Deep within the fortress complex of Olympia Prime.
The metal lid of the training pod hissed open. Dantioch's eyes snapped awake as a familiar, needle-sharp pain spread from the base of his neck through his entire body.
A normal reaction to neural disconnect.
Three months of simulation. 222 deaths. Every single one vivid enough to haunt him.
He pushed himself upright, staring at his hands—hands reforged by advanced augmentation, encased in finely crafted power armor—now trembling faintly. Not fear. Just his body remembering what it meant to die.
Even knowing it had all been virtual, each death—torn apart by bolter fire, beheaded by a power axe, crushed beneath xenos horrors and traitor warriors—had burned itself into his nervous system like a brand.
"My lord, your vitals have returned to baseline."
A medical drone hovered beside the pod, its optical sensors glowing with cold indifference.
Dantioch gave a small nod and stepped out. He was taller than before—nearly three meters now—his shadow stretching long beneath the stark lights of the training hall.
His armor was pristine, without a single scratch.
But beneath it stood a man who had died hundreds of times.
Across the vast chamber, the same scene repeated.
Twenty-two thousand Iron Warriors rose from their pods in eerie unison.
They sat up in silence. Stood in silence. Checked themselves in silence.
No one spoke.
Only the faint whir of servo joints echoed through the cavernous hall.
Cassius approached from a distant row, his stride steadier than it had been three months ago. His gray eyes held a new depth—something sharpened, hardened. He stopped beside Dantioch and gave a brief nod.
No words were needed.
Three months. 222 deaths each.
For an ordinary man, that would shatter the mind.
For an Iron Warrior, it was simply the price of becoming one.
The hall fell still as all twenty-two thousand stood at attention.
Cassius remained beside Dantioch, his gaze fixed on the massive display ahead.
It streamed their data—death counts, kill ratios, tactical accuracy.
In just three months, their overall combat effectiveness had tripled. Not just individually—but as a legion.
Frix stood at the front, eyes sweeping across the ranks.
Five months ago, he had led ten thousand battered veterans with worn gear.
Now before him stood twenty-two thousand reborn warriors—elite soldiers forged through augmentation, trained within their Primarch's academy.
The light in their eyes told him everything.
They were no longer recruits.
In simulation, they had gained what other legions might need decades to earn.
They had faced the green tide of rampaging brutes, the twisted strategies of alien species, the lethal precision of traitor Astartes.
They had held ruined cities to the last breath.
Broken encirclements on frozen plains.
Fought hand-to-hand in orbital stations.
Detonated enemy flagships from within, taking their killers with them.
Every death had been real pain. Total annihilation.
A trial of will pushed to its absolute limit.
And they had endured.
"Brothers."
Frix' voice wasn't loud—but it carried effortlessly.
"Welcome to the Iron Warriors."
He placed his right hand over his chest plate.
"Iron within. Iron without."
"Iron within. Iron without!"
…
"They've grown fast."
Stephanie studied the warriors on the screen, her voice tinged with surprise.
Just three months ago, they had been top students in the academy—young, sharp, still carrying traces of youth.
Now that was gone.
Their eyes held resolve. Maturity. Even something like weariness.
Their transformation was staggering.
None stood under two and a half meters. Broad, powerful builds. Striking features that almost seemed out of place on such war-forged bodies.
Stephanie folded her arms thoughtfully.
"It has to be your gene-work," she said. "Otherwise there's no explaining why even the veterans came out looking better after augmentation. And these new ones? They could pass for holovid heroes."
Her priorities were… unconventional.
Perturabo ignored it.
"They carry themselves differently," Andos said quietly, turning a small Iron Warriors figurine in his hand—a piece he had crafted during idle hours.
"Stronger. Sharper. Completely changed. So this is what an Astartes truly is."
On a real battlefield, death came only once.
The experience they gained here would be the difference between survival and extinction in the coming campaigns.
After this training, the Fourth Legion's survival rate in combat would be at least five times higher than other Imperial forces.
With logic engines, adaptive machine intelligences, fleet support, and overwhelming heavy firepower—their advantage would only grow.
"Now this," Perturabo said flatly, "is what a legion should look like. Not those outdated doctrines that bleed men for nothing. If they're not ashamed of those losses, I am."
Stephanie and Andos didn't argue.
They knew him too well.
…
The great doors at the front of the hall opened.
Perturabo strode in, Stephanie and Andos following behind.
His gaze swept across the twenty-two thousand warriors.
A flicker of approval passed through his eyes—gone almost instantly.
"You have exceeded my expectations."
His voice was calm, but carried to every corner.
"I told you the training would be brutal. You endured. You are now Iron Warriors."
Thirty-two thousand Astartes stood in perfect formation, Iron Guard units beside them.
Perturabo raised a hand. A holographic projection sprang to life.
With a few gestures, the full expanse of the Olympia system appeared—22 colony worlds, four mining planets, two agri-worlds, five hundred orbital fortresses, dense defensive platforms, and warships under construction across multiple shipyards.
"Your training is complete. Your war begins now."
The display zoomed inward, locking onto coordinates at the system's edge.
"11.7 light-years from here lies an alien empire known as Solk."
"It is ruled by a species called the Cratus. They have existed for over ten thousand years, controlling eleven star systems, with a complete industrial and military infrastructure."
"Estimated population: 888 billion. Standing military: over 80 billion."
"They possess a full fleet and planetary defenses. Their technology is slightly behind ours—but numbers compensate."
"They lie along our future expansion route."
"They will be eradicated."
The projection filled with more data—star maps, fleet deployments, terrain analysis, defense grids—laid out with cold precision.
Perturabo spoke without emotion.
Frix frowned slightly.
An enemy of that scale—billions strong, spanning eleven systems—was no different from the most brutal simulations they had faced.
"Father," Berossus said, unable to hide his excitement, "are we returning to the Great Crusade?"
Perturabo glanced at him and gave a small nod.
"Yes. This will be the Fourth Legion's first campaign since our return."
"Ships and war machines are ready. You have fifteen days to prepare. Then you will lead the expeditionary fleet."
He turned slightly, gesturing again.
"Before that—you will understand the strength you command."
The display shifted, revealing the full structure of the Fourth Legion.
"Three grand battalions. Ten thousand each. Plus training cohorts. Total Astartes: thirty-two thousand. Iron Guard: twenty-two thousand."
"Assets include 22 Emperor-class Titans, 220 Warlord-class, five hundred Reaver-class, and 2200 Warhound-class Titans—alongside armored divisions, artillery, and air support."
"Fleet strength: three Gloriana-class battleships, 22 Emperor-class battleships, 515 cruisers, and 2200 hundred destroyers and frigates, plus auxiliary vessels."
"All ships are equipped with logic-engine systems for full combat automation."
"Mechanized infantry, ring-forged units, Dreadnoughts, and Knight Houses are fully deployed."
Frix and Berossus exchanged a glance.
Shock was written plainly in their eyes.
They knew their father had been building.
But not like this.
Three Gloriana-class battleships—among the rarest in the Imperium.
Even the most favored legions possessed only one.
And here—three.
Built in silence.
"This is only the beginning," Perturabo said, as if reading their thoughts.
"While you campaign against the Solk Empire, I will continue expanding our fleet and Titan strength."
"The Fourth Legion does not seek fleeting victories."
"It builds for endless war."
His tone sharpened.
"But remember this."
"On a real battlefield—you only die once."
"Cassius. Sarax. Kroger. Soltan…"
He began calling names.
Those chosen stepped forward and dropped to one knee.
"You are promoted to company captains. Select your squads."
"Yes, sir."
"Barabas Dantioch."
"Father."
The towering warrior stepped forward.
Perturabo studied him—handsome, resolute, forged in fire. A son he valued, though he would never show it.
"From this moment, you command the Fourth Grand Battalion."
"You are the Fourth Warsmith of the Iron Warriors."
A thunderclap seemed to explode in Dantioch's mind.
He looked up at his father.
That expressionless gaze revealed nothing.
He glanced at his brothers.
No reactions. No clues.
"Understood… Father."
He rose to his feet.
No smile.
No triumph.
Only iron.
He was still just a new recruit.
Even if his performance in training had been exceptional, when it came down to it, he had no real claim to stand shoulder to shoulder with the veterans.
"I'll fill out the Fourth Legion's numbers soon," Perturabo had said, "drawing suitable candidates from the academies across the Olympia system."
"Prepare yourselves."
With that, he had left.
And Dantioch felt a sudden, unfamiliar weight settle across his shoulders.
Frix and Berossus approached him. Despite his rapid promotion to their rank, there was no resentment in their expressions.
"Congratulations, brother."
Frix rested a hand on Dantioch's hazard-striped pauldron.
"Father chose you for a reason. Don't doubt that."
"Frix is right," Berossus added. "A few months ago, we were thrown into command just as suddenly. If he selected you, it means you've already proven something worth trusting."
"You wouldn't be here otherwise."
Another voice came from behind.
Toramino—the Warsmith of the Third Grand Battalion. A master of siege warfare.
"Don't be afraid of falling short of his expectations," he said calmly.
The others nodded.
Months of training had made one thing clear to them—Dantioch wasn't just promising.
He was inevitable.
…
"Barabas… didn't expect you to become my commanding officer this fast."
Cassius stood beside Dantioch as they reviewed personnel assignments, scrolling through data provided by the logic engine.
There was a hint of amusement in his voice.
"I still don't understand why Father chose me," Dantioch admitted. "Even if I performed well in training."
Cassius cut him off.
"Why overthink it? The one giving orders isn't questioning you—so why are you questioning yourself?"
He smirked faintly.
"Save that energy for the xenos. This enemy won't be easy."
"…You're right."
Dantioch nodded.
At this point, there was no room for hesitation.
In the battles ahead, he would not fail his father—or his brothers.
…
Three days later.
Olympia System — Third Orbital Shipyard.
The Iron Warriors stood in silent awe.
Before them loomed a fleet of staggering scale.
Colossal war machines—god-engines—were being dismantled and loaded into transport bays. Knight suits marched aboard in towering lines. Assault craft, gunships, main battle tanks, rail cannons, siege artillery—
All of it fed into the waiting giants.
The capital ships sat anchored in the dock, their vast hulls gleaming coldly beneath the light of the system's star.
At the center stood three Gloriana-class battleships.
22 kilometers of armored dominance.
Their massive rams, lance batteries, and dense macro-cannon arrays gave them a brutal, predatory silhouette.
Around them gathered cruisers, frigates, destroyers—and countless support vessels.
This was a fleet that could dominate an entire sector.
How much power had their father been hiding?
It was a question every Iron Warrior carried.
Clad in fresh power armor, weighed down with heavy gear, they boarded in perfect formation—each warrior assigned to his ship.
None of the vessels had names.
Their father had made that clear.
He would not join the Great Crusade.
The right to name them… would belong to his sons.
There was still time before departure. Time to adapt. To synchronize.
Even in training, they had already broken from Imperial orthodoxy—fighting alongside machine intelligences, wielding firepower beyond anything they had imagined.
And yet—
Even then—
They had never fought a war this well-equipped.
Dantioch stood on the bridge of the Gloriana-class battleship Iron Will, staring out through the massive viewport.
The stars stretched endlessly before him.
His first time in space.
His first time witnessing a fleet of this magnitude.
His first time truly understanding the scale of his father's power.
And suddenly, he understood something else.
Why Perturabo never cared for glory. Or recognition.
In the face of power like this, individual heroics meant nothing.
What mattered was unity. Discipline. Coordination.
Every warrior doing his duty—perfectly.
"What are you thinking about?"
Cassius' voice came from behind him.
Dantioch turned slightly. Cassius stood there, also watching the stars.
"I was wondering how powerful Father really is," Dantioch said calmly. "How much he's still keeping from us."
"That's not something we need to know," Cassius replied.
"What we need to know is this—he's given us the best equipment, the most advanced technology, and the harshest training imaginable."
"He believes we can complete every mission ahead."
"We are Iron Warriors."
"Our duty is to protect humanity, defend Olympia, and bring honor to our father."
"Everything else… is irrelevant."
Dantioch studied him.
There was no hesitation in Cassius' expression. No doubt.
Only absolute, unshakable conviction.
He's changed, Dantioch thought, a faint smile touching his lips.
"You're right. None of that matters."
Fifteen days.
For ordinary men, enough time to change everything.
For Astartes—it passed in the blink of an eye.
In those fifteen days, the thirty-two thousand warriors of the Fourth Legion barely rested.
They ran hundreds of tactical simulations against the Solk Empire.
Conducted dozens of joint fleet exercises in orbit.
Carried out countless ground coordination drills.
Every simulation updated enemy tactics through the logic engine.
Every exercise exposed new flaws—and forged better solutions.
Every repetition sharpened the bond between warrior and machine.
Dantioch stood at the edge of a training field, watching veteran units drill alongside Titans.
Three Emperor-class Titans moved like walking mountains, each step shaking the earth.
Hundreds of Warlord and Reaver Titans formed a moving wall of steel around them.
Warhound Titans darted along the flanks, swift and predatory.
This… was another force their father had quietly revealed.
Built long ago.
Only now brought into the light.
"What do you think?" Cassius asked from behind him.
"Father's Titans outperform anything produced by the Mechanicus," Dantioch said. "More firepower. Stronger armor. Better mobility."
"And fully controlled by logic engines—faster than any human pilot."
He paused.
Yet there was still something in his gaze.
Concern.
"What's bothering you?" Cassius asked.
"The unknown."
Dantioch didn't look away from the battlefield.
"In simulations, we've faced countless enemies. Countless scenarios. Every kind of hopeless situation."
"But reality is always more complex."
"More unpredictable."
Cassius looked at him.
Still just a teenager.
And yet—he thought like this.
Even in the best-case scenario, Dantioch prepared for the worst.
It was why he excelled.
Why he could anticipate enemy movements.
Why he could devise the safest strategies.
Why, even in total despair, he could push beyond his limits.
But sometimes, Cassius wondered—
Did that way of thinking make life heavier than it needed to be?
"Trust Father," he said finally. "And trust yourself."
"And don't forget—you've got us."
Dantioch's expression softened slightly. He nodded.
At that moment, a deep thunder rolled across the training grounds.
They turned.
The Titan Legion was advancing.
"Exercise is over."
The two of them turned and walked toward the exit.
Tomorrow—
They would board their ships.
And set course for the Solk Empire.
A war of extermination.
…
On the bridge of the Iron Will, veteran Iron Guard Captain Soltai stood at the command dais, eyes fixed on the holographic star map.
"All systems checked.
Engines primed.
Navigation calibrated.
Communications operational.
Weapons standing by…"
He drew a steady breath.
"Fleet—launch."
At his command, engines ignited across the flagship and its escort.
The dock trembled under the surge of power.
One by one, the warships began to move—sliding free of their berths, pushing into the void.
The other two Gloriana-class battleships followed, leading their respective fleets into formation.
High above, beneath the vast dome, Perturabo stood with his siblings, watching the armada depart the shipyard.
"Perty."
Stephanie's voice was soft.
Perturabo turned to look at her.
"You're really going to send them into this war?"
There was worry in her eyes.
"They've only trained for three months. Most of them were kids not long ago. Are they really ready?"
Perturabo didn't answer right away.
Something flickered in his gaze—concern, even fear—but also pride… and expectation.
"The moment they chose to become Iron Warriors," he said at last, "their lives became inseparable from war."
"They will spend their years crossing the galaxy, fighting for humanity."
"This is what awaits every one of them."
Stephanie and Andos didn't press further.
They had both noticed it—
The faint, involuntary tremor in Perturabo's index finger.
"Come back alive."
Every Iron Warrior aboard the fleet froze for a fraction of a second.
The voice had appeared in their minds—clear, familiar.
They looked at one another.
Battle-brothers. Iron Guard. Even the auxiliary crews.
All of them had heard it.
No one spoke.
Silently, some turned toward Olympia and offered a brief salute before returning to their duties.
The fleet accelerated.
Gradually, it vanished into the brilliance of the stars.
…
Eleven star systems, arranged in a chain.
Closest to Olympia lay Solk Prime—the capital system, and the most heavily fortified.
A red dwarf star.
Eight planets.
The two innermost were scorched rock, their surfaces heated to hundreds of degrees—lifeless.
The third was a gas giant, vast and ringed with dozens of moons.
The fourth and fifth lay within the habitable zone—temperate, stable.
The heart of the Solk Empire.
At that moment, a massive alien fleet patrolled the orbit of the fourth planet.
Hundreds of ships.
Their forms resembled colossal crustaceans, covered in thick organic armor. Bioluminescent patches pulsed across their hulls, while tendril-like appendages writhed along their surfaces.
They varied in size.
The largest rivaled human battleships.
The smallest matched escort vessels.
The Cratus species was highly advanced in biotechnology.
Their ships were not built—
They were grown.
Living weapons.
Metal fused with biological tissue. Massive tendrils coiled and flexed across their hulls.
On the surface of the fourth planet, near the equatorial plains, stood a vast city.
A grotesque fusion of flesh and steel.
Towering structures rose like enormous tentacles, reaching toward the sky. Pulsing conduits snaked across the ground. Cavernous chambers bred countless Cratus organisms.
At the center—
A far larger structure.
The Queen's nest.
A living mass wrapped around steel, its surface pocked with openings that occasionally spewed foul, burning red fluid. The air reeked faintly of sulfur.
Five kilometers across.
Covered in breathing pores and sensory organs.
The Queen lay within.
From her bloated body extended countless tendrils—threading through the entire city, linking to every structure, every ship in orbit, every Cratus creature in the system.
She was vast. Distorted.
Hideous.
Her flesh sagged beneath layers of oozing red secretion. Her maw overflowed with jagged teeth. Crimson eyes covered her head, crowned by four twisted horns.
She controlled Solk Prime.
She controlled the Cratus.
Through them, she consumed system after system.
She was insatiable.
Endless biomass. Endless energy.
All to feed her expansion.
All to preserve her dominion.
All to satisfy an appetite that had long since eclipsed reason.
Ten thousand years ago, something had changed.
She remembered—vaguely—that she had once been different.
Not so grotesque.
Not so consumed by hunger.
But after encountering… something—something unknowable—her mind had begun to warp.
Forces she could not understand had reshaped her thoughts.
Her body.
Over millennia, she had become this.
Her mind now little more than instinct—fragmented memory drowned beneath endless urges to consume, to kill, to expand.
She had remade her species in her image.
They conquered for her.
Killed for her.
Harvested biomass and funneled it through vast conduits into her body.
She did not move.
She did not need to.
The galaxy came to her.
Within these systems, she felt everything.
Controlled everything.
And she reveled in it.
But today—
Something was wrong.
A sharp, unfamiliar sense of danger surged through her consciousness.
A warning.
Deep in her genetic memory.
The same instinct that had once saved her from annihilation by her own kind.
Something was approaching.
Something powerful.
Something lethal.
Her tendrils quivered.
Her awareness expanded instantly—spanning the system, linking to every ship, every organism.
"Enemy detected. Prepare for battle."
Her command rippled outward.
Alien fleets mobilized.
From neighboring systems, reinforcements began to converge.
And then—
They appeared.
The Iron Warriors fleet.
Engines blazing with superheated plasma, carving brilliant trails through the void.
Sensor arrays sweeping every inch of space.
Lance batteries and macro-cannons primed.
Plasma weapons fully charged.
All targeting the fourth planet.
The gray-black armada radiated something the Queen recognized.
A presence she had once felt long ago.
Dangerous.
Deadly.
On the bridge of the battleship Iron Resolve, Frix stood at the command platform, eyes fixed on the holographic star map.
Generated in real time by the logic engine, it displayed the entire Solk Prime system in precise detail.
Planetary orbits.
Fleet positions.
The bio-cities on the fourth and fifth planets.
Countless active life signatures.
"Commander, the alien fleet has detected us."
"They are redeploying. Their forward elements are converging on our entry vector. Estimated contact in four hours."
The logic engine relayed its analysis.
Frix nodded.
"Maintain current heading."
"Signal all ships—battle stations."
"Charge lance arrays. Ready macro-cannons and torpedoes. Bring shields to full power."
His voice was calm. Steady.
No hesitation.
Years of campaigning—and months of brutal training—had prepared him for this.
He had faced worse.
"Transmit to all vessels," he continued.
"Upon entering Solk Prime, the main fleet advances directly toward the fourth planet—engage the primary enemy force."
"Second fleet flanks and strikes their rear."
"Third fleet disperses—identify ambushes and hidden threats."
"Logic engines will provide real-time tactical updates. All commanders maintain full data-link synchronization."
His expression hardened.
"Our objective is total eradication of the Cratus species."
"No survivors."
"No prisoners."
"We ensure these systems are forever free of xenos presence."
"If necessary—authorize extermination protocols."
He understood the mission clearly.
This was not conquest.
This was annihilation.
Four hours later—
The First Fleet encountered the enemy vanguard.
880 alien warships.
Their forms like colossal, writhing worms.
Thick organic armor plated their bodies, bioluminescent patterns pulsing across their surfaces, tendrils twisting in the void as they advanced.
They advanced in a loose formation, closing in on the First Fleet.
"Enemy vanguard entering firing range."
An Iron Circle officer reported.
"Lance batteries fully charged. Torpedoes ready."
"Macro-cannons online. Railguns and plasma arrays at full power."
Frix watched the shifting points of light on the holographic map, calculations racing through his mind.
880 alien ships.
Moderate size. Average speed. Unknown firepower.
According to the logic engine, their organic armor could absorb most energy-based attacks—only sustained, repeated strikes would break through.
Their bio-weapons resembled plasma artillery—launching superheated matter capable of threatening both shields and hull integrity.
But this wasn't the same as before.
"Activate void shields."
Across the First Fleet, shield reactors surged to life.
Layer upon layer—twenty-two overlapping void shields—wrapped each vessel in a near-impenetrable barrier.
"Target the three lead ships with lance batteries."
Frix issued the order without hesitation.
"Full-power volley. Then detach twenty capital ships—flank from both sides. Use torpedoes and macro-cannon fire to saturate their formation."
At the prow of the battleship Iron Resolve, three massive lance arrays flared to life.
Blue-white light gathered at their emitters—brighter, sharper—
Then—
They fired.
Three blinding beams tore through the void, crossing thousands of kilometers in an instant.
Direct hits.
The first alien ship simply ceased to exist—its organic armor vaporized, its body split clean through. Biological matter ignited, ruptured, and scattered into the vacuum.
The second attempted evasive maneuvers—but the beam was too fast.
It twisted just enough to avoid a direct strike—
Only to have a third of its mass sheared away.
The broken hull drifted, lifeless.
The third reacted faster still—deploying a faint, shimmering bio-shield.
It absorbed part of the impact.
Not enough.
The lance punched through, leaving a charred, gaping wound across its body.
And then—
The rest of the fleet opened fire.
Lance beams erupted in synchronized volleys.
Within the first exchange, the Cratus fleet lost over two hundred ships.
And that—
Was only the beginning.
The surviving alien vessels retaliated in a frenzy.
Bio-weapons flared—streams of incandescent plasma streaking across the void, slamming toward the First Fleet.
But the twenty-two layers of void shields held.
Each impact rippled across the energy barriers—absorbed, dispersed, nullified.
Not a single shot reached the hulls.
Meanwhile—
The flanking elements had moved into position.
Now the fleet revealed its true strength.
Along the broadsides of the warships, rows upon rows of macro-cannon batteries roared to life.
In a single volley—
Tens of thousands of massive shells—each dozens, even hundreds of meters long—crashed into the alien formation.
At the same time—
Thousands of torpedoes launched.
They surged forward like a swarm, engines blazing.
Each equipped with high-yield thermal warheads, guided by logic engines—tracking targets independently, or detonating in pre-set patterns to create overlapping kill zones.
Within two exchanges—
The alien fleet was trapped.
Surrounded on multiple fronts.
Losses mounting rapidly.
Encircled by the First Fleet, the Iron Warriors unleashed relentless firepower—ensuring nothing escaped.
Still—
The aliens did not retreat.
They surged forward instead.
Charging.
Trying to break through the encirclement.
Desperation.
A cornered beast.
But against a fleet forged by Perturabo—
They had no chance.
Their weapons couldn't even scratch the shields—couldn't so much as mar the paint of the Iron Warriors' ships.
As the alien vessels began attempting direct collision attacks—seeking mutual destruction—Frix frowned slightly.
He had no doubt.
Their ships would survive the impact.
But pointless losses were still losses.
And things had changed.
They were no longer scraping by on limited resources.
Their ammunition reserves were vast—enough to burn through all eleven systems if necessary.
And with their father still building strength behind them—
There was no need for reckless close engagements or boarding assaults.
"Hmm…"
Just as Frix prepared to order another full volley to wipe out the remaining fleet—
Something caught his attention.
A subtle irregularity in the data streaming from the logic engine.
He spoke quietly.
"Logic engine—analyze the scale of incoming enemy reinforcements."
"Analyzing…"
The response came immediately.
"Based on current contact numbers and reinforcement velocity, estimated total enemy reinforcement fleet: 1,200 to 1,250 vessels."
"Primary warships: approximately 150."
"Auxiliary vessels: approximately 1,150."
A faint red glint flashed across Frix' visor.
"Change of plan."
His decision came instantly.
"Fleet, halt advance. Establish defensive formation."
"Main force continues long-range harassment of enemy rear—but avoid full engagement with their core units."
"Signal Second and Third Fleets—advance immediately. Expand search parameters. Identify structural weaknesses in enemy reinforcements."
His voice remained calm.
But beneath it—
Something sharper emerged.
"We're going fishing."
A bigger kill awaited.
***************************
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