Mercurian Defense Fleet. Admiral Ragnar's Command Center.
The shriek of alarms.
The grinding of steel.
Walls shudder—like the dying convulsions of a beast slowly cornered.
Every second hits like a pulse slamming into your temples.
Everything vibrates.
Everything screams—without sound, under the crushing weight of catastrophe.
A captain stumbles toward Ragnar, face lit red—
not by blood,
but by rage, by fear, by sensory overload.
His voice crackles like a shorted-out transformer.
"Enemy drones have shifted to a frontal axis! Their flanks are exposed—this is it! We can strike! Fast, hard—this is our chance!"
His words spill out with desperation, almost a plea.
Push forward—before the enemy seals the gap.
Push forward—or we won't survive.
But Ragnar doesn't let him finish.
He turns—suddenly, sharply.
His eyes flash like something torn from the void.
The gaze alone is a blade, drawn and deadly.
"Stand down."
His voice is steel.
No emotion.
No room for challenge.
"Their flanks are still covered. Density is too high. It's a trap.
If we attack now, we'll walk right into their setup. And lose everything."
"They want us to rush. They want panic. Chaos.
I won't give them that.
We are not fodder."
The captain tries to speak—cracks under the weight of his own dread.
His voice wavers, like an android short-circuiting after seeing too much,
but still hoping for one last chance to turn the tide.
"But Admiral… we're losing platforms!
They're ripping us apart—there's no time to think!"
Silence falls.
For a moment, the whole room freezes.
Ragnar stands still—like centuries have frozen inside his body.
He doesn't reply.
He calculates.
His eyes see through the battlefield—past the explosions,
past the glowing lines of the holograms—
to where survival begins and failure is sealed.
Those who think speed wins wars… don't understand war.
Chaos is a mask. Wisdom is the blade you drive through it.
When he finally speaks,
his voice comes low, heavy—
like gravity itself deciding your fate.
"Cease fire."
"All remaining platforms—fall back.
Establish positions along the third defensive line.
Prepare for regrouping."
It's as if someone pulls the plug.
The command center falls still.
Only the red pulses of emergency lights continue to flicker—
a heartbeat waiting for the storm to return.
The room breathes again.
But Ragnar doesn't.
He stands at the center like an axis on which the fate of a world turns—
and the storm rushes toward him—
but he will not bend.
Not now. Not ever.
"Report losses," he says, without looking.
It's not a question.
It's a command.
The recon operator doesn't raise his head.
His voice echoes with something hollow—
like defeat bouncing off the walls of an empty cave.
"Twelve platforms destroyed, Admiral.
Strike efficiency… extremely low."
Silence. Again.
Only the cold blue glow of holograms reflects on Ragnar's face.
He doesn't react to the numbers.
His heart isn't wired to statistics.
Twelve…
But I'm not here to count the dead.
I'm counting the steps toward victory.
He isn't looking where the losses are.
He's looking at where the next move will strike.
His gaze is that of a chess master—
seeing three moves ahead
through smoke, fire, and ruin.
He doesn't ponder.
He decides.
Their next volley will be their last illusion.
After that—
we go for the Martian command station.
No drones. No decoys.
Just them—
and our steel-bent will.
Ragnar's expression, once grim with fury, softens into something else.
Thoughtful.
Still.
As if he's already seen the victory waiting on the horizon.
It's not close.
But it's coming.
And nothing will stop it.