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.

Victory was never within their reach—and they had known that from the beginning. The enemy was stronger, overwhelming from the first clash. Still, they fought, believing that some of them might survive, that perhaps if they inflicted enough losses, the enemy would retreat. On paper, that might look like victory. But victory wasn't what they sought.

What they wanted was survival—just long enough to send word to their clan, to warn them that the enemy had come.

But that had only been a delusion—one shattered by the brutal reality before them. Their enemy, this unknown adversary, was far too powerful. They could neither mount an attack nor even hope to defend against its might.

And unknowingly they were forced to acknowledge this new reality. With each passing moment they tallied loss after loss. Though the casualties were still, for now, within an acceptable range, everyone knew it wouldn't last.

Soon, they would deplete the remaining strength that had allowed them to survive so long with the strategy of rotating damaged ships out for fresh ones.

Their commander Helran had devised a logical plan from the start: rotate damaged ships out of the front line and bring fresh ones up from the rear. It was the right course of action, and they accepted it.

But the plan relied on an assessment of the enemy's strength they had failed to grasp. What they had hoped would turn into a war of attrition — buying them time and inflicting just enough damage to force the enemy to pull back — was slipping away, and that small hope was quickly fading.

But that didn't mean their plan came without cost—far from it. Every passing moment, they paid dearly for it.

The loss of the fighter squadron just now was only one example. There were many like them—pilots and crews dying in front of their eyes, their ships torn apart by the devastating power of their enemy's attacks. Countless vessels of different classes were unable to defend themselves, consumed one after another by the overwhelming might of their adversary.

Even those who survived were not spared. Their ships bore the scars of battle—shields nearly depleted, systems overloaded, and structural damage so severe that repairs were impossible for the foreseeable future.

This exposed another flaw in their strategy. The plan relied on rotating damaged ships with those still intact, giving each a brief window to recover before returning to the front. It had seemed sound at the time, built on the assumption that while the enemy was powerful, it wasn't strong enough to completely burn through their shields in a single strike, let alone pierce their hulls.

But reality proved otherwise. Though only a few ships were unlucky enough to be instantly destroyed, many others survived only barely—damaged beyond practical repair. And everyone across the fleet understood the grim truth: more would follow.

There would always be those whose luck ran out completely—ships bursting into flames, vanishing in a blinding flash. Others, luckier only by comparison, would survive, but too crippled to continue the fight. With every passing moment, the number of the fallen would grow. And when that time came, the true cost of their "logical" plan would finally reveal itself.

As the cost of the fight revealed itself, they would soon be left with nothing but a fleet of damaged hulls—ships unworthy of facing this overwhelming enemy and, therefore, easy targets. At that point the whole effort would border on madness: to keep fighting would be to give their lives away as if they were worth nothing. That truth hit them now—their battle of attrition would not save them.

Continuing the fight would only bleed them out: losses slow at first while their ships still held strength, then accelerating exponentially as that strength drained away. They all understood it and, painfully, accepted it. That realization pushed many to desperation; they began demanding a new plan.

In their panic they forgot a tenet of their culture—the strict code of conduct every Minotaur warrior was raised to uphold. The Minotaurs might be a race of brutes, but they were not lawless.

Discipline and obedience were the backbone of their military life, and failure to comply carried punishments none of them wished to face. Their training dictated they were never to question their commanders, but merely to obey the command, whether it led to life or death.

As they all unknowingly pressed Helran—their commander—for answers, most of them did so through the comm systems, unaware of his expression. Only a few, those stationed with him on the command bridge of the Star Fort, could see his face. And what they saw made them frown. A foreboding feeling stirred in their chests.

At that moment, Helran cared little that his subordinates were pressuring him, even crossing lines they should never have crossed. He wasn't focused on their demands, nor on their breach of discipline. His thoughts were elsewhere—fixed not on their words, and not even on the grim reality before him, on the desperate situation that has long since engulfed both him and his fleet.

Sweat covered Helran's face, dripping steadily onto the hard metal floor of the command bridge like falling water. His eyes were unfocused, empty—making him look as though his very soul had left him, as though fear itself had hollowed him out.

Those on the bridge who witnessed it felt a deep, unshakable dread settle in their hearts. They didn't know why their commander wore that expression—why he looked as if something inside him had shattered—but they all sensed one thing: whatever he had seen, it was not good. Not for him, and not for any of them.

The sweat streamed down his face so heavily it almost looked unreal, as if he had stepped out of a storm that raged only over him. His hollow eyes stayed locked on a single display, staring at something that to him seemed absurd—something that defied belief, yet was horrifyingly real.

The display on which his eyes were locked showed the enemy line coming alive: Mechas and space fighter squadrons had exited the hangars of their massive battle carriers and were surging toward his left and right flanks.

It was not the jets and Mechas themselves that made him wear an expression of disbelief, though their involvement was certainly a grave turn of events that further solidified the battle was not in his favour.

This was a crisis, but one expected in war. What truly shocked him—what truly made him, a warrior of the Quansi World-Building Realms, break into a cold sweat of genuine fear—was the vast movement and convergence of ambient mana surrounding those squadrons of space fighters and mechas. That was the source of his expression.

Upon focusing more closely, he realized that it wasn't just the ambient mana gathering around them—it was being drawn in and harnessed to strengthen them. With each passing second, he could see their speed increasing to astonishing levels. And that was only what he could comprehend; as for what he couldn't… the possibilities were endless, and that alone made his heart tremble.

The enemy's ability to access and utilize mana to such an extent—enhancing even the speed of their fighters—was without a doubt no simple feat at all. He could also tell that there was a remarkable harmony between the space fighters and the mechas; the mana flow was stable, showing no disruptive fluctuations between them. From that, he came to a realization—despite his unwillingness to accept it—that the enemy was using mana in perfect combination with technology.

Mana is the purest form of energy and the most fundamental source found throughout the galaxy. Yet, it is so intricate and difficult to control that even attempting to integrate it with technology is deemed impossible. Its nature—intertwined with the very fundamental forces of existence—makes it even harder to harness. Only World-Building experts can utilize it, and even they can do so only barely.

This meant that even he himself could not wield the ambient mana. It is well known that anyone capable of utilizing mana, even to the slightest degree, possesses power rivaling those within the World-Building Realms and even realms beyond. And when combined with technology, the possibilities become truly endless.

Those able to harness mana in conjunction with technology would possess the very foundation to challenge even the superior Tier-One States and those beyond them. This was a possibility—one that everyone was deeply interested in. Yet, only a handful of powers could achieve such a feat, and even then, only with immense difficulty, as the underlying principles were still far from fully developed.

The Minotaur Clan, being a Tier-Two Lower State, did not possess such an ability or the technology to realize it. And yet, Helrna now found herself facing an enemy that clearly displayed signs of utilizing mana and technology together—and doing so in perfect harmony.

said:

[Starting tomorrow, there will be daily updates. I'll also make up for the half-month of absence over the coming week. Thank you for your patience and continued support.]