Legacy of the Void Fleet

When Admiral Alexand muttered, "So many…", Mister Evans turned toward him, shaking his head.

"They're not many at all, Admiral," he said firmly. "Not many."

That drew silence. A few commanders looked puzzled. Others, like myself, Tyler, Ryn Velos, and Elira, understood exactly what he meant.

"Not many?" Alexand echoed.

"Not when you consider the size of our battle carriers," Evans continued. "If you think this is all they can hold, that would be… disappointing."

He stepped forward, clearly irritated that the scale of the carriers was being underestimated.

"Our carriers—if you calculate their internal hangar capacity, not counting structural support, essential systems, or the SkyMaul integration suite—retain nearly 60% of their internal volume for modular use. Ten percent of that is locked for future upgrades. That leaves 50% of total internal volume available for current deployment."

He raised a hand, continuing without pause.

"Of that, 25% is allocated for mecha units. While we haven't fully outfitted that yet, we do have 500 mechs in reserve, under Division Master Damien."

"Now, the remaining 25%—that's fighter capacity. And let me be clear: we're barely using it."

He pulled up data onto the side of the holotable.

"Each battle carrier has approximately 115,830,000 cubic meters dedicated to fighter deployment. The standard Vanguard Striker model takes up around 1,120 cubic meters. But when you include maintenance space, launch systems, recovery, and turnaround requirements, that rises to 2,240 cubic meters per fighter. That means, per carrier, we can support approximately 51,696 fighters."

A low ripple moved through the room.

"We're fielding fewer than 500 per carrier right now," Evans said flatly. "That's less than 1% utilization—0.967%, to be exact. And we're running this configuration across 28 carriers in the entire fleet."

He paused, letting the numbers speak for themselves.

"So no, Admiral. 11,872 fighters isn't many. It's a skeleton force compared to what we could be launching."

Evans didn't stop there.

"And that's just accounting for the fighter bays onboard our fleet's battle carriers," he added. "If we factor in the individual fighter capacity of our other ships—cruisers, destroyers, auxiliary platforms—we're easily retaining 18,000 fighters or more across the entire fleet."

He looked around the room, pausing.

So yes, the current deployment may be below our full capacity—at least in theory—but in terms of operational strength, what we have is more than sufficient for the engagement ahead. The numbers might not sound overwhelming compared to our total capability, but we're not underpowered. We're running lean by design."

He stepped back, letting the commanders absorb the scope of what was being said.

"What Mister Evans said is mostly correct," said Admiral Evanns Tanno, commander of the First Battle Group.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice measured.

"While we might be operating below full capacity based on our battle carriers' potential output, there's no need to field them to the brink right now. We're not in a training phase, and even with our limited personnel—barely 10,000—we don't need to compensate by flooding the sky with bio-genetically created clones. That would be a waste of resources, even if we have them."

He nodded toward Evans.

"And just as he pointed out, in terms of operational strength, what we do have is already more than sufficient for the engagement ahead. I agree with that assessment."

Tanno stood a little straighter, voice firm.

"So why should we adopt swarm tactics to overwhelm the enemy with numbers when there's no need? This isn't about showing off force. It's about precision. Control. We don't need to crush them under mass—we just need to strike smarter."

"For we are already stronger," Admiral Ezzar cut in, voice sharp, "based on our data and the intel provided by the Imperial Commander."

He leaned forward slightly, the air around him charged with confidence.

"We just need to be smarter in how we strike them, where we strike them. In a way that forces them to scramble, react, claw for momentum they'll never get. I'll make sure of it."

There was no hesitation in his tone instead it carried the weight of full confidence. But I noticed something else behind his words—urgency or rather a sort of sharpened eagerness, maybe even impatience. A simmering need to act. To hit first and hit hard.

I noticed just that in his voice, and in a way, I liked that.

Anything driven purely by motivation, without direction, planning, or self-control—no matter how strong—can become dangerous. A drive without discipline is a loaded weapon pointed nowhere.

But when that drive has direction—when it's backed by planning, anchored by self-control, and reinforced by real strength—it becomes more than just motivation. It becomes resolve. A focused will, sharpened toward a goal. A flame burning not for the sake of chaos, but to clear the path—to burn down anything that stands between it and what must be achieved.

And I could see that in Admiral Ezra Tanno.

He understood the line between control and impulse. Knew how razor-thin it was—thin enough that, to an untrained eye, control could be mistaken for raw emotion. But he wasn't impulsive. He was in command of himself.

That, to me, was impressive.

It's what I expect from him. From anyone under my command. Talent—no matter how overwhelming—is worthless if it gets devoured by recklessness. And far too many great minds have fallen that way. But not Tanno. Not here.

He looked around the chamber.

"For now, our force of over 18,000 fighters and interceptors is more than enough. Let's not dwell on hypotheticals. This isn't critical—yet. Let's save the debate for when it is necessary."

"Okay, okay—we won't keep going in circles, right?" said Ryn Velos, raising her voice slightly. She glanced around the table, meeting the eyes of her fellow admirals from the six fleet groups. "Right?" she repeated.

Everyone nodded in agreement. A few muttered affirmatives. She smiled, a little too brightly for the tone of the room.

"Good," she said with a spark of enthusiasm I couldn't quite place. I just rolled my eyes at the display.

"So, my question is…" she began again, voice light but serious underneath, "Could we—or rather, could our fighter squadrons—handle the enemy corvettes?"

She paused for effect, scanning the faces of Admiral Tanno, the other five admirals, and finally Imperial Chief Engineer Tyler.

"That," Tyler said, cutting in before any admiral could respond, "I can answer."

I didn't stop him. Tyler understood our fighter systems better than anyone—he built them.

"Based on the specifications received from the Imperial Commander," he continued, "we should be able to eliminate nearly half of the enemy's corvette fleet using our fighter squadrons alone. Their armor is light, and their point defense weak against high-speed, precision-targeting fighters. Especially with the AI cores and targeting sync we've integrated into our squadrons."

With Tyler's input laid out, the other seven admirals began to weigh in—proposing formations, tactical adjustments, deployment strategies.

Dozens of ideas were exchanged. Some made sense. Some were rejected outright. Others were noted for conditional scenarios.

Then Admiral Thorne raised a question that shifted the conversation.

"What about the enemy's own fighter squadrons?" he said. "They've got over 200 battlecarriers. They're not just sitting on those. They've got to be deploying fighters too, right?"

It was a practical point—one no one had brought up yet, though clearly everyone had considered it.

The discussion shifted again.

Ideas were floated—some obvious, others creative.

One suggestion was to divide our fighters into three specialized groups:

• Group One: Heavy-class fighters leading direct combat engagements.

• Group Two: Light-class fighters acting as fast escorts, using superior speed and maneuverability to intercept and counter enemy fighters.

• Group Three: Swarm interceptors operating as rear-line suppression units, drawing attention and fire away from the lighter fighters while providing covering fire.

It wasn't the most efficient plan, but it had potential. After some deliberation, it was tabled—not rejected entirely, just reserved for specific battlefield conditions.

More refined strategies emerged. Simulations were conducted right there at the table—one after another, until everyone was satisfied that what we had wasn't just viable, but near-perfect.

The meeting had dragged on. People were exhausted—mentally more than physically.

I stood, finally breaking the silence. "Good work, everyone. Based on the framework we've developed—barring any unexpected interference—this battle should be straightforward. We'll achieve our objective."

Nods went around the room, slow and worn but confident.

I turned to Admiral Ezra Tanno.

"Now, about that last two percent of unpreparedness. I trust you'll have it handled soon. We leave Regal Star in a day—two at most.

Ezra nodded.

And I continued, "Our enemy waits for the surrounding space to stabilize, never expecting us to be there to welcome them first."

And just like that, not even a full day had passed before we detected a spike in spatial distortion. Then—suddenly—everything went still.

Through my spiritual sense, now expansive enough to reach across nearly the entire Regal Star system, I felt it: the shift. The barrier surrounding this region, anchored by that ancient artifact, had finally begun to fracture. The pressure exerted by both the Universal Will and the Galactic Will of the Milky Way had pushed it to the edge—and now, it had started to give.

Not fully. Not yet.

But cracks were forming. Fragmentation had begun. At most, within half a day—maybe one—it would collapse completely. The locked space would flow again.

My expression hardened as I sensed the change. I knew what was coming.

This brief peace I had lived in—just under four months, since my reincarnation into this world with my crew and flagship—was ending. Whether I moved first or waited for the Minotaurs and the others drawn to this region, it no longer mattered. The calm was over. The galaxy would shift again—and I would be the one to shape it.

It was time to leave this haven. To build something greater—for myself, for my crew, and for the people who would one day follow me. The path ahead would be soaked in blood and destruction. But from that fire, I would carve out stability, order, and—eventually—prosperity for those who chose to kneel.

As these thoughts passed through me, time, as always, marched on.

A day passed. The fleet stood ready. Every unit in place. Every system primed. And I, too, was ready.

I teleported into the Grand Command Chamber aboard my flagship, the central heart of our operations. I walked toward my throne—massive, cold, and absolute—and sat.

Turning my gaze to the Red Empress, who stood silently beside the throne, I looked into her eyes.

"Activate fleet-wide announcements," I said. "It's time. I will give the final speech before we move toward our goal."