Tytania:Volume 4 Chapter 7

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Chapter 7 – The “Celestial City”

I

A total of sixty thousand vessels from both sides were deployed in orbit around the planet Vardana, engaged in an offensive and defensive struggle over Uraniborg.

It was a dance of death set against a backdrop of eternal night.

The grand spectacle that the anti-Tytania faction had dreamed of, and that Tytania supporters could never have imagined, had manifested around the planet Vardana. Beams of light intersected in a dizzying display. Destroyers were blown into fragments. Cruisers drifted aimlessly like drunkards, their propulsion systems destroyed. Battleships, even while engulfed in flames, continued to spew beams from their turrets.

Vast amounts of human blood and energy were being wasted, swallowed up into the everlasting darkness.

The horrific spectacle was broadcast live to all of human society via the media, accompanied by neither the scent of blood nor the sound of screams; tens of billions of people watched on, their palms sweating, despite the slight time delays. Some were mesmerised, calling it “art from hell,” while others cried out, “Someone stop this futile slaughter!”, yet those not directly involved could do nothing but lament their own helplessness.

By the standards of Space International Law, this battle of unparalleled scale was not considered an “act of war”. It was not a case of independent nations exercising their right to combat following a formal declaration. It was merely a series of private wars between mercenary groups belonging to massive corporations.

However, the reality of the situation far surpassed both law and common sense.

Quite prosaically referred to as the “Uraniborg Incident”, this war was the largest-scale slaughter of the Tytania Age. It began without a formal declaration of war, intensified all at once, and ended in a manner that no one, except for a single individual, could have ever imagined.

While Idris did not move from the combat command centre of Uraniborg, Ariabert boarded the battleship Austra with Jouslain in tow and raced across the battlefield. The Golden Sheep, which was supposed to be the flagship, also appeared at various points across the battlefield as a single battleship, but it functioned effectively as a decoy, causing great distress to the forces of Uraniborg.

Like a swarm of mosquitoes descending upon an elephant, small double fighters danced around the colossal space battleship, mocking the heavy, sluggish movements of its main cannons. In response, small-calibre autocannons spat out streaks of red and blue tracers, aimed directly at them.

In the silence, the double fighters were scattered, sending fragments of both organic and inorganic matter spinning into the void. As the gunfire reflected off these pieces, the shimmering clouds of debris were disrupted, dancing erratically until they became part of a vast, luminous nebula.

Regardless of its humanity, it was a magnificent painting of death, as beautiful as anything mankind could ever create.

As the Golden Sheep charged across the battlefield, leading a dozen escort vessels in its wake, the artillery fire from the Uraniborg fleet concentrated upon it, attempting to pursue and encircle the formation. In the meantime, the Austra moved in another direction, scattering small and medium-sized enemy ships and launching a persistent assault upon the port gate of Uraniborg. The gate, which had only just finished its repairs, was swallowed once more by light and flame, taking with it a heavy cruiser that had thrust its forward section out as if to depart for battle, and fell into silence.

“Enemy ships are also emerging from the fourth port gate!”

“Hoh hoh!”

There was a pleasant ring of tension in Ariabert’s voice.

“A simultaneous sortie? It seems Idris has thought this through at least a little.”

“What is Idris’ objective?”

On occasion, even Jouslain would raise his voice.

“Perhaps he intends to disperse our forces.”

“Precisely.”

“And what if we do not fall for his scheme?”

Jouslain had asked an abstract question.

“Just watch.”

Without showing even a hint of fluster, Ariabert answered, issuing two or three orders to Captain Edna Fredericks. He then issued further commands to the communications officer.

The Austra began a slow turn, appearing to head towards the fourth docking gate. To the enemy, it looked as though the ship was exposing its broadside. Just as the fleet from Uraniborg attempted to close the distance and attack, several ship silhouettes darted out from the shadow of the Austra, intercepting their path.

“Unable to avoid!”

Simultaneously with that scream, which took the form of a report, the side walls of the cruisers collided. Had there been an atmosphere, the jarring sound of the impact would have thundered like a clap of lightning.

While there was no sound, the impact shook the hull, sending cracks racing through the walls. Inside the ship, soldiers who had been standing were knocked down by an invisible force, instruments erupted in sparks and smoke, and exposed gun barrels were snapped in two.

“The skiff is half-destroyed! Launch impossible!”

“Repair it! How long will it take?”

“We need one hour.”

“Damn it, they got us.”

The tactical methods employed by the Ariabert-Jouslain Allied Forces were diverse and extremely sophisticated. Ariabert appeared as if he were even enjoying the manoeuvres of local combat, having already established an advantage across the entire battlefield.

The moment over a dozen heavy cruisers of the Uraniborg fleet attempted to pass through the web of photons stretched between the patrol ships, enemy gun ports opened all at once.

The concentrated fire against the dense formation of large vessels was so effective that even aiming was unnecessary. Spears of pale blue light shimmered as they battered the line of ships. Small fireballs expanded rapidly, shining with particular intensity before scattering. In that silent world, a turbulence of energy erupted. It collided, tangled, and sucked everything into itself, growing larger and more ferocious.

The small and medium-sized vessels struggled desperately to escape this deadly turbulence, but they were swallowed up in groups of a hundred, spinning within the energy vortex. Soldiers were flung from floor to ceiling and from ceiling to wall; they were slammed against surfaces, their limbs broken as they coughed up blood. Amidst the threat of being consumed by the merciless turbulence, one massive ship charged through, overcoming the chaos. It was the battleship Faratax of Uraniborg.

“Eleven o’clock! Three consecutive main battery salvos!”

The voice of Captain Edna Fredericks rang out clearly.

The nine main guns of the Austra unleashed a dazzling, pure white flash.

The power displayed was enough to leave every witness breathless. The nine white dragons tore through the massive hull of the battleship Faratax of the Uraniborg fleet, positioned ahead, and continued straight on to pierce the heavy cruiser Diamentra behind it. As the massive frame of the Faratax scattered, transforming from an orange fireball into a white cloud, countless fragments of light, large and small, flew in every direction behind it.

In the midst of the desperate struggle, the destruction of the dock gates that Ariabert had carried out beforehand was beginning to yield devastating effects. Each gate’s original capacity for ships to enter and exit had been significantly reduced. While intact vessels were being prevented from launching through the narrowed entrances, repair work was simultaneously obstructing damaged ships attempting to flee inside.

“Requesting temporary return! Open the dock gates!”

A ship that sent this anguished transmission to Uraniborg was, in the very next moment, pierced by a spear of energy. One by one, the dock gates were transformed into a graveyard for the forces of Uraniborg.

“Battleship Paramiduse, unable to continue combat!”

“Heavy Cruiser Kappenberg, main battery damaged, repairs impossible!”

Communications reporting damage flooded the circuits.

Idris had not even eaten and was sitting in his seat within the combat command centre, leaning halfway forward.

“The unit that gathered at spatial coordinates J8, E4, P11… Why aren’t they attacking the enemy from the right rear!? If we can break through that sector, the enemy should be forced to spend time reorganising their formation!”

He issued highly detailed instructions, but…

“If we move that unit, the enemy will charge into the space left wide open. If that happens, the second port gate will be directly exposed to heavy gunfire.”

He could do nothing but grit his teeth at that reply.

The flames of war grew increasingly intense, with no end in sight.

However, this was because the forces of Uraniborg had calculated themselves to be twice as strong as the enemy. Had the forces on both sides been equal, the battle would likely have already reached its final stage.

It seemed as though a fact was being proven: as long as an unconventional stratagem as nonsensical as Fan Hyulick’s failed to meet the necessary conditions, no one could triumph over the deployment and command of Ariabert Tytania.

Ariabert organised his entire force into a long, serpentine formation and set Uraniborg to circle in a clockwise direction. Without so much as a glance at the enemy attempting to close in from behind, he concentrated his bombardment upon the six harbour gates of Uraniborg. Naturally, the gates were defended with exceptional strength, yet they could not withstand the concentration of firepower, which exceeded all expectations, and they began to explode and burst into flames one after another. Consequently, many vessels were trapped within the harbour, unable to sortie, while elsewhere, the ships that had already departed were prevented from making temporary returns for supplies or repairs.

“Sixth Unit, maximum speed!” ordered Ariabert. “Advance rapidly at two o’clock position, break through the enemy centre diagonally, and divide their forces!”

To Jouslain, Ariabert’s figure appeared less like a combat commander and more like the conductor of a symphony orchestra. He even felt as though he were hearing the performance of a full orchestra within a silent world.

The voice of the reconnaissance officer rang out with excitement.

“We have successfully divided the enemy forces.”

“Good.”

“However, while they are in disarray, it appears the enemy is attempting to regroup.”

“No need for concern. Exactly as anticipated.”

Ariabert appeared as though he knew no fatigue.

In contrast, Idris appeared to those around him to be utterly exhausted. At his feet, coffee and truffle pies lay scattered. That was due to Idris brushing aside the lunch tray that his attendant had brought, thinking he was being helpful.

“Concentrate all fire on the Golden Sheep! Ignore the cost!”

Idris’ voice rose with fervour. The Golden Sheep was a battle-hardened warship, renowned as Ariabert’s flagship. Destroying it had now become Idris’ supreme mission.

Idris had no way of knowing that Ariabert had transferred his command seat to the Austra. If they could concentrate their fire upon the Golden Sheep and succeed in killing Ariabert, the tide of battle would turn in an instant. Jouslain was by no means incompetent from a military standpoint, but he did not possess the feat of defeating forty thousand ships with only twenty thousand. Besides, one cannot clap with only one hand.

That was precisely Idris’ aim. Lacking even trusted comrades, he was forced into a solitary struggle, attempting to mimic that one-handed clap all on his own.

II

Looking back now, Zarlisch’s sheer, forceful ferocity felt almost nostalgic. Every single vessel would charge forward with a roaring cry, crushing the enemy. Defeat, retreat, withdrawal—such words did not exist within Zarlisch’s army. There was only fierce assault, strenuous struggle, and valiant combat.

Yet, in the height of irony, a swarm of allied vessels blocked the path of Zarlisch’s former subordinates. There was no way they could simply force their way through them.

Commodore Redgrape, one of Zarlisch’s former subordinates, bellowed in indignation:

“These miscalculations are far too extreme! What is the point of leaving our finest elite units as mere-patrol forces? By the time our moment will come, it will already be too late!”

However, it was understandable from Idris’ perspective. It was precisely because he considered Zarlisch’s former subordinates to be the absolute elite that he had been preserving them. Had he waited for the right moment to commit those fresh, unscathed forces all at once, the allied forces of Ariabert and Jouslain should have fallen into total disarray.

But Idris failed to seize the opportunity. He missed several chances to deploy the fresh reinforcements. No, no, that was not quite it. It was Ariabert who had prevented Idris from ever seizing his moment.

Like masters of three-dimensional chess, the two young Tytania nobles deployed their available forces to various strategic points. Their minds clashed, sparks flying across distances and dimensions.

However, there was one decisive difference from three-dimensional chess. Idris was not afforded the luxury of deep thought. Ariabert had forced the conflict into a swift, short-term engagement and, by destroying the harbour gate of Uraniborg, had significantly depleted Idris’ massive army. This, too, had been a major miscalculation on Idris’ part.

Among the Uraniborg forces, trapped within the harbour due to the destruction of the gate, an argument had broken out between the officers and the soldiers.

“Don’t you lot get lax! We’re just unable to go out at the moment. No armistice or peace treaty has been signed. The order to sortie might come at any moment!”

“We can hear you perfectly well, even without you shouting.”

“You there, what did you say? If you don’t curb that insolent attitude, you’ll be spending forty-eight hours in the brig!”

“The brig? Thank you, that increases my chances of survival. I suppose I shall drink the wine of victory once I wake up.”

“You insolent wretch!”

Watching the scene, another officer let out a sigh.

“What an eyesore. Back when Duke Zarlisch was still with us, such a state of affairs would have been unimaginable. To think we’ve fallen in such disgrace in barely six months.”

Had Zarlisch been alive, he would have taken the lead of the fleet and launched a preemptive strike the moment he learned of Ariabert and the others approaching. While such a move might have been reckless, Idris, who had approached the battle with undue caution, had instead ended up creating numerous skirmishers and failing to capitalise on his own advantages.

It was originally a battle between allies. At first, there was no rise in morale, but as the exchange of artillery fire intensified and the fireballs and flashes increased, the professional soldierly consciousness among Zarlisch’s troops, who had already deployed outside Uraniborg grew rapidly accompanied by excitement.

“Are we going to lose just like this?”

“More like are we going to lose without even fighting?”

“The name of His Grace the late Zarlisch will be disgraced!”

“We were the ones who made the military might of Tytania shine throughout the cosmos!”

“Duke Ariabert, what can he possibly do?!”

Further emboldened by their own words, Zarlisch’s former subordinates began their advance. Seeing this, Idris attempted to stop them but ultimately abandoned the idea. He reconsidered, thinking that there was no time to hold back Zarlisch's former men. There was nothing quite like using their great prowess to deal a fatal blow to the enemy's strength.

This was exactly what Ariabert had hoped for. Before Zarlisch’s former subordinates could rush to the front lines, he concentrated his fire on Uraniborg’s Rear-admiral Edulton’s unit to solidify a favourable tactical position, while simultaneously slamming his mobile forces into the left flank.

As a result, in an attempt to evade the fierce onslaught from the left, Rear-admiral Edulton’s unit moved all at once towards the right. It was a predictable reaction, and one that did not exceed Ariabert’s expectations. Space mines, numbering around five hundred, were drifting in the direction of Rear-admiral Edulton’s movements. Following the screams of the reconnaissance officer, the first flash of an explosion erupted, triggering a chain reaction that stirred up a cloud of light.

“Concentration and speed.”

Ariabert believed that this was the very essence of military command on the battlefield, and he executed it with precision and steadfastness. While Idris was preoccupied with over-analysing the meaning behind every enemy movement, Ariabert utilised his mobility to deliver a stinging blow before swiftly withdrawing. From the perspective of Zarlisch’s school of tactical thought, one would have been tempted to curse him, shouting, “Fight with dignity, you cunning coward!”

Zarlisch’s former subordinates clung to the retreating enemy.

“Advance! Advance! Do not retreat!”

Commodore Redgrape, who claimed to be the successor to the late Duke Zarlisch—though not in the eyes of others—rose his massive frame from his command seat. He planted one foot on the floor and braced the other against the seat. To the young soldiers watching him, his presence appeared nothing less than reassuring.

“Two consecutive broadsides! And then, advance five thousand kilometres!”

“Blow away those rebels at 10:30 position, all at once!”

The order was carried out almost perfectly. In that regard, Commodore Redgrape was a brave and useful commander. However, the Duke, who had been able to control Commodore Redgrape’s reckless charge at a higher level, was no longer of this world.

Commodore Redgrape’s unit charged headlong, lacking coordination with the other units. This left them isolated and separated from their allies. Ariabert was not about to let this slip by. First, over a hundred single-seat fighters unleashed sharp, hit-and-run volleys of fire.

Three thick beams converged upon the wounded side of the hull. Incandescent fissures glowed with iridescent colours, as if the hands of an invisible giant were tearing the ship apart.

The battleship Fleetwood, along with Commodore Redgrape, was transformed into an orange fireball and scattered into dozens of great serpents of light.

Having lost their flagship, Redgrape’s fleet fell into chaos without any formal delegation of command. It was then that Ariabert’s forces launched an assault, employing a three-to-one tactic. Redgrape’s remaining forces were forced to face three enemies at once and were destroyed in rapid succession. The three undamaged ships then set upon the next target, causing it to explode in an equally brief interval.

The disadvantage in overall numbers had been completely overturned through the thorough application of remarkable “concentration and speed”. At this moment, Idris, feeling the thirst in his throat as expected, was drinking some mineral water, but he clicked his tongue while still clutching the bottle and issued an order to the reconnaissance officer.

“Switch the display to Screen B!”

The screen switched immediately, displaying a different scene from the battlefield. Although it was supposed to have happened, the operators were under the illusion for a few seconds that the switch had failed. This was because there was almost no difference in the sight depicted on the screen.

Against a backdrop of dancing light and shadow, a scene of one-sided destruction and slaughter unfolded. Since both sides were regular Tytania forces, there should have been no disparity in the capabilities of the vessels. Their individual combat abilities should also have been equal, yet when it came to collective action, the level of sophistication was entirely different.

“Zarlisch’s Fleet exists only because of Duke Zarlisch.”

The one who lamented so was Commander Granite, who often served as a moderating influence while under Zarlisch’s command.

Commander Granite looked to the heavens in despair. Having maintained a fairly calm assessment of the late Duke Zarlisch, he found himself preoccupied by the fact that the enemy general was none other than Duke Ariabert.

The perception was that of the ruthless general Zarlisch pitted against the wise general Ariabert. To be sure, while Ariabert did not lack for cunning and certainly surpassed Zarlisch in prudence and judgement, he was ultimately an orthodox and meticulous commander who never resorted to unconventional or nonsensical tactics.

However, Commander Granite knew that Zarlisch, who should have been superior in raw strength, had met an unexpected death at the hands of Fan Hyulick. It was that very experience that misled the Commander. It was for this reason that, in this chaotic era, Fan Hyulick would be remembered as the “Trickster of the Battlefield”.

“The individual known as Fan Hyulick was not particularly ambitious, nor did he possess a great passion for reform, nor did he lead vast armies to conduct magnificent large-scale battles. His military victories were such that they might almost be considered accidental, yet it remains a fact that the results exerted an immense political influence.” (M. Thornycroft)

This assessment was likely correct, but it undoubtedly overlooked a crucial point. The victories achieved through Hyulick’s unorthodox stratagems had a significant impact on the soldiers who fought in actual combat. The shock inflicted upon the military by the fact that “vast armies could be defeated through nonsensical, unconventional tactics” was profound.

Because the defeats of Ariabert and Zarlisch had been so striking, tactics that were originally intended as a “cornered rat bites the cat” desperation move were instead romanticised and celebrated. In terms of military theory, heresy had pushed orthodoxy aside. While Fan Hyulick should not have been held responsible, it was ironic that had he simply lost while leading the Euria army as the high command had planned, the Tytanian Age might never have been shaken.

Regardless of his personal intentions, Fan Hyulick had indeed created the catalyst that changed history. Before it began, the Battle of Cerberus was thought to be nothing more than a local skirmish, and even the victors believed so once it had concluded.

III

Historians of later generations noted that despite Ariabert’s defeat by Fan Hyulick on two separate occasions, he did not lose the trust of the troops under his command at all. It is recognised as a fact that he was not merely a military strategist but a renowned commander who possessed true personal leadership. As evidence, when he boldly attacked Uraniborg, there were zero desertions.

From the soldiers’ perspective, they did not view this as a rebellion against Tytania’s rule, nor did they consider it resistance against the Clanner. To them, it was simply a matter of determining who would take the seat of the future leader within the framework of Tytania’s permanent system of governance, through military means rather than peaceful ones.

Ariabert was beloved by the soldiers, but had Idris emerged victorious, they would have simply revered him as Clanner despite any underlying grievances. Looking at the scale and the aftermath of the “Uraniborg Incident”, the disparity between the perceptions of those involved and the reality of the situation was immense.

A tempest of heat and flame swept through the corridor, swallowing soldiers of all ages and genders who had failed to escape. Final screams rang out, and the stench of burning flesh stung the nostrils. A dark shadow, half-consumed by golden flames, struggled and flailed wildly before finally collapsing onto the floor. A soldier, his abdomen slashed by a flying fragment of something, lost the strength to continue as he tried to push his protruding intestines back inside with bloody hands, eventually falling still.

“Damn it, damn it! To think that Tytania was brought down by Tytania…”

“Medic!… Get a medic!”

Of course, if one emerged victorious, the future was bright, and even in defeat, a future could still exist. That was, provided one remained alive; the scent of blood and the state of the ravaged ship had replenished his nerves and veins with a fresh surge of terror that should have long since worn away.

“Will Duke Idris not be heading out with the Black Prince!?”

An accusatory voice drifted through the communication network, yet Idris showed no intention of leaving the combat command room.

To brand Idris a “coward” would be far too harsh. He did not fear death. It was simply that, in inverse proportion to the strength of his ambition, he loathed failure. In particular, he feared that a military failure would lead to a political one, and while he was capable of making bold and cold-blooded decisions, he often hesitated to execute them.

The late Zarlisch, when referring to that aspect of Idris, gave the following conclusion:

“That guy possesses far too much malice.”

Because Idris’ relationship with Jouslain had soured, eventually even resulting in armed conflict, he was frequently compared to Jouslain. However, considering his lack of consistent strategy, his unyielding ambition, and his deficiency in tactical flexibility, ought he not rather be compared to Fan Hyulick? If Hyulick was a free man in exile, then Idris was a noble captive, confined within the magnificent prison known as Uraniborg.

“Uraniborg is a prison.”

Jouslain, who had once seen through the truth of it, desired an escape from that place and was now closing in upon him as an “enemy”.

“Did he guy himself ever imagine such a situation? Unlikely. Much less Ariabert…”

Idris, who was three years younger than Ariabert and Jouslain, harboured an excessive sense of rivalry towards them, which grew into complete hostility within a single year. Some historians went so far as to argue that the alliance between Ariabert and Jouslain was, in fact, created by Idris himself.

Of several political options available, Idris chose to turn both Ariabert and Jouslain into his enemies at once; however, to dismiss this as mere overconfidence or foolishness would be to overlook the rapid shift in circumstances that followed.

In any case, it was the first time in history that the flames of war had reached Uraniborg.

The transparent canopy covering Uraniborg would not sustain even a scratch from a collision with a frigate. It consisted of a six-centimetre-thick layer of diamond-hard transparent ceramic. Beneath that lay a thirty-centimetre layer of air, followed by more transparent ceramic, more air… and so on; the outer hull comprised twelve such layers. In the event of an emergency, fluid ceramic would be pumped into the air layers, further bolstering the defensive strength. Thus, it became clear that Ariabert’s later instruction to “destroy up to six layers” had been intended solely as a threat, rather than an attempt to achieve the complete destruction of Uraniborg.

The residents of Uraniborg, save for the Tytania military, were all peaceful recluses who had been permitted to reside within the Tytania stronghold, spending their days in tranquillity, cleanliness, and prosperity. They had never imagined that Uraniborg would ever fall under military assault, and indeed, such a thing had not occurred for generations. But now, all of that was a thing of the past.

It wasn’t only the citizens of Uraniborg. Half of the people living upon the surface of the planet Vardana also gazed up at the night sky and gasped. The expanding clouds of light looked almost like gargantuan interstellar organisms, swallowing and digesting the natural stars. Within the inner gardens of the grand, classical Vardana Imperial Palace, Harsha VI remained on the balcony, his gaze fixed upwards in ecstasy, having left his dinner unfinished.

“Behold! Lo and behold, Empress! Tytania is slaying herself. With her very own hands, strangling her own kin!”

Harsha VI’s ecstasy was gradually veering into madness. The unfortunate Emperor had been plagued by feelings of humiliation and helplessness regarding Tytania since before his adulthood, but now, his surging euphoria was on the verge of shattering the ceiling of his reason.

The Empress sensed danger, yet no matter how many times she attempted to soothe him, it was to no avail. She could do little more than sigh and dismiss the attendants, doing her utmost to ensure that her husband’s voice and manners were not witnessed by others.

Once again, a chain of explosions erupted, tracing a massive necklace of death and destruction across the night sky. As Harsha VI gazed up at it through the canopy, the silver goblet slipped from his hand and bounced upon the floor of the imperial palace balcony. A reddish-purple liquid stained the hem of his imperial robes, but the Emperor did not notice.

“Behold, Empress! I care not if it is by the thousands or tens of thousands, but those Tytanian bastards are dying! It is retribution for their wickedness. At last, the era I have dreamed of is arriving!”

The Empress, watching her frenzied husband from a distance, had a look of profound desolation in her eyes.

“… In that mere private war, untold millions of people suffered physical and mental collapse. More than anything, it was the era itself that was in collapse.” (J. Augustus)

Duke Idris Tytania, who might be described as the natural nemesis of Harsha VI, appeared to be finally reaping the consequences of years of irreverence. Had Harsha VI been able to behold the young nobleman’s utterly haggard face, he might have died from sheer joy.

“To be overwhelmed so unilaterally…”

Idris was seized by a sensation as if the landscape before his eyes were losing its colour. It was as though intense stress had caused his optic nerves to malfunction.

In purely military terms, he was far from being Ariabert’s equal. Though he did not say it aloud, Idris had to admit it. He had never been so conceited as to believe his own military genius surpassed that of Ariabert. However, he had not been so self-deprecating as to believe there was a vast gulf between them; he had thought that he could catch up within five years and surpass him in achievements within ten.

To begin with, the talent and magnanimity worthy of the Tytania supreme commander were not limited solely to pure military prowess. It was enough to possess the discernment to appoint capable commanders whenever the need arose. At the very least, for the last three or four generations, no Clanner had demonstrated military ability that surpassed Idris.

Many times, Idris found a favourable opportunity in battle. The enemy fleet was emerging from the chaos of melee and attempting to regroup. After confirming their position, Idris shouted with lightning-fast decisiveness:

“Now! Fire! Fire! Fire!”

The rail cannons spat supersonic projectiles with a silent roar.

The concentrated fire proved successful, creating large and small fireballs that tore holes in the formation of the combined Ariabert-Jouslain fleet. Without hesitation, Idris ordered the deployment of corvettes aimed directly at those breaches. While five hundred ships would have been ideal, he could only move about three hundred and fifty. That was enough. Idris proceeded with the execution of his plan.

Ariabert made no attempt to intercept. Avoiding the manoeuvring attack of the charging corvette group, he focused on skilfully plugging the gaps while attempting to increase the distance between them and Uraniborg.

Idris found himself shouting aloud:

“It worked!”

IV

Something strange happened.

Or rather, it did not happen. Nothing happened at all. Although the guardian angels of Uraniborg—the military satellite constellations—had the vessels of the combined Ariabert-Jouslain fleet within range, they made no attempt to fire either their rail cannons or their laser cannons.

Ariabert continued the fleet manoeuvres with complete composure, forming a new battle line. Regardless of the artistic skill required, one had to wonder how he could remain so calm while utterly ignoring the satellite swarms.

“… Ah!”

Idris groaned, suddenly realising something.

It was the programme integrated to prevent military satellites from firing upon their own side. Their cannons were capable of identifying friendly forces. Every vessel within the Tytania fleet was equipped with identification tags. And the Honest Old Man Junior was no exception.

Because all the vessels in the combined Ariabert-Jouslain fleet originally belonged to Tytania, they utilised these identification tags to avoid accidental attacks caused by misidentification from the military satellites. They were known as “talismans”. These tags transmitted identification signals to the satellites, and upon receiving them, the weapons equipped on the satellites would fail to activate entirely.

Idris felt murderous intent at his own carelessness.

“Change the programme!”

Passion and regret set Idris’ voice ablaze.

“Modify the tactical computer’s programme so that it no longer accepts the identification signals sent from Ariabert and Jouslain’s vessels’ talismans!”

“It… it will take one hour.”

“Do it in thirty minutes.”

“With all due respect…”

“I said do it!”

The interception commander in charge of the tactical computer was Vice-Admiral Elsey, an elderly thin man, but as he attempted to argue further, Idris pointed a finger at him.

“You are relieved of your post. Consider yourself lucky that you aren’t being punished for disobedience.”

In the silenced room, only Idris’ voice echoed.

“Who is the interception vice-commander?”

“I am, sir.”

“Your name?”

“My name is Ridenhour.”

“Very well. From this moment on, you are the interception commander. Your rank is rear-admiral? I am promoting you to vice-admiral. The official order will be issued before the end of the day. Is that understood?”

“Y-yes.”

The newly appointed Vice-Admiral Ridenhour offered a Tytania-style salute, while Vice-Admiral Elsey, having been stripped of his rank and honour, slumped his shoulders and departed the scene in dejection. Idris did not even see him out.

“An hour should be plenty, but let us be certain.”

Ariabert, too, had devised a new plan, taking into account the time required to repair the satellite constellation.

“Attack the military satellites… no, destroy them.”

If the battle dragged on and the military satellite constellation’s programme were altered, their allies would find themselves subject to attacks from large-calibre guns. He had taken this worst-case scenario into account. The reason he had changed his phrasing from “attack” to “destroy” was because, at that moment, the military satellites entirely lacked any capacity for counterattack and would simply be pummelled whilst unable to fight back.

Having chosen his words with an odd sense of fastidiousness, Ariabert proceeded to issue a demand for the surrender of the satellite constellation.

As a result, the commanders of each satellite were forced to make a decision. Death or surrender.

“It is cowardly to launch a unilateral attack against those who lack the means to retaliate.”

Protesting in such a manner was useless. As long as their power remained active, they possessed weapons. Since they had also demonstrated the intent to use them, Ariabert had no obligation to show them mercy. If left alone, they would be under attack within an hour or two. There was no need for hesitation in striking first.

In the end, every single one of the twelve satellites, so to speak, conveyed their intent to surrender. However, it was at this moment that Ariabert issued a ruthless command.

“If you intend to surrender, aim the heavy artillery at Uraniborg.”

Ariabert’s order was a perfect specimen of “Tytanian ruthlessness”.

“Control the output and prepare to destroy up to the sixth layer of the firmament. Any failure to comply with this instruction will be deemed an intent to resist, and you shall be destroyed immediately.”

Rejection was no longer possible. Furthermore, the instruction to destroy “only up to the sixth layer” signified that Ariabert had no intention of completely obliterating Uraniborg. One after another, the commanders of each satellite yielded, and they trained their heavy artillery upon Uraniborg.

Of course, Idris knew of this, but he remained so calm that he even felt a sense of irony himself. He possessed a strange premonition that everything would be over before the heavy artillery of the satellite constellation could even fire.

Ariabert continued to issue commands.

“Fourth Unit, you’ve heard the situation. Ascend from the nadir towards the zenith, and concentrate your fire on the enemy’s reassembly point.”

“Repeating orders! Ascend from nadir towards zenith…”

The crew on the bridge must have been accumulating fatigue, fighting without any rest, yet with their sympathetic nervous systems in full operation, there was no sign of flagging morale.

Balamy noticed someone tugging at his sleeve. When he cast his gaze downwards to the left, he saw Princess Lydia looking up at him with a dead-serious expression, a small parcel held in her left hand.

“You are quite lost in thought, Bal.”

“M-my apologies, Princess. Do you require something?”

“I shall give you half of this, so let us eat together.”

Upon opening the parcel, he found several kelsey biscuits inside.

“I could not possibly accept your snacks, Princess…”

“I have heard that sweets help to activate the brain cells.”

“You are well-informed.”

“Even without such a reason, one should simply accept another’s kindness.”

“You are quite right. Thank you.”

While still holding a biscuit in his mouth, Balamy glanced at the screen and his eyes widened.

“There are reserve enemy forces in that position…”

Even as Balamy stood dazed, a group of high-speed ships emerged from an unexpected location and began to assault the Uraniborg forces from the eight o’clock position, wielding blades of light to start carving through the enemy formation. Amidst the dizzying dance of light and shadow, Balamy realised that Princess Lydia was still by his side.

“Princess, if you continue to stare for so long, you will hurt your eyes.”

“I know… but it feels such a waste.”

“A waste, your Highness?”

“The Kingdom of Elbing possesses three battleships. They were purchased from Tytania forty years ago. The older models had a twenty percent discount…”

They would likely be of no use at all. They were probably nothing more than mere ornaments. Balamy empathised with how much the Princess’ heart must have ached when she heard that the forces of Uraniborg were set to attack the Kingdom of Elbing. He possessed enough experience to be capable of such empathy.

Jouslain was lost in thought.

He had come into this world from the quagmire of Tytania, surrounded by magnificent flowers. He knew where he had come from. But where, then, was he headed next?

He knew that even contemplating such things was a luxury afforded only by privilege. Soldiers caught in the heat of a fierce battle had no leisure for such pseudo-philosophical musings. In a single moment of distraction, struck by the thought of being hungry, a beam might hit them directly, ensuring they would never feel hunger again.

Despite knowing this, Jouslain drifted into his own contemplations rather than synchronising with the spirits of the soldiers. Having been born in a high position with the power to sway individual lives and the fate of nations, what was he meant to do? He had reached a tentative conclusion, but to bring it to fruition…

“Lord Jouslain, what are you doing?”

“… Oh, Princess, well, I was lost in thought. It’s quite a difficult matter.”

“Is there something even you cannot understand, Lord Jouslain?”

“There is nothing but things I do not understand.”

Where would he be, and what would he be doing at this time tomorrow? No, Jouslain could not even predict what would happen five minutes from now. He was alive now. He would likely be alive in five minutes, too. There was no evidence for it; he simply thought so.

Jouslain gazed countless times at Ariabert’s back, which stood so composed at the command seat, and each time, he felt a sensation akin to relief. As long as Ariabert remained well, Jouslain could avoid overthinking the meaning of life. He could simply focus on his duties and support Ariabert. That day was already drawing near. Though he would likely have to deal with some quite unpleasant matters…

A light impact struck the bridge. A gunboat from Uraniborg had lost control and collided with the Austra. While the larger vessel had sustained no apparent damage, the smaller one was not so fortunate.

V

The gunboat, having been flung aside, spun wildly, scattering fragments from its torn outer hull, before colliding with the canopy of Uraniborg.

A few of the residents of Uraniborg might have seen a tiny crack appear in a corner of the night sky. Hundreds of times that many were convinced they had seen it. Though they likely thought it impossible, the very fact that actual combat between Tytania factions was unfolding around Uraniborg was, in itself, impossible.

“The canopy is cracking!”

“What happens if the canopy breaches!?”

“We’re all going to be tossed out into space!”

The panic-mongers, who existed in every era, in every place, and in every situation, let out screams. The men and women around them were visibly shaken, scurrying about in a desperate attempt to find somewhere to flee. Of course, there were some who remained calm.

“Fool, there is no way it could break. What do you think Uraniborg is?”

“But cracks are actually appearing like that…”

“Listen, you! You can make all the noise you want, but where exactly do you intend to flee to?” shouted a seemingly thoughtful officer among the Tytania soldiers tasked with city security. “Silence! Calm yourselves, citizens. It is impossible for the canopy of Uraniborg to break. I strictly forbid any words or actions that incite social unrest or provoke panic. Depending on the circumstances, I will authorise lethal force. Now, everyone disperse and return to your homes. Sleep in peace. We guarantee the safety of Uraniborg, do you understand?!”

There was no need to be timid; if the situation reached a point where one could accuse him of failing to provide such a guarantee, everyone would be dead anyway. It was perfectly fine to declare such things with absolute confidence.

“Now, move along, move along! If you want to watch a show, go home and watch it with your families!”

Once the residents had been driven from the square, the soldiers exchanged private conversation among themselves.

“At this rate, if we concentrated about a dozen heavy battleships on a single point and rammed them at high speed, we might be able to destroy the canopy all the way to the innermost layer.”

“And then leave future generations with the infamy of mass-slaughtering civilians? I doubt Lord Ariabert or Lord Jouslain would have any desire for such a thing.”

“True. Besides, even without resorting to such an act…”

“Fool, say no more.”

An officer with a pale face ran past them just a moment later, leading his subordinates. The soldiers quickly fell into line with solemn expressions and offered salutes. It seemed that the higher one’s rank, the paler one grew as the prospect of defeat became more certain.

The one who had gone the palest in Uraniborg was, of course, Duke Idris, but he had not lost his fortitude. While being crushed by the sheer scale of the losses, he muttered,

“There are still three hundred thousand carracks remaining.”

That was an undeniable fact, yet compared to the magnificent grandeur of the Black Prince, those numbers likely lacked any real intimidation.

By their very nature, carracks were equipped with only the minimum necessary weaponry for the purpose of self-defence and as a deterrent against anti-Tytania factions. When attacked by pirates, they would flee while attempting to fight back. Provided they could hold out, the Tytania regular army, having received emergency communications, would arrive to the rescue. All they needed to do was buy enough time.

Furthermore, there was no guarantee that the three hundred thousand carracks would all side with Idris. They were currently watching the struggle for Uraniborg with bated breath. They had no obligation to support the loser, and their consciences would not suffer even if they let Idris perish. If Ariabert were to seize hegemony, they would scramble to prove their loyalty and vie for the lead.

As he imagined this, Idris loathed their lack of principle, though he knew he was merely taking his frustrations out on them.

“The first Neville, the second Nuri, the third Chatelet, the fourth Var, the fifth Barneveld…”

Idris murmured the names of the successive Clanners. Among them, he held the second, Nuri, in the highest reverence. He believed that Nuri’s cold ruthlessness was precisely what Tytania needed most. The fortitude of the first Neville was, of course, also worthy of praise. However, towards the Clanners from the third generation onwards, Idris felt no need to accord them any courtesy beyond that due to their status as ancestors.

Had they not merely remained upon the foundation laid by the first Neville and the second Nuri? They already possessed the greatest military power in the universe, and there had existed no one to oppose or attack them head-on. Had such formidable foes emerged, Idris wondered whether Tytania could have even survived until this day. Indeed, Idris had to admit that Ariabert was a powerful enemy. If he did not, he would be admitting to having been defeated by a weak one.

Zelpha, Idris’ younger brother, stood about ten paces behind his brother.

Zelpha watched the battle, biting his lip so hard it threatened to bleed and clenching his fists with such intensity that his nails dug into his palms. If his gaze possessed the physical power to destroy objects, the space battleships of the Ariabert-Jouslain allied forces would have successively turned into fireballs and vanished.

“Ah, if this were ten years from now, or even five… I would be the one leading the fleet, and I would turn both Lord Ariabert and Lord Jouslain into stardust for my brother’s sake…!”

He had almost deified his eldest brother, yet he simply could not bring himself to undervalue the strength of Ariabert and the others.

The clouds of light were gradually contracting. Even within the media vessel observing the scene, communications were flying back and forth between the front lines and the rear.

“We might not be able to release it now, but think thirty or fifty years down the line! This could become a historical record of the Tytania split. Doesn’t your journalist’s blood stir at the thought?”

“Cap.”

“What is it?”

“… Do you really think Tytania is going to split apart like this?”

The Director fell silent, perhaps not because he had been asked an unexpected question, but because he himself harboured doubts and uncertainties.

“What do you think, Cap? Tytania…”

“You shouldn’t waste your meagre intellect on such things right now! What we need are the facts. Think of nothing but conveying the facts to future generations!”

It was certain that the end was drawing closer, bit by bit. Mingled with the hospital fleets, media vessels crept slowly towards the cloud of light, hoping to capture the decisive moment on film, but shells from rail cannons, arriving from out of nowhere, pierced their hulls, scattering life, ambition, and mission alike into the dark void.

Duchess Theresa Tytania was entirely ignorant of military affairs. She could not distinguish between strategy and tactics, and she referred to all warships simply as battleships. She preferred the tales of art, fashion, and romance told by her second son, Arses, to the grand stories of military exploits told by her eldest son, Zarlisch. In Lady Theresa’s view, the vast wealth of Tytania should be invested in art, sophisticated, elegant palaces, and gardens, rather than being squandered on war and political intrigue.

“Idris is quite incompetent. If he were my son, he would have wiped out Ariabert’s entire fleet in thirty minutes.”

Lady Theresa mocked Idris for his struggle, though when she spoke of a “son” in this instance, she was referring to Zarlisch. Zarlisch was a son who was not even half as charming as Arses, but he was useful as a watchdog.

As previously stated, having lost both of her sons, Lady Theresa was a woman who truly deserved the deepest sympathy. However, even the most well-meaning people avoided contact with her as much as possible. It was only natural, given she never gave any proper response to any display of kindness. The moment anyone offered words of comfort, a wine bottle would come flying at them.

Lately, Lady Theresa had stopped drinking wine. It was not that she had abstained from alcohol. Rather, she had grown fond of more potent spirits, such as vodka, rum, and absinthe. Watching from a distance as Lady Theresa dropped cubes of sugar or bits of butter into her vodka and gulped it down, her attendants and ladies-in-waiting trembled in fear.

“It is finally drawing near.”

“Indeed, it has been a long time coming.”

In places away from the nobility, they whispered prophecies among themselves. These were predictions concerning Lady Theresa’s mental breakdown and her physical ruin. Regarding the former, some argued that she had broken long ago, but the latter was progressing so rapidly that it was impossible to tell which end would arrive first.

Gazing through the alcoholic haze at the cluster of scattered bottles, Lady Theresa groaned.

“Idris, Ariabert, Jouslain… Hmph, nothing but a collection of weaklings. I will never hand the seat of the Clanner over to the likes of you. You should all just kill one another. And then, there will be no one left…”

Lady Theresa threw the glass in her hand with all her might towards the forest of bottles. The sound of shattering glass. The scattering of colourful spirits. The thick carpet turned into a marsh of liquor, and the scent of alcohol hung heavy in the air.

Yet, for something like that, no one attempted to rush to the Lady’s side anymore. Bearing a solitude loathed by all, Theresa, once known as a beautiful noblewoman, coughed violently.

When the nurses finally rushed to the scene, what they saw was the Duchess having tumbled from her sofa, her upper body drenched in an unidentifiable liquid. The fluid, a mixture of alcohol, gastric juices, and blood, continued to trickle from the corners of her mouth in small amounts, accompanied by bubbles.

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