With the emperor's orders to eradicate the Tartarusios, General Rozasar began his preparations. He knew very well what he was about to face, and underestimating the enemy—especially because of their numbers—was a mistake he refused to make. To prepare for every possible scenario, he called for a full briefing with his commanders and the two god pilots. The meeting would be held aboard his flagship, the Morphius.
The hull was a mix of cold gray metal and sharp red accents, giving it a look that's both elegant and intimidating. At the rear, multiple engine pods were tightly packed together, each one detailed with mechanical layers and glowing red casings. The midsection of the ship houses the command deck—a dome-shaped structure that rises slightly above the rest of the hull. From here, the crew monitors everything, controlling navigation, communication, and combat systems. Toward the front, several mounted turrets stood to guard it. The surface of Morphius was covered in panels, textures, and structural lines hinting at its complexity and durability.
Inside the dome, the command deck was circular, its reinforced glass panels offering a partial view of drifting starfields. Holographic displays floated over sleek consoles, projecting star maps, fleet arrangements, Tartarusios signatures, and system diagnostics. At the center sat the captain's chair, slightly elevated, encircled by operators who controlled navigation, weapons, and communications.
The commanders entered one by one. Mikhail, who led a fleet of seventy ships under him, arrived first. Each of his seven sub-commanders controlled ten ships. With Emilia's additional thirty vessels, the fleet stood at a formidable hundred strong. As the briefing neared its start, the two god pilots assigned to the mission finally arrived aboard the Morphius.
At first glance, they looked almost like children walking through the halls—an impression that drew uneasy stares from every officer they passed. But their presence, even in those smaller frames, carried weight.
The doors to the command deck slid open, and the silhouettes of the two stepped into view.
On the left was Anemone Christ, the designated pilot of Perciosa. At just seventeen, she carried herself with the casual confidence of someone who had never been allowed to be anything but exceptional. Her deep violet hair fell in loose, shoulder-length waves, shimmering faintly like metal in the right angle of light. Her eyes—pitch-black and glossy—gave nothing away. A soft, youthful face framed by those waves contrasted with her posture: relaxed, careless, a touch rebellious. Light freckles dotted her skin. Anemone was known for being direct to the point of disrespect, rowdy enough to unsettle her superiors, and incapable of pretending to respect a rank she hadn't personally deemed worthy. She didn't hide boredom—something she felt often.
To her right walked Maximilian Stappen, pilot of Sirius. Only eighteen, already sanctified by the empire as one of its deadliest weapons. His light brown hair, tousled but controlled, framed a face marked by focus and defiance. Even when still, he looked like he was straining against invisible boundaries. His sharp blue eyes rarely softened. His neutral expression was stern, controlled—a storm sealed behind discipline. Among the ranks he was known for three traits: unmatched talent, an ego to match, and an absolute refusal to lose.
Their arrival stunned the assembled commanders. These were the two who would confront a monster feared across the empire.
Anemone entered first, her steps light. As she approached a nearby terminal, Mikhail addressed her.
"You must be Anemone, right?"
She turned toward him, gave a quick smile, and dropped into the seat beside the controls.
"Indeed. I'm looking forward to seeing what that pretty face of yours is made of, General Rozasar."
Maximilian cut in immediately.
"Don't tease him, Ane. Can't you see he's in the presence of his commanders?"
"Who cares?" she said with zero hesitation. "He is pretty."
Mikhail cleared his throat. "I suppose introductions are unnecessary. Let's proceed with the briefing."
Before he could begin, a message came through—the announcement of Leonora's assignment as backup. The briefing was paused until her arrival, which did not take long. With her entrance, the meeting resumed.
As Mikhail spoke, Anemone kept staring at Leonora. Leonora noticed, but dismissed it—until Anemone abruptly stood, crossed the space, and planted herself right in front of her.
With a wide, sarcastic grin, she locked eyes with Leonora and said:
"My god, are you the bitch of that old timer we're going to kill?"
The words echoed across the room.
Leonora stared at her for just a second, then slapped her across the face—hard enough to turn her head.
"Do you know who you're calling a bitch?"
Anemone spit a thin line of blood onto the floor. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then burst into a frantic laugh. Lunging forward, she grabbed Leonora by the throat.
"You've got guts. I'll give you that."
Leonora didn't flinch. She only smiled.
"Well, missy, you lack strength."
She seized Anemone's wrist, twisted, and shoved her straight to the ground, breaking the grip with insulting ease.
Anemone was about to surge up again when Maximilian stepped forward, his voice cold and cutting.
"Ane. Stop. That's enough. Don't you see that woman is already being punished—watching her husband die? Save your strength for the battlefield. That's where you can truly hurt her… when you're cutting up her lovely husband."
Mikhail quickly moved between them.
"That's quite enough. Both god pilots—leave. You didn't listen to a word anyway."
Anemone shot Leonora a feral smile before exiting. Maximilian followed without a word.
Mikhail turned to Leonora. "I'm sorry, General. The situation escalated quickly. I was… slow to intervene."
Leonora shook her head. "Don't worry, Mikhail. It wasn't your fault. They're just kids—bred to fight, to live short lives. No wonder they turned out like that."
With the two pilots gone, the briefing continued. The strategy had already been drafted at the consul: once Emilia's forces joined the main fleet, they would proceed toward the Bermuda Nebula and on to Antia.
Seventy percent of the fleet would surround the planet, cutting all communication with the outside world. Leonora's fifty ships would remain farther back near Antia's moons, a safety measure in case disaster struck.
The battle was expected to occur on the ground—Tartarusios mobility and unpredictability made space combat too chaotic to contain. With thirty percent of forces making landfall, everything from that point would hinge on the god units.
If the Altopereh appeared, collateral damage could not be predicted. But one fact was absolute:
Losing was not an option.
Not with a fleet of 150 ships, 80 orbitons, and two god units.
If there existed a nation that could be defeated only by overwhelming firepower—
This was the amount required.