Three figures stood before her.
A tall elf druid with pointed ears — Avira — stood with her eyes closed, hands hovering lightly in front of her chest. Ripples of pale green natural energy spread outward from her body, as if she were sensing the flow of life around them.
Beside her sat a half-elf bard — Olivia — cradling a moonstone-inlaid wooden harp. Her slender fingers plucked the strings gently, releasing a soothing melody that calmed the hearts of her teammates, easing the subtle fear and tension brought by the battlefield's oppressive atmosphere.
The last member, a shadowkin assassin known only as K, was almost invisible within the dim light. He said nothing, quietly wiping his twin poisoned daggers, eyes sharp as a hawk's — ready to strike or infiltrate at any moment.
These were the companions Lilith had carefully chosen from the Magic Academy and the garrison forces — each possessing unique talents. Together, they formed the special operations unit known as Team Star.
"Avira-senpai, can you lock onto that gray boat that's trying to emit a jamming signal?"
Lilith pointed at an inconspicuous light dot on the tactical screen. Her voice trembled slightly, yet she tried hard to imitate her sister Elizabeth's calm tone.
Avira opened her emerald eyes and nodded. "Yes, Your Highness."
"Good! Olivia, prepare Hymn of Serenity — reduce the sensitivity of their sensors. K, once we board, your priority is to destroy their communication array and engine room!"
Lilith's tone was a little youthful but remarkably clear and organized. She raised her staff, Starlight Whisper, and the crystal at its tip began gathering radiant light.
"I'll provide the starlight shield and look for a chance to suppress their defenses. Fiona… you — you protect everyone!"
"As you command, Your Highness," Fiona replied, bowing slightly.
Inside, though, she sighed.
Sigh… watching but not fighting — truly the greatest torment for a dragon.
Still, protecting the young princess's growth… perhaps that wasn't meaningless.
Watching Lilith's small figure stand straight with determination, a gentle warmth flickered in Fiona's golden eyes.
The Starship maneuvered like a nimble fish through a storm of gunfire, darting precisely toward its target. The starlight shield Lilith cast shimmered resiliently, deflecting stray blasts with ease.
When the assault craft latched onto the gray scout ship, K vanished into the hull like a living shadow. The elf druid's summoned vines erupted from the deck, binding doors and gun turrets in an instant, while the bard's song lulled nearby enemies into a dazed stupor.
Lilith seized the opportunity — a concentrated beam of Star Ray pierced the bridge's viewing glass, causing immediate chaos inside.
The entire operation was clean and decisive. Their coordination was flawless, entirely unlike a team fighting their first battle.
When the Starship pulled away from the now-spinning, out-of-control enemy vessel, the cabin erupted in small cheers.
Lilith wiped the fine sweat from her forehead, her face glowing with the flush of excitement and accomplishment.
"We… we did it!"
Meanwhile, as Elizabeth's main army swept through the invaders' fleet like divine punishment, the Dalton Crusaders, trained and assembled by Colt, faced their own first trial of battle.
They were tasked with clearing out the remnants — small bands of enemies fleeing from the main battlefield toward the Aresia world — and maintaining vigilance against secondary threats.
At first, these "allied forces," drawn from various races, cultures, and even former enemies, were inevitably disorganized and suspicious of one another.
The heavy knights of the Crossbridge Empire looked down on the "crudeness" of the dwarven warriors. The elven archers thought human mages' chanting was "sluggish and graceless." The dwarves scoffed at any tactic they deemed "too flimsy."
The army's movements weren't chaotic, but certainly not smooth — more like a pack of beasts forced to march together, each unwilling to yield.
But the moment battle began, everything changed.
Every squad leader and above wore a "Coordination Resonance Crystal" embedded in their armor lining or robe cuff — personally distributed by Colt.
This crystal received real-time tactical commands directly from the central command led by Elizabeth and advisor Colt, converting them into concrete maneuver instructions — even down to which unit should perform suppressive fire on which coordinate, and when a knight squad should pivot formation.
"Third Mixed Squadron, Crossbridge shield-bearers, advance ten yards! Left flank, fifteen degrees — raise shields! Dwarven axe-throwers, ready — throw!"
The command echoed in a human captain's mind through the crystal. He instinctively bellowed it aloud.
The human heavy infantry stepped forward in perfect rhythm, massive tower shields forming an instant wall.
Almost simultaneously, the dwarves behind them roared in unison. Their rune-etched throwing axes flashed through the air like a storm of death, smashing into a charging pirate marine squad and tearing their formation apart.
"Elven rangers, illumination arrows — triple volley! Thunder Mage Tower unit, prepare Chain Lightning, target illuminated area!"
Three blazing arrows shot into the sky, exposing the hidden silhouettes of stealth enemies lurking among the asteroid shadows.
A moment later, blinding arcs of lightning cascaded through the darkness, followed by screams and the acrid scent of charred flesh.
At first, many veterans — long used to relying on personal prowess and instinct — felt suffocated by this rigid, almost mechanical coordination.
But when they saw enemies that once required costly struggles being cut down like wheat, while their own losses remained almost negligible, all doubts and resistance melted away — replaced by awe and respect.
Before Colt, a vast holographic screen displayed the Crusaders' real-time operational data. He pushed his crystal spectacles higher on his nose, his expression utterly calm — like an engineer tuning a complex machine.
Occasionally, he spoke brief, precise adjustments through the resonance network.
"Squad Seven, conserve mana. Your Gale Blade spells are exceeding expected consumption by five percent."
"Medical unit, prioritize casualty B-14. His vital decline rate is abnormal."
From his god-like vantage point, the Crusaders' efficiency improved at a staggering pace.
They were no longer a loose assembly of warriors — they had become a single, integrated entity: a moving bulwark forged from steel, magic, and the blood of many races.
Though their raw power might not yet match Dalton's elite regular army, their unified coordination granted them a strength far beyond the sum of their parts.
Those few enemy survivors who had fled the main front — hoping to find easy prey — instead slammed head-first into this living fortress and were utterly annihilated.
High above the battlefield, Elizabeth stood suspended in the void like a cold, divine overseer.
Her eyes were half-closed, her immense mind power spreading like an invisible net across the war zone.
Every Dalton soldier's condition, every enemy ship's trajectory, every streak of energy — all of it was perfectly mapped within her mind.
"Third Arcane Armored Legion, shift your left wing three degrees and focus all fire on the Bloodclaw flagship's engine thrusters."
"Vice Commander Reize, your knight squad may begin clearing the surviving enemies on the right flank — watch for friendly fire from our artillery."
"Elven Arcane Archer array, target the enemy's assault skiff cluster. Triple volley. Blanket the designated coordinates."
Her commands flowed seamlessly through the psychic network, instantly transmitted to officers at every level — precise, efficient, and mercilessly coordinated, turning the enormous war machine at her disposal with the smoothness of clockwork.
At the same time, a fragment of her attention remained fixed on the Starship's position.
Sensing Lilith's gradually solidifying starlight power, a faint trace of approval flickered across Elizabeth's violet eyes — though it was swiftly drowned beneath the colder glint of killing intent.
The battlefield had become a one-sided slaughter.
The Dalton army's perfect fusion of technology, magic, and strategy drove the invaders — space marauders long accustomed to brute force and trickery — into utter despair.
But just as the raiders' collapse seemed inevitable, a wave of sheer panic swept through their fleets.
The top commanders — including One-Eye Barton, Ashen Moriarty, and several others — suddenly vanished from their command decks, as though erased by invisible phantoms.
Leaderless, already demoralized, their fleets descended into chaos. What had been an invasion turned instantly into a rout — a complete, irreversible avalanche of defeat.
The campaign, meticulously planned by the invaders, had transformed beneath Dalton's iron hand into nothing more than a hunting game.
——
When Barton finally clawed his way out of a storm of pain and nausea, he found himself in an unfamiliar place.
No bridge noise. No rowdy crew. No hum of the starlit void outside.
Smooth, mirror-like metal walls surrounded him — cold enough to bite. A single mana stone lamp cast sterile light from above.
He tried to move but realized his body was completely bound by an invisible energy field, pinned to a metal chair colder than death.
Humiliation, terror, and a venomous rage writhed inside his chest like serpents.
"Where the hell am I?!"
"Which bastard bitch dared ambush me?!"
Barton's roar echoed across the confined space, unanswered — swallowed by a silence so deep it mocked him.
The same thing was happening to the other captured leaders.
Moriarty, the self-proclaimed mastermind of the Ashen Merchant Guild, sat pale as ash. He tried to summon his psychic power — but his mind was sealed, his energy unmoving.
For the first time in years, fear — raw and primal — made his hands tremble.
The captured captains of the scout ships looked even worse, faces drained of blood.
Their pride, their strength, their fleets — all now meaningless jokes.
Then came a faint scraping sound.
One of the metal walls slid open like liquid mercury, revealing a man in a simple dark-gray uniform.
Walter stepped silently inside.
His face bore no expression, his presence almost nonexistent — as if he were entering an empty room rather than a chamber of notorious warlords.
"Welcome," he said quietly. "To the Chamber of Reflection."
His voice was flat — not calm, not cold — simply devoid of emotion, as though read by a machine.
"I hope this tranquil environment will help you reflect upon your actions."
"Who the hell are you?! What do you want?!" one of the scout captains stammered, voice breaking.
Walter didn't look at him. His eyes — calm, scanning, mechanical — swept slowly across the room until they stopped on Barton and Moriarty.
"Who I am doesn't matter."
"What matters is who you are, why you came here… and who stands behind you."
He paused, his tone unchanging.
"Now, you have two options."
"First — you speak. Everything. In full detail. Your organizations, personnel, locations, and any individuals or groups with hostile intent toward this world."
"Second—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Instead, an invisible wave of murderous intent flooded the room — so sharp and cold that even the air seemed to freeze.
The killing pressure wasn't physical. It sank directly into their souls, dragging forth their deepest, most instinctive fear.
Walter, long accustomed to walking the edge of death, radiated a suffocating aura of mortality and dominance.
As an Astral Emissary, his psychic coercion alone was enough to break lesser minds.
"I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!"
The first to collapse was a scout captain — tears and snot streaming down his face.
"We're from the Seventh Recon Fleet of the Cote Empire! We were ordered to investigate anomalous mana readings — by the Imperial Academy of Sciences! We meant no harm!"
"It was the Shadow Commerce Guild! Those damned rats tricked us!"
Moriarty broke down too, abandoning all pretense of cunning.
"They gave us precise coordinates and preliminary data — promised us a thirty percent share of the profits! They said Dalton Town was overflowing with treasures and lost technologies!"
Barton looked at his fellow captives with disgust and hopeless resignation.
He knew there was no point in silence — not before those icy eyes that seemed to see through every lie.
"Damn it… fine! You win!"
He spat a mouthful of bloody saliva and began to speak — revealing the Bloodclaw Fleet's hideouts, treasure caches, and black market trade networks.
Walter listened quietly, the picture of patience, methodically tracing every thread of the web they described.
It was more than an interrogation — it was a test.
A test of Leo's faith in Walter, and of the operational precision of the intelligence organization he led — Hat.
The truth was, Hat's agents had already infiltrated the void when the fleets first fell into chaos, abducting every major commander with surgical precision.
The results spoke for themselves.
While the once-proud marauders spilled their secrets in terror, the battle outside had entered its final stage.
Leaderless, the invaders' fleets disintegrated completely under the relentless efficiency of Dalton's forces.
Explosions faded one by one, leaving only drifting wreckage and faint embers — silent witnesses to the brutal, one-sided war.
Suspended in the void, Elizabeth watched the cleanup in silence.
Within her perception, no organized enemy presence remained.
Through her mental link, she gave a brief report to Leo.
"President, external threats neutralized. Prisoners and debris under processing."
"Excellent work, Elizabeth," came his calm reply.
And so, in the cold glitter of the starry void, Dalton's victory was absolute.