Chapter 9: Crushing the Pale Crest Fleet

Jarek didn't get the Pale Crest's swagger. Even when he sent five hundred Steelborn ships to box them in, their tone stayed high and mighty.

"We're the Pale Crest Empire, heirs to the Star League's true legacy," their signal blared. "Surrender now, and we'll spare a moon for your kind to scrape by on."

Arrogant as hell. Jarek didn't bother with a reply. He'd seen their type in the chat—big talk, shaky hands. They'd hit first, slagging that asteroid, so he wasn't here for peace. In this galaxy, war was the only language that stuck.

"Leave one breathing," he told the Ribs. "I want answers."

The Pale Crest fired first, beams lancing from their sleek hulls. Jarek's fleet—five hundred strong—swarmed out from asteroid cover, a steel tide rolling in from every angle. The enemy's forty-five ships faltered, their tight formation cracking. Panic bled through their moves.

A new message crackled in, still cocky but wobbling: "You dare strike us? The Pale Crest's vengeance will bury you!"

Jarek smirked. They hadn't even clocked the trap—five hundred ships, and they'd missed it 'til now. Either the Ribs hid too well, or the Pale Crest's scanners were junk. The enemy wheeled, aiming for the Void rift they'd popped out of, but it was too late. The Steelborn had them caged.

Eight years since the fleet's first ship, and the Ribs had built a monster. Numbers, speed, firepower—they outclassed the Pale Crest clean. A two-kilometer Steelborn flagship unleashed a Pulse Cannon shot, and the lead enemy ship dissolved—atoms split, then torched by follow-up missiles. Space lit up with the blast, a brutal spark in the dark.

The Ribs didn't flinch. Their command hub ran like clockwork, five hundred ships weaving a net of death. The Pale Crest fleet crumbled—less a force, more a rabble getting picked apart. From Redstone, anyone with a decent scope could've watched the fireworks: enemy hulls popping one by one, blooming red against the black.

The last Pale Crest ship didn't fight long. Its captain—a lanky thing with a trunk-like nose—got hauled to Jarek's tower. He stared at it, feeling duped.

"Heirs to the Star League?" he muttered. This wasn't human—some alien breed, far from the League's flesh-and-blood roots. The chat had called them heretics for less. "Blasphemy," he said under his breath, half-amused.

The interrogation was quick. The Ribs had rigged some nasty tools, but the captain spilled before they even powered up. A Rib inventor clicked in disappointment—no test run today.

The story tumbled out: the Pale Crest were old vassals of the Star League, a thousand years back. Aliens, not humans, stuck mining dregs in a fringe system. Void Storms cut them loose, and their ancestors seized the chance—took the galaxy by force. That was their empire's start.

It clicked. Their ships were relics, their tactics a mess. No wonder they'd folded so fast. But the arrogance? Jarek couldn't pin it. Racial pride? Blind luck? Whatever it was, it'd led them straight into his grinder.

He leaned back, the captive's trunk twitching under his gaze. The Pale Crest thought they'd flex and win. Instead, they'd handed him a lesson—and a warning. The galaxy was full of ghosts like these, scraps of old empires looking to bite. Fine. Let them come. The Steelborn were ready.