I had never felt more alive. My mind, once burdened by the countless decisions governing my war machine from the smallest drone burrowing into the moon’s crust to the largest formation of warships and missiles, now moved without the mental strain.

  I was unchained. Every thought and every action unfolded in perfect synchronicity. The etheric storm that had once pressed upon me was now my instrument, fuelling my awareness beyond its previous limits.

  And with that awareness came an undeniable, intoxicating joy as I carved my way through the battlefield, with more coordination and less mental strain as my strikes struck fear and devastation.

  The once imposing clone force and machines were in disarray with no unified command to lead them.

  The battlefield was a maze of crumbling defences and mixed orders. The once unified clone forces had fractured, splintering into different factions. Some had taken refuge within different facilities, desperate to bunker down hoping to weather the storm while others fought on.

  I passed some of their locations as they were not objectives, yet instead, I decided to encircle their locations.

  The largest of these factions was led by Seer. Many clones had rallied under him, seeking refuge from the war. Their armour and vehicles now painted over in blue marked with a large, bold white circle set them apart. He was actively broadcasted on open comms, urging them to stand down when I approached. The results were… mixed.

  Some lowered their weapons, hesitant but receptive. Others, still bound by the control chips embedded in their skulls refused, others simply continued the fight.

  My agents had carved their path in the confusion. My agents gathered numerous clones to be converted into more agents. They wore white armour, adorned with three red blocks as insignias. At the helm of this new faction was CT-2214, now known only as Overseer.

  But the campaign was far from over. Chaos reigned across both orbit and ground. In every direction, ships burned, and their debris rained down creating craters, bodies of Grithan and clone alike littered the orbit.

  Above, the western hemisphere, there fleet had been shattered. Of the initial twenty warships that had launched the assault, only three now limped away, their hulls breached trailing debris into the void.

  The remnants of nuclear fireballs still burned in my vision, expanding debris fields swallowing what little remained. My war sub-mind had chosen efficiency over capture. While I had been lost in my awakening, it had acted delivering the nuclear kill shot without hesitation.

  But the battle lines were shifting. Fifteen reinforcements from the north moved to recover the fleeing survivors, reforming into a desperate defensive line.

  They knew they had lost this moon. Their only hope was containment, preventing my forces from pushing beyond this rock.

  The eastern hemisphere fleet was in disarray. Of its thirty-four ships, only twelve had survived the nuclear exchange, scrambling to regroup with twenty-seven more arriving from orbit. Their comms traffic was fractured and distorted by conflicting orders, panicked reports, and fragmented leadership.

  And then there commander Varos-Thek made a choice. One hundred and twenty-one ships decided to stay, bracing for a last stand. But the others fled.

  Lone ships scattered into deep space, refusing to be martyrs for a lost cause. Ore hauliers, stripped of their usual escort, abandoned their payloads and ran.

  Fourteen massive transport ships, the logistical backbone of their lunar operations disengaged, retreating with everything they could carry.

  I let them go.

  Not out of mercy, but because I wanted to use my last stocks on the final confrontation.

  My numbers had dwindled.

  I had started with four hundred ships, a formidable armada that should have secured victory with overwhelming force. Yet, in my moment of confusion had cost me dearly, one hundred and thirty-seven ships lost.

  What remained was a fleet of two hundred and sixty-three, still strong but not the force that would grant me an overwhelming victory.

  I checked my remaining arsenal. One thousand nine hundred and twenty-nine missiles were available. Half of them have with an acid or plasma payload.

  Nine hundred missiles were primed for boarding operations, they would carve through enemy ships like a plague.

  And then there were the final weapons, the ones that turned battlefields into graveyards with fifty-four nuclear-tipped warheads.

  This was it.

  The final battle for the moon was at hand. The enemy had pulled back, and regrouped, but they were still fractured, disoriented. Their fleet was held together only by desperation and pride.

  And when this was done?

  It was time I took the home worlds back, after all, a stable atmosphere would lead to rapid growth.

  ———

  Varos-Thek flexed the artificial muscles and joints of his exo-suit, feeling the precise resistance of the servos as he ran a final diagnostic, finding no errors.

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  Satisfied, he stood motionless as the water drained from his sphere, the pressurized chamber cycling out in a controlled hiss.

  The moment the last drop was gone, he stepped forward, moving with practised ease through the corridor. The cold metal of the ship’s interior gleamed under the dim tactical lighting as he strode onto the command bridge.

  His gaze swept over the clones stationed at their posts, each focused on monitoring the anomaly’s forces gathering in the distance. No wasted movement, no hesitation. Yet despite their efficiency, Varos-Thek felt the weight of unease settle deeper in his chest.

  His suit's servos whirred softly as he shifted, centring himself. The command sphere behind him was a liability—if those things breached the ship, containment would be impossible. He couldn’t afford to be careless.

  Locking his stance, he watched the displays intently. This battle was about to escalate.

  His expression was one of serene calculation, a mask of unwavering confidence. His armoured fingers at his sides, his posture straight, his voice measured as he issued orders.

  Inside, however, he was drowning in a storm of panic.

  One hundred and one ships. A force that should have inspired fear. Yet, after the catastrophic loss of over half their fleet, cohesion was slipping.

  Captains bickered over priority targets. Consortium and clan dignitaries filled his comms with offers of “substantial shares” if he could put down the anomaly for good, with vague promises of wealth if he stabilized the moon.

  He knew better. They were hedging their bets, trying to secure influence while he was still in a vulnerable position. But he played along, his voice smooth, unshaken.

  “The anomaly is contained to this sector,” he told a particularly insistent dignitary. “You'll offer a larger share? Then let me defeat the threat first. Otherwise, your precious holdings will be worth nothing.”

  Muted grumbling. They understood.

  Negotiation done, he turned his attention back to the battle at hand. His mind worked at an exhausting pace, cycling through countless strategies.

  This wasn’t just about brute force any more. He had to account for the rogue elements on the surface, the fragmented command structure, and the unpredictable anomaly that had turned this small venture into a disaster.

  His anger flared. But he forced it down. Anger without focus was useless. He let his thoughts settle and switched to open comms to address his forces. His voice, amplified across every ship, was sharp, and decisive.

  “All vessels, form up. Defensive spread. Prepare for a full burn. We will bring order today. If you hesitate, you die. If you falter, you fail your clans. We burn hard—NOW.”

  Engines roared to life as the fleet fell into formation. This was it. The push. The final test.

  Then, a clipped voice cut through the comms. His clone officer.

  “Captain, sensors detect multiple missile launches.”

  A moment of silence.

  Then, Varos-Thek exhaled slowly. “All ships, prepare countermeasures I want everything in sync. I would rather not see anything breach our defensive line.”

  Inside, his gut twisted.

  The anomaly had made its move.

  A flood of missiles streaked from the Southern Hemisphere, leaving behind trails of burning light against the void. Varos-Thek clenched his jaw, watching them carve their way through the darkness.

  “Launch counter-offensive,” he ordered, his voice steady despite the tension gripping his insides.

  His fleet responded instantly. A cascade of missiles burst from his ships, surging forward to intercept. The tactical display turned chaotic hundreds of signals racing toward each other, the battlefield painting itself in streaks of flame and destruction.

  Then he saw them.

  Five hundred missiles broke away from the swarm, accelerating faster than the rest. Varos-Thek's fingers curled against the command console.

  His thoughts raced at the possibility of a new weapon.

  He watched as those five hundred closed in. His missiles moved to meet them, detonating in waves, layering the void with expanding debris.

  But something was wrong. The enemy missiles weaved and dodged, slipping through the wreckage, twisting unpredictably as if… sensing where the counterfire would hit.

  A ripple of unease spread through him.

  His combined laser network opened fire. The void lit up with beams of raw energy, carving through the advancing wave. Some missiles died in brilliant flashes, torn apart mid-flight—but not enough.

  Too many kept coming, shifting direction in ways that no ordinary projectile should.

  Varos-Thek's mind churned. How did such a backward species create something like this?

  “Captain!” His clone officer’s voice cut through his thoughts. “New readings—confirmed missile launches from the west and east!”

  His heart pounded.

  “Their numbers?”

  “Four hundred from the east. Five hundred from the west.”

  He exhaled slowly, forcing the rising anger down.

  “All ships, full defensive formations. Prioritize intercept. And find me a weakness. Now.”