"Then, transforming into a streak of purple light, Gaberhe issued the command: 'Let them witness the might of the Protoss! Initiate Illusory Projection!'"

The Carriers were the warships of the Templar, and every Templar perfected the arts of Psionic Storm and Illusory Projection. While not as frequently used as the Psi Storm, Illusory Projection was no less effective in large-scale battles, sometimes even proving superior.

Just as Gaberhe gave the order, the fleet of fifty thousand Carriers instantly tripled, becoming one hundred and fifty thousand, then continued to multiply—to two hundred and fifty thousand, three hundred and fifty thousand, up to one million and fifty thousand!

Although one million of these were mere phantoms, the illusions were lifelike; to anyone other than the Templar themselves, they were indistinguishable from reality. Merely witnessing this sight was enough to inflict immense shock and chaos upon the opposing Burke fleet.

"Heavens! The Protoss have deployed an army of a million! We’ve been tricked, we’re finished!"

"They concealed a million warships, luring us out with only fifty thousand? These Protoss are utterly despicable!"

"I think those vessels are probably projections, phantoms, or something similar—not hidden, physical warships. The Protoss are blustering."

"Can you guarantee that with your life? Those so-called phantoms are registering on all our scanners, and they look too vivid."

"Better safe than sorry. They are the military power that wiped out seventy thousand Burke ships in a single engagement. Can you be certain your guess about them is correct?"

Faced with a fleet that had suddenly ballooned in size, the Burke forces began whispering amongst themselves. Although most still suspected the ships were illusions, the more timid among them were already preparing to retreat—the hallmark of a disorganized force.

"Launch Interceptors!"

Gaberhe gave them little time for contemplation. Fifty million Interceptors swarmed out. Illusory Projection could only replicate the form of a Carrier; it still required the Templar to mentally control them. Creating nimble Interceptors would demand additional spiritual energy and overwhelm command capabilities.

After all, even controlling a tenth of the nine hundred and sixty Interceptors carried by a single Carrier was already taxing for a Templar; there was little residual strength left to manage extra phantoms.

Nevertheless, fifty million Interceptors still constituted a massive offensive force, capable of unleashing a stream of afterburner trails denser than starlight across the boundless expanse of space.

"Counterattack! Launch all carrier-based aircraft to engage them!" the Burke commander roared.

The carrier capacity of fifty thousand Burke warships was no minor number; once fully deployed, they matched the Interceptor contingent in appearance, perhaps even outnumbering them slightly.

The two forces met like surging tidal waves.

For a time, it was truly a spectacle of beams and missiles flying, tail-flames merging with the distant stars.

"Activate the Interceptor fabrication bays! Full capacity manufacturing. Begin!" Gaberhe issued another command.

A Carrier’s theoretical capacity was nine hundred and sixty Interceptors—that was merely the capacity of its hangars. Once all stored Interceptors were launched, the freed space could be used to construct new ones. The consequence was merely that the newly built fighters would occupy space, preventing the already launched ones from returning to dock.

But in the heat of battle, such concerns were secondary. As long as returning Interceptors were channeled into staggered docking cycles for resupply, a continuous wave of attacks could be maintained—a relentless onslaught sufficient to grind any enemy down.

In this manner, given enough time, a single Carrier could manufacture and sustain thousands of Interceptors in combat; this was the true power of the Carrier.

Every Carrier could produce a squadron of Interceptors every ten seconds. The number of Interceptors on the battlefield increased at an average rate of sixty thousand per second, while the rate of attrition was significantly lower than this figure.

Initially, the Burke carrier-borne forces managed to hold their own against the Interceptors, but as the Protoss numbers swelled, the Burke fighters dwindled, and the engagement quickly devolved into a one-sided slaughter.

Hundreds of millions of fighters battled across the void—a scene utterly beyond description. Those who witnessed it could only resort to pallid terms like ‘magnificent’ or ‘limitless’ to convey their impression.

Across tens of thousands of kilometers in every direction, the space was choked with dense formations of aircraft. Explosions erupted ceaselessly; every second, tens of thousands of lives were extinguished—all belonging to the Burke side, as the Interceptors were unmanned.

Surely, such a sight could not even be conjured in a dream.

Fifteen minutes into the engagement, the number of Carrier Interceptors had doubled, establishing a two-to-one advantage. No matter what measures the Burke forces employed—whether forming tight battle lines or scattering their forces—they could not overcome the numerical disadvantage.

The Burke Commander ordered, "Do not engage them in dogfights! Close the distance with the fleet and settle this with main cannon fire!"

A staff officer reported, "Sir, some of the mercenary units are already beginning to flee."

"What?" The Burke Commander roared, "They took our real gold, and the moment things look grim, they plan to bolt? Fire on them! Order the Military Police Corps to open fire and destroy them! Let everyone see the consequence of retreating!"

The staff officer immediately relayed the order. At that moment, an elite squadron stationed at the rear of the Burke fleet unleashed a volley. Composed entirely of veterans and equipped with the latest warships, their combat strength was not diminished but slightly enhanced. Their sole purpose was to maintain battlefield discipline.

The Military Police Corps turned their muzzles toward the few mercenary vessels attempting to flee and opened fire. Brilliant white beams struck the hulls of those ships directly. Due to the close proximity, the beam energy was highly concentrated, and since the energy level of the mass drivers had reached Level Eight, a single shot pierced clean through the mercenary ships, which possessed low shield energy and thin armor.

The fleeing vessels instantly vaporized into cosmic dust, serving as a harsh reminder to the others of the brutal realities of war: retreat was forbidden.

With the Military Police holding the line, the impulse to flee was temporarily suppressed, and all personnel refocused entirely on attacking the enemy.

The Burke fleet formed up in a configuration optimized for maximizing artillery effectiveness and charged toward the Carrier fleet.

"All forces! Disperse to the maximum extent!" Gaberhe commanded. "We are not attacking with main cannons; there is no need to maintain formation. Scatter in all directions, envelop the enemy, keep them guessing, and focus all attention on the Interceptor combat!"

The Carrier fleet moved according to Gaberhe's strategy. Their previously dense formation loosened dramatically. The fifty thousand real Carriers, coupled with the one million phantom Carriers, spread out like a blooming flower.

"Envelop them!" Gaberhe commanded.

The dispersed Carrier fleet moved like a closing net, the edges advancing while the center collapsed inward, wrapping around the Burke fleet.

"Sir, the enemy fleet has completely scattered—they are everywhere! Which direction should we target our bombardment?" A Burke staff officer anxiously flitted about like an ant on a hot griddle.

"What did you say? They scattered? How is that possible? How can they concentrate fire if they are dispersed? Firing efficiency will plummet!" The Burke Commander remained stubbornly fixed on winning through broadsides. "Do those Protoss even know how to fight? Hmph! Cowards! They don't dare decide victory through an honorable main cannon duel. They are already frightened. We will surely win!"

"Fifty thousand ships against fifty thousand, settling the score honorably with cannon fire? Commander, you’ve mastered shamelessness. Allow me to send you on your way."

Suddenly, a voice echoed in the Burke Commander's ear. He tried to move but found himself utterly immobilized, as if time itself had frozen around him. A staff officer was shouting loudly, but his posture was fixed, and no sound escaped his lips. Another aide accidentally dropped a trinket; the object hung motionless in mid-air.

The Burke Commander felt as if he had been frozen inside and out, a sensation akin to death surging from the depths of his being.

Then, a surge of purple flame erupted, instantly consuming him from foot to crown, reducing him to ash.

"Sir! Sir!" the aide shouted. "The Protoss have dispatched a nearly ten-million-strong drone fighter force, charging toward our main fleet! Sir! Sir!"

The aide called out several times without response. He turned to look at the Burke Commander’s face, finding it slack and vacant, like a wax figure.

"Sir!" the aide called out again. Suddenly, the Burke Commander's body dissolved into a pile of fine dust that settled on the bridge floor.

"Ah! The Commander has been killed!" the aide screamed.

"A Level Four entity! A Level Four entity must have been here!" another staff officer sprang up as if his chair were ablaze. His portly body moved with the agility of a cat as he scrambled toward the bridge exit, intending to reach the escape pods near the doorway—to flee that vessel visited by a Level Four presence.

"Wait for me!" The other few staff officers snapped back to reality and followed him, scrambling toward the escape pods, desperate to distance themselves from the ship.

Command devolved to the second-ranking officer. Less than a minute later, he too was found by Khas and casually reduced to dust.

Perhaps warned by the sheer terror of a Level Four existence, the Burke military had named numerous successors to the Commander position. At least Khas had to dispatch thirty commanders before the thirty-first-in-line finally stepped forward to rally the troops.

Another quarter of an hour passed. The Interceptors continued to multiply; the Burke fighters continued to dwindle. The ratio had climbed to four-to-one.

At this point, the Carrier fleet held an absolute advantage. Hundreds of millions of Interceptors were directed straight at the Burke fleet. As warships exploded in salvos of hundreds, the remaining Burke forces lost all faith in victory, their morale collapsed, and they scattered in every direction, signaling the closing stages of the battle.

"Finally, all caught up. Hahaha!"