Orbit of Earth.
In the mute blackness, where time loses its shape and space forgets direction, the Earth fleet begins to move.
Stars glimmer like cold needles piercing the void.
The flare of maneuvering thrusters slices the vacuum.
Everything is darkness—
except the ships, monolithic silhouettes that carry within them the gleam of will, of faith, and of the god Kyros's wrath.
At the head is the flagship Helios.
Its hull glows with a soft, golden breath.
Across the armor, Kyros's symbols are branded like the marks of a titan's trial by fire.
It is the heart of the squadron.
It is Earth—
made steel, and given the right to judge.
Inside, the Central Command Hall rises like the vault of a cathedral.
Half-transparent platforms hover in the air.
Screens pulse with living data.
Officers in white-and-black uniforms glide between consoles, their faces masks of focus, their hearts—blazing cores.
At the very center towers the holographic figure of Admiral Socrates.
Magnified. Elevated.
Radiating a cold, almost sacred light.
His face—lit with conviction.
His gestures—measured, prophetic.
His voice—law incarnate.
He speaks, and the vacuum of the universe listens.
"My valiant warriors…"
On the bridges, dead silence.
Men and women freeze.
They listen with their skin, with their spines.
Their pulse finds his rhythm.
Their breath becomes the beat of his command.
"Through the courage of our saboteurs under Captain Hirota, we achieved the impossible. Without a single shot. Without a single loss. Fifteen cruisers—ours. Nine platforms. Fourteen transports heavy with ergon.
"This is not an operation.
This is a revelation."
"The first victory of a new era.
The triumph of Kyros's will over chaos."
Crews catch every word as if breathing in oxygen in a suddenly sealed chamber.
Some cross themselves.
Some whisper prayers.
Some grip their fists—too tightly, too earnestly.
Some hide tears—not of grief, but of belonging.
"But do not be deceived.
The war is not over.
It has only spread its wings."
"The Martians are fleeing—
dragging with them their *Cobalt* station, their last hope of turning the tide."
"We will give them no time.
No prayers.
We are not the ones who retreat."
Commanders' fingers hover, trembling, over their panels.
Eyes lock on tactical maps.
Everyone waits.
"We will follow.
Strike before they can raise their shields.
Before they understand they have already lost."
The eruption comes not from engines but from hearts.
People rise.
Officers pound their fists against railings.
Shouts break through the ship's dampeners.
This is not a mutiny.
This is faith.
Deafening. Unstoppable.
The admiral's hologram inclines its head.
His voice sinks deeper, heavier—like the echo in a tomb of gods.
"Our brother-in-faith—Tonzil—and his living sphere of energy will remain to guard Earth. He is alien, yet his spirit stands with us. He is the gatekeeper while we are away."
Behind him, the tactical map flares.
Red lines extend from Earth to Mars—arteries from the heart to the strike.
"Fuel is not weakness.
It is the blade.
Ergon burns in the hearts of our machines.
And we… are the fire.
And we will burn their fear."
He raises his hand—slowly.
Like a priest.
Like a judge.
Like a god.
"Believe, warriors.
The day will come when Kyros is the only god.
And that day begins…"
…not tomorrow.
Not on Mars.
But here.
Now.
With us.
Silence.
Absolute.
The vacuum clings to skin.
The universe holds its breath.
And then—detonation.
"FORWARD—TO OUR VICTORY!"
The cry tears through every deck, every bay.
All stand.
All shout.
All believe.
"WE BELIEVE IN GOD KYROS!"
Metal trembles.
The ships vibrate.
Even the machines… even they seem to understand—
something vast has begun.
The fleet—gleaming, naked, pierced by divine purpose—
turns,
and vanishes into the abyss.
To Mars.
To the endgame.
To the last fire.