Admiral Ragnar's Ship.
Hell sprawls across the panoramic screen—
torn space, eruptions of plasma,
and ahead of them: the target.
The Martian command station.
Massive. Pulsing in the black like a machine built for death—
bristling with silent threat,
ready to shred anything that dares come too close.
This is how an era ends, Ragnar thinks grimly.
The old order, clinging to life with its teeth.
It can't be reasoned with—only finished.
"Report just came in!"
The operator turns. His voice is tight, laced with restrained alarm.
"Our station—Aspida—destroyed. No supporting fire incoming."
Ragnar nods silently.
He already knows.
He felt it in his gut before he heard it.
"Then we go in without cover,"
he says, voice sharp—raw, like a live wire.
"We hit them head-on."
He slams open the comms channel.
His voice echoes across every unit, every ship.
"To all combat units! Commence the assault!
Dock directly with the enemy station—close and fast. It's your best shot at surviving.
First group: breach the command deck.
Second group: hit the power core.
No speeches. No delays.
Either we take this station—
or we die right here."
"Ready, Admiral!"
The captains' voices rise like a warrior's chant.
Burning. Unyielding. Even at the edge of the abyss.
Two swarms of assault ships collapse inward.
They wrap around the station like furious wasps,
gnawing into the hull—
turning the structure into a screaming hive.
"Outer hull breached!"
The voice on comms trembles—not from fear,
but from something sharper: the thrill of the breach.
"We're inside! Systems hacked—we've got the station schematics!"
"Beautiful work!"
Ragnar's voice booms—like a war-drum inside the chest.
"Let's not get lost, then. Go straight for the targets!"
"Corridors are sealed—bulkheads locked down! Control panels are dead!"
Ragnar doesn't blink.
His eyes are ice and fire—calculating, furious.
They think they can trap us.
They think a locked door means we stop?
"Then we take a different route.
Blow the bulkheads.
And mine the corridors behind us.
If they come after us—they walk through ash."
"What about fallback?"
The question is calm. Honest.
Almost childlike. Not fear—just clarity.
Ragnar halts for a breath.
Then turns.
His voice is a quiet regret.
"We didn't come here to fall back.
We came here to end the war."
"Understood."
First blast.
A tongue of fire rips a doorway through the wall.
Behind it—a corridor like the throat of some beast: smoke, dust, shadow.
Second blast.
Another passage opens.
The teams move—
step by step,
blast by blast,
through the labyrinth of steel and flame.
Like a virus inside a titan—
they eat the station from the inside out.
Ragnar leads the first squad.
Beside him—Captain Veronika.
They move like shadows of war,
their footsteps echoing in the tense dark—
heralds of the final battle.
How many times have I done this?
How many times have I thought: this is the end?
But this time…
This time, it's not an ending.
It's a verdict.
We're not here to save the future.
We're here to erase the past.
Face to face.
"Forward! To the command deck!"
Ragnar barks—his voice a drumbeat of doom.
Running.
Fire in their lungs.
Thunder underfoot.
Darkness in every corner.
They don't move.
They break through.
Every step is instinct.
Every breath is smoke.
Every heartbeat—war.
There is no room for mistakes.
The wind of battle sings in their ears,
and their pulse drums to its rhythm.
Forward—until there are no walls left.
Until there's no one alive to remember how it began.
We will reach the heart…
and tear it out with our bare hands.