A profound moment of regret and helplessness washed over Commander Helran. The last words of the young warriors of Clan χ echoed in his mind, sharp and clear: "Don't let our sacrifice be in vain, Commander. We are counting on you. Over and out."

He knew exactly why they had chosen to meet their end: to eliminate the remaining missiles launched by the enemy. It was a brutal act born of a brutal reality—the crushing lack of time. The missiles' velocity was terrifying, hurtling through space at nearly a quarter the speed of light.

The fighter squadron had already performed miraculously, managing to neutralize thirty percent of the remaining inbound warheads before they reached the first layer of the battle line. Despite the cutting-edge technology and high-level targeting systems integrated into his fleet's star fortresses and fighter craft, the sheer speed of the attack made things impossible. The young pilots couldn't acquire a stable lock, much less successfully engage the targets.

Yet, Helran could only stand in awe of their courage. They were deliberately detonating their own craft, sacrificing themselves to absorb the blasts, reduce damage to the battle line, and, most critically, buy time for their Commander. They had made their deaths count.

Helran knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that if the roles were reversed—if he were in their cockpit, facing an inevitable end with no plan, no hope of survival—he would not have possessed their resolve.

From the moment the enemy breached his force's strongest defense—the six-layer shield system of his main space fortress—Commander Helran understood. The battle would now demand inevitable, self-inflicted losses for the greater good.

This was the grim calculus he'd had to accept when he finally grasped the overwhelming strength of this sudden, unknown adversary, and it was the intention behind every order he now gave.

He watched, stunned, as pilots from both the senior and junior classes laid down their lives. Unlike him had he been in there shoes, they did not retreat into a shell of self-preservation. Instead, they charged.

They obeyed the orders, knowing it was a death sentence. Pushing their space fighters to the limit, they rushed into the streams of incoming missiles, maneuvering their jets through deadly volleys, ensuring that their sacrifice would count.

One by one, they self-destructed their craft, hailed by their peers as living a life "well-lived" despite the fiery destruction of their machines.

Their dedication to the clan and their military discipline was absolute—a stark contrast to the fear and doubt that gnawed at Helran. He turned his face from the main viewscreen to look at his subordinates on the bridge. That same fierce, unwavering dedication was clearly written on their faces as they executed his command and desperate strategy.

But they were in the minority, only a few showing unwavering determination. Far more among them wore expressions of conflict, their faces betraying the emotions they struggled to contain.

As they carried out the commands handed down by him—passing them on to their subordinates—they busied themselves with reorganizing the formation, pulling damaged ships to the rear, and tending to vessels whose shields and internal systems had suffered catastrophic failures.

At the same time, they filled the gaps left by those unfortunate ships that had been lost in blazing destruction under the overwhelming assault of the enemy.

Hesitation lingered in their eyes, even in their voices, which faltered briefly before carrying out his orders. He could see it all too clearly—their doubt, their wavering resolve. And just as easily, he could sense the same hesitation spreading across his forces, where moments of triumph should have been filled with confidence and pride.

Just as these thoughts passed through his mind, many others—who, like him, were closely watching the main battle line as well as the left and right flanks—suddenly revealed an emotion of regret as they, too, once again realized the weight of what was unfolding.

A collective sigh of regret, unwillingness, anger, and helplessness swept through the Star Fortress and the ships of the fleet. They watched another squadron of pilots vanish, dying to protect the vessels behind them. This tragic scene had become the new, horrifying normal of the battle. Countless others had made the same choice, neutralizing the unrelenting missile attacks rained down by the enemy.

Many felt the sting of each pilot's death, yet that was all they could do: mourn, but not act. They understood that the sacrifice of these few pilots was the shield that kept hundreds of thousands of others alive. "This isn't fair... why? Why are we doing this?" a voice choked with regret and desperation broke the silence on the comms channel.

"What benefit is there to letting them sacrifice themselves? Are they not one of us?" another asked, the question ringing with accusation.

"We are gaining nothing but a few worthless moments by sacrificing our people! The enemy is too strong," added a third. "They are tearing down our ships like they are nothing, our shields like cheap, poor-quality paper." Then, a new voice, older and carrying an aura of authority not unlike Helran's own, cut through the noise.

"The time bought by these sacrifices is nonexistent. And with all respect, Commander," the voice paused, emphasizing the gravity of the query, "let me ask you this: What are we buying time for? Nothing is working. All our weapon systems are useless. We can't even reach the enemy ships, much less cause any harm to their shields."

"Our flanks—both left and right—were meant to be a distraction. It's working to an extent, but look at the cost! Two hundred-plus ships and countless jets went out there, and in a few moments, tens of those ships are either crippled or completely destroyed."

The speaker's words were immediately backed by visual proof. Multiple displays across the fleet, including the fortress's main screen, split into three views: the main battle line and the two flanks.

They watched in stunned silence as new signatures appeared. On the right flank, forty to fifty fighter jets of an unknown, blindingly fast design were racing toward their sub-group. Simultaneously, on the left flank, an equal number of massive Mecha, twenty to thirty meters tall, covered in black armor, accelerated across the void with scorching momentum.

A palpable dread washed over the bridge. The Mecha were terrifying, not just for their speed and size, but for the aura they emitted.

This combined presence, even from a distance, was enough to make Helran, a being of a near-world-shattering realm, feel a spike of fear. He noticed something far more alarming: the movement of mana around the fighters and Mecha.

Ambient mana was being funnelled and absorbed into the enemy machines. How they were doing it, he couldn't tell, but the enemy's casual, powerful use of mana—a capability his clan and their galactic powers had not yet mastered—filled him with cold dread.

His spiraling thoughts were abruptly shattered when the older Minotaur's voice returned, pulling Helran from a daze and making him realize his body was trembling. His spiraling thoughts were abruptly shattered when the older Minotaur's voice returned, pulling Helran from a daze and making him realize his body was trembling.

"And now we see with our own eyes that the enemy isn't even taking us seriously." The voice was cold and cutting. "What will happen if they do? That is a question you haven't dared to ask, Commander."

The challenge was laid bare. "It is time you tell us your plans. Is our survival involved?" The speaker quickly amended his question. "I won't lie and say I don't want to survive, but I also refuse to die a valueless death, running away like a dog with its tail between its legs.".

"Yes, tell us, Commander!"

"What is the plan?"

"What can we possibly do now?"

A wave of urgent voices erupted across the comms system, demanding that Commander Helran be upfront and share his true intentions.

"Tell us, Commander!"

Voices were demanding a disclosure of the plan, or at least its direction, echoing over the active comm.

Every voice—from captain to admiral—began to feel that nothing they were doing was working as each moment passed. They desperately wanted to know what they would do next, something that held some significance.

They all wondered if what they were fighting for was even worth it. Every effort felt meaningless—nothing gained, nothing changed—only more lives lost. Many had already given everything, and still, no one truly knew what for.

Some would say they fought for survival—for others first, and then for themselves. But that, they all knew, was a lie. Survival still mattered; none of them wished to die. Yet they had long accepted the truth: survival was no longer possible. And strangely, they were not desperate for it.

They were a martial race—warriors by blood and creed. To die on the battlefield was not tragedy but fulfillment, an honorable end written into their very nature. Still, even that belief was beginning to crumble. In this war, they no longer understood why they fought, or what they were dying for. Those who still stood and those who had already fallen shared the same silent truth—none of them truly knew the reason behind their sacrifice.

Death—they could accept. But not a death without meaning. They wanted to know why they were dying, what purpose their sacrifice served. To fall without understanding the reason behind it—that was the one fate they refused to accept.

At first, when the shields of the Star Fortress were destroyed, they knew the enemy was powerful, but they remained oblivious to just how powerful. They had thought that even against a powerful enemy, they were not without their own strength.