Outside of the Flame, which was temporarily disabled, the other ten large warships were completely out of commission.

The ten large warships were far more crippled than the Golden Flame; they had even lost all power, turning them into iron coffins adrift in the void of space.

Most crucial components within the weapons systems, power cores, communications arrays, and other vital systems of these vessels had been fried by the Iodine shockwave. The only way to restore them would be to send them back to the shipyards for replacement of the damaged components.

The results of the Thallium missiles did not end there. Over thirty smaller and medium-sized warships surrounding the major vessels were also caught in the splash radius of the Boron missiles. Their defenses against Boron were significantly weaker, and they lost all motive power the instant the attack hit.

From within the Tech Sphere, Bohr watched the outcome of the Boron missile strike unfold entirely on the holographic display. His fingers danced rapidly across the control console as he inputted command streams into the supercomputer with those agile hands.

Soon, an analysis of the battle results appeared on the screens.

Then, he opened a communication channel to the flagship.

A palm-sized image of Howard materialized on the console, stating, "Report on the situation."

"The Boron attack is complete, and the results match our projections. We have confirmed that all enemy capital ships above the large class are disabled," Bohr reported the tally, then added, "We have done all we can. Requesting permission to withdraw."

"Very well. You are cleared to withdraw."

Upon receiving Bohr's assessment of the damage, Howard immediately ordered the fighter wing into action. Fifty formations of Ghost Fighters phased into stealth and entered the engagement zone!

Bohr observed the torrent of data scrolling across his screen, chuckling, "The actual yield is actually seven and a half percent better than anticipated. I thought that Laurel-class might have put up a slightly better showing, but still, a bit of a letdown. Still, this is firsthand experimental data. Make sure to archive it properly, hah!"

Amidst his loud laughter, the Tech Sphere unit and its escort frigates turned back on their return trajectory.

The Ghost Fighter wings sped toward their respective targets.

Quentin sat steadily in his cockpit, his voice crisp over the comms to all fighters: "Brothers, it's up to us now. Formation One's objective is the Golden Flame's bridge. Your targets are any remaining active warships. Leave the crippled ones; let the next wave handle them!"

"Roger that, Sir!" came a chorus of replies through the headsets.

"Select your targets, then disperse," Quentin commanded.

The highly organized Ghost Fighter formation broke apart into fifty distinct vectors, each stream locking onto its assigned vessel.

At this moment, the ships that were farther from the capital vessels, having avoided the worst of the blast, or suffered only minor effects, found themselves in a state of command paralysis.

The captains of these ships frantically sent communication requests to the flagship, receiving no response whatsoever.

Though their own radar systems were still operational, they could not detect the invisible assassins closing in on them.

Minutes later, the Ghost Fighter formations arrived near the Laurel Fleet.

Quentin could now confirm the massive warships before him with his naked eye.

This was the Laurel-class battlecruiser, the pride of the Caesar Mercenary Group!

It stretched six hundred meters long, its silver hull blocky and imposing. Toward the stern, a green circular crest, thirty meters in diameter, marked the ship with the regal symbol of a laurel wreath, giving it an air of luxurious dignity.

Yet, the warship did not appear overly ornate or impractical.

Each of the ship's port, starboard, and ventral sides housed a twin-barreled Level Six Hammer Cannon turret. The entire hull was bristling like a hedgehog with twenty Level Four guns and two hundred Level Two cannons. Nine rows of missile bays lined the deck, capable of unleashing two hundred missiles of various calibers simultaneously.

The hangar bay located in the ventral section could accommodate five hundred fighters, and the ship was loaded with advanced reconnaissance and electronic warfare equipment.

Such overwhelming firepower led nearly everyone in the Caesar Mercenary Group to believe that even without escort squadrons, a single one of these battlecruisers could dominate the Asteroid Belt—no ordinary large mercenary group could withstand a single Caesar Laurel.

However, the Golden Flame's current situation was grim; the entire vessel sat inert like a massive chunk of metal. The thrusters were cold; clearly, the propulsion system was compromised.

"Those Thallium missiles from the Tech Sphere were truly potent; taking down even such a large battlecruiser with just two hits," Quentin mused internally. "Good thing our own battlecruisers have perfect kinetic dampening measures."

With that thought, he shook his head. "Never mind that; our own battlecruisers are still coming off the production line."

Suddenly, a voice from one of his pilots crackled over the headset: "Colonel, look at that warship!"

Quentin instantly looked up and saw the port and starboard viewports of the targeted vessel blinking rhythmically—sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly—an obvious attempt by someone inside to operate the internal life-support lighting systems.

With just one glance, Quentin recognized the pattern: "That's Morse Code!"

It was unlikely that anyone in the entire Tran Mercenary Group didn't understand Morse code. It was fundamental battlefield knowledge, capable of saving lives when necessary. As such, it was drilled into them from birth—every rifleman, every pilot, even—

Originally, Yang Ying in the group hadn't known Morse code, but after achieving the level of Nien Energy Master, Yang Ying promptly made sure to complete that course.

"Enemy attack! Maximum alert! Disperse formation and beware of enemy electromagnetic pulse attack! Launch all available fighters to guard the fleet!" Quentin softly translated the message.

This looping Morse code transmission was broadcasting the warning to the entire Laurel Fleet.

Besides radar, the warships could also receive physical imagery—a technology that captured views from thousands of kilometers away and displayed them on a screen.

In the vacuum of space, with no dust scattering the light, distant images remained undistorted, though capturing anything beyond ten thousand kilometers was beyond the current optical technology available in this solar system.

By now, numerous vessels had seen the message. They began to disperse, launching their fighters. The total count quickly exceeded a hundred, continuing to rise at a rate of more than a dozen per second.

The distribution of these defense fighters was notably loose, effectively preventing them from being wiped out in a single blow.

But Quentin paid them no mind. Their move was clearly motivated by fear of another Boron missile attack. Now that the Tech Sphere had departed, their dispersed formation only made it easier for the Ghost Fighters to pick them off one by one.

"We move now!" Quentin commanded over the comms. He and his formation had reached a position where the bridge was clearly visible.

The personnel inside the bridge were completely unaware of the twelve stealth fighters rapidly approaching them.

At this moment, Kozmo, seated in the command chair, shifted restlessly. It wasn't because he sensed danger; he had just woken up and needed to use the restroom!

"I shouldn't have drunk so much soup before bed," Kozmo thought with a pang of regret. He hadn't eaten dinner the night before, and feeling extremely hungry before sleep, he went to the mess hall for a late-night snack.

The mess hall offered chicken soup for late eaters, but he arrived too late; the crew had already taken all the chicken meat, leaving only the broth. Not wanting to make the cook stay up late for him alone, he downed several large bowls of soup and then went to bed.

Now, the metabolic process for that liquid intake was reaching its conclusion.

Kozmo saw his staff officers working intently at the consoles, trying to restore power, and since he had nothing pressing to do, he stood up and said, "I'll be gone for a few minutes. Get those systems back online, quickly."

"Yes, Captain," the staff officers responded in unison.

Kozmo left the bridge and entered the stairwell just outside. Descending the stairs led to a corridor, and a few meters further was the Captain's quarters, situated very close to the bridge.

Just as he reached for the door handle of his quarters, Kozmo heard a deafening BOOM—a sound so immense it temporarily stole his hearing.

He spun around and saw a brilliant torrent of flame rushing toward him from the stairwell, causing him to cry out. He threw open the door to his quarters and rushed inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

The blaze swept past where he had been standing, dissipating quickly.

Kozmo waited a few seconds, his temporary deafness leaving him with only a high-pitched ringing, unable to judge the situation outside by sound.

However, he knew definitively that flames coming down the stairwell meant the bridge had been destroyed; his staff officers could not have possibly survived such a violent explosion.

It was then that he felt profound relief that he had drunk so much chicken soup last night, or he would likely be heading to the same fate as his Executive Officer and staff.

Feeling as if Death had just brushed past him, Kozmo felt his heart rate more than double.

He muttered a quick thanks to God, then dealt with the internal emergency in the head. When he returned and opened the door again, a blast of black smoke carrying a wave of heat flooded into his cabin.

He peered out. The corridor walls, floor, and ceiling were scorched pitch-black by the inferno. The steel staircase leading to the bridge at the end of the hall was now blocked by a thick, welded alloy barrier.

"They've even deployed the emergency bulkheads. It seems the bridge is completely vented to space—there’s no going back there," Kozmo stated. He stepped out of his room and offered a silent moment of respect for his XO and staff. Then, he turned and walked in the opposite direction down the corridor.

"Bridge is gone. It looks like I have to proceed to the main engine room to continue command," Kozmo muttered to himself as he walked. "The Tran Mercenary Group's raid is truly effective; worthy of the power that wiped out the Five Great Factions. But Caesar's Laurel is the most advanced warship in the solar system. If you think a Laurel can only take a beating passively, you are mistaken."

The destruction of the Golden Flame's bridge was the handiwork of Quentin and his fighter wing—a decapitation strike using twelve Ghost Fighters and twenty-four missiles, a tactic that had yet to fail.

The invisible fighters swept past, and the bridge was instantly reduced to ruins.

On the other side, the battle involving the smaller and medium-sized warships was even more one-sided.

Although the Caesar Mercenary Group's smaller vessels were equipped with the most advanced models, and their propulsion systems had built-in safety features preventing catastrophic explosions from just a few missile impacts, they still could not counter an attack launched from nothingness.

The cloaking ability of the Ghost Fighters kept these warships relegated to a purely defensive, reactive state.

The hundreds of fighters screening the fleet immediately recognized the danger and converged, surrounding their damaged comrades.