Her words forced him to reconsider his approach, though he held little concern for how many Minotaurs had died in their assault or how many more would perish in the battles to come—along with other races they might face.

After all, they were not human, just another species, no different from livestock. But before his thoughts could wander further, he forced them back, focusing on the task at hand. He could not afford to entertain such distractions now. Reflection would come later, if time allowed—but not now.

He spoke into the comms, 'Mech division, prepare for deployment,' and then repeated the order.

Following the command from the flagship, the hangar bay of the only battle carrier in the third task force rang with alarms. Hundreds of mech pilots quickly boarded their mechas in disciplined fashion, even as they moved with urgency.

With perfect coordination, nearly two hundred multipurpose mechs were launched from the hangar of the BCV-827 Skymaul-class battle carrier, ejected through its hyper-launch bays—a system designed to provide rapid deployment for both mechs and fighters, granting them a short burst of speed that lasted only a few minutes before fading.

[BCV-827 Skymaul class battle carries]

[dimension : length:- 1980 meters

width: 600 meters

height: 390 meters

hanger capacity:

[Mecha capacity: 380(of any class) / Fighter capacity: 400(of all categories other then bots and transport)

Soon after, several accompanying ships of the third task force released additional mechs into space, which joined with the carrier group. Together they formed a collective force of more than 480 multipurpose mechs streaking toward the Bovarka planet below.

Once they entered the atmosphere, the formation broke apart seamlessly, splitting into forty-two separate groups—some larger, some smaller. Each squadron headed toward one of Bovarka's forty-two cities, most of which lay in ruins, their central districts destroyed and burning, while Minotaurs still ran chaotically through the streets.

Back in one of the larger cities, the scene was nothing short of Armageddon—or Ragnarok itself. The city burned in multiple places, its once pristine roads now buried under rubble from shattered buildings, crushed flying vehicles, and the mangled bodies of the Minotaur people. Few dared to step onto the streets; most hid within broken buildings, staring fearfully at the smoke-choked sky where enemy jets still roared overhead—the same enemy responsible for this massacre.

Though the direct attacks had stopped, the destruction continued. Every few minutes, thunderous booms echoed through the ruins. But these were not explosions—they were the sounds of massive structures collapsing under their own weight. To those hiding, the noises were indistinguishable from fresh bombardments, and terror gripped them all the same.

Then, cutting through the smoky heavens with a shriek of speed, twenty-five mechas descended from above. Each stood between twenty and twenty-five meters tall. The Minotaur people who saw them—whether from the streets or from hiding—noticed at once how alien they looked. They were shaped much like Minotaur mechas, but without horns, tails, or the massive axes and swords their own war machines carried. These were bulky but unarmed, their hands empty. For a moment, the onlookers wondered: were these strange machines not enemies, but messengers, perhaps sent to demand surrender?

The thought vanished in an instant. As the twenty-five machines landed in the still-intact streets of the city, the ground split open. From beneath, Minotaur mechas surged upward, charging directly at the seemingly defenseless newcomers.

Panic erupted. The nearby Minotaur civilians shrieked and scattered, desperate to flee. They knew the clash of titans would bring devastation, and they wanted no part of dying in friendly fire.

Meanwhile, Squadron Commander Magnus found himself surrounded. Five or six Minotaur clan mechas closed in, their cold plasma weapons—mostly axes—glinting menacingly as they advanced on his own machine.

"Well, will you look at that," Magnus muttered. "These Minotaurs managed to hide their mechas in the city, and our equipment didn't detect them until they activated."

As he spoke, he raised his hand. Instantly, his mecha mirrored the gesture without the slightest delay. This was the power of quantum synchronization—a system that let pilot and machine connect on a spiritual level, far beyond mere neural links. When synchronized, the mecha became an extension of the pilot's own body, responding with the same speed and precision as flesh and blood.

In his machine's once-empty hand, a weapon materialized: the Sword of Destruction. The blade pulsed with unstable power, forged from the collision of two miniature fusion reactors—one producing lightning energy, the other darkness. Their clash birthed destruction energy, which wrapped the sword in a swirling aura of red and violet.

Without hesitation, and without a flicker of emotion, Magnus swung the blade downward. A violent arc of crimson-violet energy cleaved through the air, striking one of the charging Minotaur mechas. It detonated instantly, ripped apart with no defense against such force. (Though called destruction energy, it was not the true primordial kind—merely a derivative, but devastating nonetheless.)

One after another, Magnus cut down his attackers in the same fashion, all while issuing commands to his squadron to eliminate the others that swarmed them.

And so, the city once again became a battlefield. The only difference this time was that no warships hung above to rain fire from orbit—the fighting was now carried out between towering mechas, steel against steel, energy against energy.

Within four to five minutes, all the Minotaur mechas were destroyed—over a hundred in total. Afterward, Magnus and his squad cleared out several defensive installations hidden deep beneath the city, equipment that might have interfered with their free descent. Once those were eliminated, Magnus transmitted a report to the fleet above:

"Flashing City Number Four has been dealt with. Some hiccups, but nothing remains. Both sky and ground are now clear for the flagship to descend. Alpha Squadron out, awaiting orders."

With that, he closed his transmission.

Back aboard the flagship, Jack stepped forward to relay Magnus's report. His squadron was the first to reestablish connection out of the forty-two, and City Number Four was also the largest city on the planet.

Rose listened, nodded, and gave the order calmly: "Then take the flagship down—with its escorts. The others already have their orders, Captain."

"Yes, Admiral," Jack replied. "Then I'll see it carried out quickly."

Rose waved him off with a small gesture, dismissing him. Jack bowed slightly, then departed to issue the follow-up commands.

Soon after, other squadrons reconnected, their reports echoing Magnus's: objectives completed, cities cleared. With confirmation secured, the flagship prepared to descend. Shields flared to life, followed by those of the destroyers, frigates, and cruisers that accompanied it. Reentering a planet's atmosphere always caused strain—drag, heat, even scarring to the hull plating—so no chances were taken.

And just like that, within no more than ten minutes, the Resurgent-class flagship, flanked by its escort fleet, broke through the clouds and appeared above the ruined city of Bovarka.

The surviving millions of Minotaurs—already terrified beyond measure—watched in despair as the last of their soldiers fought valiantly against the enemy. But their efforts were meaningless. They could do nothing. One by one, they fell, sacrificing their lives for nothing that could protect or save their people.

Then the enormous ship descended from space, halting directly above their city, flanked by dozens of other vessels of varying class. They hovered in formation across the burning sky. As the flagship stabilized, the dark clouds of smoke that had choked the city began to vanish. To most it seemed like magic—but those attuned to environmental sorcery knew better. Someone aboard that colossal vessel was manipulating the atmosphere itself, dispersing the smoke with ease.

Children of the Minotaur species, already sobbing in terror, clung to their parents. Even the adults trembled. The aura radiating from the fleet above was suffocating, its presence pressing down on them like a mountain.

"Who are they… and why?" whispered some among the crowd. "What did our clan do to deserve this? Why destroy our city—why slaughter us without warning?"

Just then, a projection appeared in the sky, vast and rectangular, stretching over the whole city. It hovered below the fleet yet above the ruins. Every Minotaur stared upward in shock as an image came into view: a woman.

She was unmistakably human. The Minotaurs gasped in confusion.

"How can a human species command such a fleet?" some muttered.

"It's impossible. They are slaves across the galaxy—nothing more! What is happening here?" others cried out.

The woman was striking. Her face was sharp, serious, yet undeniably elegant. Long rose-red hair flowed behind her shoulders, and eyes of the same color glowed with commanding presence. She wore a pristine white uniform lined with golden stripes along its collar and shoulders, a symbol of high rank.

When she spoke, her voice carried in the Galactic Tongue—a language every Minotaur could understand.

"Greetings, people of the Minotaur clan," she said.

[Author note: Galactic Tongue, or Lagaunga as the word suggests, is a common language prevalent across the Milky Way Galaxy and beyond. Through this language, most of the diverse races scattered throughout the galaxy are able to connect and communicate with one another.]