**Before the Storm**
Billions of stars shone with billions of lights. The deep void was shrouded in profound darkness, and those lights seemed feeble and powerless.
An endless night, boundless emptiness, unimaginable cold—none of these had abandoned humanity; they simply ignored its existence. Though the universe was vast, to humanity, it had become as distant as the horizon, for it had long been familiarized and incorporated into the realm of human travel.
Humanity had fragmented the universe, dividing it into accessible and inaccessible regions, navigable and unnavigable zones. And the most incorrigible among them—the professional soldiers—further classified all space and star clusters into enemy-controlled zones, friendly-controlled zones, areas to be seized, and areas to be defended.
These spaces and star clusters originally bore no names. Petty humans, to distinguish them, assigned their own words and languages to label them.
This sector was called the "Iserlohn Corridor," resembling a slender, hidden tunnel that traversed the perilous regions of the Milky Way galaxy.
A battleship sailed through it. Under the light of a GO-type star, its streamlined hull gleamed silver-gray, bearing the name *Ulysses* on its side.
The *Ulysses*—a warship named after the legendary hero of antiquity—was currently assigned to the Free Planets Alliance's Iserlohn Fortress garrison fleet.
About half a year earlier, the *Ulysses* had belonged to the Alliance's Eighth Fleet. In the largest-scale battle in history—the Battle of Amritsar—the *Ulysses* lost over ninety percent of its crew and ships, and the fleet itself was crippled. The few survivors were either reassigned to other fleets or stationed at bases.
Whether as a ship or as the officers and crew aboard it, the *Ulysses* could be called a warrior reborn from the flames.
Yet, in reality, the battleship *Ulysses* was not revered as an object of respect. Instead, it became a topic of after-dinner conversation.
During the Battle of Amritsar, the *Ulysses* had suffered relatively minor damage. Only its microbial drainage system had been destroyed, forcing the crew to wade through sewage while continuing to fight...
But the welcome it received was far from heroic. Instead of the anticipated praise, it was mockingly dubbed "the battleship with the broken toilet." When people reluctantly muttered, "You've worked hard," Captain Nelson, a lieutenant colonel, and Vice Captain Adar, a major, could only bow their heads in unison.
With thirty million soldiers deployed and over seventy percent lost, the devastating defeat seemed to leave people with no choice but to crack jokes about the *Ulysses* to maintain their sanity. Even so, the survivors found no comfort...
Now, the *Ulysses* was patrolling with its back to Iserlohn Fortress, conducting training exercises alongside its mission.
At the forward edge of a cosmic region filled with variable stars, red giants, and anomalous gravity fields lay an even greater man-made crisis! The Free Planets Alliance's territory extended to the fringes of Iserlohn, beyond which lay the vast border regions of the Galactic Empire. In the past, large-scale battles had erupted here repeatedly, and fragments of warships destroyed over the centuries could still occasionally be found.
Captain Nelson, a burly man, rose from his command seat when the communications officer reported the detection of an unidentified vessel.
The *Ulysses*' detection systems were no different from those of other warships—radar, mass calculators, energy measurement devices, and forward reconnaissance satellites were all operational. And now, every one of these systems was reacting! The approaching force was not a fleet but a single battleship.
"There shouldn't be any of our ships in this sector right now!"
"Correct! At this moment, there are no friendly vessels in this sector."
"By simple deduction, it must be an enemy vessel! All hands, battle stations!"
Alarms blared! Adrenaline surged through the bodies of the 140 crew members as reports from all stations poured in—
Enemy distance: thirty-three light-seconds. Magnetic cannons: no anomalies. Beam cannons: ready. Screen brightness: adjusted...
The captain's voice boomed as he issued the order to transmit a general signal:
"Halt your vessel! Or you will be fired upon!"
Sweat poured down the crew's backs. Five minutes later, a reply came. The communications officer scratched his head and handed a data disk to the captain. It read: *"We have no intention of engaging in combat! We wish to discuss a matter with your forces."*
"Discuss?!" Captain Nelson muttered to himself.
Vice Captain Adar crossed his arms.
"Could it be defectors? It's been a while since we've had any."
"Let's think about that later. The battle alert hasn't been lifted yet. Tell them to halt engines and open a visual comm link!"
Captain Nelson removed his cap adorned with a white five-pointed star and looked up. Unnecessary bloodshed was best avoided, as even victory would come at a cost.
One of the screens displayed an image. As the captain gazed at the enemy vessel, which bore a striking resemblance to the *Ulysses*, he wondered if its crew was equally drenched in sweat.
Iserlohn was an artificial planet located at the border between the Galactic Empire and the Free Planets Alliance, orbiting the star Alshain. The militaries of both nations could not launch offensives against each other without passing through the center of the "Iserlohn Corridor."
Built by the Empire, the artificial planet had been seized by the Alliance. It measured sixty kilometers in diameter and could be subdivided into thousands of layers internally. Its surface was treated with beam-resistant mirror coating, composed of ultra-crystalline fibers and special ceramic composite armor in four layers, making it virtually impenetrable.
As a strategic base, it was fully equipped with offensive, defensive, supply, maintenance, medical, communications, control, and intelligence functions... among others. The spaceport could accommodate twenty thousand warships, and its repair facilities could simultaneously service four hundred battleships. The hospital had two hundred thousand beds, and the munitions factory could produce 7,500 laser-nuclear fusion missiles per hour.
The fortress and its garrison fleet totaled two million military personnel. The civilian population living there exceeded three million, mostly family members of the soldiers. Additionally, there were workers commissioned by the military to construct living and recreational facilities. Among these establishments, some were entirely operated by women.
Iserlohn was both a fortress and a metropolis of five million people. Among inhabited planets, some had even smaller populations. Its social infrastructure was comprehensive, with all necessary facilities—schools, theaters, concert halls, a fifteen-story sports center, maternity hospitals, nurseries, internal water supply and drainage systems, freshwater plants, hydrogen power reactors, vast botanical gardens that doubled as oxygen supply systems and forest bathing sites, and, most importantly, hydroponic farms—the source of plant-based proteins and vitamins.
The commander of the fortress and the garrison fleet, as well as the highest authority of this colossal cosmic city—Admiral Yang Wen-li of the Free Planets Alliance.
**II**
At first glance, Yang Wen-li was not the kind of person one would expect to be the foremost military figure of the Free Planets Alliance. Even in uniform, he lacked the imposing presence of a soldier.
He was neither a rigid, old-fashioned gentleman nor a muscular, towering man. He wasn't a coldly handsome scholar or a fair-skinned, delicate aristocrat either.
He was thirty years old, but his appearance made him seem two or three years younger. With black hair and black eyes, he was of average build—neither strikingly handsome nor unattractive.
His greatest asset lay not in the exterior of his skull but in the brain within. The previous year—Cosmic Era 796—he had single-handedly accounted for all of the Free Planets Alliance's military achievements. He had captured the impregnable Iserlohn Fortress from the Imperial forces without shedding a drop of blood. At the Battle of Astarte and the Battle of Amritsar, where the Alliance suffered crushing defeats at the hands of Reinhard von Lohengramm, Yang's calm and ingenious tactics had saved them from total annihilation.
Without Yang Wen-li, the Free Planets Alliance's war record for Cosmic Era 796 would have been nothing but "defeat." This was common knowledge, and within less than a year, Yang had risen from commodore to admiral. Yet, despite becoming a legendary war hero overnight, Yang felt no particular excitement.
Because, though Yang had undeniably become an unparalleled war celebrity, in his eyes, war itself was worthless! More than once, he had considered retiring from the military to live as an ordinary, unknown citizen. But so far, he had been unable to realize this wish.
One day, while playing three-dimensional chess in his room, Julian Mintz suddenly exclaimed, "Check!"
Yang scratched his head and admitted defeat. When it came to chess, even this famed battlefield commander was helpless.
"Ah, well... Seventeen losses in a row!" He sighed without a trace of stubbornness.
"Eighteen now!" Julian laughed.
He was in his adolescence, half Yang's age, with flaxen hair that curled naturally and dark brown eyes. He was widely recognized as a handsome young man.
Three years earlier, under the "War Orphans Protection Act," children of fallen soldiers were to be placed in military families for upbringing. Thus, Julian had been sent to Yang.
Julian was a top student at school. In sports, he was the annual scoring champion in flyball. As a military dependent with officer status, his sharp shooting skills were always a cut above the rest.
His guardian, Yang, felt both slightly embarrassed and secretly proud of him.
"Julian's only flaw is..." Alex Caselnes had once remarked critically.
Caselnes was Yang's senior at the military academy and never minced words.
"He worships Yang too much! It's a terrible habit! If not for that, I'd marry my daughter to him!"
Incidentally, the thirty-year-old Caselnes had two daughters, the elder of whom was now seven...
"Another game!" Yang, unwilling to concede, issued another challenge.
"Going for nineteen straight losses? I don't mind!"
Yang had taught Julian chess, but within six months, the student had surpassed the teacher. Since then, the gap between them had only widened. Still, when Julian told Yang, "I'm better than you now," it was only in jest. Chess wasn't the only area where Julian felt he paled in comparison to Yang at the fundamental level.
The chime of a bell rang lightly.
"Commander, this is Greenhill!" A beautiful female officer with golden-brown hair and light brown eyes appeared on the videophone screen. She had become Yang's aide the previous year.
"I'm very busy right now! What is it?" Yang's tone was indifferent.
"An Imperial battleship has sent an envoy with an important document for your review, Commander!"
"Is that all?"
Yang wasn't surprised, remaining calm as ever. After a pause, he set down his chess piece and stood, then left the room.
Noticing that Yang had left his gun on the table, Julian hurriedly called out, "You forgot your sidearm, sir!"
"No need! No need!"
The young admiral waved dismissively, as if bothered by the inconvenience.
"But going empty-handed is too..."
"Do you think if I carried a gun and fired it, I'd actually hit anything?"
"...No."
"Then there's no point in carrying it!"
With that, Yang strode off, leaving Julian scrambling to catch up.
Yang's attitude might have seemed bold, but from a certain perspective, it reflected his understanding of human limitations. Who would have thought that the supposedly impregnable Iserlohn Fortress would fall so easily into his hands? Precisely because of this, he had grasped a truth—for humanity, nothing was absolute or complete.
Originally, Yang had never intended to become a soldier. At sixteen, after his father's death, he enrolled in the military academy's war history department to study for free, never imagining he would one day face such a thorny problem.
Yet, Frederica Greenhill's situation seemed even more capricious, as if arranged by the heavens. Being pitted against her own father was far too harsh for a twenty-three-year-old young woman.
"Lieutenant Frederica Greenhill reporting to the Admiral."
"...Hmm, you seem to be in good spirits."
Yang awkwardly greeted her, leaving Frederica at a loss for how to respond.
"What can I do for you, sir?"
"Well... We're about to hold a staff meeting. Could you prepare the documents and operate the computer for us?"
Frederica seemed taken aback.
"I think I should resign as your aide. Because..."
Yang acted as if he didn't understand, bluntly asking, "Why? Is there a problem?"
"No, but..."
"Excuse me. You know, my memory isn't great, and I'm quite careless. I really need a capable aide like you to assist me."
"...Understood! Then I'll continue serving you, sir!"
Her expression remained serious, but a closer look would reveal a fleeting glimmer of emotion in her eyes, as if she were on the verge of tears.
"Thank you. Now, please head to the conference room."
There was much more Yang could have said to her, but at that moment, he chose not to.
As Frederica left, Yang encountered Walter von Schönkopf at the door. They exchanged salutes. Schönkopf smiled and said to Yang, "I suppose Lieutenant Greenhill won't be dismissed?"
"Of course not. It's hard to find someone as competent as her."
"That's not very honest of you."
He spoke impudently.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing much... I was just wondering what that girl thinks of you—as a subordinate, of course. This is purely my own speculation as a fellow subordinate."
"What do you think?"
Yang clumsily pressed him.
"Actually, I don't know. But you're quite a contradictory person, you know? Hard to figure out."
Yang seemed not to understand Schönkopf's words and stared at him blankly, urging him to continue. This seemed to amuse Schönkopf. He said, "Why are you contradictory? Because you dislike war more than anyone. You know its terrible consequences and consider it the height of foolishness. Yet, it's hard to find anyone better at it than you. Isn't that a contradiction?"
"What about Reinhard von Lohengramm?"
"You're both equally outstanding. It'd be interesting to see you match wits."
The former Imperial noble grew increasingly unrestrained.
"If you both had the same conditions and forces, I think you'd outmaneuver him tactically."
"That assumption is meaningless. War isn't just about tactics—other factors matter just as much. Excluding strategy and focusing solely on tactics is impossible in real warfare. Reinhard's greatest strength lies in his strategic superiority. He often wins before the battle even begins, and once it starts, his advantage only grows."
"Of course I know that!"
"Tactics refer to the skill of deploying troops on the battlefield to achieve victory. Strategy refers to the overarching techniques that allow tactics to be fully effective. The assumption you just made completely ignores the strategic factor, rendering it meaningless."
"Alright, then let's discuss another issue. You know how corrupt the Free Planets Alliance's power structure is—it's terminally ill. Those in power lack both ability and morals. You're well aware of this, yet you still want to defend it with all your might. Isn't that contradictory?"
"Given a choice, I'd pick the 'lesser evil.' Though the current Alliance leaders are woefully lacking in ability and ethics, have you seen the manifesto of the National Salvation Military Council? They're even worse than the current regime."
"In my opinion... we should overthrow both the clowns of the National Salvation Military Council and the current regime. Neither can solve the nation's problems. The unstable situation will persist. Rather than let things continue this way, why don't you step forward and drive out these corrupt elements? Take control of the nation's power, stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Reinhard. If you govern well, the people will live in peace, free from war. Wouldn't that be ideal?"
The young commander of Iserlohn Fortress, Yang Wen-li, stared at him in stunned silence. Schönkopf, meanwhile, shed his usual playful demeanor and spoke solemnly: "What do you think? The form doesn't matter. Become a dictator to safeguard the practice of democracy!"
"Dictator Yang Wen-li? I've never even considered such a thing."
"You never intended to be a soldier either, yet you've done well. Maybe you'd be just as capable as a dictator as you are now as a commander."
"Commodore Schönkopf."
"Yes?"
"I'd like to ask you something. Aside from me, have you ever said this to anyone else?"
"Of course not."
"Good..."
Schönkopf smiled as he watched Yang leave. He thought to himself that Yang must know no high-ranking officer would tolerate a subordinate speaking so freely. Being Schönkopf's superior was no easy task!
Most of Iserlohn's residents were civilians, deeply unsettled by the recent coup and civil unrest. Once, Julian encountered citizens in the residential district who asked him if Yang could win this tough battle. Julian confidently replied, "Admiral Yang Wen-li never fights a battle he can't win."
...This statement soon spread throughout Iserlohn.
"Admiral Yang doesn't fight battles he can't win!"
"Indeed, Admiral Yang is an undefeated hero, our great champion!"
"Victory has always been his companion. This time will be no exception!"
The people, reassured, gradually calmed down, at least on the surface.
When Yang heard about this, he half-jokingly said to Julian, "I didn't know you had the talent of an orator?"
"But what I said was true. It wasn't just empty bravado. Right, sir?"
"Hmm, that's true. Let's hope it stays that way this time." Unconsciously, Yang frowned. "I hope it stays that way in the future too..."
"Please summon Schönkopf."
Yang had recently decided to divide his fleet into two: a high-speed mobile force under his direct command and a rear support force focused on supply and defensive firepower. But he couldn't decide where to place Schönkopf. In the end, he called Schönkopf in to discuss it and decided to keep him as a staff officer, not assigned to either unit.
After their discussion, Yang asked Schönkopf about Julian. Schönkopf had once been Julian's instructor in shooting and hand-to-hand combat.
"As a warrior, Julian is quite outstanding. He can hold his own now. He might even outperform you."
Schönkopf spoke without reservation.
"But I suspect your expectations for Julian aren't just that, are they?"
Yang only half-answered his question.
"...Human abilities are limited, but one can still push their limits and challenge fate. I hope Julian can realize his full potential and break free from his destiny."
"Break free from his destiny? What about you, Admiral?"
"I'm beyond that. I'm too deeply entrenched in the Free Planets Alliance. I owe my salary to someone, after all."
Schönkopf knew this wasn't a joke.
"I see. That's why you don't want Julian to become a formal soldier, isn't it? But you don't owe the Free Planets Alliance any loyalty!"
"My perspective differs from yours..."
Some people thought otherwise. Whether this was a blessing or a curse, even Yang himself didn't know.
Currently, the Free Planets Alliance's Joint Operational Headquarters in the capital had become the stronghold of the National Salvation Military Council. In the basement of this building, the council's executives were holding a meeting.
They had just received a reply from Iserlohn—Yang Wen-li had formally refused to join the National Salvation Military Council.
As soon as Admiral Greenhill announced this, the room erupted into murmurs.
"Then there's no choice but to fight him to the death."
"Let's see if the 'Miracle Yang' is as formidable as they say!"
Stubborn voices perhaps sought to mask their unease.
But Admiral Greenhill didn't indulge their fervor.
He would never ask his daughter to join them. He thought to himself that he would never beg for her approval either. He acted on his convictions. If he didn't use the military to rebuild the nation, it would continue to rot until its demise. If Yang Wen-li couldn't understand this, then battle was inevitable! Making such a decision was difficult, but once made, it would not be changed.
"Admiral Lugranch."
A middle-aged man with short, light brown hair and a square face stood up promptly.
"I'd like you to lead the Eleventh Fleet to Iserlohn Fortress and engage Yang Wen-li in battle."
"Understood! But, Chairman, what about your daughter... Yang's aide."
"That's not an issue." His tone was firm, but it carried a forced restraint. "When I formulated this plan, I already cast aside familial ties. By now, Yang must have dismissed her and confined her in Iserlohn. So you needn't worry about her."
"I understand. Rest assured, I will find a way to defeat Yang Wen-li—whether by capturing him alive or killing him, I'll deliver results."
The Eleventh Fleet was one of the few undamaged units in the Alliance's space fleet. Now, joining the rebels, it would use its formidable strength to block Yang's path.
On April 20, Cosmic Era 797, Imperial Year 488, Standard Calendar, Yang appointed Caselnes as acting commander of Iserlohn Fortress and ordered the entire fleet to sortie. This was his first deployment since becoming commander of Iserlohn Fortress and its mobile fleet. It also marked the outbreak of the first civil war in the 270-year history of the Free Planets Alliance. When asked about their destination, his reply was:
"The final destination is Heinessen."
At the same time, in a cemetery in the Alliance capital Heinessen, Admiral Greenhill stood silently in the rain under an umbrella. It was the resting place of his late wife—Frederica Greenhill's mother. He placed flowers at her grave and silently thought:
"I hope Frederica can forgive me. This corrupt politics needs someone to correct it. In that sense, we haven't done wrong. The younger generation in the military is too impulsive. Without my leadership, how could they be restrained? There was no other choice... But what worries me is—will my daughter understand my position?..."
Anson Bach gripped his gun, steadied his breathing, and slowly stepped toward Oberstein. Oberstein was already drenched in blood, his dull eyes fixed on the enemy as he fought. Anson Bach moved cautiously, then suddenly raised his gun with lightning speed, pressed it against Oberstein's ear, and pulled the trigger.
Blood and a flash of light burst from Oberstein's other ear.
His massive body convulsed for a few seconds before collapsing lifelessly to the ground, never to rise again. His forehead struck the steps, and blood dripped from it like the final, silent note of a mad symphony. Everyone gathered around the corpse in stunned silence, too shocked to speak.
"Traitor!" Braunschweig finally erupted, his face still pale with terror. "That mad dog! He denied plotting against me, but in the end, he exposed himself, didn't he?..."
Anson Bach cleared his throat. "But was he really a traitor?"
"Nonsense! How can you still doubt it? If he hadn't betrayed me, why did you kill him?"
Anson Bach shook his head, ruffling his neatly combed hair again.
"I acted solely to protect Your Excellency. Everyone saw how he went berserk just now. But don't you understand what he meant by 'trap'?"
"Maybe it was a trap, but it doesn't matter anymore. He's dead. He can't wield his axe anymore. Whether he betrayed me or was framed, it makes no difference now. There's no point discussing it further."
"I see. But how should we handle this? I mean, how do we explain the cause of Oberstein's death to the public?"
The brutal fight in the hall was a disgrace to the order and image of the aristocratic coalition. Many silently thought it best to claim he had died of illness.
Suddenly, Braunschweig rose from his seat, his expression and movements radiating fury, veins bulging on his forehead.
"There's nothing to hide, nothing to cover up. Announce to everyone that Oberstein was executed for betraying his allies."
With that, he stormed out of the hall. Anson Bach shrugged and ordered the soldiers to remove the body of the once-feared, savage warrior. Oberstein's dead eyes still glared furiously at Anson Bach, who muttered wearily, "Don't look at me like that... I don't even know how I'll die tomorrow. Maybe you'll thank me from the heavens for letting you die today."
The brigadier shuddered. He felt the eerie echo of his own ominous prophecy.
The aftermath of this incident was immense. Everyone knew Oberstein had been a fervent anti-Reinhard hardliner. If even he could collude with the enemy, who else could be trusted? The nobles, already distrustful of one another, now grew even more suspicious—some even doubted themselves...
When news of Oberstein's gruesome death reached Reinhard, his mood improved slightly. He saw it as just retribution for the man who had insulted his sister.
Reinhard promptly appointed Admiral Dickel as the new commander of Fortress Littenheim, ordering him to use it as a base for continuous military exercises in preparation for an assault on the fortress of Odin.
But Reinhard's forces also suffered a lingering side effect. Whenever Fleet Admirals Reuenthal and Mittermeier sat down to eat, the sight of white meat dishes made them nauseous—the memory of the mountain of corpses in Passage Six was too vivid to ignore.