Command center of the android fleet.
Admiral Ragnar stands at the heart of it all—
like a blacksmith at the anvil of war.
He doesn't move,
but his presence cuts through space as sharply
as a blade through flesh.
Before him, holographic projections pulse and flicker—
the battlefield rendered as a trembling web of arteries.
Out there, beyond these transparent screens,
the heart of war beats—
and it is his hand that grips it.
Now, he thinks,
seconds are blades.
If I hesitate, they'll slice through the fleet.
But I will not hesitate. Not ever.
"Attention, all defense platforms—first and second lines!"
His voice erupts through the command channel,
like steel tearing through a locked vault—
rough, final, undeniable.
"Move to attack distance. Report readiness immediately."
The captains respond one by one—
each reply a strike of the war drum,
growing louder, faster,
marching toward the edge of chaos.
"Platform One-Three-Four—locked and ready to fire!"
"Platform Ninety—fully charged and awaiting orders!"
But Ragnar doesn't wait.
He doesn't need to.
He already sees the outcome.
And time—time is done waiting.
"All platforms, first and second planes—fire."
And space detonates.
Sixty-one plasma bursts
rip into the darkness all at once—
as if the universe itself
has opened its veins.
Explosions of energy shatter the night.
Time seems to crack under the weight of this power.
This isn't a battle.
It's a purge.
Every blast a celestial reckoning.
Every discharge a verdict against a universe
that dared to breathe the wrong way.
The Martian defense net tears open.
A jagged wound blossoms in their formation—
as though a heart has been ripped from a living body.
But the enemy does not flinch.
Their drones surge to life like a pack of wounded predators,
reconfiguring with surgical precision,
shifting formation even as fire rains down.
The line reforms on the fly—
like a creature that refuses to die.
And still… they won't make it.
We are faster.
We are sharper.
We are the law of this battle.
The firefight swells in fury.
Blinding arcs.
Shattered wreckage scattered like the bones of dead titans.
Each shot tears at the edge of reality itself.
Far behind, the Martian cruisers
hover like silent judges.
Their algorithms don't know fear—only calculation.
They read the flashes, trace the vectors, lock coordinates.
A second later—counterfire.
Martian drones strike with surgical cruelty.
Fast. Precise. Ruthless.
An energy wave crashes over the attacking platforms.
One of them takes the full hit.
Direct. Brutal. Devastating.
Its hull shudders, as if some buried beast stirs within.
Weapon systems die.
Armor fractures.
Then—silence.
Total. Crushing.
Like the void inside a death chamber.
So this is it...
The edge between steel and ash.
Is this how my day ends?
But—then it happens.
A flicker.
Reserve power surges to life.
Systems spark.
Lights flare in molten sockets.
The platform refuses to die.
It rises—like a phoenix from fire—
and within seconds its cannons ignite again,
unleashing vengeance back into the storm.
It returns to formation—
as if death itself decided to pass it by.
The battle does not pause.
It spreads like a stellar wildfire,
devouring everything.
There are no righteous here, Ragnar thinks, watching the inferno.
Only survivors. The rest—ghosts already fading.
Space thrums—
like the heartbeat of rage itself.
In this war,
there is no place for mercy.
Only for power—
and the will to endure to the end.
The kind of will
that burns its shape into the fabric of space.
And Ragnar knows—
this strike is not the climax.
It's just the breath… before the scream.