For a single, awkward moment after the Luminary's big, villainous speech, nobody moved. The three most powerful fleets in the sector—the scrappy Bastion Alliance, the pointy Syllogist ships, and the pretty Luminary vessels—just sort of floated there, staring at each other across the void. In the middle of it all, the Gardener's Avatar continued its quiet, creepy work of turning a planet into a giant, dead crystal.

"Well," Scarlett's voice muttered over the comms, breaking the tense silence. "This is an awkward party."

Then, the Syllogist, being the logical and proactive type, officially started the fight.

A wave of… nothing… erupted from its crystalline ships. It wasn't an explosion. It was a ripple of pure, cold logic that washed over the Gardener's Avatar. It was a field designed to tell a thing that it wasn't real, and to its credit, the Gardener's ship flickered for a second, as if it was considering the argument.

But the Luminary didn't attack the Gardener. She attacked the Bastion Alliance.

A beautiful, shimmering silver mist flowed from her starlight ships. It wasn't hot or destructive. It just… passed through their shields. And as it washed over the Alliance ships, the crews suddenly felt incredibly tired. A deep, profound sadness and hopelessness settled over them. It was a weapon that didn't attack the hull; it attacked the will to fight.

"Report!" Ilsa's voice barked, trying to shake her own crew out of the sudden, strange funk.

"I… I don't know, Commander," a young officer replied, his voice dull and lifeless. "What's the point? We're all just messy carbon, anyway. Maybe being a perfect crystal wouldn't be so bad."

And then the Gardener, seeing all this new, exciting activity, seemed to decide that the battle itself was a new, interesting art project. Shimmering waves of its own reality-warping energy rippled out, not just at its enemies, but everywhere. These weren't attacks meant to destroy. They were attacks meant to "improve."

A wave washed over one of Ilsa's battlecruisers, and the ship's main cannon suddenly sprouted a beautiful, and completely useless, crystal flower from its barrel. Another wave hit a different ship, and a section of its gray, battle-scarred armor was re-woven into a perfect, flawless, and very weak geometric pattern.

The battle had begun. And it was a complete and utter chaotic mess. They were being attacked from three different directions by three different kinds of physics-breaking nonsense.

Emma stood on the bridge of the "Odyssey," a whirlwind of controlled panic. Her mind was a supercomputer trying to solve three impossible math problems at the same time.

"Evasive maneuvers!" she yelled, her voice sharp and strained. "Scarlett, spin on the Z-axis, now! We need to present a smaller conceptual target to the Gardener's art attack! Zara, find a counter-frequency for the Luminary's sadness-mist! And somebody, please, tell Ilsa not to fly directly between the Syllogist and the Gardener!"

But it was too late. Ilsa Varkov, in the heart of the battle, was doing exactly that. She saw the chaos not as a problem, but as an opportunity. She was using her enemies against each other. She ordered her fleet to charge, weaving her tough, iron ships through the crossfire. They used the Syllogist's waves of nothingness as a shield against the Gardener's art waves. They flew through the edge of the Luminary's sadness-mist to avoid a direct hit from a Syllogist cannon. It was a brilliant, insane, and completely suicidal display of tactical genius.

But even a genius can run out of luck.

In a move designed to save a smaller, more vulnerable ship, Ilsa put her own flagship, the "Unbroken," directly in the path of a combined attack. A wave of the Syllogist's nullification energy hit their shields at the exact same moment a wave of the Gardener's re-design energy hit their engines.

The result was a quiet, and very final, pop. The "Unbroken's" engines died. Its shields vanished. The ship went dead in the water, a helpless, floating target.

On the bridge of the "Unbroken," the lights went out, replaced by the red, emergency glow of backup power. Sparks rained down from the ceiling. A fire had broken out on one of the main consoles. Alarms were screaming.

In the middle of all that chaos, Ilsa Varkov stood perfectly still, a calm, iron statue in a burning room. She knew they were doomed. But she was a soldier. And a soldier of the Iron Wolves knew how to die.

She opened a fleet-wide, open communication channel. Her voice, strong, clear, and filled with a fire that burned brighter than the flames on her bridge, cut through the noise and chaos of the entire battle.

"For the Lord!" she roared, her voice a clarion call of unwavering, absolute loyalty. "For the future! Hold the line!"

It was more than just an order. It was her version of a love song, a final, defiant declaration of her faith in Ryan and the messy, imperfect home they were all fighting for.

And her fleet heard her.

The wave of sadness that had been crippling them vanished, burned away by the heat of her words. The fear and confusion were replaced by a single, burning, furious purpose. The entire Bastion Alliance fleet, inspired by the final, glorious stand of their commander, fought back with a renewed and terrifying ferocity.

But their renewed strength would not have been enough. They were all still caught in a deadly, three-way trap.

And then, the Gardener, the mad artist, saw the whole, chaotic, beautiful mess—the three fleets locked in a deadly dance, the burning ship, the renewed, furious charge of the Alliance—and it had a new, and truly terrible, idea.

It saw the battle not as a conflict, but as a performance. A piece of chaotic, beautiful, performance art. And every great performance needs a grand finale.

The Gardener turned its full, terrible attention away from the fleets. It focused its immense, reality-warping power on the sector's central, yellow star.

On the "Odyssey's" bridge, Zara's scanners screamed.

"Oh, no," she whispered, her face going pale. "Oh, that's not good."

"What is it, Zara?" Ryan asked, his voice grim.

"The star," Zara said, her voice trembling. "It's going critical. The Gardener is forcing it to go supernova. It's making the sun explode as a grand finale to its masterpiece."

The three warring fleets, who had been trying their best to destroy each other just a moment ago, now had a new, much bigger, and much more immediate problem.

They were all about to be vaporized by an exploding sun.