Time Period: 400 Years Ago, During the Civil War
"Captain, when do you think we'll finally win?"
The cold, dim corridor of the space station was illuminated by the massive blue planet outside the window. Two soldiers in protective suits walked by and stopped here.
Their straight figures stood before the window, so small against the backdrop of the enormous blue planet, their reflections lonely on the floor. The silence of space carried no sound.
The war within the Federation had already lasted forty-three years. For many, forty-three years was longer than their entire lives. From the moment they were born, they had known nothing but the chaos of war. Life was heavily regulated, TV broadcasts were filled with frontline reports, factories worked day and night producing military supplies, and every child underwent rigorous military training as they grew up.
In graduation photos, one figure after another was crossed out. Familiar names faded away, phone calls to old friends went unanswered, and during long, silent voyages, no one knew what news would come through the Star Network the next time it connected. Sometimes, just seeing a still-lit ID brought a faint sense of comfort.
"We will never yield. It is our sacred duty to uphold the integrity and unity of the Federation. We inherit the will of Isanisha, and we will cleanse all corruption and filth, bringing a clear and just future to all our people!"
On the podium, the fleet admiral clenched his fist, his voice firm. The roar echoed under the steel dome, and below, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, even millions of soldiers in formation raised their fists in unison, swearing their allegiance.
"For a clear and just future!"
The voices shook the dome, the unified will and thunderous roar leaving everyone in awe.
At the same time, outside the dome, massive warships slowly departed from the starport. They blotted out the sky, their shadows casting alternating day and night over the residents below.
The Central Third Fleet, one of the most elite and powerful fleets before the civil war, consisted of 2,726 state-of-the-art Odis-class battleships, 15,788 Paradise-class carriers, approximately 57,000 Isca-class cruisers, and around 210,000 destroyers of various types.
These rising warships slowly sailed into the stars, their bright tail flames gradually disappearing into the dark distance, like stars dotting the night sky.
To slow the enemy's relentless advance and buy time for the rear forces to regroup, the Third Fleet undertook the most difficult mission: to enter enemy-controlled territory alone and hold off the Federation's most elite First and Second Fleets from before the civil war.
War made time stretch endlessly. In just one year, the Third Fleet struggled to survive in one perilous battle after another. Squadron after squadron was disbanded, and the remaining ships were constantly regrouped and sent back to the front lines.
When will we go home? When will we win?
Such thoughts spread through the fleet. Some soldiers gradually broke down under the endless brutality of war.
As a fighter mech pilot in the fleet, Saren was only 26 but had already been a veteran of the war for ten years. Waking up to the sound of alarms day and night, then piloting his mech into battle—sometimes he would feel a strange sense of disorientation. Was he really Saren? Or had he mistaken himself for a fallen comrade, someone who had died in the war, and taken their name as his own?
This confusion often struck him upon waking. He would have to look at his identity code and recall repeatedly to confirm that this was indeed his name, not some stranger's.
Years of living on the edge of life and death had made him forget almost everything outside the war. Sometimes, he felt a strange sense of relief that he had managed to survive such a brutal conflict.
The 16th Squadron originally had 127 mech pilots, but now only he and the captain remained from the original roster. Over the years, the squadron's members had been replaced batch after batch, with new recruits constantly being pulled from the rear. The familiar faces were long gone.
After another mission, he dragged his exhausted body out of the cockpit, handed over the maintenance points to the mechanics, and left the docking bay. He quickened his pace to catch up with the captain, who was walking alone.
"Captain, when do you think we'll finally win?"
His question made the captain stop in his tracks.
The captain didn't answer immediately, standing there silently like a statue. Perhaps silence was an answer in itself, and Saren fell silent as well.
The two of them no longer hurried back to the rest area. Instead, they stood in the cold, dim corridor, gazing out at the massive blue planet.
The planet was so beautiful, with its drifting white clouds and faint patches of green. It would be a delightful experience to travel there and take in the sights.
However, the planet wasn't under their control. It was held by the powerful conservatives, whose orbital defenses and strong ground forces made it nearly impregnable. Even orbital bombardments from the fleet could only scratch the surface, unable to truly damage the deep underground bases and launch silos.
Their attack on this planet wasn't meant to capture it but to tie down the enemy fleet, forcing them to return and defend it, buying time for the rear.
"Victory... I don't know when we'll truly achieve it," the captain said after a long silence, his eyes fixed on the beautiful planet in space.
"Every advance and retreat in this war is just in service of strategic objectives."
In the past, they would have said that annihilating and driving out the enemy would bring victory. But after more than forty years of war, such hopes had faded from people's hearts.
Holding the line from collapse was already the limit. Compared to the frontlines at the start of the civil war, they had retreated again and again. Not only had this eroded the confidence of those who remained, but it also cast a shadow of uncertainty over the future.
The war might have begun with justice, but as it dragged on, the people in enemy-controlled territories grew accustomed to the laws and ideologies imposed by the enemy. They no longer stood with the Federation. Was such a war still just?
"No! We will never accept that future, that corrupt and decadent future!"
The admiral's words still echoed in their ears. He was so resolute and firm, and perhaps it was his determination that kept the Third Fleet from collapsing, still holding the most intense frontlines.
"I'm sorry, I don't know when we'll win... or when I can take you back home," the captain turned around, his large hand resting on Saren's shoulder.
"But I think, as long as we keep going, we'll see hope and the dawn. Yes, as long as we don't give up, as long as we don't admit defeat, then we haven't lost. It means there's still a chance for the future."
Such a tall and sturdy figure, yet his words were so bitter and fragile.
As long as we don't admit defeat, that's enough.
Such a childish and naive thought. Saren sometimes mocked himself for thinking this way when recalling his last conversation with the captain.
But if it weren't for this naive and childish thought comforting him, his spirit might have shattered on the brutal battlefield.
Sometimes, it's good to lie to yourself, if only to keep yourself alive.
The Third Fleet's designation was eventually retired. Though the war was far from over, Saren was finally pulled from the frontlines.
To compensate and care for the heavily depleted Third Fleet, Amuraline proposed relocating the remaining personnel to the rear for training and auxiliary production work, keeping them away from the brutal frontlines.
The proposal was approved, and Saren left behind his old designation and everything associated with it. With his only remaining damaged mech, he traveled to a distant and remote star region, where a new shipyard was being built to produce the experimental Sigh Dragon-class battleships.
"The Four-Leaf Crystal Star Region, what a nice name," Saren sat in the cockpit, looking down at the lush green planet outside the window.
"Don't you think so, old buddy?"
He turned to look at the glass partition behind him, where a battered, scarred mech stood. Its tall frame, steel-gray shell, and flame-patterned emblem on its shoulder seemed to roar and burn.
“As long as we don't admit defeat, that's enough. Such a stubborn and childish statement. But my war is far from over. I'll repair you here, and I'll record every scar and bullet hole on your body, passing down the memories of those life-and-death moments. That way, the next generation can stand on our shoulders and develop even stronger mechs, producing even more powerful warriors.”
“We'll make it happen, 'Burning Iron-6412.' As long as we don't admit defeat, that's enough.”