"Fall back! Fall back, all of you!!" Fargus shouted with tremendous force the very instant he saw the Allied Army's armada splitting apart into four enormous groups, accelerating upward, downward, and sweeping fiercely to the right and left. The maneuver was too precise, too sudden—clearly meant to enact a reverse encirclement on Fargus's armada, to swallow it whole while Lord Hedrick remained occupied elsewhere, completely unable to intervene for the moment!

The only solution was to retreat at maximum speed, widen the distance as much as possible, and maintain long-range bombardment. If they slowed even slightly and allowed that encirclement to close in fully… then everything—every ship, every soldier—would be finished in minutes!

But even amidst that chaos, he did not forget the units under his command. "Send to the young Alexander immediately—he is to withdraw at once. Tell him to keep retreating until the enemy's right-wing armada stops pursuing him, and once their chase stalls, he is to circle around and strike them hard from behind to spread confusion in their ranks. Just that will be enough to support our main formation!"

In truth, this order was nothing more than Fargus's subtle way of pushing that troublesome unit far out of his way—flinging that suicidal division toward a distant direction before they ended up dying under his watch and attracting undesired accusations from the Shadow Swords.

Return to strike from the back? By the time they even attempted such a maneuver, the situation would be long decided, and their intervention would be meaningless, carrying no weight whatsoever.

But the reply came back much sooner than expected:

"I'm afraid that is no longer possible, Marshal. General Alexander has already engaged the right-wing armada!"

"What?!" Fargus roared in outrage. "Show me what's happening there—immediately! I want the full image, no delays!"

Fargus had already deployed numerous scouting crafts across the battlefield, creating a broad surveillance web that allowed him to observe the clash from every angle. And as the image materialized, he leaned forward instinctively.

At that exact moment… the enemy armada that had surged toward the right wing was encircled—completely and unmistakably!

Fargus's brows tightened, forming deep lines as if he were struggling to grasp the surreal scene unfolding before him.

Four giant serpents—each formed of hundreds of tightly packed ships—were weaving and slithering freely inside the enemy formation, tearing through vessels and pulverizing anything reckless enough to drift close… On the right and left flanks of the enemy armada, vast defensive matrices were slowly advancing, squeezing the armada inward, attempting to crush the space it occupied like a vice. And no matter how much firepower they endured from all directions, they did not appear close to collapsing anytime soon.

There were also four colossal defensive bastions at the back, pulling enemy fire toward themselves like magnets and dismantling every barrage aimed at their allies. The fortresses marched forward with terrifying steadiness, trying to link up with the flanking matrices to form something resembling an enormous pincer around the Allied armada—a gigantic crushing mechanism closing from all sides!

At the center, two massive cyclone fleets spun like raging storms, launching merciless attacks without pausing for even a breath. Every shot fired by their fighter crafts found its mark with uncanny precision, and every strike from their support vessels shattered something in its path. They kept their distance deliberately, sniping with cold calm—because the four advancing fortresses absorbed every attack meant for them, shielding them like living walls of metal.

"What in hell…?" Fargus stepped forward in disbelief, the entire spectacle playing out like a colossal crab trying to strangle a furious shark. But the strangest part wasn't the formation itself—it was the realization that hit him with the force of a hammer:

"…They're winning?! They're actually pushing them back?!"

The four serpents—despite their ferocity—were still taking damage constantly, ships falling from their coils one after another. The cyclone fleets also suffered scattered hits, losing crafts here and there amidst the chaos.

But compared to the outrageous rate at which the enemy ships were being annihilated… their losses were practically insignificant.

For almost every single craft that fell from Alexander's division, twenty enemy ships were exploding into debris in return—an exchange ratio so absurd that it left even veteran commanders speechless.

"Marshal… should we still order them to retreat?" the communications officer asked, after recalculating the situation with shock bleeding into his voice.

"Retreat? They're crushing them!" Fargus's eyes widened to their absolute limits. "What's wrong with these fleets exactly?! What are these formations? Where in the world did these ships come from?!"

Then, after several stunned seconds, Fargus thrust his finger toward the shimmering screen.

"Send them thirty support fleets—now! Immediately! Do not waste a single second!"

"Marshal!!" the officers inside the command cabin burst out in shock, their voices overlapping in a wave of disbelief. Sending thirty fleets—thirty—wasn't simply bold; it bordered on madness. That was more than a third of everything they currently had deployed on this front. If they committed such a massive force… what would they use to face the remaining enemy armadas pressing in from the other sides?!

But Fargus didn't waver for even a heartbeat.

"Do it," he commanded firmly, cutting through their panic. "Send the order, and tell them to follow General Alexander's instructions the moment they arrive at that designated zone. This is our chance to erase that entire front completely—wipe it out to the last ship. As for the rest of us, we will continue withdrawing at a steady pace to pull whatever remains of their armadas behind us like a lure!"

A wide, confident grin stretched across Fargus's face, full of reckless optimism.

"...I have a good feeling about this. By the end of today, I swear I'll be sharing a drink with General Alexander himself!"

--------

Crackle—Crackle

The violent spatial distortions swirling around Hedrick finally calmed, dissolving like smoke peeling off shattered glass. Hedrick himself reappeared in full view—still standing exactly where he had been, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back as though he had never moved at all. Surrounding him was a shimmering shell that looked like it had been forged from countless shards of transparent crystal, suspended in the air.

He shifted his gaze slightly in a certain direction, his expression unmoved, and murmured with cold disdain,

"Is that truly everything you have? You'll need to try far, far harder than that if you intend to remove me."

"Stop pretending, Lord Hedrick. We all know what happened just now."

Scorvian advanced slowly, each step measured, then drew his weapon—a curved, hooked sword that seemed designed solely for execution. "You burned nearly half of your energy reserves to block that last strike. Now all that's left is for me to claim your head."

Hedrick smiled broadly, almost amused.

"Half my reserves are more than enough to deal with a mere Guardian."

He had known very well that the Allied armada would focus their assault on him. In fact, he had allowed it—deliberately leaving himself as bait so that Fargus could strike from behind at the perfect moment. And Fargus's ambush had hit its mark spectacularly: huge numbers of enemy craft had been obliterated in an instant, especially the motherships and support vessels targeted with surgical precision.

With that single decisive strike, he must have brought down at least five full fleets.

A clean trade.

Half of Hedrick's energy… for five of their fleets.

Now the rest of the battle would devolve into nothing but pursuit and maneuvering between scattered armadas. As for Scorvian, Hedrick intended to toy with him—stall him, frustrate him, force him to retreat. Killing a Guardian, even one comparatively weak, was never something done quickly.

And when the dust settled, today's only real gain would indeed be those five fleets.

Crackle Crackle

"Hm?" Hedrick turned his head sharply toward the right flank. Something enormous—something completely out of the expected flow of battle—was unfolding there. A strange grin crept onto his face, a mixture of amusement and surprise.

"...Oh Robin, oh Robin… what have you done this time?"

"...?!"

Scorvian's expression contorted instantly as he caught sight of the right-flank forces collapsing at a terrifying pace. Ships were dropping like stones from the sky. His eyes widened, panic finally breaking through.

Then—swoooosh—he launched himself toward that direction at full speed, desperate to intervene.

BAAAM!

But Hedrick brought his hand down like a divine blade, intercepting him mid-flight and forcing him back.

"Hold it." Hedrick's tone sharpened. "Where do you think you're going—leaving me behind like an afterthought? Am I suddenly invisible to you? Come. Show me the Law that chose you as its Guardian!!"

Then he drew back his arm and struck forward once more—

BOOOOOOOOOOM!

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