the primaries fail. We will not be caught off guard!"

The room pulsed with activity as his words lashed through the chaos. Korvus clenched his fists, his tusks bared in grim resolve. "This battle will be brutal. But focus—hold your ground. Victory is still within our grasp. The enemy is not as strong as they look... and today, we will prove it."

"Yes, Commander!" came the unified reply. The deck trembled as massive power conduits surged to life, energy coursing into the fortress’s upgraded weapons.

But even as the operators obeyed, their eyes betrayed the truth: the enemy numbers on the radar kept multiplying, red signatures filling the display until it looked less like ships and more like a tidal wave blotting out space itself.