CHAPTER 33: CH 33 “WHA... WHAT?”

This was only the beginning.

Within minutes, Admiral Kevin was back aboard his flagship, the Pegasus, wasting no time as he began preparing the official report and high-priority proposal regarding William’s unprecedented offer. There was no room for delay. The Council had to be notified. The situation had already shifted history’s course.

Meanwhile — Nova Star System

Aboard the Ragnarök, orbiting silently within the uncharted system now designated as Nova, William and Elsa waited.

They waited for news from Admiral Kevin.

They waited for the arrival of the Federation’s reinforcement fleet—a rescue mission that, unfortunately, had already arrived too late.

Because by the time they reached Nova, the threat was gone. Handled.

The Ragnarök had done more than anyone expected. And William and Elsa had done far more than anyone could have asked.

En Route to Nova — Human Federation’s 18th Light Fleet: White Tiger Legion

Nearly 4,500 ships tore through the subspace corridors of light-speed warp, their formation locked in deadly precision. One of the fastest-moving semi-war fleets in the Federation, the White Tiger Legion wasn’t here to observe—they were coming in hot, ready for a full-scale engagement.

The fleet’s backbone was pure Tier-6 firepower:

Flagship: Oblivion — A dreadnought-class battleship, 8.9 km long, bristling with gravitic cannons, neutron lances, and phase-layer shields.

2 Command Ships: 7.8 km each, dreadnought class, designed for tactical relays and orbital siege coordination.

60 Light Battlecruisers, 40 Battle Carriers, 350 Destroyers (all over 2 km long).

1,200 Frigates

, 2,400 Corvettes, and 447 Support and Logistics Ships—forming a web of destruction capable of crushing entire enemy fleets.

Every ship was armed. Every engine burned hot.

And leading them all, seated at the center of Oblivion’s command bridge, was Grand Admiral John Watcher.

A legend.

He appeared to be in his early 30s—sharp black hair, eyes like obsidian glass—but looks deceived. He was over two centuries old. A living weapon forged by war, raised by battle, matured under endless skies torn by conflict. His expression was calm, but no one mistook that calm for weakness.

He turned toward the officer to his right—his fleet admiral and tactical commander.

Her name was Natasha Watcher. His wife.

"ETA to Nova system?" he asked, his tone casual, but undercut by urgency.

Natasha, standing tall in her command uniform, let out a breath. She had expected that question.

"At most... 25 minutes."

"Twenty-five minutes..." John repeated, voice low. He kept his posture composed, but inside, the pain surged.

The last transmission had said the Federation force was fighting a mother hive—one of the apex command fleets of the Insectoid threat. They’d already held the line for nearly two hours.

And John knew the math.

At this point, even with all their speed—they would likely arrive too late.

Too late to rescue.Too late to save.

The thought clawed at him, worse than the silence that followed.

All the speed. All the planning. All the sacrifice. And it still might not be enough.

He said nothing for a long moment, simply watching the stars streak past in warp.

Then his voice broke the quiet.

"Prepare the fleet. The moment we drop from warp, we go weapons hot. If there’s any trace of the Insectoid mother fleet, I want every warship in range firing within seconds. Mecha squadrons—launch readiness level seven. If it moves and it’s hostile—we obliterate it."

Natasha nodded sharply.

She understood her husband. She also shared the pain he was holding in check.

He’d fought across the galaxy. Lost soldiers. Lost friends. Lost entire systems. But this—arriving too late to save a cornered force?

This was personal.

Natasha stepped forward and issued the fleet-wide transmission.

"All ships—prepare for immediate tactical deployment. Prime main and secondary weapons. Mecha squadrons—report to launch decks. We re-enter reals pace in twenty-five minutes. All units, stand by for full combat conditions."

A silence settled across the command bridge, heavy with anticipation.

And just like that, minutes passed.

Only ten minutes now remained before the White Tiger Legion would re-enter reals pace.

Preparations were complete. Across all 4,500 ships, every system stood ready, every protocol followed to the letter. The command to prepare for war had echoed through the fleet—and it was obeyed without hesitation.

Onboard every destroyer, frigate, corvette, and cruiser, heavy turbolaser cannons hummed, primed for immediate discharge. Capital-grade anti-ship railguns were locked and loaded. Missile silos stood by, awaiting launch authorization. Mecha pilots sat in their cockpits, neural links active, armor sealed, weapon systems green-lit.

The entire White Tiger Legion stood ready to strike—a wall of fire, waiting to be unleashed the moment they dropped from warp.

But even with their readiness, the final minutes dragged like hours.

Not from fear.

From dread—the fear that they were too late.

Back aboard the Oblivion, the command bridge held its silence like a breath caught in the lungs. Grand Admiral John Watcher sat motionless, eyes fixed forward. His officers barely moved. The pressure was suffocating. Every passing second felt like it carried the weight of life or death.

Then—at five minutes to re-entry—something shifted.

On one of the forward capital ships, tasked with maintaining the fleet’s long-range subspace communication relay, an alert lit up.

The comms officer—also a captain-ranked officer—froze for a split second, then immediately turned to his superior, Battle Commander Jameson Cross, who had just taken his seat in the command cradle.

"Sir!" the captain said, his voice a mix of urgency and cautious hope. "We’re receiving a transmission... it’s coming from the Pegasus-class battleship."

Jameson jolted in surprise—but the relief in his eyes was instant. "From the Pegasus? Are you sure?"

"Absolutely, sir. It’s Admiral Kevin’s flagship."

Jameson didn’t waste a second. "Reroute the transmission—send it straight to the Oblivion. Let the Grand Admiral take this himself."

"Yes, sir!" the captain said, immediately patching the signal through.

Back aboard the Oblivion, Natasha Watcher was notified the moment the signal reached them. Her eyes widened.

She turned to face her husband.

"Grand Admiral!" she called out, her voice breaking protocol only slightly with her tone of restrained joy. "We’ve received a transmission—from the rescue fleet. They’re alive!"

John Watcher’s head snapped toward her. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes—the tension in them—released all at once.

While not entirely, a part of his tension eased.

"Accept the transmission," he ordered quietly.

Natasha nodded, and a moment later, a large holographic projection shimmered into existence on the command platform before them.

The image stabilized.

Standing there, saluting with firm respect, was Fleet Admiral Kevin.

Admiral Kevin appeared composed—at least outwardly. But Grand Admiral John Watcher could see the weariness beneath the surface. Kevin looked tired, almost drained, yet he stood tall, his posture unshaken.

To John Watcher, it could only mean one thing: the battle was still raging. He guessed it must be so overwhelming that even someone like Kevin—calm, disciplined, and sharp—looked this worn down after just a few hours. Whatever they were facing, it had to be brutal.

But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

The battle was already over—thanks in no small part to Will. Kevin’s exhaustion didn’t come from combat. It came from something else entirely: the report.

A report that had to be presented to the Council. It demanded absolute precision, highlighting every critical moment, every strategic move, and every loss or gain.

Following that came William’s unexpected offer, one that had the potential to change the Federation’s current situation for the better. It consumed even more time, for he was unveiling not just one, but two Tier-7 technologies—no, Tier-7 warships: a destroyer-class and a frigate-class vessel.

Each of the Tier-7 ship designs incorporated multiple Tier-7 technologies—systems so advanced that, if properly studied, they could push the Federation closer to achieving true Tier-7 status. They were engineering marvels in their own right.

The presentation demanded detailed explanations and precise technical breakdowns, leaving no room for ambiguity. William promised to gift these designs to the Federation at no cost—a gesture of goodwill, a powerful symbol of trust.

And naturally, all of this had taken time once again.

It had taken Kevin only twenty minutes to prepare—but twenty minutes of intense focus, meticulous analysis, and political delicacy.

That was the real cause of his haggard look.

But Grand Admiral John Watcher didn’t know that.

"Reporting to the Grand Admiral," Kevin said.

"Raise, Admiral Kevin," said Grand Admiral John Watcher, his tone quieter than usual—relieved, but with a tired gravity behind it.

As Kevin straightened from his salute, John studied him through the holographic projection. His eyes narrowed slightly. There was fatigue in Kevin’s face... but not the kind he expected.

"It looks like the battle didn’t go well," John said, voice low. "From the look of you... I assumed the worst."

There was pain in his tone—he truly believed he’d arrived too late.

Kevin blinked, thrown by the statement. "Battle?" he asked, confused. "Grand Admiral, if you’re referring to the Insectoid fleet—then no, that’s over. It’s already been handled."

John’s expression froze.

"What...?" he said, leaning forward slightly.

Kevin clarified, firm now. "The Insectoid fleet—the entire thing—was destroyed. Completely obliterated. The threat to the Nova system has been neutralized."

For a beat, silence overtook the Oblivion’s command bridge.