Prosnark's Eastward Advance (7)
Unfortunately, contrary to my prediction of a Prosnark victory, the overwhelming majority of public opinion still leaned the other way.
Some corners had even begun peddling the most grotesque slanders imaginable.
"I hear the Minister of the Executive Ministry's gone senile lately."
"Right? And he's still so young. Tsk tsk."
There were those seriously pushing the dementia theory about me—and others who pretended to offer sympathy while quietly steering the narrative.
"He's definitely a Prosnark sympathizer, right? Anyone can see Prosnark's defeat is inevitable, yet he keeps doubling down."
"Wow, real disappointment."
"..."
Dementia rumors had already escalated into full-blown accusations of treason. It was enough to leave me speechless.
Public opinion is blazing against the Minister who predicted the outcome of the war with Prosnark.
But the Empire's public opinion is, of course, dominated by the nobility.
Which noble, then, has concocted this scheme to eliminate a political rival?
Or is this simply the work of deranged commoners who desire nothing more than a slow, agonizing suicide?
The event window popping up only made me sigh even harder.
"...Riel, track down wherever those tabloids crawled out of."
"Already finished tracing them all, yep. Right here."
This wasn't Korea. This was a science-fiction universe's interstellar empire—one that still possessed a clear class hierarchy, complete with a slavery system that had only been abolished in name.
In a stratified society like that, idle commoners would never dare toy with a duke of such exalted rank.
"I knew it would be something like this."
A long list of names appeared—nobles who had simply copy-pasted the media-manipulation tactics of nearby democratic nations. All I could do was let out a hollow laugh.
Riel's reaction was much the same.
"Why are they so stupid, huh? Running a media campaign against a duke—an imperial relative, no less—in a theocratic class society?"
"Tell me about it."
The situation was so absurd I half-suspected it was some elaborate hidden-camera prank.
"Make a separate list of every single one of these people and keep it updated."
"Got it, yep."
Sadly, there was no denying this was reality. Once the war and the present mess settled down, I would carefully plan exactly how to deal with every name on that list.
Of course, anyone watching from the outside would probably think I was out of my mind.
Bro, why are you already planning how to wreck the other side when anyone can see your prediction is about to flop?
And if anyone ever said that to my face, I already knew exactly how I would answer.
Nope. I'm right. Anyway, I'm right.
And reality was already flowing in precisely that direction...
—Beep-beep-beep!
The alert on my terminal made me check the screen without thinking.
In that instant I knew: no one would ever dare spout nonsense at me again.
And while I sat there with that certainty, the warring nations, Sevelian public opinion, and the entire galaxy would soon feel in their bones just how accurate my prediction had been.
And Arto's prediction struck with perfect accuracy.
Especially for the Kerzin Federation—who, at the war's outset, had been so arrogant they had even threatened Sevelia when the Empire came seeking cooperation—the blow landed hardest of all.
"...According to the final transmission from Toua, the Prosnark fleet remains largely intact."
"Our... our last hope..."
The final regular fleet they had scraped together as their ultimate hope—every scrap of Kerzin's actual regular combat power—had been reduced to cosmic dust. Once that fact sank in, the despair only deepened.
"With the collapse of the Toua defense line, Prosnark fleets are now ravaging every undefended corner of our home territory."
"No—there is still hope!"
Of course, what had vanished was only the hope of Kerzin saving itself by its own strength. They still had many "friends" left; it was far too early to call the end. Or so they told themselves...
"Report! Emergency transmission from Zeltec!"
"Put it through!"
—Crackle... static...
—Beep... beep-beep!
—"Save us! W-we can't hold any longer!"
"...!"
—"Front line untenable! Retreat! Retreat!"
Kerzin had expected the emergency call from Zeltec to announce the arrival of reinforcements. Instead, the screen showed only the catastrophic aftermath, transmitted from the headquarters of Zeltec's main western fleet.
—Static!
"Transmission... lost."
"We've just received word from the ambassador dispatched to Zeltec..."
"...Speak."
"Zeltec's western fleet headquarters has fallen. Simultaneously, Prosnark mobile squadrons have cut off the Camira and Hadricus systems. Further reinforcement is impossible."
Nothing but despairing news reached them. In the eyes of the fortress commander guarding Azicros—the capital system of the Kerzin Federation—only hopelessness remained.
"Emergency from the central resource zone patrol fleet: contact with a Prosnark grand fleet. Urgent request for reinforcements."
"Message from the southern Bash planetary colony: Prosnark vessels are conducting orbital bombardment. Fleet support required."
The commander covered his face with one hand—scales cracked and withered after a year of extreme aging. Yet the despair was not his alone, nor that of his soldiers.
"Run! We have to get off this planet as fast as possible!"
"Where can we even run?! Every hyperspace lane to other nations has already been seized!"
At the spaceport of Azicros—the great mother world that had sustained the Kerzin Federation from its founding to the present—refugees seeking escape from the war thronged the gates day after day.
But even those who reached the spaceport found no ships, no fleets left to board.
Desperate to claw their way out of this hopeless situation, Kerzin's diplomats abandoned every scrap of their usual demeanor.
"If we all fall to Prosnark, you will be next!"
"We beg you—please aid the Kerzin Federation!"
"Though we may appear to be losing ground now, this is merely a strategic withdrawal!"
Their methods varied; some even resorted to the most transparent fabrications. Yet every one of them shared a single thought:
Hope for the homeland!
With the hope of self-salvation gone, they cast aside all pride and staked everything on national survival.
But the only news that reached them was unrelentingly bleak—one hundred percent pure despair.
Through the diplomats' blood-and-sweat efforts, combined with existing trust, goodwill, and the status of vassal states, they had barely managed to assemble two final hopes: the fleet of the Sir Civic Alliance, and the massive mercenary armada of the Mekt-Fux Free Trade Council—the second-wealthiest nation after Zeltec, and the one most eager to claim the top spot as Kerzin's number-one subordinate.
Both hopes were annihilated—one in the southern theater, the other in a system near the capital.
Then came word that the grand fleet of Zutrakpor had been caught in Prosnark's mobile warfare and wiped out, followed by reports that the border fortresses had been breached yet again and the homeland was once more engulfed in war. At last the Kerzin leadership abandoned any real hope.
That did not mean they intended to surrender. Previously their goal had been simply to hold out until "reinforcements" arrived. Now...
—Clank! Whirrr...
"Redistribute every round in the magazines. There will be no need to store them any longer."
One look at the soldiers manning the orbital defense platforms—Kerzin's final line—made the change clear. They were filled with the resolve of men determined to take as many Prosnark lives with them as possible.
That resolve soon revealed itself in a full-scale gunnery duel against the Prosnark fleet that had forced its way into the Azicros system.
Before the merciless, ferocious Prosnark assault, the orbital defenses and their crews fulfilled their duty—yet they failed to reverse the inevitable tide.
And at last...
—Grrrrrooooooaaaannn...
—Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...
"So the day has finally come."
Kerzin's last defensive line crumbled. As the Prosnark fleet settled into orbit above Azicros, the citizens of Kerzin gathered in eerie calm, showing none of the expected panic.
But that was not a good sign.
They simply could not accept the reality that their great nation was about to fall, and that they themselves would be processed into soap and rations.
Yet the world does not always deliver only misfortune.
After several days of total blockade—every resource and every fleet sealed off by Prosnark—an almost unbelievable rumor began to spread among the people.
"They say the silent Sevelian Empire has finally entered the war!"
"I heard they're condemning Prosnark through the Galactic League and even mobilizing the League's peacekeeping forces!"
"No—I heard they outright demanded that Prosnark cease hostilities!"
At first it was pure hearsay—desperate straw-grasping, met with plenty of cold sneers.
"Realistically, those cannibals would never listen to Sevelia."
"More likely they'll take offense at the 'audacity' and invade Sevelia next."
Kerzin's people knew full well that Prosnark had never once taken Galactic League resolutions or condemnations seriously. Cynicism was only natural.
That cynicism and contempt turned to pure despair the moment the fully assembled Prosnark fleet in orbit began deploying its orbital bombardment batteries...
"Breaking news! Breaking news!!"
"The Holy Sevelian Empire has issued an ultimatum to Prosnark through the Galactic League!"
"The entire Sevelian fleet has just massed on their border with Prosnark—and on Zutrakpor's Prosnark front as well!"
The sudden news spread like water soaking into parched earth, exploding among citizens starved for hope...
And finally:
"Th-they're pulling back! Prosnark is withdrawing!"
"Prosnark accepted the ultimatum! We're saved!"
As if to prove the "tabloid" had been true all along, the brutal Prosnark fleet halted its orbital bombardment and began to retreat. The citizens who had been trembling in dread poured into the streets as one, roaring with wild cheers.