Legacy of the Void Fleet

Hundreds of thousands—perhaps millions—were flooding through the colossal cities, each one vast as a country. The roar of jet engines thundered overhead. At first, the people cheered faintly, on there minds thinking their military had once regrouped and returned to the fight or at least they were trying to do something. But they were wrong. So terribly wrong.

The first city-center shield domes flickered under a hail of missile strikes. One stronghold, which had resisted earlier bombardments, finally collapsed. A barrage of warheads slammed into its southern quarter, detonating in a firestorm that swallowed four kilometers in every direction. The shield collapsed, buildings vaporized, and tens of thousands were killed in an instant.

And it did not stop. More salvos followed, pounding the city-center districts one after another. Explosions tore through neighborhoods, raining fire and steel. Every few minutes, the roar of engines overhead was followed by another blinding blast, another section of the city reduced to ash. The destruction continued relentlessly for over half an hour.

By the time the bombing quieted, the once-proud metropolis was gone. A place of towering skylines and bustling streets was reduced to ruins and smoke. Entire districts lay in ashes. Most of the city’s structures were destroyed, flattened under bombardment or burned by fire.

The Minotaur people had suffered losses beyond reckoning. Many died crushed beneath their own collapsing towers. Others were slaughtered in the chaos—trampled, suffocated, cut down by panic itself. And the rest were claimed by the merciless bombardment of an enemy still unseen, their weapons raining destruction from the skies.

High above Bovarka, the Third Task Force moved with absolute precision. Two hundred warships had long since encircled the planet’s orbit, their formation locking Bovarka in a steel noose. The bombardment continued relentlessly—every strike carefully calculated to obliterate man-made structures while avoiding direct harm to the planet itself.

Admiral Rose stood at the helm of her flagship’s command bridge, her hands resting lightly behind her back as she observed the devastation unfolding on the holodisplay before her. Her expression was neutral, utterly devoid of guilt, remorse, or even satisfaction. She was orchestrating a massacre—the systematic annihilation of every Minotaur city—yet her face betrayed nothing. To her, it was duty, necessity, nothing more.

The display shifted to the tactical overlay. Markers representing Minotaur defenses—once flashing as active—were now glowing red, signifying destruction. A few installations were still returning fire, but even these were being swiftly eliminated by the combined strikes of orbital ships and swarms of fighter craft sweeping the skies of Bovarka.

The planetary cannons—twelve colossal weapons with the theoretical power to damage her fleet’s shields—had been silenced before they could fire a meaningful shot. Their hulks burned uselessly on the ground, claimed by precision bombardment.

The interceptor squadrons, Bovarka’s proudest defense, had fared no better. Over a thousand fighters had been shredded within moments of takeoff, reduced to flaming debris that rained down upon their own cities, killing the very people they were meant to defend. And that tragedy was repeated across every city, none spared from the same fate.

”Admiral, Minotaur aerial forces have been neutralized,” reported one of her officers, his voice steady, almost clinical. ”All surface defense installations are also being destroyed. Any weapons capable of threatening our ships have already been neutralized.”

Rose gave the faintest of nods, her eyes never leaving the burning world on the display. The operation was proceeding exactly as she intended: swift, merciless, and absolute.

The few Minotaur merchants who attempted to flee aboard their private vessels were swiftly intercepted and eliminated. None escaped. The government infrastructure of Bovarka had also been systematically targeted and dismantled—communications centers, administrative hubs, and command posts reduced to rubble.

The so-called city centers and district strongholds, the ”safest” shelters for the population, had for the most part been destroyed as well. Only a handful remained active in scattered cities, but even those were already under fire and would be erased within moments. With that report delivered, the officer fell silent.

Rose gave a slight nod and dismissed him with a flick of her hand, her attention returning to the planetary feed. Through the monitoring array, she gazed down at Bovarka below. From orbit, the planet remained breathtakingly beautiful—verdant, vast, serene. But that beauty was marred by the burning scars of war.

Massive cities blazed in firestorms, towering plumes of smoke rising into the sky. Half-destroyed skyscrapers leaned against one another like broken giants, collapsing and crushing everything beneath them—countless lives snuffed out in silence from this distance.

Yet amid the ruin, she could still see them. The Minotaur people, ordinary civilians, fleeing through the shattered streets. They stumbled over rubble, trying desperately to recognize what had once been familiar roads, running toward shelters that no longer existed. They clung to the false promise of safety, unaware—or unwilling to accept—that there was none left to find.

Rose knew of the planetary lord’s broadcast, the desperate announcement made barely half an hour ago. A lie meant to calm the population, to herd them into centers already doomed. But the broadcast had fallen silent now. The infrastructure was gone, communications severed. All that remained of Bovarka’s cities were ruins—half-standing shells, mostly unusable, and burning steadily into ash.

From orbit, Admiral Rose watched it all with a face of perfect neutrality with no emotion on them.

She watched for several more minutes as the bombardment came to its inevitable conclusion. One by one, the fires consuming Bovarka’s great cities dwindled. The last shelters collapsed under missile fire. Defensive batteries had been reduced to twisted slag. The skies grew eerily silent, save for the drifting smoke and scattered wreckage.

When it was certain that everything marked for elimination had been destroyed, Rose gave a small nod to herself. Her expression remained unchanged—serious, detached, utterly neutral—as she spoke in a measured tone:

”Status.”

An officer stepped forward from the bridge’s lower level. His voice carried the faint weight of what they had done, though not to much but his voice did carried the precess of yet even though he had kept it steady.

”Admiral, all designated targets have been neutralized. Minotaur defensive positions are fully eliminated. As for civilian casualties...” he hesitated a moment, then continued, ”the numbers are still uncountable. But preliminary estimates suggest at least twenty percent of the planetary population—perhaps more—has been lost.”

Rose shifted her gaze from the holographic display to the officer, studying him. Her eyes narrowed slightly. ”Your face, Captain. You carry guilt?”

The officer stiffened. ”No, Admiral. Not guilt.” His jaw tightened. ”This... is new. For me, and for many of us. But I assure you, I hold no remorse for the massacre we have caused here, nor for the operations still underway. If the Void Fleet had never spread beyond Earth, we would have faced this same reckoning there. This was inevitable.”

A faint glimmer of approval crossed Rose’s otherwise impassive face. She gave a slow nod.

”That is good, Captain. If it were otherwise, I would have been... disappointed. Not only in you, but in many of my officers. Even the Imperial Commander would demand more resolve than that.”

Her gaze remained neutral, her face and tone equally composed, yet Jack could perceive the coldness in her voice—cold as the space outside.

”In any case, prepare for re-entry into the planet’s atmosphere. Leave the battleships and battlecarriers in orbit. My flagship, along with our destroyers and frigates, will descend into Bovarka’s skies.”

Her eyes lingered on the display showing the burning cities of the Minotaur world, with Minotaurs still running here and there, as a shadow fell across her face before she proceeded to speak.

”Now that everything is down, all that remains... is to take control.”

”And one thing before you go,” Rose said, her voice low but carrying across the command bridge. ”Remember this—what we are doing has reason. Why it is done in such a way has reason. If you do not already understand, you will in time.”

Her gaze hardened, her tone as cold as the void outside the viewport.

”We must be this cruel if we are to solidify our position here, and in the future. Mercy has no place in a galaxy where the law of the jungle reigns. Only the strong have a voice. Only the strong can act as they please—just as we do now. And as you said yourself, had our Void Fleet not been thrust into this galaxy by accident near Earth, our situation there might have been far more desperate than what these Minotaur now suffer.”

Her hand flicked dismissively. ”Now go. Carry out my orders. Deploy the Mecha Division first. I want those Minotaur prepared for the announcement I will deliver soon enough.”

”Yes, Admiral.” Jack made a formal salute and turned to descend from the command bridge, beginning to issue orders with the absolute best of his ability. And yet, even as he carried out his duties without a single mistake, his mind churned with the weight of Admiral Rose’s words, heavy and unshakable.