Forward Command Highquarters.

  General Carrick stared at the massive holographic star map, his voice low and heavy. "Distance?"

  Lieutenant General Vance snapped to attention. "430,000 kilometers. Contact in T-minus 15 minutes."

  "Enemy fleet strength and composition."

  "One standard Imperial detachment. 670 vessels total, combat rating B-Class," Vance reported rapidly. "Includes one 'Tyrant-class' Heavy Carrier, 60 Battleships, with the remainder being Destroyers and Frigates."

  "And the plan from Fourth Combined Fleet Commander, Vice Admiral Maddox?"

  "Bait and envelopment. Total annihilation."

  General Carrick smiled. He glanced at Cyril, who was nodding in agreement, then turned back to Vance. "Notify him: High Command offers no tactical guidance. Battlefield command is fully delegated. He has free rein."

  "Understood! High Command offers no guidance!" Vance barked.

  As Vance turned to relay the order, Carrick suddenly called out, "Wait. Tell Vice Admiral Maddox... General Cyril and I wish him a victorious debut."

  "Yes, sir!"

  Jack stood at the edge of the central command platform, watching the blue icon of the Fourth Fleet slowly closing in on the red icon of the enemy.

  It felt surreal.

  Back on the front lines, he had no idea what rear command looked like. Back then, he was just a blind man pushed from one hellhole to another, running for his life in one rout after another.

  While fleeing, looking up at the pitch-black sky, he often wondered: Are there eyes up there watching me? Am I just a pawn on their board, one that can be sacrificed or ignored without a second thought?

  Then he went to the War Planning Department. There, soldiers became strings of cold data. Behind the casualty numbers were lives and deaths, but in the office, you couldn't feel the blood and grit. Even interns like Leo calculated "acceptable losses" without blinking.

  But now... the most absurd thing had happened.

  He, the fat coward who only wanted to run, was sitting here, becoming one of those "eyes in the sky."

  There were no screaming orders here, no emotional speeches. Just simple questions, calm commands.

  Yet these few words determined the life and death of tens of thousands. They decided the outcome of a war.

  Out in the void, the fleets might have already begun their brutal clash. Every soldier and pilot was like a die thrown into a cup by the gambler's hand. Amidst the violent collisions, they waited for the moment fate would be revealed.

  It was the power of manipulation. A terrifying, addictive sense of authority.

  Jack, who had originally planned to find an excuse to leave, suddenly couldn't move his feet. He stared at the screen like a gambler who had gone all-in, desperate to see the result.

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  The battle wouldn't end quickly, but the big shots here seemed to have already foreseen the outcome.

  As a super-combined fleet formed of three new warship formations, the Fourth Fleet was the Federation's vanguard. They had to tear a hole in the Vega Sector, harassing planets and pinning down the Imperial fleet at the Orion Belt jump point. With such superior numbers, anything less than a "total victory" would be a disgrace. Defeat was not an option; it would shame every officer in the Fourth Fleet to death.

  Cyril keenly sensed Jack's state. He glanced at the sweating, feverish, yet fearful fatty and smiled.

  "In terms of composure, you're not quite there yet. But... I didn't have access to this level of command when I was your age. Your mind is too chaotic right now. Go to my office. I've loaded some classic battle case studies on the computer. You need to calm down and think clearly... about what you intend to gain from this campaign!"

  Jack obediently went to the office.

  When he finally calmed himself in the quiet room, a wave of retrospective fear hit him.

  A common soldier, a coward who just wanted to survive, a lieutenant merely "auditing" behind a general... yet when standing on that platform overlooking the entire war, he had immersed himself in the pleasure of controlling the masses.

  How absurd! How terrifying!

  Recalling the calmness of Cyril and Carrick, the nouveau riche Jack felt a pang of shame. He was still far from being a true commander.

  Edge of the Vega Sector, Flagship of the Fourth Combined Fleet

  The Fourth Fleet received the encrypted transmission from High Command.

  Vice Admiral Maddox stood on the bridge. Reading the message, a roguish grin curled his lips. He turned to his XO (Executive Officer). "Open fleet-wide comms. I want to speak to every soul on these ships."

  An instant later, every vessel in the combined fleet received the signal.

  Vice Admiral Maddox—the "Bastard Genius" who graduated alongside First Fleet Commander Snyder, the man who had three major demerits for brawling in the academy yet still graduated top of his class—was about to deliver his first pre-battle speech.

  "All hands, this is your Fleet Commander, Maddox."

  In the galley of a destroyer, cooks stopped chopping vegetables and turned off the stoves to listen.

  "I am honored to tell you that this 'Fourth Rookie Fleet' is about to face its first real fight."

  "We are about to get our hands dirty. And to be honest, boys and girls of the Terran Commonwealth... I can't fucking wait."

  In the lower maintenance tunnels, grease-stained mechanics looked at each other and grinned. This Maddox sounded exactly like his reputation.

  "This is the first job we're going to do after drilling into the Vega Sector."

  "Then we'll do the second job, and the third. But let's be clear—we only have one job description! And that is—Fighting!"

  Some chuckled, but more clenched their fists.

  "Do you remember the Orion Belt Local Fleet? That second-rate fleet that charged through the jump point first? The fleet that fought like mad dogs, pinning down six Imperial carriers for hours during the second campaign!"

  The entire fleet fell silent. Of course, they knew. That was the legend of the Federation Navy, their role model.

  "Yes! Now they are the first fleet in the Terran Commonwealth to be awarded the title of 'Guards'! They stepped over enemy corpses to join the ranks of the elite. Their medals are engraved with: Orion Belt!"

  "And us! We are here! To fulfill our own destiny! The medals of the Fourth Fleet must, and absolutely will, be engraved with... VEGA SECTOR!!"

  Maddox's voice grew louder, more sonorous, echoing through every corner of every ship, igniting the air itself.

  "I brought you here to destroy anything that dares stand in our way! I brought you here to reclaim our soil! I brought you here to cross the threshold from rookies to Aces!"

  "I promise you! I will bring you home! I will bring you home with the dignity of the Terran people restored! I will bring you home as a fearless, iron-boned fleet! I will bring you home draped in glory and pride!"

  "Let our record tell every enemy—the Terran Commonwealth is not to be bullied! What is owed to us, we will take back with interest! We will become the nightmare of the Draconians! We are the fiercest, most savage avengers! Let us show them all—"

  "FOR THE TERRAN COMMONWEALTH!"

  The suppressed bloodlust erupted. In countless cabins and corridors, officers and soldiers roared in unison, their voices seeming to pierce the hull, converging into an unstoppable will:

  "FOR THE COMMONWEALTH!!"

  Maddox cut the feed. He looked into the deep, dark void ahead, his eyes sharp as knives.

  "Boys, follow me. Don't fall behind."

  The Fourth Fleet, like a colossal deep-sea octopus extending its tentacles, spewed its lethal ink into the night sky and silently lunged at its prey.

  (CH104 end)