Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C184

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Chapter 184: The Final Battle of Krotan (Part 11)

, Command Bridge

stared in disbelief at the main screen. Alien monstrosities tore through government soldiers with ease, their claws rending flesh and bone like paper. And then there were the golden-armored warriors—each one capable of holding their own against half an armored battalion. For the first time in his life, Aldrich felt fear creep into his veins. What was happening? These new combatants clearly weren’t human. Who—or what—had he crossed? How could a ragtag bunch of rebels possibly have allies this powerful?

Two hundred thousand troops routed by barely two thousand unknown units working alongside fifteen thousand insurgents… If word of this reached or the other high-ranking officials within , Aldrich would be humiliated beyond measure. Even Cain himself—despite favoring Aldrich—would surely lose faith in him.

Honor, reputation, expectations—all hinged on this battle. He had deployed the "" motherships as a last resort. If they failed to crush the now, Aldrich might as well end it all and save face with suicide.

“Power team, increase energy supply! Maximum output from all engines—we need to reach the front lines as fast as possible!” Aldrich’s voice thundered across the bridge, raw fury dripping from every word. “All secondary cannons prepare for firing. Combat personnel, assume positions. Once you spot those damned aliens, obliterate them completely. Leave nothing but ash.”

“Yes, sir!” The crew sprang into action. EZero flow surged, and the twin exhausts of the primary and auxiliary thrusters flared brighter than ever. The two Skíðblaðnir-class behemoths roared forward like steel dragons racing toward the northern battlefield.

---

The air war between Vikings, Hive guardians, naval carriers, and the armored group’s aviation forces raged on. Burning wreckage rained down like fiery meteors. After an hour of fierce fighting, the coalition force of nearly two thousand aircraft had dwindled to fewer than a thousand. The squadron, numbering 150 at the start, was reduced to just 98 operational units. Fifty-two had been lost—eighteen destroyed outright, thirty-four too damaged to continue and pulled back for repairs in .

“All pilots, hold your ground! Governor Aldrich’s mothership is approaching the missile base. Victory is within reach—don’t give up!” ’ voice crackled over the comms.

Reluctantly, the weary pilots pressed on, engaging the superior enemy fighters in relentless dogfights. But fate is unpredictable. Before victory could be claimed, strange bio-ships appeared over the horizon. Leading them was a lone Viking bearing a figure clad in power armor.

One particularly enraged government pilot broke formation, flames bursting from his thrusters as he charged toward the slower-moving Viking. His target wasn’t just any ship—it carried a passenger, making it slower and less maneuverable. This was his chance for revenge—for the fallen comrades who hadn’t survived earlier skirmishes.

“Damn you, damn you all to hell!” he screamed, thumb slamming down on the targeting button.

But something was wrong. The radar signal scrambled wildly. Earlier engagements had shown that these ships were notoriously difficult to lock onto due to their materials, speed, exhaust signatures, and electronic countermeasures. Only laser-based systems offered partial success. Yet here, despite the target’s reduced velocity and obvious payload, the radar couldn’t establish a lock. Stranger still, the onboard computer reported interference disrupting the targeting waves.

What was going on? Even the lidar was failing? Why?

He never found answers—or avenged his friends. , standing atop the Viking, delivered a grim lesson in despair. A single shot from his C-14 penetrator drilled cleanly through the cockpit glass, blood spraying across the interior like a crimson fountain. The fighter spiraled out of control, plummeting ten thousand meters before smashing into the ground in a fiery explosion.

---

The arrival of turned an already lopsided aerial conflict into utter chaos. Wideband, narrowband, pulsed beams—thirty-plus Overseers unleashed electromagnetic storms across hundreds of kilometers of airspace. Drones faltered under crippling interference, relying solely on pre-programmed routines to stay airborne. Communications between fighters collapsed entirely, and radar systems flickered in and out of functionality.

Thirty-four repaired Vikings returned to the fray, unleashing salvos of and fire. In moments, they inflicted catastrophic losses on the government fleet. Armed helicopters—poorly maneuverable and used as expendable shields for the jet squadrons—exploded mid-air, raining burning debris onto the battlefield below.

Some pilots ejected, parachutes deploying to slow their descent. But relief was short-lived. Fiery shrapnel rained down, shredding canopies and igniting infernos. Their screams echoed across the heavens.

One desperate fighter managed to evade the missile barrage, only to find itself shadowed by a massive bio-ship twice its size. Its grotesque maw opened wide, spitting out a disgusting glob of organic matter that splattered across the fuselage. Thick tendrils sprouted and spread, encasing the plane in a resilient biological membrane. Alarms blared inside the cockpit: “Warning! Engine thrust insufficient. Flight systems compromised. Eject immediately.”

The pilot tried repeatedly to dislodge the alien growths, but they clung stubbornly to the hull.

“Warning! Altitude below eight thousand feet. Immediate ejection recommended,” the system chimed again.

Gritting his teeth, the pilot activated the eject sequence. The canopy blasted away, and the seat rocketed upward—but not far enough. Both man and chair plunged headlong into the writhing mass of slime-coated tissue surrounding the aircraft. With a sickening crunch, his neck snapped, sending him to join his doomed craft in oblivion.

Scene after scene played out like this. Under the combined assault of Overseer interference and bio-contamination abilities, the Viking squadrons swept through the skies like autumn leaves in a gale, clearing the remaining enemy aircraft in mere minutes.

Tang Fang stood atop an Overseer, emerging from the swarm of . He surveyed the wreckage below, then glanced skyward as the two approaching motherships grew closer. His pupils contracted. “Governor Aldrich… It seems we finally meet.”

“Housen, take the one on the right. Arroz, come with me to pay our respects to the governor.”

“Tang Fang, do I really have to? Can’t you send me a Medivac instead?” Housen whined.

“A Medivac? You mean a ‘girl’ unit?” Tang Fang smirked, finally understanding. “Does Alma know how much of a pervert you are?” Ignoring Housen’s protests, he gestured to Arroz. The 132 Vikings split into two groups, diverging left and right toward the motherships.

Meanwhile, the Overseers and Overlords divided into three formations. One followed Tang Fang, another accompanied Housen, while the third veered southeast, heading straight for the First and Third Fleets stationed at Karst Naval Port.

Every moment of the Viking onslaught was captured in crisp detail by the Skíðblaðnir’s high-resolution cameras. Aldrich’s face twisted into a mask of rage, his complexion resembling waterlogged pork marbled with grease.

“Launch fighters! Intercept them!” he bellowed.

“Combat teams, standby all secondary cannons. Fire the instant they enter range.”

“Yes, sir!” The crew sprang into action. Quantum lidar arrays scanned the skies, railguns warmed up, and targeting computers calculated firing solutions. Turrets rotated, missile launchers adjusted angles, and loading mechanisms whirred to life.

On the flight decks, crews scrambled to clear runways. Red signal lights blinked along cleared paths, guiding pilots to prepared positions. Thunderwing-class aerospace fighters dotted the triangular landing pads. Vertical thrusters ignited, distorting the air around their tails with shimmering heat waves.

In the command center, a radar operator suddenly stood up, addressing Aldrich. “Sir, enemy craft are diving toward us at approximately Mach 10.”

“Combat teams, shoot them down!” Aldrich leaned back in his chair, shouting orders.

“Yes, sir!” Dozens of operators sprang into motion, inputting attack commands into the fire control system.

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