Starting with God's perspective, how to lose an interstellar war?

An old general gripped the edge of the table, his fingers trembling slightly, and murmured softly.

"Obsidian, ferocious bird, owl, bulwark, fortified city, giant elephant, dire wolf... this..."

This is already…”

"Eight branches."

Another general finished the chilling number for him, his voice hoarse.

"Equivalent to the size of an entire enhanced Imperial fleet."

Moreover, they were defeated piecemeal by the same Federation fleet in less than a standard week.

"The Pluto Fleet..."

When the intelligence officer uttered the name, his tone already betrayed an undisguised fear.

"Based on the existing intelligence analysis, the fleet commander, Qin Beiwang, made full use of our delayed intelligence, dispersed forces, and..."

Due to a serious misjudgment of their strength, they carried out a series of bold and precise deep penetrations, ambushes, and key strikes.

Its fleet demonstrated... a level of coordination and tactical execution that far exceeded that of a newly built fleet.

In the briefing room, the anger and desire for revenge that had been ignited by Obsidian's defeat were now replaced by a deeper chill and disbelief.

The anger remains, but there is more bewilderment and heaviness in the face of losses that are beyond comprehension.

Eight sub-class fleets! This is not a minor loss from border skirmishes; it is a devastating defeat that could shake the balance of power in the entire Savannah system and even the Opal region!

How many years has it been since the Empire suffered such a horrifying series of attacks in the same region, against the same adversary, in such a short period of time?

Pluto Fleet, Qin Beiwang.

These two names, in the minds of the high command of the Imperial Theater Command, had suddenly transformed from "provocative individuals who needed to be taught a lesson" into a deadly threat that had to be eliminated at all costs and with all efforts.

The decision to mobilize four fleets for retaliation, in retrospect, was not only not an overreaction, but may actually still be... insufficient.

Opal Starfield Theater Command, Commander's Office.

The final briefing, summarizing the devastating battle reports from the Savannah system, was gently placed on General Strauss's large alloy desk by the adjutant, almost as if he were carrying a heavy object.

The heavy soundproof door to the office had just closed, completely shutting out the faint noise from the corridor outside.

Strauss picked up the briefing with a blank expression, his eyes scanning the first few sentences—it was the third time the loss of obsidian had been confirmed.

He applied slight pressure with his fingers, causing the edges of the paper to wrinkle.

Continue reading: Langawi has fallen, and the Bloodblade fleets have been annihilated in the harbor... His breathing began to quicken.

When he saw that the Iron Curtain and Blood Blade fleets had been ambushed and decimated in motion, and confirmed that the casualty statistics were approaching "equivalent to eight sub-fleet formations," the veins on the back of his hand holding the briefing suddenly bulged like earthworms.

The silence lasted for about five seconds.

Then--

"Bastards! Trash! A bunch of parasites on the empire!!!"

Strauss's roar was like the furious cry of a wounded Tyrannosaurus Rex, bursting forth so loudly that even the soundproof door made the guards standing outside tremble with fear.

Inside the office, sound waves struck the walls, causing several old medals on the display shelf to sway slightly.

He slammed the heavy battle report onto the table, sending papers flying everywhere.

But this is far from enough.

Eight branches!

A total of eight sub-class fleets!

Nearly one hundred and twenty Imperial starships!

His eyes were bloodshot, the veins on his forehead throbbed, and he paced back and forth, staring at the air as if Lancaster, Isabella, and Zane Barrett were standing right in front of him.

Even if it's 120 pigs!

Put them in a forest as big as Savannah and let the Federalists catch and kill them!

It's impossible for him to die so quickly!

So clean!

He grew angrier as he spoke, and suddenly kicked the holographic tactical demonstration platform next to him.

The sturdy alloy support groaned shrilly, the tabletop tilted, and the projected star map distorted and flickered before finally going out.

Lancaster!

Your Obsidian isn't supposed to be the elite of the frontier! Elite?

It was easily broken by a mere 22-year-old soldier!

Are your two "King-class" ships made of paper?!

Isabella Marlowe!

Iron Curtain!

Defense expert?

Ambushed in their own star system, losing both wings?

Are your reconnaissance ships blind?!

"And Zane Barrett!"

You brute!

What else can it do besides bark?

They chased and chased their fleet into the enemy's slaughterhouse!

Even the ships in the naval port couldn't be saved!

With each curse he uttered, he would grab whatever was at hand and smash it violently.

He swept an exquisite crystal starship model, symbolizing a victory in a certain battle, to the ground and smashed it to pieces.

He ripped down an electronic oil painting depicting the Imperial Fleet's parade from the wall and smashed it in the corner. The screen cracked, flickered a few times, and then went completely black.

The heavy alloy paperweight whistled as it flew toward the bookshelf, smashing through several hardcover, old military regulations, scattering the books all over the floor.

He even grabbed his usual ceramic coffee cup, inlaid with the stars of a general, and slammed it against the opposite wall, shattering it into a cloud of brown stains and sharp shards.

The office was a mess, as if it had just been through a small storm.

Strauss's chest heaved violently, and his heavy breathing was particularly clear in the silence.

After the rage came a deeper, almost overwhelming chill and sense of shame.

Eight fleets... such a horrific loss occurred within his jurisdiction, under his command.

This was no longer just a military defeat; it was a devastating blow to his personal authority and the prestige of the Empire's rule in the Opal Starfield!

Once the news spreads widely, how will he face the General Staff's questioning?

How to deal with the open or subtle ridicule from colleagues in other star systems?

He slowly straightened up, tugged at the slightly disheveled collar of his uniform, and the flush of rage on his face was gradually replaced by a cold, almost ferocious, ashen look.

His gaze fell on the scattered fragments of battle reports, where the names "Pluto Fleet" and "Qin Beiwang" still glared at him.

The heavy doors to the commander's office slid open suddenly to both sides, slamming against the buffers with a dull thud.

General Strauss appeared at the doorway. His uniform was still crisp, but the collar was slightly askew, and a few strands of gray hair on his forehead were disheveled from his previous outburst of rage.

What was most chilling was his face—a deep, oppressive, almost metallic blue, like leaden clouds before a storm, coupled with his eyes that blazed with tangible fury and chilling intent, causing all the officers who happened to be passing by or working nearby to freeze in place, too afraid to even breathe.

He didn't even glance at the pale-faced officers and lieutenants; his gaze, like a cold searchlight, swept across the corridor. Then, he suddenly raised his voice, and his hoarse yet terrifying roar echoed throughout the entire floor like thunder:

"All of you with gold epaulets—get the hell to the operations room! Now! Immediately!"