In just two seconds, a cumulative barrage of one hundred and thirty-six rounds pounded the shields. Joshua and his crew had done well to disperse the fire across different points, preventing catastrophic collapse, but the sheer force was still immense.

The fortress rocked violently, its entire superstructure groaning as though the internal hull itself was about to buckle. Even with the shields still holding, the impact was staggering — so great that the colossal fortress was shoved back hundreds of meters into the vacuum of space.

Meanwhile, within the star fortress, every Minotaur gulped as the enemy's attack hammered their shields like relentless rain. They could feel the immense power behind each strike as the superstructure groaned under the pressure.

Numerous alarms wailed, but one drew all eyes:

Numerous alarms wailed, but one drew all eyes and ears:

[Shield integrity compromised: 90%][Shield integrity compromised: 80%][Shield integrity compromised: 70%]

The warnings flashed every twenty milliseconds, each one making the Minotaur officers in the command deck swallow hard, their bodies drenched in sweat. With every percentage lost, their heartbeats raced faster, until — after what felt like years though only two seconds had passed — the countdown stopped.

The shields stabilized at 42% integrity.And the enemy's attack ceased.

Silence reclaimed the command deck. Then came the heavy sound of countless Minotaur exhaling at once, a wave of relief as they realized they were still alive. Their shields had held. They had survived — at least for now.

Korvus' eyes widened in shock; for a moment, he too had thought it was their end. But when the fortress endured, a new fire lit in his gaze. His jagged tusks flashed as he snarled and barked a laugh.

"You see that? Our enemy is not as strong as we thought. Their weapons cannot breach our shields at all!"

He forgot — as did Zork and the others — that the assault had come from only a single ship, not the full might of the enemy fleet. But in that moment, the Minotaurs let themselves be deluded. And why not?

Hearing their commander's laughter, many sighed in relief. Some straightened their backs, fists clenched in renewed determination, convinced their shields had endured, that survival was possible, that there was still a way out.

Then someone chimed in — the same Minotaur who had once argued that the enemy's left division had weaker attack power compared to their defenses.

"I knew I was right," he said. "How can there be a ship that excels at both offense and defense? Their defenses are so strong they survived our combined assault — something no tier-one ship, or even a fleet, would endure once the volleys began.

"After all, if their defensive systems consume such immense amounts of energy, then naturally there would be little left for their weapons. There's a limit to how much energy a single ship can carry or generate at once."

He spoke with the smug pride of someone who believed he had just solved a great mystery. Many Minotaurs nodded in agreement, ashamed they hadn't considered it themselves. Even Korvus showed a flicker of surprise, though his thoughts quickly drifted back to his own desperate calculations — the fragile embers of hope that kept him moving.

In his mind, Korvus began weaving an entire plan, a story of survival. If one strike cannot break our shields… then with more shield generators, we can compensate for any damage. While some recover, others can take the burden and maintain the barrier. With twelve spares, we can outlast the enemy.

"Yes… yes," he thought feverishly, tusks clenched. We can endure it. The Minotaurs of the Defensive Division will not fall yet.

And just like that, his delusion took another step forward.

The irony was that his plan wasn't completely unreasonable for his position. But the reality he faced was far harsher: his enemy was unlike any other. They were countless. They were deceptive. They were holding back — faking weakness — and Korvus didn't know. His mind, already frayed by fear, refused to believe otherwise.

Back aboard the Argunot, Joshua gave the order to charge the ship's main superweapons — the Nova-class super-heavy plasma cannons — to maximum capacity. Their target: two sides of the Minotaur fortress. From a distance, the massive structure resembled the head of a bull, with two horns stretching out and a central mass nearly thirty kilometers in diameter, bulkier and more imposing than anything else in the region. Joshua was aiming for the horns.

Within seconds, the Nova cannons were primed and ready — their Generation 6 debut.

"Let's fire them off, then," Joshua commanded.

The two massive spinal-mounted Nova cannons extended from the hull, their barrels glowing with molten red light, shrouded in swirling arcs of energy.

Vmmm… vmmmmmmmmmmm… vwoooooooommmm…

The sound resonated like the hum of a god's weapon being forged. Then came the release.

THWUMMMMM!

Two colossal bolts of crimson plasma erupted, tearing into the void. The discharge was so immense that even the Argunot itself shook violently, stabilized only moments later by its powerful propulsion systems.

Back aboard the Minotaur's bull-shaped fortress, relief had just begun to creep into the command deck. Korvus, lost in his daydream of strategy, was still piecing together his false hopes when an officer suddenly shouted—

"INCOMING—!"

But he never finished.

The two red projectiles, beams of raw annihilation trailing searing crimson light, slammed into the fortress shields — shields that had only just managed to crawl back up to 55% integrity. The impact was devastating, far beyond the earlier hundred-weapon barrage.

The fortress was hurled backward several kilometers, its entire bulk screaming under the pressure. The shields shattered instantly, torn apart as though they had never existed. The plasma bolts kept going, smashing into the fortress's twin "horns," ripping them apart with catastrophic kinetic force.

The devastation didn't stop there. The bolts carried on, drilling through their targets and finally detonating 20–30 kilometers behind the fortress in a pair of cataclysmic blasts. Crimson fire spread in a violent surge, expanding in waves of 5–6 kilometers, bathing the void in blinding red annihilation.

This time, the shields had no effect at all. They weren't defenses — they were paper, no, fragile glass — shattered in a heartbeat by the Nova Cannon's pulse bolts.

Even the massive hull of the bull-headed fortress offered little resistance. It did almost nothing against the sheer immensity of the bolts' power. And that wasn't even their true purpose — the pulse bolts weren't real projectiles at all, but stabilized casings of plasma energy. Their apparent "form" was just how they manifested once expelled from the Nova Cannon's barrels.

The kinetic force unleashed was beyond comprehension. It ripped apart both horns of the fortress, erasing entire sections into oblivion.

The whole star fortress groaned under the impact. Its titanic hull screamed as the residual kinetic waves spread inward, tearing through systems and bulkheads. Minotaurs caught in the destruction were obliterated instantly, their bodies erased in the wash of power.

Others weren't so lucky. Those within the impact zones were shredded alive as the force tore through their flesh. Many more were crushed beneath collapsing internal structures, while roaring fires consumed survivors.

Some, still conscious, screamed for help — desperate, pitiful howls echoing through the chaos. But the fire reached them faster than rescue could, and their last words dissolved into shrieks of "Nooooo—" before they too were erased from existence.

Meanwhile, in the command deck, the surviving Minotaurs endured a different kind of nightmare. The fortress itself trembled as shockwaves rippled even here, far from the impact zone. Systems failed one after another, consoles sparking violently. Portions of the ceiling tore free and crashed down, crushing officers where they stood.

Korvus had barely managed to shield himself alongside a few others by ducking behind the holo-table. Even so, one of his horns was broken clean off. Blood poured down his face, dripping into his eyes.

He stared at the command deck around him — the destruction here, so far from the direct strike, spoke volumes about the catastrophe in the rest of the fortress.

Reports crackled through ruined systems:

[Hull structure compromised by 30%. Current status: 70% of fortress remains intact.]

The systems kept reporting, alarms overlapping one another.

[Multiple systems damaged.][Shields down. Unoperable.][Recommendation: shift to auxiliary shield generators. Efficiency reduced.]

Korvus' head swam, blood still dripping from his broken horn. His voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper.

"How… how can they have weapons this powerful? Weren't… weren't they supposed to weak in this department? My thoughts… my plans…the war of attrition they're not going to work…"

Across the star fortress, chaos reigned. Countless Minotaur souls shrank in fear, scrambling in panic. Those injured were dragged to safety where possible. Damaged sections were sealed off automatically by bulkhead locks. Anyone trapped beyond those locks — alive or not — was abandoned. Rescue was impossible.

Korvus had believed they could hold on, that survival was possible. But now it seemed he had been too simple-minded. The enemy hadn't even been fighting seriously before — they were testing them, perhaps even playing with them.