Ch. 276..280: Interstellar_ Return of the Villain Chapter 276-280

Chapter 276: Beating That Pig

Lyra wasn’t the kind of person to take a hit lying down. Sure, she might stumble for a moment, but you could bet she’d get back up swinging—and always aiming to hit harder.

After cooling off, Cohen reminded himself why he was truly angry. It wasn’t just the injustice Lyra had faced; it was the filth he’d uncovered within Legion Glory. That corruption burned him to his core.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly.

Being the son of an admiral wasn’t worth much in moments like these. Orson held a higher rank, more power, and enough leverage to make even Cohen’s father tread carefully. The harsh truth only sharpened Cohen’s determination.

Lyra didn’t blame him, nor did she mock him. Instead, she simply said, "Good luck, Captain Whyte. Build a clean, new Alliance."

"I will," Cohen replied, his voice steady.

His eyes burned with a fiery resolve that startled her for a moment. Lyra gave him a faint, almost teasing smile and waved him off. "I’m leaving."

"Lyra." His voice stopped her mid-step.

She turned slightly, her expression casual, almost aloof. "Hmm?"

"I..." Cohen took a deep breath, gathering courage. "Don’t do anything reckless. When I’m promoted to Rear Admiral, my division will always have a place for you."

It was a sincere offer, but Lyra didn’t flinch. She understood Cohen’s limits better than he did. Legion Glory wasn’t a place where Special Forces tactics or clean morals could thrive.

She smirked faintly, shaking her head under his earnest gaze. "Thanks."

And just like that, she turned sharply on her heel, leaving him behind with a silhouette so cold it felt like she’d never been there at all.

Aurelius, brushing off imaginary dust from his pants, chuckled as he watched her go. "She’s not the type to play second fiddle, sir. If anything, she might end up running Legion Glory herself one day."

Cohen pressed his lips together, saying nothing.

Aurelius snorted. "Not that it’d be the worst thing," he muttered, hurrying to catch up with Lyra. He didn’t believe all Cohen’s talk about ideals and aspirations anyway.

The next day, Lyra and Aurelius reported to their new assignment with transfer orders in hand.

Their destination? The F34 Regiment, an elite vanguard unit commanded personally by Orson. It wasn’t just another posting—it was walking straight into the lion’s den.

In Orson’s office, the man set down his pen and circled them like a predator sizing up its prey. His lecherous gaze crawled over their uniforms, making Aurelius shift uncomfortably.

But this time, Orson’s attention lingered on Lyra.

"To be honest," Orson drawled with a smirk, "I’ve always preferred men—more of a challenge to conquer. But you... you’re making me reconsider. Maybe women have their perks after all."

Lyra didn’t flinch, didn’t react. Her face remained a perfect mask of calm. Her long black braid, tied like a scorpion’s tail, hung down her back.

Loose strands framed her sharp, cold features, and her cat-like eyes gleamed with a frosty detachment that dared anyone to get too close.

But it was precisely that icy air that made her dangerous—and irresistible.

Orson’s gaze roamed shamelessly. He leaned closer and reached out to toy with the end of her braid.

That’s when the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"Vice Admiral Whyte," Lyra said coldly, her head tilting just enough to let the light catch her piercing eyes, "let me remind you—even if I kill you, I can escape Wyrmtrace without a scratch."

The venom in her voice froze Orson mid-motion, his hand still hovering near her braid. He stared at her, wide-eyed, unsure whether she’d just made a threat or a promise.

Realizing he was out of his depth, Orson let out a frustrated huff and stormed back to his chair. "Lieutenant Commander Shedd, you’re as arrogant as I was told," he barked, his voice tinged with forced bravado. "But let me warn you—this is my unit. Here, when I say strip, you strip!"

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "And don’t forget, your rank is in my hands."

It wasn’t the first time he’d used that line. Plenty of soldiers had folded under his threats, trading their dignity for ranks they couldn’t afford to lose.

But Lyra wasn’t like the others.

Before Orson could even process what was happening, the space behind her seemed to pulse with a dark, serpentine glow.

When it came to dealing with scum like Orson, Lyra didn’t waste words.

Minutes later, Orson was curled up on the floor, clutching his ribs and wheezing in pain. His once-imposing presence had been reduced to nothing but a pathetic, squirming heap.

Orson spat blood through gritted teeth, his eyes blazing with fury. "You... striked a superior officer? Do you have any idea—wait, what are you doing?"

Before he could finish, Lyra grabbed him by the collar and flung him back into his chair. His eyes widened in terror as he hit the seat with a heavy thud.

She slammed her appointment papers onto his desk with a sharp, resounding thud.

"Sign it."

Lyra leaned in, her body taut with icy determination. Her one hand pressed firmly against the document, while the other rested on her hip, radiating defiance. Her piercing gaze bore down on Orson, colder than the vacuum of space.

"Sign it!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a whip.

Orson’s glare faltered as a shiver ran down his spine. He glanced at the document in front of him, hesitating just long enough for another glowing ribbon to unfurl behind Lyra.

It snaked through the air with eerie precision, plucking the pen from his pocket and dangling it before him.

"Sign it," Lyra said again, her tone dropping into a menacing calm. "Because once I’m done here, the high council will be begging me to come back on their knees."

Her confidence was unshakable, her dominance absolute. Orson sat frozen in place, caught between anger and fear.

He hated it, but she was right. Lyra wasn’t just any officer; she was indispensable. The Stellar Devourer was a threat only she could manage, and even if Lyra walked away, the council would move heaven and earth to bring her back.

Frustration burned in Orson’s chest, twisting like a knife. He had her here in his unit, but she wasn’t his to control.

Worse, she’d humiliated him, left him crawling on the floor, and shattered whatever authority he thought he had over her.

"Lyra," he snarled, his voice low and venomous. "You’d better think this through. Even if I don’t strip you of your rank, there are plenty of ways to deal with someone like you."

He straightened, trying to salvage what was left of his dignity. "Get out. Aurelius stays," he barked, desperate to reclaim some shred of power.

But Lyra didn’t move an inch. Her steady defiance only made his crumbling authority look even more pathetic.

"You—"

Before Orson could finish, the door slammed open with a loud bang.

A young man stumbled in, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. His wide eyes darted to Orson, and his face twisted in exaggerated shock.

"Uncle Orson! What happened to your face?" Thierry exclaimed, pointing at Orson’s swollen and bruised features.

Thierry scratched his head with mock confusion. "I heard from Cohen that you’re pushing ninety. Maybe it’s time to take it easy, huh?"

The casual insult landed like a slap.

"I..." Orson opened his mouth, then quickly shut it. He couldn’t possibly admit that one of his subordinates had beaten him senseless.

"What are you doing here?" he barked, hoping to redirect the conversation.

"Oh, right!" Thierry straightened and saluted smartly, his big grin infuriatingly cheerful. "I’m Lieutenant Commander Shedd’s new adjutant. Fleet Admiral Frederick assigned me to assist and, uh, supervise her."

Orson’s face turned an even darker shade of red.

This wasn’t about supervising Lyra at all—it was about keeping him in check.

Thierry, Frederick’s nephew, was the perfect watchdog. With him around, Orson wouldn’t dare lay a finger on Lyra or Aurelius. Targeting all three of them—including Frederick’s relative—was a death wish.

After a long, tense silence, Orson finally growled, "I don’t think you’re a good fit for my unit. It’s too dangerous here."

Thierry’s grin didn’t waver. "That’s for my superior officer to decide, sir. Uncle Frederick said to let you take it up with him if you disagreed."

Orson’s hand curled into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. There was no way he’d stoop to arguing with Admiral Frederick over this. Reluctantly, he snatched the pen and scrawled his signature on the papers.

With a crisp salute, Thierry handed the documents back to Lyra.

The three left the office without another word, Orson’s impotent rage simmering in their wake.

Out in the corridor, Thierry let out a relieved sigh. "Looks like I made it just in time. Any later, and Lyra might’ve ended up a fugitive for murdering a vice admiral."

Aurelius shot him a dark look. "You should’ve stayed out of it."

"It would’ve been better if she’d killed that pig," Aurelius added flatly.

Thierry’s grin turned sharp. "Next time, I’ll make sure to look the other way."

Aurelius shook his head, then glanced at Lyra. "You know, if he hadn’t barged in, you’d probably be court-martialed by now."

Lyra’s expression remained frosty and unreadable.

The three of them—Lyra, Aurelius, and Thierry—formed an odd, mismatched trio. And now, as they turned a corner, Mandy, their clerk, jogged up to join them.

Together, they made for a peculiar team, one that seemed destined to disrupt everything Orson had built.

 

Chapter 277: Hunted by the Supreme

A week later, the Empire launched another offensive on Wyrmtrace.

This time, they weren’t holding back. With Legion Glory defending the planet, the Empire upped the ante, dispatching not one but two admirals to lead the charge.

When the long-range satellites transmitted images of the approaching fleet, the already tense military base on Wyrmtrace erupted into a frenzy.

"The countless stars of the Alliance, its billions of citizens, its parents and children—we will protect them all! Soldiers, fight! Crush the enemy and claim the glory that belongs to us!"

Frederick’s voice rang out across the aerospace port as the army gathered in formation. His commanding tone carried both authority and inspiration.

Once roll call was completed, Frederick boarded his flagship.

From the ground, the departure of the vast interstellar fleet was breathtaking. Hundreds of luminous ships ascended like a rolling storm of glittering metal and light.

The fluttering banners of the Alliance painted the sky, their brilliance defying the impending darkness of war.

On the rooftop of LE Energy’s Base dormitory, Ian sat cross-legged, his expression brooding.

"Another war," he muttered, his voice low and bitter.

Without a word, Skylight appeared beside him, setting a can of apple juice on Ian’s head. "It feels great not having to fight," he said lightly, before plopping down next to him.

Ian grabbed the juice, staring at it for a moment. "Do you ever think about going back to the Empire?"

The question gave Skylight pause. After a beat of silence, he shook his head. "We grew up in an orphanage. No family to miss. Whether I go back or not, it’s all the same."

Ian studied his face and saw the flicker of longing Skylight refused to admit. No family, sure—but the Empire was still the place where Skylight had built a life. He couldn’t go back, and they both knew the reason: Ian.

The juice can in Ian’s hand crumpled slightly under his tightening grip.

In space, the fleet hung like a constellation poised for battle. Mechas and fighter jets hovered in perfect formation, awaiting orders.

Inside the flagship’s command center, Frederick wore a calm, unshakable face. His sharp eyes scanned the holographic map as he coordinated the battle with precision.

"The Vanguard Regiment will attack the enemy’s left flank," he announced.

The vanguard unit, under Orson’s command, acknowledged the order immediately.

"Vanguard Regiment, acknowledged!"

A sinister glint flickered in Orson’s eyes as he passed down the command. His mind turned quickly to Lyra. If she happened to die in the heat of battle, no one could blame him for it.

Smirking, he directed Lyra to lead the F34 Regiment in the offensive.

Inside the launch bay, Lyra’s team stood ready, waiting for the green light.

When the order came, Lyra moved without hesitation, climbing into a sleek C-class mecha.

Over a thousand soldiers followed her lead, ejecting into the black void of space in perfect sequence.

Meanwhile, her two adjutants and their clerk were left behind.

"What’s she doing?" Aurelius muttered, pacing near the observation window.

For weeks, Orson had buried him in menial tasks, ensuring he was sidelined from anything meaningful. And now that he finally had the chance to fight, he was stuck here.

Thierry, watching the fleet disappear into the distance, replied calmly, "She has a plan."

Aurelius sneered, his frustration bubbling over. "You’re the same rank as her, yet you’re happy playing second fiddle? When the spoils are divided, you’ll barely get a crumb."

"Military honors are vanity," Thierry replied coolly. "As long as she survives, the Alliance survives. That’s all that matters."

Aurelius blinked at the response, stunned. Then he scoffed, his voice tinged with disbelief. "You and Cohen sure know how to talk big."

To Aurelius, the military was a game of ambition. Everyone was chasing glory—that’s the truth?

But Thierry remained unbothered. He adjusted his posture, his expression unreadable.

When Cohen had first explained Lyra’s role and critical importance, Thierry hadn’t hesitated to accept his assignment.

"As long as she’s alive," Cohen had said, "the Alliance is unshakable, and Stellar Devourers are no threat."

Though Thierry still carried bitterness over the Amaran massacre on Demetra—where Lyra had failed to save everyone—he knew she hadn’t been strong enough back then to change the outcome.

Now, she was stronger, and the stakes were even higher.

Straightening his cap, Thierry announced, "I’m heading out."

Thierry had barely taken a step toward the launch bay when Mandy stepped into his path.

"Lyra said before she left: you’re not to go. She has her own plans," said Mandy.

Thierry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t stop. "I’m just doing my duty," he replied curtly, brushing past her and heading straight for the launch bay.

On the Battlefield, Lyra led the F34 Regiment into the fray with precision and daring, her commands sharp and decisive.

The soldiers followed her into a wedge formation, designed for maximum penetration of enemy lines.

As the squad leaders relayed the orders, Lyra charged ahead, a gleaming blade cutting into the heart of the enemy formation.

Her movements were fluid, precise—every strike a testament to her skill.

But the synchronization she relied on began to crumble. Her troops faltered, and the careful formation unraveled.

The distance between Lyra and her unit grew with every second, leaving her isolated in the enemy’s core.

From afar, the battlefield looked like a swarm of beetle-like enemy fighter jets and crimson mechas converging on a single point. Lyra’s figure was swallowed by the chaos.

"Sir, shouldn’t we move to support her?" a soldier whispered over the comms, his voice tight with fear.

The battalion leader barked back immediately. "She is exceptionally skilled. Do you think you can keep up with her? What, you want to throw your life away?"

"But—"

"No distractions on the battlefield!" the leader snapped.

On the frontlines, hesitation was as deadly as any enemy.

Even as she was surrounded, Lyra fought relentlessly. Her superpowers flared, and her advanced weaponry lit up the void.

Explosions erupted around Lyra as she carved through enemy ranks like a force of nature.

The battalion leader’s confidence, however, began to waver. His hands trembled as he aligned his launcher with Lyra’s position.

"This ends here," he muttered under his breath, preparing to fire.

Before he could pull the trigger, a streak of platinum shot across the battlefield—a sleek mecha racing straight toward Lyra.

"Who the hell is that?"

"It’s her adjutant, the Whyte boy!" someone shouted over the comms.

’Thierry?’ The battalion leader froze, hastily aborting his attack.

It was one thing to "accidentally" target Lyra, but striking Thierry—Admiral Frederick’s nephew—would bring down the wrath of the entire Alliance.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, the leader tried to find another angle of attack. But Thierry’s mecha maneuvered expertly, positioning itself between Lyra and any potential threats.

"Lyra, I’ll cover you. Just focus on the mission!" Thierry’s voice came through the comms, calm and steady. His mecha’s shielding systems activated, forming a nearly impenetrable barrier around Lyra.

The two worked in perfect unison, their coordination cutting through the enemy like an unstoppable juggernaut.

But their bold actions did not go unnoticed.

"Sir, we’ve located Lyra!" crackled a voice over the Empire’s comms.

"Deploy the Supreme," came the cold, calculated response.

The moment the Supreme Peculiar deployed, the energy on the battlefield shifted.

Lyra unleashed a powerful blast, tearing apart the enemies closest to her.

"Thierry, retreat!" she barked over the comms, her tone leaving no room for argument.

At the same time, she transmitted an urgent report: "Supreme Peculiar identified!"

The message raced up the chain of command, landing on Orson’s desk.

For a moment, he considered alerting Frederick. Then a malicious thought took hold.

"The Supreme is targeting Lyra, isn’t it?"

"Yes, sir."

A slow, twisted smile spread across Orson’s face. "Delay the reinforcements. Ten minutes."

He convinced himself it was a calculated risk, unaware of the true destructive power of a Supreme Peculiar.

Lyra’s mecha darted through the chaos, its shields flaring under the relentless attacks of the Supreme. The enemy mecha unleashed a barrage of superpower-laden strikes, each one rippling through the battlefield and bending the gravitational pull of nearby celestial bodies.

Lyra sent out distress signals repeatedly, but no response came. Around her, Alliance soldiers were obliterated in the superpower’s devastating wake, their lives snuffed out like candle flames.

Back at headquarters, Orson’s hesitation was cut short by Frederick’s command.

"Report the Supreme’s location immediately," Frederick ordered, his tone icy.

Orson’s arrogance dissolved in an instant. Scrambling to comply, he sent the coordinates to the flagship.

Moments later, a cataclysmic energy wave erupted from the flagship’s position as another Supreme engaged.

The commanders on both sides ordered an immediate withdrawal of regular forces, unwilling to sacrifice more lives in the collision of overwhelming power.

Lyra returned to the launch bay, her mecha battered but functional.

Without a word, she disembarked and secured the black box data, her movements efficient and deliberate.

Her expression remained unreadable as she passed the sneering battalion leaders who had been watching her every move.

The battalion leader clicked his tongue in irritation. "I thought she’d have something to say. But that’s it?"

Chapter 278: Bringing Orson Down

Lyra stayed silent, knowing there was no point in arguing.

Words wouldn’t change a thing—these soldiers answered to Orson, and Orson alone. Fighting them would be a waste of time and energy, especially in the middle of a war.

Instead of getting tangled up with them, Lyra turned her focus elsewhere. Without hesitation, she headed to the war statistics department.

"I need the battlefield satellite surveillance data for the vanguard regiment," she demanded.

Battlefield satellite data served as the primary evidence for tracking military achievements and key events at the frontlines. If Orson had made a mistake, she needed solid proof to expose him.

But Orson wasn’t a fool. He had already erased the data and gone as far as destroying the satellites themselves.

When Lyra checked the mecha’s monitoring records as a backup, her suspisions were confirmed—the mecha had been scrapped and dumped in the recycling facility. Its serial number was wiped clean. Soon after, the summons she’d been expecting arrived: Admiral Frederick wanted to see her.

Outside the command room, Orson waited, unnervingly composed. He shot Lyra a cold glance before stepping inside. The moment he entered, the vibe changed, heavy with Frederick’s authority.

"I want an explanation," Frederick said, his voice sharp as steel. "Why was the report about the Supreme’s appearance during the battle delayed?"

Seated at the head of the room, Frederick looked like a stone statue brought to life, his piercing gaze enough to cut through flesh. His overwhelming presence made the air feel suffocating.

The vanguard regiment, stationed deep in enemy territory, was responsible for detecting any enemy activity first. Missing the emergence of a Supreme was unthinkable—especially under Lyra’s command.

Lyra stayed silent, letting the weight of the question settle. Orson, clearly confident no evidence could tie him to the failure, stepped forward.

"I never received a report," he stated firmly.

Lyra’s icy glare met his, but her voice remained calm when she finally spoke. "I reported it immediately."

If Orson wanted to dig his own grave, she wasn’t going to stop him. With measured composure, Lyra presented the mecha’s external monitoring records.

The evidence was damning. The records showed that Lyra had sent her report the moment the Supreme appeared.

They also revealed her repeated calls for reinforcements while she risked her life trying to hold off the Supreme on her own. No support ever came.

The room’s tension shifted. The three other Vice Admirals, who had stayed silent until now, turned on Orson with open hostility.

"This is outrageous, Orson!" one snapped.

"What the hell were you doing?!" barked another.

Though they typically aligned with Orson, their loyalty didn’t extend to a situation that jeopardized the Legion’s honor. Orson’s actions had crossed a line they couldn’t ignore.

"I—I..." Orson stammered, clearly shaken. He hadn’t expected Lyra to produce evidence, let alone monitoring records. He didn’t even understand why his allies were so quick to abandon him? He never knew there would be such severe consequence.

"Vice Admiral Whyte," Frederick said, his tone colder than ice, "do you know the casualty numbers from this battle?"

"I haven’t had time to review the full report," Orson admitted, his voice faltering.

"Then now." Frederick enlarged the display screen, filling the room with the grim statistics.

The numbers were staggering. Orson’s regiment had suffered the highest losses—nearly a fifth of his forces were wiped out. Across the battlefield, nearly 100,000 soldiers were dead. Of those, over 60,000 came from Orson’s command.

"How... how is this possible?" Orson stuttered, staring at the report in disbelief. The Supreme had only been active on the battlefield for ten minutes.

His hands shook as Frederick’s searing gaze bore down on him.

"I—I..." Orson’s voice broke. He couldn’t afford to take the fall for this; the disgrace would ruin him completely. "It was a communications failure! Yes, Lyra may have sent the report, but I never received it!"

He clung to this excuse, relying on the destruction of the mecha to erase the evidence. Once dismantled, there would be no way to confirm or deny his claim.

But Orson had gravely underestimated Frederick’s wrath.

"Relay my command: halt all operations at the recycling facility. Locate the mecha Lyra piloted—no matter what!" Frederick’s voice was as cold as ice, his piercing gaze locked on Orson. "Check every detail—let’s see if this ’missing signal’ story holds up."

A chill ran up Orson’s spine, creeping from his feet to his head. His confidence was starting to crack.

Just then, Lyra stepped forward and spoke calmly. "Admiral, I remember the mecha’s serial number."

Orson turned to her in stunned disbelief.

Military mechas in the Alliance were countless, their serial numbers used mainly for tracking against illegal resale. Since mechas were often shared and reassigned, pilots rarely bothered memorizing those long, complicated codes. But, of course, Lyra wasn’t like most people.

Frederick gave her a long, deliberate look. "Very well."

Even with the serial number, tracking down a single mecha among tens of thousands would be a monumental task.

For the moment, Orson narrowly avoided immediate consequences. But as the meeting ended and they exited the command room, his composure cracked entirely. He shot Lyra a venomous glare.

"Lyra, you planned this from the beginning, didn’t you?" he hissed.

She met his fury with icy calm. "Let’s just say, Vice Admiral Whyte, you’ve made my planning worth the effort."

Her cool parting words left Orson fuming, but she didn’t spare him another glance. She returned to her regiment, leaving him to stew in his anger.

Orson’s retaliation came swiftly.

When the battlefield achievements were compiled, Lyra’s hard-earned merits were reassigned—not to her, but to Reck, her direct superior and, conveniently, Orson’s nephew.

It was a blatant attempt to bolster Reck’s reputation at Lyra’s expense, reducing her to nothing more than a stepping stone.

Thierry, a fellow officer, was furious. While his own accomplishments remained intact, he was livid on Lyra’s behalf.

"That bastard! First, he gets soldiers killed, and now this? Scum! Absolute scum!" Thierry spat, pacing furiously. Then, with a determined look, he added, "I’m going straight to Uncle Fred!"

Lyra stopped him with a steady hand. "We have no satellite footage, what’s the point of confronting him?"

Thierry paused, narrowing his eyes at her. "What are you planning, Lyra?"

"Nothing—for now," she replied evenly.

The next battle arrived quickly, bringing even greater chaos. This time, the enemy unleashed multiple Supremes.

While some were intercepted by allied forces, Lyra found herself facing a Stellar Devourer.

Her mecha activated a unique defense, its surface glowing with a green luminescent shield that rendered the black hole’s pull ineffective.

Moving with precision, she darted through the battlefield, weaving through destruction.

Then she spotted her target: Rear Admiral Reck.

Reck’s mecha was deep in the fray, his movements seemingly heroic. But within moments, his unit veered uncontrollably toward the Stellar Devourer.

Before he could react, a green-glowing mecha zipped past him. Moments later, his mecha—and his body—were consumed by the black hole.

In the command center, Orson received the report of Reck’s death. His vision darkened as rage and panic consumed him.

Gripping the microphone, he bellowed, "What happened?!"

"Sir... the monitoring satellites were damaged during the battle. There’s no footage of the incident. All we know is that the Stellar Devourer was responsible."

"The Stellar Devourer?!" Orson’s voice was nearly a growl. "Wasn’t that Lyra’s responsibility? Get her on the line—now!"

When the call connected, Orson’s fury practically radiated through the screen. He gripped the microphone so tightly it looked like he might crush it. "Lyra! How dare you—"

"Sir, I’m not sure what you’re referring to," Lyra interrupted, her tone frosty. After a brief pause, her voice grew even icier. "But I’ve already eliminated eight Stellar Devourers. Don’t forget to log my achievements."

’Credit her? Over my dead body,’ Orson seethed silently.

The enemy’s Supremes had caused massive destruction, and Lyra’s contributions were undeniable.

Reluctantly, Orson was forced to log her achievements. But he wasn’t done scheming. Once again, he redistributed the bulk of her accolades to others.

However, Lyra’s successes came with a curse. Every soldier who falsely claimed credit found themselves marked as a prime target.

One by one, they fell in their next battles, unable to match the weight of the expectations thrust upon them.

Eventually, no one dared take credit for Lyra’s achievements. It became clear that doing so was a death sentence.

Cornered, Orson stopped assigning credit altogether. But as the next large-scale battle approached, Lyra’s exceptional performance forced him to reconsider his strategy.

Chapter 279: Cohen’s Plan

On Wyrmtrace, three major forces held the line: Legion Glory, Legion of the Apollo’s, and Frederick’s Legion of Wasteland Walkers.

Their combined strength was formidable, and the two Admirals of the Empire had made little progress despite their relentless assaults. Frustration was beginning to set in.

"We should move the supply fleet closer," suggested Admiral Tauras.

The Empire’s slow progress stemmed from one key disadvantage: the battlefield was too far from their main fleet. Their forces constantly had to retreat to resupply their ammunition and energy reserves.

Admiral Barrett, however, hesitated. "What if we’re ambushed? Moving the main fleet and supply ships closer puts them at risk."

Tauras countered with a glint of determination. "It also gives us the opportunity to ambush the enemy’s main fleet or their bases. The forces are evenly matched, but we have more advanced weaponry—and the Stellar Devourer’s power. If we fail to push through again, we’ll have to answer to the Imperial High Command."

Barrett nodded reluctantly. "Alright, but we’ll need to plan this carefully."

Meanwhile, in the Alliance command center, Admiral Frederick reviewed reports detailing the deaths of several officers under Orson’s command.

Three Rear Admirals had perished in recent battles, all caught in conflicts between Lyra and Stellar Devourers.

The three Vice Admirals seated below Frederick wore varying expressions as they discussed the matter.

"That fool Orson provoked Lyra by stealing her military achievements and crediting them to his relatives. He enraged that young woman," one muttered.

"True, but Lyra went too far. Those were Rear Admirals—key pillars of Legion Glory," another added.

"She should have escalated her grievances to the higher-ups instead of acting on her own. Admiral, this woman is dangerous and should not be allowed to remain," the third concluded gravely.

At this, Vice Admiral Cohen, who had been quietly listening, arched a brow. "You suggest she escalate? If everyone already knew her achievements were stolen, why hasn’t anyone rushed to return her rightful credit? Instead, you’re all fixated on punishing her. Curious, isn’t it?"

Cohen’s tone was sharp, subtly reminding the others that they too were guilty of manipulating accolades in their own favor. His words left them uneasy, though they didn’t openly respond.

Frederick’s gaze turned to Cohen. "Do you think she did nothing wrong?"

"She’s wrong," Cohen replied without hesitation. "But Orson was at fault first. Besides, we still need her if we’re to deal with Stellar Devourers effectively."

That final point silenced the room. No one could deny Lyra’s tactical importance.

But the other Vice Admirals were far from pleased. "Since Cohen is so protective of her," one said with a sneer, "why not have her transferred to his command once he’s promoted? He could foster a deeper bond with her."

Cohen’s promotion had just been confirmed—he would be skipping the rank of Rear Admiral entirely.

Cohen smiled faintly, unbothered by their taunts. "No need. Lyra is part of Legion Glory, after all."

His words, seemingly innocuous, carried hidden meaning that made Frederick frown.

"You want to form your own regiment," Frederick said flatly. Though the sentence was brief, his tone carried enough authority to crush the air from the room.

Cohen met his father’s gaze unflinchingly. "Yes. I plan to submit the request soon, and I hope you’ll approve it."

He wanted to build a force of his own—untainted, disciplined, and fiercely independent. A clean slate, free from the corruption that plagued the Alliance. It was an ambitious dream, but one he intended to achieve.

Frederick’s silence was heavy. The three Vice Admirals exchanged startled glances before excusing themselves, leaving father and son alone in the now-quiet meeting room.

Frederick’s piercing eyes seemed to cut through Cohen as he finally spoke, his voice as sharp as a blade.

"Cohen, I thought you understood your responsibilities. Legion Glory is the Alliance’s largest and oldest regiment. As its pillar, it deserves a competent leader."

It was the first time Frederick had addressed him by his name rather than his rank. This wasn’t a conversation between an admiral and his subordinate—it was between a father and his son.

"I do understand," Cohen replied firmly. "I also understand that both Legion Glory and the Alliance are like rotting trees. They may appear strong on the surface, but their foundations are decayed. They need renewal."

Cohen’s posture was straight, his tone resolute. He did not flinch under Frederick’s oppressive stare.

For a moment, Frederick’s inner conflict was clear. As a father, he couldn’t help but recognize his son’s maturity and strength. Cohen had grown into someone capable of standing on his own. That should have been a source of pride—but Frederick couldn’t ignore the growing divide in their ideals.

The young man before him was no longer a soldier in his shadow, but a force entirely his own.

"But have you considered what will happen to Legion Glory if it doesn’t have a capable leader?" Frederick’s voice softened as he studied his son’s pensive expression. "I’ve poured my entire life into stabilizing Legion Glory and the Alliance. Only now are things finally steady. Are you prepared to let all of that go to waste?"

For all his strength and resolve, Cohen had to admit that when his father used the emotional card, it was difficult to resist.

"Let me think about it a little longer," Cohen said at last, his tone unusually light. "Besides, Father, it’s not like you can’t handle it for another fifty years."

The comment was almost playful, though his expression stayed serious.

Frederick blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "You little rascal..."

Before he could say more, Cohen straightened and saluted crisply. "Permission to leave, sir."

Without waiting for a reply, Cohen turned and left the room. His determined figure disappeared down the corridor, leaving Frederick alone.

The faint smile on Frederick’s face slowly faded, replaced by an unsettling calmness. Picking up his communicator, he dialed a secure number.

"When will it be ready?" Frederick asked, his voice cold.

"We’ve entered the experimental phase," came the reply.

Frederick exhaled slowly, his thoughts sharpening like a blade. If his son was truly ready to stand on his own, then Frederick would have to take steps to neutralize all threats to the Alliance—no matter the cost.

Cohen, meanwhile, changed course on his way back to his office and sought out Lyra. He found her mid-training and wasted no time with pleasantries.

"I’m planning to establish my own regiment," he said bluntly.

Lyra paused mid-motion, clearly surprised. "I assume the admiral hasn’t approved it yet."

"He hasn’t," Cohen admitted. "I think Legion Glory is too bloated and stagnant to reform. It’s better to dismantle and rebuild it from scratch. But my father... he insists it’s his life’s work."

Lyra gave him a curious look, unsure why he was sharing this. Still, she replied bluntly, "No offense, but decades of effort haven’t fixed Legion Glory. It’s a mess—just like the Alliance. Beyond saving."

Her words were harsh, but Cohen couldn’t deny their truth. They struck a chord.

His expression lightened as though a weight had been lifted. His gaze drifted to Thierry, who was diligently practicing hand-to-hand combat nearby. For the first time in hours, his features softened.

"Actually," Cohen said thoughtfully, "there’s someone far more suited to inherit it."

"True enough," Lyra agreed with a faint nod.

Thierry might come across as simple at times, but that was a reflection of his straightforward personality, not a lack of talent.

As the two continued their quiet conversation, Thierry noticed them talking and bounded over with a wide grin. "Lyra! Brother! What are you two whispering about?"

"Thierry." Cohen’s tone turned serious, immediately grounding the younger man.

Thierry’s grin faded, and he straightened instinctively. "What is it?"

"I have an important task for you," Cohen said, his voice weighted with significance. "If you succeed, you’ll become the Alliance’s strongest shield. Billions of lives will depend on you."

Thierry’s eyes lit up, brimming with excitement. "Count me in!"

His enthusiasm was so pure, so instant, that Cohen couldn’t help smiling. Reaching out, he ruffled Thierry’s hair. When had the little boy who once followed me everywhere grown so much? Cohen wondered.

For a moment, Cohen’s thoughts drifted to the past. He remembered Thierry standing solemnly at his parents’ funeral, determined not to cry because he wanted to make them proud.

Yet later that night, Thierry had crawled into Cohen’s bed, clutching a pillow and sobbing so hard in his sleep that he could barely breathe.

Now, years later, that same boy grinned like an overexcited puppy, full of life. Watching from a distance, Aurelius smirked faintly, his cold gaze unreadable.

The scene etched itself into Lyra’s memory, vivid and unforgettable even as the moment passed.

Each of them carried unwavering beliefs, yet their paths would diverge in sharp, irrevocable ways.

As the dust seemed to settle for now, a storm brewed quietly in the distance—an upheaval that would change everything.

Chapter 280: Level Nine

The reconnaissance team huddled around the satellite feed, their faces ghostly pale. Without missing a beat, one officer relayed the grim news to Frederick. "The Empire’s launched a full-scale offensive! Their fleet’s advancing—two motherships included!"

"Mobilize all units, now!" Frederick barked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

The warships buzzed to life as soldiers scrambled into action with military precision. Lyra was no exception, though she couldn’t avoid Orson’s familiar antagonism. "Lyra, you’ll stay back and guard the ship!" he ordered, his tone dripping with condescension.

Ever since Reck and others like him—those who had stolen her glory—met their untimely ends, few dared challenge Lyra’s reputation. But Orson’s resentment lingered, and sidelining her was his petty revenge.

Before she could reply, Thierry chimed in, her voice sharp with mockery. "And if the Stellar Devourer shows up, will you take care of it, sir?"

The jab hit its mark. Orson stiffened, glaring at Thierry before throwing one last scowl at Lyra, who remained cool and collected. Without another word, he stormed off, leaving her fate in her own hands.

Thierry smothered a laugh, her eyes sparkling with mischief, but Lyra ignored it. She marched to the launch bay, her resolve unshaken by Orson’s pettiness. This battle wasn’t waiting for anyone’s approval.

Meanwhile, aboard the enemy flagship, Tauras fixed Barrett with a steely gaze near the hyperspace gateway. "Get it done. Quickly."

Barrett nodded curtly, stepping through the shimmering gateway with the Stellar Devourer at his side.

The battlefield erupted into chaos as both sides unleashed their deadliest forces. High-energy weapons lit up the void, commanding officers fought alongside Peculiars, and destruction reigned supreme. This wasn’t a skirmish; it was a do-or-die clash for supremacy.

For Lyra, this wasn’t a fight she could win by herself. She stayed laser-focused on her mission: neutralizing Stellar Devourers.

With the Empire Supremes faced with equally powerful Peculiars, her path was momentarily clear. But as the battle dragged on, a nagging thought grew louder in her mind.

Where were the rest of the Stellar Devourers?

Her mech wove through the carnage, her eyes scanning for answers amid the chaos. Something wasn’t adding up.

"What’s wrong, Lyra?" Thierry’s voice crackled through the comms as Lyra obliterated an enemy mech with a precise shot.

"We’re heading back to the main ship," Lyra said abruptly, her tone leaving no room for debate.

As they raced toward the main ship, their path was immediately blocked by enemy Peculiars and Stellar Devourers. The fierce resistance only confirmed Lyra’s suspicions. The Empire wasn’t just attacking—they had a plan.

After a brutal fight, they finally broke through and reached the docking bay.

It was a scene of frantic activity as fighters and mechas swarmed in for resupply. But Lyra’s instincts flared again.

"Stop, Thierry!" she shouted.

Thierry slammed the brakes on her mecha, narrowly avoiding collision. Lyra’s voice was firm and urgent. "Report to Fleet Admiral Whyte. Now. The Stellar Devourers are already on board."

Thierry didn’t hesitate. Her warning shot straight up the chain of command. Even Orson, who might’ve balked earlier, stayed silent. Within moments, Frederick was notified.

"Contact Dale immediately," Frederick commanded. His mind raced as he grasped the gravity of the situation. The main ship wasn’t just a target—it was a lifeline for the fleet.

But it was already too late.

Inside the main ship, the scene was utter devastation. Nearly a hundred Stellar Devourers had breached the recovery bay, turning the docking doors into a black hole.

Simultaneously, they seized the command center and communications hub, cutting off the flagship from the rest of the fleet.

In the command room, Barrett stood triumphant, his weapon trained on Admiral Dale. Around him, Stellar Devourers and enemy Peculiars mercilessly slaughtered the crew. Others worked furiously to hack the ship’s AI, their goal clear: activate the self-destruct sequence and annihilate the fleet’s backbone.

"Hurry it up!" Barrett growled, casting an impatient glance at the chaos outside.

Admiral Dale, bloodied but defiant, summoned the last of his strength. If he couldn’t win, he’d take the invaders with him. But as he prepared to self-destruct, Barrett moved swiftly, landing a brutal kick that sent the admiral crashing into the wall.

"Not so fast," Barrett sneered, strapping a superpower suppressor onto Dale. "An enemy admiral, alive? That’s a prize I won’t pass up."

The colossal starship hung in space like a wounded animal. Its once-lively corridors now echoed with screams and gunfire, its command room a scene of calculated carnage.

Lyra stretched her psychokinesis across the fleet, her brow furrowed deeply as her senses absorbed the chaos.

Each scan revealed a more dire situation, and her expression grew darker with every moment.

"Lyra, what’s happening?" Thierry’s voice crackled over the comms, tight with urgency.

"It’s bad," Lyra said curtly.

As if on cue, two supply ships detonated in devastating explosions.

Without an atmosphere to contain the blasts, torrents of raw energy radiated outward, disintegrating nearby fighters and mechas queued for refueling.

The destruction was absolute—an entire section of the fleet wiped out in an instant.

Lyra’s frown deepened. "We’re out of time for strategy."

In a heartbeat, her superpower surged, the intensity radiating from her like a palpable storm. Thierry, stunned, could only watch as the force caused nearby soldiers to stumble, their faces pale with shock under the weight of her energy.

Without a word, Lyra climbed into a basic mecha and snapped on an oxygen supply system. Then, like an arrow loosed from a bow, she launched herself directly toward the flagship’s compromised command center.

Inside the command room, Admiral Dale stood on the precipice of despair, alarms blaring around him. The blinding red of the emergency lights illuminated the faces of his crew as chaos consumed the room.

A deafening crash interrupted the din as the room’s massive front window shattered, exposing them to the vacuum of space.

The air rushed out, sucking crew members and equipment into the void. Those still alive clung desperately to whatever they could, their terror mirrored in their wide eyes.

Before anyone could react, a figure burst into the room with lethal precision, cutting down adversaries one by one. Lyra.

Lyra moved like a force of nature, her blade slicing cleanly through resistance.

As she swung toward Barrett, she noticed the insignia on his shoulder—a rare mark of admiral rank. Lyra adjusted mid-strike, sparing his life but severing his arm with surgical precision.

Barrett crumpled, clutching the bleeding stump of his arm.

Lyra didn’t hesitate, pulling the suffocating Admiral Dale toward safety. She deployed a glowing green energy shield over the gaping breach, sealing it and restoring pressure to the room.

As air flooded back in, Lyra extended her psychokinesis, immobilizing Barrett completely before deactivating the ship’s self-destruct sequence.

Dale, gasping for breath, straightened and looked at her with grudging admiration. "Just in time. Let’s move to—"

But Lyra was already gone. "You take the rest," she called over her shoulder. "I’ll handle the Stellar Devourers."

The news of Lyra’s counterattack spread like wildfire through the enemy forces. Stellar Devourers began to panic.

"The gateways aren’t responding!"

"The black hole connection’s severed!"

"What’s that green light?"

A faint luminescent glow had begun to seep into every corner of the flagship, an oppressive force that seemed to permeate their very being. It wasn’t just light—it was power, suffocating and primal.

"How can anyone wield this kind of strength?!" one cried out, trembling.

But Lyra could, and she did.

Outside, Thierry stared in disbelief as the green light radiated from the flagship, illuminating the surrounding void. Her voice was barely a whisper. "She’s... she’s level nine already..."

Far away, deep within the black hole, Westros froze as the connection to the Stellar Devourers abruptly ended. He felt the crushing loss in his mind—a cold certainty that his forces were gone.

"How is this possible?" His voice shook. And then the weight of a crushing presence bore down on him, making him gasp in realization.

"This... this must be the rules themselves."

Back on the battlefield, the tide had turned. With Barrett captured and the Stellar Devourers obliterated, the Alliance rallied.

What had seemed like certain defeat now became a rallying cry as they stabilized the lines and pressed forward with renewed strength.

On the enemy flagship, Tauras clenched his fists as he watched his forces crumble. He barked the inevitable order. "Retreat! All units, retreat!"

But just as the Empire’s fleet began to pull back, a ripple of spatial distortion tore through the flagship’s command center. Two figures materialized from the void.

Tauras spun, ready to attack, but the sheer gravity of their presence slammed him to the ground. Frederick stepped forward, his gaze cold. "Lynn, if you’d be so kind."

Lynn nodded, and with a flick of her will, Tauras’ head collapsed inward. His body fell lifeless to the floor as Frederick calmly activated the flagship’s self-destruct sequence.

"Tauras," Frederick murmured, almost pitying. "You had your chance."

The flagship exploded in a brilliant flash, a fiery wave consuming the remnants of the Empire’s fleet. The battle ended in devastation, with the Empire losing two admirals and the core of its forces in one catastrophic blow.

As the dust settled, the galaxy echoed with Lyra’s name.

Lyra wasn’t just a warrior anymore. She was a legend.