Crestspire bristled with defenses—orbital forts, gun platforms, a web of firepower built over centuries. The Pale Crest's last stand leaned hard on it, tangling Jarek's First and Second Fleets in a storm of counterstrikes.
Rageclaw, their bellowing leader, clung to that edge—his final swagger. But the Third Fleet's ghost-run shattered it.
Two thousand ships slipped in from the far side, a silent blade through the Pale Crest's gut. The main fleet was locked on Jarek's seventeen hundred, leaving Crestspire's flank bare.
The Third hit like a reaper, shredding unmanned stations and forts—empty shells without ships to back them. Nothing slowed them. They carved to low orbit, guns trained on the planet below.
Rageclaw barked orders from Crestspire's core. "All forces—everything to Crestspire! Now!" he roared, then bolted, a thousand servants and guards trailing him to a bunker deep underground.
His bloated frame waddled fast—no time for speeches, no evacuation for the surface plebs. Artillery was coming, and he knew it.
The planet's last air wings scrambled, clawing at the Third Fleet, but they were gnats against a storm. Two thousand Steelborn ships unleashed hell—Pulse Cannons, lasers, barrages that shook the crust.
Rock split, towers fell, the capital's skyline erased in smoke. A massive Void Shield flared over the city, buying seconds—then cracked. Rageclaw burrowed deeper, trusting the dirt to save him.
The Pale Crest fleet pivoted late—two hundred ships stayed to stall Jarek's First and Second, nine hundred raced back to Crestspire. Too slow.
The Third's two thousand met their nine hundred in orbit, a lopsided brawl. Pulse blasts tore hulls apart, laser grids painted the sky, flaming wrecks streaked down like comets.
A fireworks show bloomed—The Pale Crest Breaks, playing out in silence. Then the hammer dropped again.
Jarek's First and Second—seventeen hundred strong—rolled in, brushing off the two hundred stragglers. "Land!" Jarek snapped. "End it!"
The Beheading Plan had kicked off the second the Third hit Crestfall—gut their navy, storm Crestspire, cut off Rageclaw's head. This was the kill shot.
Dozens of Pulse Cannons hammered the capital's shield to dust. Barrages leveled garrisons, and troop carriers spilled out—tens of millions of Steelborn, Pulse Rifles hot.
Anything breathing in their sights turned to ash, molecular bonds snapping under gauss fire. They marched like machines, one goal: the royal core, now a scorched pit.
Rageclaw, self-styled Emperor's voice, was the target. Time to shut him up.