Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C89

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The detonation of five runic crystal spheres into the planet’s core had unleashed a shockwave that sent him flying through the air before slamming him back onto the ground. His entire body felt as though it had been disassembled bone by bone, every muscle and joint screaming in protest. Yet, physical pain was something he could endure. What truly tormented him was an inexplicable energy—a pulse wave resembling an EMP—that incessantly bombarded his brain like fingers plucking at harp strings.

It was as if countless voices were shouting in his ears, or as though he’d woken from a night of heavy drinking with a splitting headache, the world around him distorted and dreamlike. The flashing lights of the shuttle’s control panel, the shouts of Housen and Arroz, the streaking colors outside the viewport—all blurred together like scenes from a low-resolution movie, flickering hazily before his eyes.

He no longer had the strength to focus on any of it. Under the relentless assault of the pulsing waves, his mind swirled in a foggy haze, consciousness slipping further away with each passing moment.

He tried desperately to stay alert, forcing himself to think—to reflect on what had happened, what was happening now, and what might happen next.

How was Planet Namie faring now? What would become of the Thunder Fleet and Saint Violet Fleet? Looking back on his actions, Tang Fang couldn’t help but marvel at his own recklessness.

Blowing up an entire planet—it seemed insane even to him now. How had such a harebrained scheme entered his mind? Thirty thousand crystals and forty thousand units of gas gone up in smoke. But upon reflection, he realized that given another chance, he might very well make the same choice again.

If I can’t have it, then the Empire won’t either.

In truth, the fission elements stored in Planet Namie’s core weren’t enough to destroy the entire planet. Ultimately, he owed his success to the assistance—albeit unintentional—of the Epsilon. During those three days he’d spent immobilized in the refining facility due to the one-eyed monster’s memory interference, the ancient ruins had operated at full capacity, producing vast quantities of Element Zero isotopes infused with immense energy—the glowing orb at the center of the control room being a prime example.

Had he not awakened just in time to shut down the equipment, the crust of the planet would have been obliterated entirely. Later, cornered in the main control center after Housen’s mishap cut off their escape route, surrounded by enemies on all sides, Tang Fang had resorted to this desperate gambit.

By accelerating the fission reaction within the planet’s core using catalytic devices and reversing the flow of Element Zero isotopes from over a hundred control rooms into the planetary core, he had effectively detonated the equivalent of ten thousand high-yield nuclear bombs in a confined space. The energy released would’ve been enough to shatter not just Planet Namie but perhaps ten planets like it.

Planetary explosions were events Tang Fang—both in his previous life and his current incarnation as Tang Yan—had only ever encountered in movies or novels. He didn’t know the exact magnitude of destruction they caused, but whether depicted on screen or described in books, such cataclysms were undeniably terrifying. Even if the Thunder Fleet and Saint Violet Fleet managed to retreat safely into the void, what about the Tiger Shark Squadron?

At the end of the day, he was nothing more than an ordinary man—a petty, vindictive soul who would throw a brick back at a dog that bit him. After inheriting Tang Yan’s memories, he had adopted some of his brashness, some of his stubborn determination. When pushed to the brink, when provoked beyond endurance, he lashed out regardless of cost or consequence.

Revenge is a dish best served cold? Ha! Ten years later, and it still wasn’t too late?

But looking back, losing thirty thousand crystals and forty thousand units of gas stung deeply. Yet, without taking such drastic measures, how could he have escaped the iron net cast by the two fleets over Planet Namie?

Only after boarding the shuttle, enduring both physical agony and mental torment while settling into the cockpit, did he truly grasp the staggering technological gap between the Epsilon and humanity.

Take, for instance, this unremarkable Silver Moon shuttle—the most basic model among the Epsilon fleet. Its warp capability reached an astonishing level 9.9, allowing it to exit hyperspace at will and navigate curved trajectories through regions of intense gravitational pull.

Compared to the Epsilon, humanity resembled a severely unbalanced elementary school student. Over the past two centuries, fields like aerospace engineering, metallurgy, materials science, environmental modification, shipbuilding, and others had seen rapid advancements. Meanwhile, fundamental disciplines such as agriculture, livestock farming, and light industry remained stagnant, progressing at a snail’s pace.

To illustrate, consider the diversity in shipbuilding: attack vessels, interceptor ships, satellite carriers, reconnaissance ships, geological survey vessels, research cruisers, mining barges, freighters, special operations craft, repair ships, electronic warfare platforms—the list went on and on.

And then look at the arsenal of Division 3789: tanks, armored vehicles, armed shuttles. Compared to the era Tang Fang hailed from before his transmigration, there hadn’t been much innovation. Essentially, they had simply improved the range, power, defensive capabilities, and mobility of armored vehicles, replaced combat helicopters with vacuum-capable shuttles, swapped out useless spacesuits for powered armor, and upgraded firearms and ammunition with waterproof, wear-resistant materials. Perhaps their adaptability to all-weather and field conditions had improved significantly, but compared to the juggernauts of battleship-centric warfare, the progress was negligible.

This disparity stemmed directly from societal priorities. In an age of interstellar fragmentation and constant conflict, aerospace and naval technologies were the yardsticks by which a faction’s rise or fall was measured. No matter how skilled individual soldiers were or how robust an economy might be, ground forces often amounted to little more than fragile clay figurines when faced with squadrons of starfighters roaring across the skies or massive aerospace carriers dominating the stars.

Of course, the influence of Epsilon technology played a role here as well. Most of the Epsilon ruins discovered in space were laboratories, monitoring stations, small starports, element-zero mines, and other structures related to aerospace, metallurgy, and shipbuilding.

All things considered, human civilization was currently operating under a profoundly imbalanced developmental model. Popular fields thrived, while neglected industries languished, inching forward at a glacial pace.

“Tang Fang… Tang Fang, where are we going?” Arroz’s voice sounded distant and fragmented, like an old cassette tape skipping tracks, carried faintly on the wind.

“Where?” Summoning every ounce of willpower, Tang Fang forced his eyelids open just enough to squint at the holographic star map on the control panel. The double images and blinding glare rendered everything indistinct; he couldn’t tell where the shuttle was headed.

Neither Arroz nor Housen understood Epsilon script, leaving them helpless and anxious.

“Tang Fang… Tang Fang, say something! Are you feeling unwell? Is something wrong?”

The sensation of movement felt surreal, distorting even Housen’s profile beside him, twisting it like oil slicks shimmering atop a chemical plant’s wastewater pool.

“Hah… hah…” He panted heavily, ears ringing as large beads of sweat rolled down his temples. His head throbbed with unbearable pain, as though a knife were prying open his skull and methodically torturing his pain receptors inch by inch.

He knew the source of this torment: the high-frequency pulse waves emitted by the runic crystal spheres invading his body and wreaking havoc on his nervous system. What baffled him, however, was why these waves persisted long after the radiation sources had vanished. Instead of fading, they grew stronger with each passing moment, relentlessly plaguing him.

Epsilon command streams flowed between Tang Fang’s forehead and the psionic flame, weaving intricate patterns of light. Far from alleviating his headache, these looping runes acted as catalysts, amplifying the mysterious pulse waves each time they passed over his brow, inflicting continuous damage on his already fragile neurons.

Finally, Tang Fang could hold on no longer. A blinding whiteness consumed his vision, akin to being struck by a biological microwave bomb. His senses dulled, and his consciousness began to unravel.

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