Interstellar: Return of the Villain
Chapter 277: Hunted by the Supreme

Chapter 277: Hunted by the Supreme

A week later, the Empire launched another offensive on Wyrmtrace.

This time, they weren’t holding back. With Legion Glory defending the planet, the Empire upped the ante, dispatching not one but two admirals to lead the charge.

When the long-range satellites transmitted images of the approaching fleet, the already tense military base on Wyrmtrace erupted into a frenzy.

"The countless stars of the Alliance, its billions of citizens, its parents and children—we will protect them all! Soldiers, fight! Crush the enemy and claim the glory that belongs to us!"

Frederick’s voice rang out across the aerospace port as the army gathered in formation. His commanding tone carried both authority and inspiration.

Once roll call was completed, Frederick boarded his flagship.

From the ground, the departure of the vast interstellar fleet was breathtaking. Hundreds of luminous ships ascended like a rolling storm of glittering metal and light.

The fluttering banners of the Alliance painted the sky, their brilliance defying the impending darkness of war.

On the rooftop of LE Energy’s Base dormitory, Ian sat cross-legged, his expression brooding.

"Another war," he muttered, his voice low and bitter.

Without a word, Skylight appeared beside him, setting a can of apple juice on Ian’s head. "It feels great not having to fight," he said lightly, before plopping down next to him.

Ian grabbed the juice, staring at it for a moment. "Do you ever think about going back to the Empire?"

The question gave Skylight pause. After a beat of silence, he shook his head. "We grew up in an orphanage. No family to miss. Whether I go back or not, it’s all the same."

Ian studied his face and saw the flicker of longing Skylight refused to admit. No family, sure—but the Empire was still the place where Skylight had built a life. He couldn’t go back, and they both knew the reason: Ian.

The juice can in Ian’s hand crumpled slightly under his tightening grip.

In space, the fleet hung like a constellation poised for battle. Mechas and fighter jets hovered in perfect formation, awaiting orders.

Inside the flagship’s command center, Frederick wore a calm, unshakable face. His sharp eyes scanned the holographic map as he coordinated the battle with precision.

"The Vanguard Regiment will attack the enemy’s left flank," he announced.

The vanguard unit, under Orson’s command, acknowledged the order immediately.

"Vanguard Regiment, acknowledged!"

A sinister glint flickered in Orson’s eyes as he passed down the command. His mind turned quickly to Lyra. If she happened to die in the heat of battle, no one could blame him for it.

Smirking, he directed Lyra to lead the F34 Regiment in the offensive.

Inside the launch bay, Lyra’s team stood ready, waiting for the green light.

When the order came, Lyra moved without hesitation, climbing into a sleek C-class mecha.

Over a thousand soldiers followed her lead, ejecting into the black void of space in perfect sequence.

Meanwhile, her two adjutants and their clerk were left behind.

"What’s she doing?" Aurelius muttered, pacing near the observation window.

For weeks, Orson had buried him in menial tasks, ensuring he was sidelined from anything meaningful. And now that he finally had the chance to fight, he was stuck here.

Thierry, watching the fleet disappear into the distance, replied calmly, "She has a plan."

Aurelius sneered, his frustration bubbling over. "You’re the same rank as her, yet you’re happy playing second fiddle? When the spoils are divided, you’ll barely get a crumb."

"Military honors are vanity," Thierry replied coolly. "As long as she survives, the Alliance survives. That’s all that matters."

Aurelius blinked at the response, stunned. Then he scoffed, his voice tinged with disbelief. "You and Cohen sure know how to talk big."

To Aurelius, the military was a game of ambition. Everyone was chasing glory—that’s the truth?

But Thierry remained unbothered. He adjusted his posture, his expression unreadable.

When Cohen had first explained Lyra’s role and critical importance, Thierry hadn’t hesitated to accept his assignment.

"As long as she’s alive," Cohen had said, "the Alliance is unshakable, and Stellar Devourers are no threat."

Though Thierry still carried bitterness over the Amaran massacre on Demetra—where Lyra had failed to save everyone—he knew she hadn’t been strong enough back then to change the outcome.

Now, she was stronger, and the stakes were even higher.

Straightening his cap, Thierry announced, "I’m heading out."

Thierry had barely taken a step toward the launch bay when Mandy stepped into his path.

"Lyra said before she left: you’re not to go. She has her own plans," said Mandy.

Thierry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t stop. "I’m just doing my duty," he replied curtly, brushing past her and heading straight for the launch bay.

On the Battlefield, Lyra led the F34 Regiment into the fray with precision and daring, her commands sharp and decisive.

The soldiers followed her into a wedge formation, designed for maximum penetration of enemy lines.

As the squad leaders relayed the orders, Lyra charged ahead, a gleaming blade cutting into the heart of the enemy formation.

Her movements were fluid, precise—every strike a testament to her skill.

But the synchronization she relied on began to crumble. Her troops faltered, and the careful formation unraveled.

The distance between Lyra and her unit grew with every second, leaving her isolated in the enemy’s core.

From afar, the battlefield looked like a swarm of beetle-like enemy fighter jets and crimson mechas converging on a single point. Lyra’s figure was swallowed by the chaos.

"Sir, shouldn’t we move to support her?" a soldier whispered over the comms, his voice tight with fear.

The battalion leader barked back immediately. "She is exceptionally skilled. Do you think you can keep up with her? What, you want to throw your life away?"

"But—"

"No distractions on the battlefield!" the leader snapped.

On the frontlines, hesitation was as deadly as any enemy.

Even as she was surrounded, Lyra fought relentlessly. Her superpowers flared, and her advanced weaponry lit up the void.

Explosions erupted around Lyra as she carved through enemy ranks like a force of nature.

The battalion leader’s confidence, however, began to waver. His hands trembled as he aligned his launcher with Lyra’s position.

"This ends here," he muttered under his breath, preparing to fire.

Before he could pull the trigger, a streak of platinum shot across the battlefield—a sleek mecha racing straight toward Lyra.

"Who the hell is that?"

"It’s her adjutant, the Whyte boy!" someone shouted over the comms.

’Thierry?’ The battalion leader froze, hastily aborting his attack.

It was one thing to "accidentally" target Lyra, but striking Thierry—Admiral Frederick’s nephew—would bring down the wrath of the entire Alliance.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, the leader tried to find another angle of attack. But Thierry’s mecha maneuvered expertly, positioning itself between Lyra and any potential threats.

"Lyra, I’ll cover you. Just focus on the mission!" Thierry’s voice came through the comms, calm and steady. His mecha’s shielding systems activated, forming a nearly impenetrable barrier around Lyra.

The two worked in perfect unison, their coordination cutting through the enemy like an unstoppable juggernaut.

But their bold actions did not go unnoticed.

"Sir, we’ve located Lyra!" crackled a voice over the Empire’s comms.

"Deploy the Supreme," came the cold, calculated response.

The moment the Supreme Peculiar deployed, the energy on the battlefield shifted.

Lyra unleashed a powerful blast, tearing apart the enemies closest to her.

"Thierry, retreat!" she barked over the comms, her tone leaving no room for argument.

At the same time, she transmitted an urgent report: "Supreme Peculiar identified!"

The message raced up the chain of command, landing on Orson’s desk.

For a moment, he considered alerting Frederick. Then a malicious thought took hold.

"The Supreme is targeting Lyra, isn’t it?"

"Yes, sir."

A slow, twisted smile spread across Orson’s face. "Delay the reinforcements. Ten minutes."

He convinced himself it was a calculated risk, unaware of the true destructive power of a Supreme Peculiar.

Lyra’s mecha darted through the chaos, its shields flaring under the relentless attacks of the Supreme. The enemy mecha unleashed a barrage of superpower-laden strikes, each one rippling through the battlefield and bending the gravitational pull of nearby celestial bodies.

Lyra sent out distress signals repeatedly, but no response came. Around her, Alliance soldiers were obliterated in the superpower’s devastating wake, their lives snuffed out like candle flames.

Back at headquarters, Orson’s hesitation was cut short by Frederick’s command.

"Report the Supreme’s location immediately," Frederick ordered, his tone icy.

Orson’s arrogance dissolved in an instant. Scrambling to comply, he sent the coordinates to the flagship.

Moments later, a cataclysmic energy wave erupted from the flagship’s position as another Supreme engaged.

The commanders on both sides ordered an immediate withdrawal of regular forces, unwilling to sacrifice more lives in the collision of overwhelming power.

Lyra returned to the launch bay, her mecha battered but functional.

Without a word, she disembarked and secured the black box data, her movements efficient and deliberate.

Her expression remained unreadable as she passed the sneering battalion leaders who had been watching her every move.

The battalion leader clicked his tongue in irritation. "I thought she’d have something to say. But that’s it?"