Chương 1303: 1333 - Task Force Torfinn

A shudder ran through Lion's Roar, Menander's flag ark. Such a thing had become common in the past few days due to the damage that the ark had sustained, and which had yet to be repaired. Out in the Void, arks burned, though by this point, they were in the minority—they'd simply had time to use up almost all of the flammable material, and soon, even those arks that continued to burn would stop. Thousands had died here, and too many had been good Thundermen.

On one hand, it was a tragedy, but as Menander stared out of the projected window at the devastation, there was a part of him that smiled in recognition of the glory won. After all, a battle was only glorious when fought against a worthy foe. Still, it left him in a bit of a bind, as the arguing men behind him made clear.

"… King would want to know!"

"Know what? That we're incompetent? That we can't even defeat a single post-Apotheosis mage and his paltry fleets?! We would lose all honor!" If he had to pick, Menander would side with the latter, and not just because the man who said it was a fellow Lion. Still, the former had a point; the losses taken so far had been… high.

"Look out there!" Lyr, one of Menander's junior officers, shouted, pointing to the projected windows that surrounded the meeting table. The stars glittered, motionless. The sun of the local plane burned gloriously, casting them all in golden rays of light. And all around them, sparkling in that light, were the bits and pieces of arks that had been lost in the battle to secure the sky over this plane. Fragments of men and metal drifting in the Void, now dead and cold.

The salvage crews had long since stopped looking for survivors as, after four days, there were none left. Now, their only jobs were to salvage what they needed from the wreckage of their lost arks and to tear apart and study the enemy's arks. Continuing, Lyr said, "We have lost nearly a quarter of the fleet! And most of those losses were to arks that can't be repaired!"

"And look at how many enemies were sent to their Ancestors in shame!" Kallias, another Lion, retorted.

"They sustained more than twice our losses!"

"Hardly a favorable trade," said Red-Knuckle, Menander's second-in-command—by Leon's order, as he never would've taken a Bear for his highest-ranking officer otherwise, even one as experienced and venerable as Red-Knuckle.

"This was already our second victory that came at great cost. Many more like this, and we'll be forced to halt our campaign until our King can send reinforcements—if we're lucky."

"Such is to be expected when combating strong foes," Kallias insisted.

"We expected this cluster to give us trouble; this is no great surprise. There is no reason—" he paused to glare at Rear-Admiral Soars-Through-Clouds-and-Between-Mountains, "—to bother our King with this! To do so would bring only great dishonor upon us! It would signal that we have run into a foe that we cannot defeat! That we are too weak to fulfill the task that our King has entrusted us with!"

"Who's to say that we haven't?" Red-Knuckle growled. Menander sneered, though he was still turned away from the arguing officers. He liked Red-Knuckle in truth—a surprise given how lowly he typically thought of Bears—but such talk was anathema. Menander finally turned around to bring order to the meeting, which was rapidly descending into unproductive bickering.

"Enough." That one word silenced the room—hardly a surprise given that he'd backed it up with a hint of origin power.

"We yet have strength in our arms," he growled.

"Until such a time as that is no longer the case, we will not bother our King with our troubles. He has given us all the power we need to succeed, and now we simply have to do so. Doing otherwise would dishonor not only ourselves but also our entire Kingdom. I will not return to the Nexus with only tales of defeat, having sent all of our best warriors into the arms of our Ancestors without anything to show for it."

"We've already taken fifty inhabited planes, and more than two hundred uninhabited planes," Red-Knuckle pointed out.

"We have achieved much already."

"And if we were to leave now, then we'd lose some of our gains," Kallias pointed out.

"We've taken nearly half of this cluster! Should we retreat and return these ten planes to the weak men we took them from?"

"An eleventh-tier mage is hardly 'weak'," Red-Knuckle shot back.

"Unless you have something to say to our commander?" Kallias paled slightly, but didn't back down. Menander, however, picked up on something in Red-Knuckle's tone that, intended or otherwise, he did not appreciate.

"When next we meet our foe," Menander stated, his cold eyes locking onto Red-Knuckle, "I will fight him personally. He will know the true folly of standing against us when I tear his throat out with my fangs and shred his body with my claws." Red-Knuckle looked like he had more to say, but rank and propriety held him back, at least for a moment. When he finally spoke, he simply asked, "What, then, is our plan, specifically?"

"These planes are ours," Menander said.

"We will remain for another day to finish salvage operations. Then, we proceed to the next plane. And then the next, and the next, until our enemy is dead and this cluster is ours. After that, we will proceed with our task as our King has charged us."

"And our losses?" Lyr asked.

"Our King must know."

"And he will," Menander promised.

"Once final victory has been achieved. If we inform the King now, then all we will have accomplished would be to give him greater stress when he has greater things to worry about." His decision wasn't universally supported, but of the several dozen officers present, most of them were Lions. As he was the strongest Lion in their Tribe, they, of course, deferred to him. He valued his other officers, but they simply didn't understand the ways of the Lions.

Lions, after all, always fought best when they were bloody and angry. He'd show them, just as he'd show Emperor Makarios, the fool who resisted his King's claim to these planes so fiercely…

Space bent as magic condensed; arks were spat out into proper space by abyssal portals, coming first slowly, and then suddenly in great numbers. Though diminished by a quarter, Menander's fleet was still powerful, and a bracing sight to behold. As a compromise to his more cautious subordinates, Menander had ordered them to come in a long standoff distance from the next plane, just in case Makarios had something planned for them.

While he would've preferred to jump in straddling the plane's terminus line, he'd done so every time so far, and Red-Knuckle had at least convinced him not to get too predictable. Such fears were proven pathetically wrong the moment Menander projected his magic senses and beheld the forces opposing him. Five hundred bulky, inelegant arks—a grand fleet, but his was still grander—all relatively loosely spaced, guarding the plane.

He could see each and every one of them clearly through the projected window, too, as the plane was nearly at high noon, its local sun casting its golden rays of light over the plane's blue and green face. Menander could see that had they gone with his preferred way to assaulting planes, he would've appeared in their midst—right where a Lion wanted to be—and torn them to pieces before they could've reacted.

As it was, it would take long minutes to reach effective range for most of their weapons, and in that time, the enemy could sound the alarm and start maneuvering. Menander exhaled through his nose, releasing his frustration with the breath, and ordered the fleet to advance in a standard offensive formation. The arks then formed a shallow wedge, Lion's Roar at the front, and accelerated toward the plane. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road.

Please report it. As expected, the moment his arks appeared, the enemy began to move, forming defensive lines just at the plane's terminus line. Any closer, and their thrusters would be heavily taxed, not only fighting gravity but also fighting his fleet. It was a strange decision as weapons fire would naturally force them backwards, and they didn't have the tactical depth to afford much pushing. Heedless of this strangeness, Menander pushed on.

The enemy opened fire first, their wind-based weapons surprisingly deadly out in the Void. Pellets of wind slammed into shimmering silver light shields, and in some cases, shearing through to rend armored hulls. However, most of those shots missed, and none of Menander's arks were seriously damaged, even those whose shields were penetrated. Menander's fleet suffered through two ineffectual volleys before responding in kind. Light, lightning, and lightning-accelerated bolts shot through the black.

Light and lightning struck within seconds, breaking apart smaller arks and pushing some of the larger arks back. Menander grinned when a dozen of Makarios' arks shattered in the first salvo, while four of his heavy cruisers were pushed back enough that their thrusters had to flare with power to keep them from falling to the plane's well-populated surface. He outnumbered the enemy greatly, and he knew that they knew that.

Still, they wanted a face-to-face slug fest, and he was more than happy to give it to them, especially when they ceded him the advantageous position. Another salvo was exchanged, and again, his arks came out ahead. Four frigates were disabled as wind blades sliced through shields and cut into foredecks, but most other arks that were so damaged suffered little for it. In exchange, another fifteen enemy arks were lost to the enemy, either destroyed or crippled.

Through the exchange, Menander located the enemy flag ark. The dreadnought-sized ark was at the center of the formation, with the few other similarly-sized arks holding down the edges of the enemy formation.

'If Makarios is anywhere, then he's there,' Menander thought. He gave control of the fleet to Red-Knuckle and of Lion's Roar to Kallias. The battle was going to be simple at this point, and as he'd promised, he wasn't going to sit in the safety of his ark and watch while his men and women died instead. Once command was properly delegated, he swiftly made his way down to his ark's hangar before launching himself into the Void.

He'd eschewed Ulta suits and armor, choosing to instead clad himself in golden fur and to arm himself with gleaming fangs and man-killing claws. Out in the Void, he was strangely free to move, his magic carrying him through the vast emptiness with ease once he was properly protected with origin power. He 'swam' through this empty ocean between planes faster than his arks, his speed only matched once the carriers started launching their fighters and Ulta suits.

Still, he led the pride, as any self-respecting Lion ought to. He opened his mouth to roar as he felt deadly wind soundlessly pass him, but as with the wind, no roar was audible. His instincts thusly defied, Menander added a little more anger and frustration to what he'd already been feeling, and dove upon the enemy flag ark.

Smaller Lance-like weapons started opening up on him as he neared, but the hide of the Lion-of-the-Plains was thick and almost impenetrable, especially against such pathetic attempts to do him harm. He passed close to the plane's sun, the great ball of magic burning in the Void. He could feel every element of magic within, whirling and mixing in the core, even though fire and light were the primary elements that could be seen from the surface.

It was a degraded facsimile of the Origin Spark in the Nexus, but it was still a powerful thing, blinding even to his magic senses if he tried to inspect it too closely. As he blazed past, he found himself directly above Makarios' flag ark. Unable to help himself, he let out another soundless roar as bright orange lightning spilled from his eyes and claws, and he fell upon the great metal beast.

He darted between weapons emplacements and several men with bigger balls than brains braving the Void to fight him, tearing them to pieces with bolt and claw. Metal and blood circled him like a halo of death as he wrought destruction upon the ark. As much could be done to stop him as a sheep could do against a lion. Soon, the long, bulky ark was devoid of surface weaponry, leaving only its main cannon.

He could sense it building up magic for another shot at his fleet, and he dove beneath the ark's surface, his lightning rending through the armored hull to give him access. Men screamed as he tore through the decks, exposing their compartments not just to his power but also to the raw Void—though in the latter case, emergency bulkheads soon cut him off from the Void and let atmosphere settle around him again.

He followed the flow of magic within the ark, hunting the magical mechanisms powering the ark like a lion stalking a deer. He could practically taste the magic as he drew close, drowning out the metallic tang of blood and steel. He ripped his way through the enchanted walls, pushing origin power through the lightning blazing around his claws. The enchantments were strong, but against origin power, they gave way.

There, in the engineering compartment, he beheld the central power core of the ark: a great blue crystal, smooth as an egg and large as a three-story house. Bronze-like Aurichalcum encircled the glowing crystal in four bands, each band inscribed with millions of tiny runes, while Lumenite pulsed along the floor and ceiling, connecting the core to the ark's superstructure with strands of brilliant light.

He launched himself into the air to do to the core what he'd done to the rest of the ark, but a figure materialized in front of him so quickly that he barely managed to alter his course enough to avoid the shining spear that he might've impaled himself upon.

"Fool!" Makarios shouted. The 'Emperor' of this planar cluster was dressed for war, covered from head to toe in gleaming blue plate. Gold accented the edges, while emblazoned on his chest was a golden lion—something Menander took great offense to.

"Destroying that would kill us all, including you!" Menander roared, reveling in how the plates beneath him shook. Yet Makarios' spear remained steady, and without further attempts at castigation, he fell upon Menander. A hundred blows were exchanged in a matter of seconds. Makarios was at a bit of a disadvantage as he fought more to push Menander away from the core than he did to immediately win, and in that, he was barely successful.

Menander, meanwhile, became quickly frustrated at how well enchanted the man's armor was, as while he could feel himself doing damage, it wasn't nearly enough compared to how much power he was using to do it. Still, he rushed Makarios again and again, never letting up, never giving him so much as a second of breathing space. His entire world narrowed until he saw nothing but Makarios, his prey.

He could almost taste the man's blood, feel the way his bones crunched in his fangs, hear the man's death rattle in his final breath, watch— Pain bloomed in his flank, breaking him from his battle frenzy. Another spear, held by a second mage. A young woman, armored only by her aura. She was radiantly beautiful, but the look of sadistic cruelty in her eyes spoiled it as she twisted the spear.

Fire exploded within Menander, eliciting a shriek of pain that he couldn't contain, and he barely managed to tear himself off the spear's head and retreat. Panting heavily, Makarios asked the woman, "You couldn't… have moved sooner?" The woman, oozing confidence, replied, "You wanted to handle it yourself. I gave you the chance." When her eyes turned back to Menander, he felt his blood chill and a shiver run down his spine.

He couldn't sense her aura, not even an impenetrable, opaque 'cloud' as was common among mages stronger than he was.

'She's stronger than me… and she's holding back…' He couldn't win this fight. That knowledge settled within him like a stone, weighing him down and hammering into him the knowledge that there was only one way to survive: retreat. Though it pained him, once his decision was made, he committed. With claw and bolt, he tore his way through the ark around him, trying to take the shortest possible route back into the Void.

Curiously, Makarios and the woman let him leave, choosing to instead follow him at a distance, poking at him from the back to seemingly spur him into leaving the ark faster. He didn't know why they did this until he broke back into the Void. There, the tactical situation had changed. Arks poured from the sun in the hundreds, having apparently hidden within the light and magic of the celestial body.

His arks had passed the sun in their assault on Makarios' arks, and though they'd savaged his fleet, they now found themselves caught between Makarios' forces and the sun arks. These arks were of curious design, somewhat resembling the long teardrop-shaped flame of a match, yet made of shimmering metal that shifted with every movement between reds, oranges, and golds. The surface of these arks—at least, where no weapons were—had long ripples, giving the otherwise smooth hulls texture.

Already, Menander's fleet had taken severe casualties. He could see many trying to break through, though others were pushed against the enemy in any way they could. He could see Lion's Roar already drifting, her thrusters dead, and only a few of her weapons operational. He barely had the time to process what he was seeing before his pursuers fell upon him with renewed vigor. Though he fought like a lion, soon, he found both of his enemies' spears buried in his flesh, their magic ravaging his body from within.

The last thing he saw was a small portion of his fleet, barely ten percent of the total he'd left Artorion with, breaking through the match flame-shaped arks and tearing into the Void. The rest of the fleet went down fighting, taking some of the enemy down with them, but not nearly enough. He'd lost, and the last thought that ran through his head before the final dark took him was how he was going to explain this catastrophe to his Ancestors.