ch 6 end-2

Just as William finished speaking with his crew—his voice steady, their resolve solidified—the enemy made their move.

Outside, the unknown fleet had fully surrounded the Phantom.

Outside, the threat had taken full formation. Dozens—hundreds—of warships encircled them in a noose of metal and fire. There was no negotiation. No transmission. No dramatic monologue explaining who they were or why they'd come. Whoever these enemies were, they weren't interested in words.

They wanted him dead. Now.

In an instant, the silence shattered.

Without warning, the enemy opened fire.

Hundreds of destroyers and heavy cruisers unleashed their full arsenal. Turbolaser batteries screamed across the void, plasma lances cut through space like molten knives, and high-velocity kinetic warheads roared forward like vengeful spirits.

In a blink, space around the Phantom erupted into an apocalyptic inferno—fire, explosions, and heat blooming in every direction like the birth of a miniature star.

Inside, the first hit landed.

A turbolaser blast slammed into the destroyer's shielding, which flared to life in a blinding shimmer. The ship shook violently. More impacts followed—dozens per second—hammering the hull with relentless fury.

But the Phantom held.

Its shields flickered wildly, stretched to the brink. Sparks burst from overhead panels. Lights dimmed. Consoles buzzed with unstable energy. But thanks to the supercharged core, the ship's energy shields were outputting far beyond their standard capacity.

For a moment, they reached a state of extraordinary resilience—stronger than they'd ever been before.

But this wasn't sustainable.

The ship's defenses surged into a new, almost unnatural state—what engineers called Burn Mode.

Burn Mode was a last-ditch system override—every circuit and system is pushed beyond its safe limit, every shield generator overclocked, drawing power at dangerous rates. It was unstable. Unsustainable. But it bought them time.

Time to make their final move.

It was designed for moments like this—when desperation outweighed caution, and survival required madness.

The shield matrix screamed, holding just long enough to absorb what would've otherwise torn the Phantom apart.

Inside the control chamber, William stood at the center of chaos. Alarms blared. The deck trembled. Energy surged through every wall like veins of lightning.

But the Phantom didn't break.

Not yet.

And still, he stood firm.

"Brace!" he shouted across the bridge, voice cutting through the chaos.

Everyone grabbed onto something—anything—as the Phantom roared against the dying of the light.

And just like that, seconds passed.

With every moment, the intensity of enemy fire increased. Plasma lances burned brighter. Turbolasers struck harder. The enemy, relentless, began launching successive waves of concussion missiles—each impact designed to crack the Phantom's defenses and push its shield systems past the breaking point.

But still, the shields held.

Staggering, flickering, buckling under pressure—but they held.

Deep within the ship, the supercharged star core pulsed erratically, surging power into the barriers in massive, unstable bursts. Each pulse sent tremors through the ship's frame, like the heartbeat of a dying titan preparing for its final roar.

And then, the moment came.

One minute passed.

The ship's AI spoke in its calm, monotone voice:

"Star core now at full supercharge.Core chamber approaching critical.Structural integrity degrading rapidly.Core breach in ten seconds."

This was it. This was what William had been waiting for.

At his side, Admiral Ranger stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his shoulder—a quiet gesture of respect, solidarity, and farewell.

"It has been my greatest honor serving with you, Commander," he said.

Across the bridge, other crew members shared their final words. Simple, quiet expressions of courage, gratitude, and sorrow. No grand speeches—just the realness of people standing at the edge of everything.

William stood at the center of it all—silent, resolute. The full weight of responsibility pressed down on him. These lives, these sacrifices, were because of him. Because of what he carried. Who he was.

But still, he didn't flinch.

His voice, low and grounded, carried across the bridge.

"I'm grateful too… for every moment we shared. Even if brief… you all have made it greater."

The core pulsed once more—brighter than ever. The countdown hit its final beats.

And the Phantom, battered but unbroken, prepared to burn like a star.

And finally, it happened.

The overloaded, supercharged, and unstable star core ruptured from deep within the Phantom—bursting forth with unstoppable force. A blinding yet pure white sphere of raw energy erupted outward, searing hot and pure.

It expanded—and in an instant, the entire Phantom, along with every soul aboard, including William, was engulfed.

No screams.No pain.Only light……before the darkness.

As they all disappeared just like that.

....

Meanwhile, elsewhere, moments before the blast…

Aboard one of the heavy battle carriers on the fleet's outer perimeter, alarms were beginning to blare.

The ship—flagship of the mysterious black-robed man—was the same vessel that had once attacked William's ship, the Phantom, and later hunted him down even after he escaped using the Phantom Drive and led the encirclement—hovered in ominous silence.

The black-robed figure, his gaze cold and calculating, watched the barrage unleashed against the Phantom with quiet interest, as though he had patiently anticipated its end... until the alarm bell suddenly rang.

Then—"Sir! Sir! here's—there's—" a panicked voice called out.

"There's what?" the black-robed man snapped, frowning. "Say it clearly."

The crewman swallowed hard under the weight of the black-robed man's gaze.. "Sir... our instruments are detecting a massive energy surge coming from that ship."

The robed man narrowed his eyes. "Isn't it because of our concentrated fire?"

"No, sir—this is different. This surge is coming from inside the ship. Its energy signature is vastly different from what an attack like ours should have produced."He proceeded to show him a graph where the difference was obvious.

He turned instantly to the readings, the black robed man's face twisted in sudden realization, then he shouted across the room: "Get us out of here—right now!"

"What? Sir?" the operator hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden order and clearly confused.

"Do it now—or I'll have your head," threatened the black-robed officer.

The terrified officer didn't ask again. All engines, main and auxiliary, fired up. The massive cruiser began to turn. Just as it completed its U-turn and prepared to jump—

The Phantom exploded.

The white sphere surged outward, devouring surrounding space at terrifying speed.

Enemy hunter ships, some unaware, others trying desperately to flee, were caught in its path. They had been too close. Too late.

One by one, they vanished.

The wave overtook them—one by one. Ships, weapons, hulls—vaporized. Not even wreckage remained.

Back onboard the black-robed man commander's vessel, chaos reigned. As they stood frozen fear overtook him and his crew in horror around him.

The black-robed man instantly broke from his frozen state and barked orders, fury and panic entwined in his voice.

"Jump! Jump into FTL—now!"

"S-Sir, we need to calibrate—"

"To hell with calibration! Who cares about calibration? We don't have time! Just jump! NOW!" he roared, drawing his sidearm. "Jump or die!"

The technician, pale and shaking, obeyed without another word.

And just as the white sphere nearly reached them, their ship vanished into hyperspace with a shudder and a flash.

While they escaped, others were not as lucky.

Behind them, the storm didn't stop.

The sphere of white energy continued expanding, reaching nearly 5,000 kilometers in diameter before finally beginning to collapse inward—drawing everything into its core.

And then, it erupted one final time.

A cataclysmic burst of raw power and heat tore through the fabric of space itself—

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

Everything within the blast radius ceased to exist. Not destroyed—erased.

And then, silence.