Terran Commonwealth, Epsilon Prime, Garipan — War Planning Department Time: Mid-November 2510, Early Morning

  The order had been given three hours ago.

  For the soldiers on the front line, it was 180 minutes of hell; for the generals in the main conference room, it was 180 minutes of agony. The air solidified. Only the blue icons representing the Federation fleet in the "living data-verse" flickered, moved, and extinguished in silence.

  Each time a blue point of light vanished, the shoulders of a general in the room would imperceptibly slump. They had all crawled out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood. Still, this feeling—entrusting fate completely to the bizarre deduction of a lieutenant, waiting for the outcome of a desperate gamble—was more torturous than being on the front line themselves.

  Jack Harlan leaned against the wall, trying to make himself look like an insignificant part of the background. He thought back to the atlas of military strategists; Cyril 's ranking wasn't particularly high. Those who surpassed Cyril, those whose names were on the very first page—what kind of terrifying beings were they?

  He became increasingly sure that his premonition was correct. These men were natural-born warlords. They didn't care about life; their reason for existence was simply to evolve slaughter into an art, and then to present that art to an audience with blood. These men would tear the world to pieces.

  A flurry of hurried footsteps was heard outside the door. All eyes instantly shot towards it.

  General Carrick's confidential secretary, Yuna, rushed in holding a datapad. Her face was flushed with excitement; before she could even speak, her expression had already announced the result.

  Carrick practically snatched the battle report from her hands. After a quick scan, his face, which had been as tense as granite, finally broke into an expression of irrepressible joy.

  "Gentlemen!" he roared with laughter, "We did it!"

  [BATTLE LOG] LOW RIDGE JUNGLE // Pincer Attack: SUCCESSFUL // Enemy Formation: DISPERSED[INTEL] Besieged Cities // Counter-Attack: SUCCESSFUL // Enemy Supply Lines: SEVERED

  A dead silence fell over the conference room, which was then shattered by a deafening cheer. One general rushed over to snatch the report and read it carefully, while several others strode over to Jack, clapping him heavily on the shoulder.

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  "Good lad! Another great service!" A smile even appeared on Colonel Bishop's stern face. "After this battle is over, we absolutely have to buy you a drink!"

  "Good lad?" Jack nodded repeatedly with a wry smile, surrounded by the generals, feeling like a mascot on display.

  Nya leaned against the doorway, watching the man being thronged by the generals. In her heart, besides shock, there was a trace of inexplicable sweetness. Except for her father, no one knew the importance this man held in her life.

  Amidst the jubilation, only Jack, after a brief moment of relief, felt a more profound unease rise within him. He had won, but it was too "easy." As if he had just read the correct lines from a pre-written script. His mind flashed with images of the sea of corpses on Garrow Hill, of the flying fragments of flesh and blood when the soldiers detonated their grenades. That was the real price of "victory." But this? It was too quiet. Too easy. He suddenly understood. Perhaps it was Clausewitz who had allowed him to win.

  At the exact moment, Draconian Imperium, Hidden Command Headquarters

  Cyril (that is, Talos) calmly watched the crumbling red battle lines on the holographic star map, his face devoid of expression. He reached out a finger, gently nudging a blue light-point representing a Federation squadron, watching it glide across the chessboard-like projection.

  Beside him, Captain Kaelen's face was filled with anxiety and concern. "Respected Talos, with such a major defeat, even for you, I'm afraid it won't be easy to answer to that damned royal family in the Draconian capital. This will surely hurt your reputation and the long-term development of the Freedom Front."

  Cyril smiled and waved his hand, gesturing for him to sit. "Kaelen, you only see the outcome of this battle. I see the future of the entire war."

  "From the day I learned of my identity, I resolved to destroy this filthy caste system. God blessed me; though I am of mixed blood, I bear no trace of the Maklavs, only the appearance of an Aetian. 'Talos' is the only legacy my parents left me. Whether I am Maklav or Aetian, I only know that my parents died for love! They died protecting me! The Draconian Imperial royal family will be my enemy for life!"

  "But this enemy is too powerful. So powerful that even with my current status, I cannot overthrow it in one move."

  "So I found it an opponent—the Terran Commonwealth. Until the Freedom Front is strong enough, I will move them like a chess player moves his pieces, constantly driving them to kill each other. And I, in their struggle, will win the stakes both sides have wagered."

  His voice echoed in the quiet command center, both an explanation and a declaration: "I will not let this war end quickly. The Empire's defeat on the ground will be redeemed in space. Six fleets are enough to force back the Federation's Second Combined Fleet; their only choice will be to retreat to the Central Sector. And once they withdraw, I can use the military command to continue increasing our investment in the ground war on Epsilon Prime. A steady stream of Imperial soldiers will be sent to this land. By then, the Federation's space fleet will surely be ready. Whether they choose to attack Galileo through the public sectors or launch another assault on Epsilon, they will ultimately start a new battle under the direction of my baton."

  "No one will win. Not until the day we establish a new order."