Jarek's plan was straightforward: bait the Pale Crest's rift fleet into the open, then smash it to pieces. The bombardment of Edgehold was the lure, and the fools took it hook, line, and sinker. Their First Fleet—eight hundred strong—stretched out into a sloppy, overconfident line, practically begging to be carved apart. The Steelborn didn't disappoint.
The Ribs' ships descended like a storm. Pulse Cannons tore through the Pale Crest's Void Shields—energy fields that buckled and shattered under the molecular shredding. At the heart of their formation loomed their pride: the Reaver, a seven-kilometer relic from the Star League's golden age. Thirty-seven million tons of metal, bristling with guns, manned by 110,000 crew. A beast—until it crossed paths with the Steelborn.
The Ribs saw its weaknesses clear as day: slow, outdated, a lumbering antique. It spat out fighters in a desperate flurry, but Jarek's swarm overwhelmed them—dozens of Steelborn ships and countless drones swarmed the Reaver. Its shields flickered, then collapsed. Pulse blasts ripped into its core, gutting its power. Soon, it drifted—a dead hulk coasting on inertia. Crew abandoned ship in droves, escape pods scattering into the void like fleas off a corpse. A thousand-year legacy, snuffed out in minutes.
The Reaver's fall broke the Pale Crest's spirit. Their fleet—already sliced into fragments—lost all cohesion. Ships scattered, crews cursing their rotten luck. "Why do their guns shred our shields?" one frantic comm wailed. Jarek didn't chase for honor—he chased to kill. Steelborn ships, faster and meaner, hunted down every straggler. The last Pale Crest hull burst like a tin can, and the battle was over. Ten hours, start to finish. Eight hundred ships reduced to ash.
Back on the Pale Crest's homeworld, Crestspire, the news trickled in waves. At first, their leaders clung to optimism:
"The First Fleet's engaged—early, too. The Emperor's grace, surely."
"Ambushed? Clever rats, but our elite'll crush 'em."
"Eight hundred ships, you say? Edgehold reported two thousand—what's the truth?"
"We've got the Reaver. Eight hundred's plenty. Victory's ours—the Emperor wills it."
Then the tide turned, and denial crept in:
"Disadvantage? Send more ships—temporary setback. Faith holds us."
"Defeated? Say that again. Defeated?"
"Ten hours—eight hundred gone? Lies! The Emperor wouldn't allow it!"
The Pale Crest's top brass unraveled. Six months ago, they'd been smug—untouchable, heirs to the Star League, the galaxy's favored sons. A lost scout fleet was a minor hiccup, fixable with a few grand words. They were the Emperor's chosen—who'd dare challenge them? Now Edgehold was a smoldering ruin, and their First Fleet was dust. Eight hundred ships gone in ten hours—impossible. They were supposed to be the universe's darlings.
The head honcho slammed a fist on his desk, rage boiling over. "They'll feel our wrath!" he roared. Aliens, blasphemers—defying the Emperor, spitting on their sacred legacy. But Jarek's Steelborn didn't care. The Ribs didn't preach or posture—they hit, hard and fast. Crestspire could scream into the void all it liked. The galaxy wasn't listening.