A string of missiles shot out from a squadron of Phantom fighters, skimming past a medium-sized warship that was already exploding, worsening the vessel's predicament. "Captain, there are over fifty fighters inbound from above!" came the voice of his subordinate through the Phantom squadron leader's headset. "An enemy fighter wing?" The squadron leader looked up just in time to witness the incoming group of fighters opening fire.

Led by a single, golden fighter, the cluster of pitch-black craft unleashed dozens of Uranium beam strikes in succession, slicing through the space just behind the Phantom squadron.

The nearest beam narrowly missed the last Phantom fighter by mere meters.

The squadron leader felt a flicker of surprise at their rapid response: "Hmm, it seems they timed our missile launch perfectly, guessing our location while we were cloaked, and then, led by their chief fighter, they executed a full volley.

As expected of Caesar Mercenary pilots; they must all possess ace pilot licenses to qualify for this Coronet Fleet." "Captain, that was close.

Their beam spread was wide; if they hadn't underestimated our speed, we might have been hit," one Phantom pilot admitted, still shaken.

The squadron leader banked his formation and replied, "I know.

We need to be more cautious when we fire next.

They'll likely be much more alert next time." Having said that, the squadron leader reported the situation to Quentin.

Quentin, startled by the news, immediately broadcast a warning to all Phantom fighters: "Attention all pilots, the enemy may have pinpointed your location at the exact moment you fired.

Be mindful of your positioning when you engage next; do not close the distance too much.

Remember, their communications are jammed as well.

As long as you keep a healthy distance, these Caesar Mercenary pilots won't cause much trouble." "Roger that.

Understood!" all the pilots responded.

At this point, the warning squadron leader surveyed the surrounding situation, nodded with satisfaction, and said into his headset, "We've mostly neutralized our primary targets.

How about we turn back and eliminate that fighter wing we just encountered? What do you say, brothers?" "Good!" "Exactly!" "That's what we should do!" A string of approving voices came through the comms. "Alright, let's go!" With the squadron leader's shout, the formation flipped over and headed back.

Guided by their radar, they quickly located the group of black fighters that had just fired upon them.

Black is the default color of space, offering excellent visual deception, which is why so many fighters are black.

Only those with supreme confidence would pilot brightly colored craft. "Target ahead! Brothers, prepare for a full volley.

Scatter their formation; without comms and with our jamming, recovering their formation will be impossible for them," the squadron leader commanded. "Affirmative!" The twelve-ship Phantom squadron maintained perfect order, each setting their individual targets for the attack.

As the Phantom formation closed in on the black fighter unit, the squadron leader gave the order: "Attack!" A wave of twenty-four missiles hurtled toward the fifty black fighters! The fifty fighters instantly scattered like blooming flowers, losing all semblance of formation.

They also began deploying various countermeasures, attempting to divert the missiles.

However, only a fraction of the missiles were fooled by the decoys; fifteen or sixteen still slammed home, destroying their designated targets.

Then the squadron leader shouted, "Disperse! Each find your own target!" The Phantom fighters broke formation, each selecting a target and engaging with their Uranium cannons.

If the Phantom pilots were to attend flight training at Worriel, every one of them would earn an ace certificate.

After all, they were clones born for flight; complex combat skills were hardwired into their minds, requiring only practice through a few real engagements to become exceptional Phantom fighter pilots.

One Phantom pilot had just dispatched his target, vaporizing a black fighter into cosmic dust with a missile, when he suddenly heard an alarm blare.

On his radar, a black fighter had materialized directly behind him and was opening fire! Since the black fighters held numerical superiority, even after significant losses, over thirty remained—far outnumbering the single Phantom squadron.

These enemy pilots possessed exceptional vision, having tracked him based on the trajectory of his departing missile.

The Phantom pilot thought to himself, This requires incredible eyesight and judgment; this enemy must also be an ace pilot.

Interesting.

He immediately executed an emergency vector change, evading the Caesar Mercenary fighter.

The enemy pilot, unable to visually confirm the move, simply pursued blindly.

Too bad for you.

You failed to eliminate me in the instant I revealed myself.

Now it's my turn.

The Phantom fighter pulled a half-circle, gained position on the tail of the Caesar Mercenary craft, and calmly lined up the shot, exploding the enemy with a few quick bursts.

When two pilots of nearly equal skill engage, the one who can see the other has a massive advantage.

After eliminating his target, the Phantom fighter rejoined the fray.

The Phantom squadron leader naturally engaged the leader of the opposing wing—that golden fighter.

This ship constantly performed evasive maneuvers, including rolls and hard turns, making it difficult for the squadron leader to acquire a lock. "Impressive skill.

I can tell you're a genuine ace just by those evasive patterns," the squadron leader observed, gripping his control stick firmly, showing no impatience.

Suddenly, several Uranium beams shot in from behind him.

Though they missed, they caught his attention.

The squadron leader checked his radar: three black fighters had locked onto his six.

Did I decloak? He glanced at his energy gauge; the stealth system still showed over sixty percent power, and the indicator light confirmed his fighter remained cloaked. "No, not a decloak." The Uranium beams from behind continued to fire, their angles shifting constantly, appearing somewhat erratic.

I see now.

The golden fighter, through its series of evasive maneuvers, also restricted my movement.

They weren't seeing me; they predicted where a pursuing craft would be near my location.

So, the pilot ahead used himself as a decoy.

A brilliant tactic.

To devise this without communication suggests these few pilots have flown together for a long time and developed deep synergy, the squadron leader mused.

Just then, several other Phantom fighters broke off to assist their leader.

The three black fighters tailing the squadron leader were successively destroyed, leaving him with a chance for a one-on-one duel with the enemy wing commander.

The squadron leader pressed his firing button, launching two missiles at the golden fighter.

As the missiles approached, the golden craft executed a sudden roll, dodging them easily.

The two missiles flew past, then looped back, but the golden fighter countered with two quick bursts, shattering them mid-air. "What a formidable expert," the squadron leader praised.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the golden fighter began a tumbling, sharp reversal, tracing a wide arc directly toward the squadron leader’s fighter! Seeing that the tide has turned, he’s going for a decisive blow—excellent! The squadron leader’s competitive spirit flared upon seeing the golden fighter’s move.

He charged straight toward it.

The two aircraft flew head-on, opening fire almost simultaneously, then scraped past each other.

One of the fighters exploded into a fireball not long after passing.

In the end, the survivor was the Phantom squadron leader.

Seated in his cockpit, he took two deep breaths.

He checked his radar; the battle was winding down.

He removed his oxygen mask, then his helmet and visor, wiped his brow, and murmured to himself, "That was truly dangerous.

If he couldn't see me, I'd be the one dead.

These natural-born pilots really can't be underestimated." As this sector of the battle gradually calmed, all mobile light and medium warships belonging to this Coronet Fleet had been disabled or sunk.

When choosing this encampment site for secrecy, the Coronet Fleet had selected an infrequently traveled region of space.

Though the engagement had lasted over half an hour, no outsiders had approached the perimeter.

Quentin, leading his First Wing, made a circuit of the battlefield to observe the progress of all units, dispatching those who had finished their tasks to assist those still engaged.

Once every movable warship was utterly destroyed, he opened a channel to Howard, reporting the situation.

Howard seemed to have anticipated this outcome, chuckling, "Excellent.

Everything is proceeding according to plan." Just then, the second wave of attackers arrived: fifty more squadrons of Phantom fighters, fresh reinforcements tasked with completely obliterating the disabled warships.

The initial fifty Phantom squadrons had depleted most of their missile reserves upon mission completion, and their primary beam cannons were only Level One, useless against the various sizes of disabled warships.

Therefore, Howard had ordered Quentin’s units to return.

Quentin called out over the comms, "Brothers, set course for base!" He regrouped his forces and headed back toward the main fleet.

Yang Ying received battlefield updates instantly and sent a communication to Quentin, his first question being, "Any losses?" "Over thirty fighters were caught and damaged when the enemy gained an opening during the attack run, but only the craft were damaged, no pilot casualties," Quentin replied with a bright, proud tone. "Very good.

Upon your return, proceed immediately to your respective support vessels to rearm.

You may still be needed, and only once you are fully equipped can the third wave of Phantom fighters deploy," Yang Ying stated.

While he hadn't managed the specific combat directives, he was thoroughly familiar with the operational strategy.

The fleet needed a standing force of fighters for defense; fifty squadrons must always remain near the fleet core to guard against unforeseen crises. "Understood, sir." Quentin paused for a moment, then added, "Sir, I still feel that the Golden Flame is perhaps too quiet.

I suspect trouble there." Requesting monthly tickets and recommendation votes!