Chapter 327: A war of attrition
(Meanwhile On A Righteous Faction, Arc Ship, Command Deck, General Davian’s POV)
The control deck buzzed with quiet tension. Rows of operators worked at glowing panels, scanning spatial readouts and fielding encrypted transmissions.
Far ahead, through the reinforced viewing glass, the vast expanse of stars framed the distant silhouette of Planet Juxta.
Captain Davian stood with arms crossed behind his back, his sharp blue uniform pressed to perfection, as his eyes scanned the radar projections in silence.
He didn’t speak until his second-in-command, Lieutenant Commander Renna, approached with a datapad.
"All units are in position, General. Our second wave of fodder crafts is prepped and ready. We’ve also started filming all deployment footage as instructed by central command, with propaganda teams on standby, waiting for your instructions on how to shoot the deployment.
The central command has given this operation the title ’Retribution Has Begun’, and they want us to produce some stellar shots as soon as possible, which is the only goal of phase one" she said, handing him the pad.
Davian didn’t look at it.
Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the distant planet.
"So this is how they want to start it," he muttered, voice low. "A war choreographed like a stage play. With cameras rolling and smoke machines hissing while people die in the background."
He finally glanced at the pad, then handed it back.
"Any updates from Mission Control?" he asked.
"Same as before. We don’t have the greenlight to send in anything higher than a Valor class ship into Planet Juxta’s atmosphere.
They want us to wear down the Cult’s defenses... bait out their anti-air artillery and mana cannons with empty fodder ships and disposable troops, while making no elite troop deployment until the second phase begins," Renna replied, as Davian let out a small breath through his nose.
"They know we can’t match the Cult’s defensive tech, so they want us to throw bodies and scrap metal at them until they overheat their cannons."
"A sound strategy," Renna said.
"A dirty one," Davian corrected, before turning to walk toward the tactical map table.
"We’ll send waves of unmanned aircrafts first. Half of them will carry reflective signal cores to look like they’re piloted. The rest, fill them with Master and Grandmaster-ranked volunteers. They’ll know it’s a suicide run, but someone has to set the tone."
"And the survivors?" she asked.
"Make sure they’re on camera," Davian said coldly. "The universe doesn’t care about silent martyrs. They want faces. Heroes. Blood."
He paused, turning back toward the wide view of the looming planet.
"Begin deployment. Phase One starts now."
Renna saluted, her boots clicking against the floor. "Yes, General."
And just like that, the first arc of war began not with a battle cry, but with the quiet, surgical detachment of a machine that had done this a thousand times before.
As from the edge of space, metallic wings began to descend.
—----------
Davian watched as thousands of ships rode in formation and descended toward the surface of Planet Juxta, their engines humming with controlled aggression, as they pointed their guns towards the planet.
And then—one by one—they began to die.
The first wave of glider-class scouts disintegrated the moment they touched the shimmering curve of the planet’s mana shield.
There was no fire, no grand explosions, just instant vaporization—like chalk dust hitting a wall of lightning.
The cannon carriers came next, which were competitively much larger, slower, bulkier ships with enough firepower to hopefully punch a hole through the planet’s mana shield with raw force.
However, although thousands of them fired towards Juxta’s defensive shield at once, not one of them managed to scratch it, as the shield reacted before contact, crackling with raw divine energy as brilliant arcs of blue light reached out and tore them apart mid-air.
Some cannon carriers exploded. Some twisted into debris. While some got instantly vaporized.
A handful of striker pods, their trajectories wild and unstable, managed to breach the barrier—but their engines sputtered on entry, their hulls catching flame as Juxta’s dense atmosphere dragged them down like insects into a furnace.
As in the end, none of them managed to make it to the surface.
Davian didn’t blink. He just stood there and watched.
"First wave... one hundred percent loss," Renna muttered, stunned, as although she expected this outcome, she hoped that at least a couple ships would make it to the surface intact, however, none did.
"What do we do now sir?" She asked, as Davian just let out a deep sigh.
"Now we camp outside their planet, and send the first footage back home as nothing but our base ships camping outside their atmosphere.
Central command will have to make do with it for today.
Tomorrow, we send another wave of dummy crafts to test their defences.
This is a war of attrition, Renna.
There are no winners or losers in this stage of the war, just resources being depleted.
We lost a few men and a few ships today, while they lost millions of mana stones to power up that shield.
Let’s see, which one of us bleeds out first..." Davian said, as he turned and left the command station.
—--------
(Meanwhile on the surface of Planet Juxta)
It was a festival down below for the Cult soldiers, who cheered loudly every time an enemy ship got vaporized.
The sky lit up like fireworks, arcs of divine mana exploding with every failed entry attempt, as vessel after vessel was shredded, burned, or erased entirely before even breaching the upper atmosphere.
Men clapped. Officers smirked. Some even began placing bets on how many ships would manage to pass through the mana shield. Most bets stayed at zero.
"Boom! That’s forty-seven in a row!" one soldier laughed, pumping his fist in the air as another massive Arc Ship turned into little more than molten debris.
"The sky’s raining metal, boys! Keep your helmets on!" another shouted, raising his shield toward the glowing clouds as scraps rained down like hail.
Even the defensive outpost’s loudspeakers joined in, blaring old wartime anthems while squad commanders stood with arms crossed, amused but not surprised.
For them, this wasn’t war.
This was a show.
And the Cult owned the stage.