Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C187

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Chapter 187: The Final Battle of (Part 14)

demanded loyal patriots, not cowards who clung to life at any cost.

watched as , riding the elevator into the ship’s interior, carved a bloody path straight toward the command center. He took a deep breath and let a faint, mocking smile creep across his face—whether directed at his enemies or himself, it was impossible to say.

“Lord Cain, in my next life, I will serve you once more.” Aldrich pressed the touch interface on the armrest of his chair, entering a sequence of characters before firmly depressing the crimson button at its center.

“No… no! Energy supply has exceeded critical thresholds! Engine units are overloaded, and the main operating system is unresponsive! If this continues, the ship will explode!”

The head of the power team stood abruptly, shouting his report. The bridge crew froze, eyes darting toward Aldrich just as he calmly withdrew his hand and closed the panel.

There was no response, no order. He simply sat back down, leaning against the couch, watching the reactor temperature gauge climb higher and higher.

Even the dimmest among them could understand what was happening. He had gone mad—activating the . His own death was one thing, but dragging everyone else along?

Despite being the Governor of Krotan and their direct superior, some began to abandon their posts, quietly edging toward the exit. Aldrich ignored them completely, his silence unwavering as the temperature gauge continued its relentless ascent.

More and more people left their stations, rushing for the door until chaos erupted. Most of the young officers and staff fled the bridge, sprinting toward the . Few were willing to die with him. For these younger men, especially those with status and comfort, survival outweighed honor or military glory.

If the governor wished to sacrifice himself for the nation, that was his choice—but they wouldn’t be dragged down with him. The situation was clear: the northern campaign had failed, the mothership was lost, and Aldrich himself would likely become a prisoner of the rebels. After that, would descend into leaderless chaos, with revolution sweeping across the . The elite, the wealthy, the politicians, and the officers would flee in panic. Disorder would sweep through the land like an autumn wind.

In such times, social order would collapse, laws would become meaningless, and even military discipline would vanish. To hell with blind patriotism. Only a fool would cling to such ideals.

The younger officers fled entirely, leaving only a few elderly advisors seated silently alongside Aldrich, watching the temperature gauge rise.

They were old. If they stayed and died heroically with the governor, when Lord Cain’s fleet eventually reclaimed Krotan, they would be remembered as martyrs, their families honored for generations. Conversely, if they fled out of fear, they would face military tribunals and disgrace their descendants.

Wealth, power, status—all were double-edged swords. In times of peace, they brought comfort, privilege, and superiority, even allowing one to oppress the weak and exploit others. But in times of rebellion, those long-oppressed victims would tear down their fortresses, overturn their thrones, and trample their faces. Heads would roll, either by bullet or guillotine, cheered on by the very people they once ignored.

The fashionable wives, mistresses, and socialites who frequented high-class venues would become playthings of the mob, ensuring their husbands’ graves remained eternally green with shame.

The higher you climbed, the harder you fell—a truth universally understood. Thus, dying gloriously seemed the best option. At least the empire would care for their heirs.

“Rumble…” A low tremor shook the deck, and the ship shuddered violently.

The temperature gauge neared its limit, and explosions spread from the engine room throughout the power system. Aldrich sat calmly, his composure restored. Perhaps this was the perfect moment to reflect on the meaning of life.

Elsewhere, transmitted the overseer-gathered data on the mothership’s condition to Arroz. The veteran cursed furiously upon learning of the self-destruct sequence and turned back the way he came.

Chaos reigned throughout the ship. Explosions swept upward like wildfire, scattering debris and corpses along the corridors. Crew members slammed into bulkheads, only to be consumed by raging flames.

Young officers reached the escape pods, but despair gripped them anew—their power supply had been deliberately cut.

It was Aldrich’s doing, surely. He intended to take everyone with him.

One by one, the young officers grabbed wall-mounted communicators, unleashing torrents of venomous curses at Aldrich. Fear of death and desperation erased their usual reverence, unleashing years of pent-up resentment and fury.

Yet Aldrich remained serene, seated regally in his leather chair. His expression was calm, his gaze as still as a tranquil lake, devoid of ripples.

The empire had no use for cowards, and Lord Cain had no need for deserters. He had already chosen their path—to die together, bringing glory to the “” holy sword, sacrificing themselves for the empire, and fulfilling their duty to Lord Cain.

Beside him, several elderly advisors exchanged uneasy glances. They were still young, some the descendants of old comrades.

“Governor,” one advisor finally spoke up, stepping forward hesitantly, “isn’t this too cruel? We old ones have lived long enough. Our deaths matter little. But… they’re so young.”

Aldrich turned his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. With a flick of his wrist, he raised his and pulled the trigger.

“Bang!”

The advisor’s head exploded like a watermelon dropped from a hundred meters, collapsing onto the floor in a grotesque heap. Blood and brain matter splattered across the faces of those who had considered speaking out, sending them stumbling backward in horror.

“Do you have something to say?” Aldrich’s voice was eerily calm as he surveyed the group.

“Rumble…” Just then, the ship tilted sharply, electronic devices flickering before fading into darkness.

The bridge plunged into shadow, lit only by the dim red glow of emergency lights, casting eerie, blood-like hues across their faces.

“Boom… boom…”

The entire continent trembled. Gigantic clouds of dust obscured the sky for kilometers, while permafrost and ice shards rained down, striking the ship’s armor with sharp cracks.

Explosions echoed endlessly, flames surging like geysers, spewing thick black smoke into the heavens.

The nearly 800-meter-long lay toppled on the icy plains. Snow melted under the inferno, hissing as EZero-fueled destruction shattered its thick armor plating. Flames roared, smoke billowed, and a haze enveloped the area for miles.

Gunfire faded, leaving only scattered fires burning on the frozen tundra. Arctic winds stirred the smoke, carrying it swiftly away. Faint groans and cries drifted through the air, occasionally punctuated by wolf howls—the excited cheers of drawn by the scent of blood.

Tang Fang stood atop an , gazing silently at the massive “coffin” of the governor, at the flickering flames dotting the snowy expanse, at the muddy terrain stained with blood and strewn with metallic wreckage.

Arroz leapt from an Overlord to join him, murmuring, “It’s over.”

Tang Fang glanced at Housen in the distance, still venting his rage by blasting away at the remnants of the second carrier. He nodded. “Yes… it’s over.”

Arroz patted his shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking. Kill or be killed—you can only choose one. Life may be philosophy, but living itself has no philosophical depth. When faced with slaughter, you either kill to survive and keep moving forward, or you drop your weapon and become prey.”

Tang Fang nodded. “I know…”

Arroz turned and hopped onto another Overseer. “Let’s go. Remember—when you’re in this world, you don’t always get to choose your fate.”

“You old fool, always pretending to be profound.” Tang Fang chuckled wryly, glancing once more at the massive wreck of the mothership. With a thought, he recalled all the Overlords into system space and commanded the Overseer beneath him to fly toward the missile base.

Three minutes later, Housen’s furious roar crackled through the communicator: “Tang Fang, Arroz, you bastards! If you leave, how am I supposed to get back?”

“…”

This battle had seen over a thousand units from three races deployed, reaching the 3000 Supply Count limit. Post-battle statistics revealed the following surviving forces:

Zerg:

Overlord x76

Overseer x30

x658

Queen x87

x151

Spine Crawler x88

Supply count: 805/850

Protoss:

Zealot x268

Stalker x57

Dragoon x64