A phantom force of ten thousand Dreadfang fighters arrived softly and departed silently, carrying no specific mandate.

The greatest crisis of the night ended before it truly began, many still lost in a haze of dreams, imagining themselves heroes liberating Jupiter and annihilating the ancient legions.

Afterward, Yang Ying gave the matter considerable thought but refrained from filing a report. After all, deploying observers across such a vast expanse without prior notification to the Allied Fleet was a delicate issue. Whether anyone would believe him was one question, but if they did, he couldn't fathom the looks he would receive.

“I suppose those ten thousand Dreadfang fighters won't try another sneak attack after this retreat,” Yang Ying mused, leaning back in his chair. “But the higher-ranking apes of the Ancient Legion truly have numbers on their side. Ten thousand Dreadfang fighters mean ten thousand lower-ranking apes. The fighting strength of the Nian Neng Temple might only reach that number, perhaps not even. If they managed to close in on the fleet, we would be in serious danger.”

Fighters have many ways to deal with capital ships, such as deploying mass-destruction weapons like nuclear missiles or directly targeting the bridge.

Of course, nuclear weapons aren't cheap cabbage found by the roadside; manufacturing them isn't simple. Most commanders deliberate extensively before making that decision.

“Forget it. Since they didn’t act, whatever backup plans they had won’t land on our heads. Why bother thinking about it?” Yang Ying shook his head, letting the issue go.

The following morning, the Allied Fleet’s vanguard left the Asteroid Belt sector and entered Jupiter’s orbit. Before they could even celebrate, alarms blared across the fleet.

A formidable force, composed of the main fleets of six Ancient Legion corps, appeared directly in their path, pressing in with a semi-encirclement formation.

The vanguard immediately transmitted a distress signal.

Upon receiving the signal, the main body and reinforcement fleets kicked their engines to full thrust and raced forward. At this moment, they were still lingering near the edge of the Asteroid Belt.

“Six main fleets. It seems the Ancient Legion has truly spared no expense to devour the vanguard.”

On the bridge of Ship Number One, Howard sat squarely in the command chair, clad in immaculate, formal attire.

He raised a single finger and stated, “The Ancient Legion’s main fleets do not differentiate between first-line and second-line forces. A weak main fleet can be less capable than an Earth military second-line fleet, while a strong one can surpass an Earth military first-line main fleet. Fleet numbers alone cannot determine their strength. However, six fleets combined should certainly be enough to take down the vanguard.”

As Howard spoke, he used hand gestures to clarify his meaning: “Arriving at the battle zone in three hours might not be enough. I fear we’ll only be cleaning up the mess when we get there.”

“Sir, Captain, Marshal Alexander has ordered every ship to deploy half its fighter complement to meet the enemy,” a staff officer reported.

Over the past six months, during its reorganization, the Earth military utilized the dual opportunity of rebuilding old fleets and commissioning new ones to conduct extensive personnel adjustments. Admiral Alexander, commander of the Second Fleet, was successfully promoted to Marshal due to his performance in the Jupiter Withdrawal Campaign, where he managed to bring back ten space cities intact and inflicted massive damage on the Ancient Legion.

Many knew that a large part of this success was thanks to the assistance of the Tran Mercenary Corps. However, since the Corps was outside the official military structure, the military honors naturally fell to the overall commander of the operation.

Because Alexander had already clashed with the Ancient Legion in Jupiter orbit during the withdrawal mission, he held an advantage in experience. Furthermore, as the commander of the Second Fleet, Alexander possessed considerable political backing. Consequently, he was placed in charge of the current Jupiter campaign, appointed as the overall commander for these eight fleets. He also retained his position as the Second Fleet Commander concurrently.

In parallel with Alexander, Admiral Hans, commander of the Twelfth Fleet, was promoted to commander of the Fifth Fleet due to his outstanding performance in the rearguard action. While his rank remained unchanged, the status of a first-line main fleet commander versus a second-line main fleet commander was vastly different.

“Marshal Alexander has an additional requirement: the deployed fighter units must have a speed no less than the Night Owl 7. If a fighter does not meet that speed threshold, it is not to be sent,” the staff officer added.

Howard nodded in agreement and instructed the officer to relay the order.

The various warships of the Allied Fleet opened their hangars, unleashing a dense swarm of fighters. Counting them up, the total exceeded sixty thousand!

Normally, a first-line main fleet carries around thirty thousand fighters. Four fleets combined would total one hundred and twenty thousand. Half of that number, plus the approximately five thousand fighters contributed by the mercenary forces, created this overwhelming surge.

The sight of over sixty thousand fighters operating in concert was enough to make one’s scalp tingle. It was a seemingly endless stream of craft, layered layer upon layer. The thrusters at the rear of the fighters shone like countless brilliant stars, receding into the inky blackness of space.

This was not a sight one witnessed on ordinary occasions!

Yang Ying admired the spectacle for a moment before turning back. “Now it comes down to a race against time. We need to see if we can arrive before the vanguard collapses.”

Most of the fighters in the mercenary contingent were older models. Mustering five thousand fighters equal to or faster than the Night Owl 7 was a significant feat, and these five thousand mostly came from the four super mercenary corps. Yang Ying’s own contingent dispatched one hundred formations, totaling twelve hundred Ghost fighters.

Blade was among these Ghost fighter formations. He still held the rank of Colonel, piloting a special variant of the third-generation Ghost fighter whose performance was even superior to standard Master-class fighters.

Six months prior, the Ghost fighter was upgraded to the second generation, and recently, with the commissioning of new production lines, it advanced to the third generation. The third-generation Ghost fighter possessed fundamental advantages over the cost-cut first-generation models sold previously, operating on entirely different levels regarding firepower, armor, acceleration, and maneuverability.

In certain extreme environments, a single third-generation unit stood a chance of defeating an entire formation of first-generation fighters, and even if defeated, escape was not an issue.

Despite this superiority, the first-generation Ghost fighters sold by Tran Corporation to the military were already considered the Earth military’s most elite aircraft, a testament to the sheer magnitude of the technological gap.

The most skilled fighter pilots in the Earth military were now desperately vying for slots in the military’s Ghost fighter units. After experiencing the Ghost, piloting a Dragon or a Night Owl fighter felt like handling an antique car—everything felt clumsy and unsatisfactory.

Blade swept his radar screen, noting the presence of numerous first-generation Ghost fighter signals within the military queue. A faint smile of satisfaction crossed his face. These were products of his own company; it was like a farmer watching the crops sprout in his fields—a genuine sense of accomplishment welled up inside him.

He glanced at his own formation, and his smile widened. The Ghost fighter units had fully converted to the third generation. They could easily overwhelm even Dreadfang fighters, even without relying on stealth capabilities.

“All fighters, maintain formation. Do not rashly break away from the main body. I know some of you are anxious to support our allies quickly, but breaking formation only makes you easy targets for the enemy,” Marshal Alexander’s voice resonated across the public communication channel.

A cacophony of acknowledgments immediately erupted, thousands of voices overlapping, resulting in unintelligible noise across the channel.

Guided by the battlefield navigation system, maintaining formation was simple as long as one did not actively leave the queue; pilots could even select an auto-pilot mode to follow a designated target.

The fighter fleet, launched from the warships, neared the battle zone in just over an hour.

The situation of the two vanguard fleets was already horrific. Almost every warship bore visible damage. They were surrounded by tens of thousands of fighters, a mix of their own and the Ancient Legion’s, with the enemy clearly holding the numerical advantage, pummeling the two second-line main fleets into utter helplessness.

Thick beams of light, clearly originating from Uranium Cannons of level four to six, shot in from the distance. Smaller warships struck by a single blast immediately suffered violent explosions, their armor, components, and crew shattering into countless fragments that drifted into the boundless cosmos.

Despite the severe losses, the two fleets had not adopted a retreat posture, because exposing their propulsion systems to the enemy would only hasten their demise!

At this moment, Marshal Alexander was watching the optical feeds relayed from afar on his flagship. Seeing the critical situation, he slammed a fist onto the armrest and roared, “Attack!”

Before the pilots' eyes lay their comrades and allies on one side, and the sworn enemies of all humanity on the other. Many pilots were already boiling with fervor and unable to restrain themselves. At the instant the attack order sounded, the massive wave of fighters instantly surged into the fray.

Blade watched the combat zone draw closer, flexing his fingers and tuning his mental state. He observed a portion of the Ancient Legion’s fighters—about twenty to thirty thousand various craft—peeling off to meet their advance.

The two masses of fighters collided head-on. In the first moment, the leading ships in each formation unleashed their full firepower upon the opposition!

The crisscrossing uranium beam fire formed an array of glowing cages. Some conspicuous fighters were instantly struck by more than ten beams, disintegrating instantly in the vacuum of space.

Simultaneously, dense swarms of heat-seeking missiles streaked toward their targets, trailing flames, constantly adjusting their course to match the movement of their quarry, relentless as agents of death demanding final payment.

When a fighter exploded, fragments carrying sparks dispersed outwards like the blossoming of fireworks, destined to drift eternally in the zero-gravity, drag-free environment.

Each burst of flame represented the demise of a fighter. Even if someone managed to escape the cockpit using a personal rocket pack, survival in this perilous, hostile cluster was impossible.

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