CHAPTER 239: CH235 THE BOVARKA STAR -2

But just as the day unfolded like any other, something unnatural began to happen. The clear blue sky shifted, its color draining into a dark orange hue, tinged with red. At first, the Minotaur were puzzled. Many assumed it was yet another weapons test; only a few days ago the military had dismissed a strange phenomenon as the trial of a new system.

But as more and more lifted their gaze upward, the truth became clear. Crowds gathered in the streets and at windows, eyes wide in shock as they saw the source of the change.

High above, in the sky and beyond that in spacea new star had appeared—brilliant, violent. And if one looked closely, they could see it wasn’t just shining. It was erupting, explosions bursting across its heart, burning against the dark.

"Wait... isn’t that where the space station is?" one Minotaur in the crowd asked, his voice cutting through the murmurs. Others froze as the realization hit them. That glowing star in the sky... that explosion—it was right where the great spaceport should have been.

Then, a panicked shout rose from deeper in the street. A Minotaur, his voice shaking, pointed toward the heavens."L-look! Isn’t that... the structure of the space fortress?"

Every eye turned skyward. The brilliance of the blast was fading now, its intensity dimming just enough for shapes to be seen. And there, looming faintly against the backdrop of fire and ash, they saw it—half of the once-colossal station, torn and broken. The distance made it hard to distinguish clearly, even with mana-enhanced sight, but there was no denying it. The spaceport... was shattered.

Before the crowd could fully process the horror, another explosion bloomed. Smaller, yet burning with such white-hot brilliance that the entire sky flashed. In that instant, the remaining structure was gone—completely cloaked, engulfed, and erased from view.

A stunned cry tore through the crowd."W-what?! What just happened?!"

The Minotaur people stood frozen, disbelief and terror etched on their faces. They had seen it with their own eyes: the proud station above their world annihilated in seconds.

And then—before they could even draw breath to speak further—the ground trembled. Massive armored panels in the earth outside the city split open as colossal weapons rose from their underground vaults. Each one was more than 350 meters long, their twin barrels gleaming with cold metal fury. Defensive cannons of impossible size—caliber 1400mm—lifted toward the sky, their angles adjusting in perfect unison.

With a roar that made the earth quake—a thunder like a thousand howitzers multiplied—the first cannon fired. A blinding trail of energy lanced upward, shaking the heavens. Then another followed, then another.

One by one, more hidden weapons emerged across the world. A dozen in total. Each the size of a skyscraper. Each thundered to life, firing salvo after salvo into space—toward the unseen enemy above.

The thunder of the massive weapons made the Minotaur people realize the truth at last: they were under attack. Their great space station had truly been destroyed—erased by whoever this enemy was.

Within moments, sirens began to wail across the planet, their echoes rolling through all six large cities, twelve medium-sized cities, and twenty-four smaller ones. To put their scale into perspective: a "small" Minotaur city was ten times the size of New York City on Earth. A medium city was four times larger than that, and the great metropolises dwarfed even those—ten times the size of a medium city. Their civilization and economy were advanced beyond comparison, yet even here, chaos now stirred.

The announcement blared across every channel, booming through the streets:

"Attention citizens: our star system is under attack. Our defensive forces are engaging, but the enemy is more numerous than expected, and they have reached our planet. It is imperative that all citizens quickly evacuate to the designated city-center shelters and remain there until further instructions are given.

This is not a drill. Evacuate immediately under direct order. Anyone found causing chaos or disruption will be dealt with under clan law."

To the average Minotaur, the message was clear and commanding. But to any third party who knew the truth, it was equally clear that the announcement was a lie.

The reality was far grimmer. The planetary lord had lost all contact with the defense fleet. His attempts to reach the other planetary lords of the system had also failed. Communication lines were dead.

Why then had he issued such an announcement? Perhaps to buy time. Perhaps to prevent outright panic. Or perhaps to shield himself from the truth.

But whether his intent was strategy or desperation, the effect was the same—panic spread anyway. And no words could hide the fact that Bovarka was now alone.

Even as the announcement repeated across every channel and Minotaur civilians hurriedly left their homes, offices, and streets in panicked waves, disaster struck before most could even make it to safety.

The massive defensive weapon system just outside the city—visible to all—suddenly erupted in a blazing arc of red fire as enemy strikes tore through it. In the skies above, Fang-class interceptors launched in coordinated squadrons, their sleek twenty-meter frames roaring as they climbed toward orbit. They were Bovarka’s sharpest fliers, the pride of planetary defense, their engines screaming as they broke the sound barrier. Trails of light followed their ascent as city-lord forces and even noble clan private militias joined the military, rising together to confront the enemy in the skies.

But they never reached their goal.

Before they had climbed more than a few kilometers above the surface, waves of energy fire rained down upon them. Entire squadrons were torn apart in bursts of white-hot destruction. One by one, the interceptors exploded, transformed into fireballs and tumbling debris. In a matter of seconds, more than a thousand fighters—the core of Bovarka’s aerial defense—were reduced to wreckage.

The rain of death did not fall harmlessly. Shattered wings, burning fuselages, and molten engines plummeted into the city below. Skyscrapers shuddered under the impacts. Some collapsed outright, blasted apart in fiery arcs as falling wreckage sheared through entire sections. Whole floors of towers vanished in eruptions of flame.

On the streets, panicked Minotaur fled in every direction, only to be caught in the storm. Chunks of interceptors, some the size of transports, slammed into the crowds, killing hundreds in an instant.

And the nightmare repeated itself across the great city. Everywhere, buildings were crushed under the weight of their own defenders’ remains. Everywhere, fire blossomed as debris fell from the skies. Bovarka’s proud defense had not even left the atmosphere before being turned to ash—and now that ash rained down upon the very people it was meant to protect.

And this was the sight across all forty-two cities of Bovarka. The twelve colossal planetary defense weapons that had risen only moments before were now burning wrecks, silenced before they could even bring their power to bear.

The cities—only minutes ago calm, orderly, alive with daily life—were now seas of fire. Buildings burned, streets choked with smoke and debris. Minotaur civilians ran in every direction, some desperately trying to flee, others paralyzed by fear, hiding wherever they could find shelter.

But the nightmare was far from over.

From above, massive green energy blasts split the sky, raining down with terrifying precision. They struck government halls, military complexes, and even noble clan estates. Entire districts were engulfed as the attacks ripped through them. High-rise towers collapsed, their falling husks crushing entire blocks beneath them. Each new strike claimed not only the structures, but the thousands of Minotaur who lived and worked inside.

Panic swelled into chaos. The people no longer cared for order, no longer feared punishment or law. Their only thought was survival. They shoved, clawed, and trampled over one another as they surged toward the city centers, desperate to reach the so-called evacuation shelters.

The proud cities of Bovarka, jewels of the Minotaur clan, had in moments become infernos of fear, fire, and death.

But would reaching the city center make their situation any better? No—that wasn’t even the right question. The real one was this: could any defense system possibly stop an enemy that seemed invisible? Their squadrons of interceptors hadn’t lasted seconds. The great planetary cannons had been destroyed before they even fired. What hope, then, could the shelters in the heart of the cities offer?

These questions haunted some minds. But for most Minotaur, there was no time to think. They didn’t care whether the city center could hold or not. They only cared that it was the one place that might give them a chance. Better to die trying to reach safety than to be crushed under collapsing towers, buried alive in rubble, or burned in the flames that consumed their districts. They wanted life, not death—and they would run toward even a sliver of hope.

Yet that hope shattered again.

Hundreds of thousands—perhaps millions—were flooding through the colossal cities, each one vast as a country. The roar of jet engines thundered overhead.