I am the Emperor of Humanity across the Multiverse

Boom—boom—!

Da-da-da—!

Silent explosions and dazzling cannon fire streaked across the space in front of the Reaper mothership.

The legless scorpion-shaped Reaper fighters, known as Attackers, were equipped with energy shield generators intended to protect them from all incoming attacks. However, their shields were far too weak to withstand the 4,000-ton TNT-equivalent metal-hydrogen air-to-air missiles.

The first salvo launched by the Atlas fighter squadron had immediate results, destroying nearly a thousand Attackers in one go.

However, despite the squadron's impressive success, the sheer numerical disparity between the two sides was impossible to ignore.

Take the Dawn—a Selene-class ship—as an example: its hangar could hold four single-seater and four dual-seater Whiteleg Falcon fighters. The dual-seater versions had a co-pilot responsible for controlling forty drones.

The larger, more powerful Fides-class frigates could carry up to twenty-four Whiteleg Falcons, 120-160 drones, and twenty Seahawk assault shuttles.

But the Seahawk shuttles were minimally armed, as they were mainly designed to assist ground forces and strike teams in landing operations.

Thus, Atlas had only around 500 fighters in total, including the drones operated by co-pilots.

On the Reapers' side...

It was practically endless.

The mothership was the size of a dwarf planet, with a complete internal ecosystem to support its overwhelming numbers.

At this point, the Atlas Fleet was simply relying on sheer determination to engage in a direct confrontation.

Despite the numerical disadvantage, the Attackers were no match for the Whiteleg Falcons and drones in terms of agility, speed, firepower, or maneuverability, allowing the Atlas forces to maintain an upper hand temporarily.

After all, in the Independence Day universe, even 20th-century human jet fighters could go toe-to-toe with the Attackers.

At this moment.

Inside the single-seat cockpit of a Whiteleg Falcon:

"Dawn squadron, spread out! Spread out! Coordinate with the other squadrons for mutual cover. Try to draw those pesky mosquitoes away and create a window for the assault pods and Seahawk transports," ordered Javier Norlion over the helmet comms as he deftly maneuvered his fighter to dodge green energy projectiles.

After issuing the command, he pulled the control stick hard to the left, causing his fighter to bank sharply, narrowly dodging two more incoming shots.

Beep-beep-beep!

But the rapid alerts in his ears were unrelenting.

On his helmet's screen, the radar showed they were about to be surrounded by a force of Attackers a hundred times larger than their own.

"Deep breaths… deep breaths..." Javier took several breaths to steady himself, tightening his grip on the control stick with his right hand while adjusting the missile bay with his left, preparing the last four metal-hydrogen missiles for launch.

Once his helmet locked onto a target, Javier immediately squeezed the red trigger, releasing the four missiles from the launch bay, watching them streak past the bottom of his ship and into view.

Boom—boom—!!

All four missiles found their marks, destroying four Attackers rapidly approaching his position.

However, Javier now faced a grim reality: his ammunition was nearly depleted, leaving him with only 500 rounds of 30mm Gauss needles.

After a brief hesitation, Javier switched to cannon mode, deciding to engage the Attackers in "beyond-visual-range" dogfighting with his Whiteleg Falcon.

Thump thump thump—!!

The cannon's rhythmic, crisp sound was muffled by the cockpit's vibrations.

Two blue tracer lines cut through space, seemingly bending and curving as they homed in on an Attacker a hundred kilometers away, striking its tail and forcing its energy shield to activate.

Infantry-level Gauss weapons already had tracer, explosive, and homing needle variants, let alone the 30mm Gauss cannon.

With Javier's piloting skills and the helmet screen's assistance, the cannon was more than capable of beyond-visual-range combat.

In space warfare, however, a hundred kilometers was hardly considered beyond-visual-range—more of a standard engagement distance.

But Javier didn't have time to debate such definitions. He locked onto the Attacker, pursuing it relentlessly until he had expended around sixty rounds of cannon fire, finally allowing his finger to ease off the trigger.

Boom… boom!!

The screen displayed the Attacker's shield shattering, its vulnerable frame pierced by the Gauss cannon before being blown apart by explosive rounds.

Seeing this, Javier quickly shared the data with his allies, reporting that 60-70 rounds of cannon fire were enough to destroy an enemy fighter.

However, just then:

"Captain! I've got a swarm on my tail! I need... zzzt..."

One of his squadmates' frantic cries for help came over the comms, but the transmission cut off abruptly, replaced by static.

Alarmed, Javier glanced at the left side of his screen, noticing that the icon for Whiteleg Falcon number 02 was flashing red, its status marked as "destroyed."

Thud!

Furious at the loss of his squadmate, Javier slammed his left fist against the cockpit wall.

Quickly adjusting his tactics, he ordered, "Five, Six! Split off half your drones for escort duty! Two, Three, you're out of ammo. Return to the Dawn with me for resupply!"

"Yes, sir!"

...

Outside the cockpit of Javier's Whiteleg Falcon.

From a distance, the scene was clear.

The Atlas fighter squadron was trapped, surrounded by an overwhelming number of Attackers swarming like a furious hive, closing the distance with reckless disregard for their own losses, further compressing the squadron's maneuvering space.

Some Whiteleg Falcons had run out of ammunition and were using their speed and agility to break through, returning to their respective ships for resupply.

Meanwhile, the main force of the Atlas Fleet, still advancing toward the Reaper mothership, was locked in a more "colorful" but equally silent battle.

The five Selene-class and two Fides-class ships unleashed full-spectrum blue-light anti-air barrages with their triple-barreled 120mm Gauss close-in defense cannons, efficiently clearing out approaching Attackers and assisting the returning Whiteleg Falcons.

Their main and secondary cannons also continued pounding the exposed sections of the Reaper mothership, which were now unshielded.

Of course, the mothership was firing back.

While superconducting magnetic fields could deflect some of the energy projectiles and the titanium-tantalum alloy armor was incredibly tough, the Atlas Fleet was still sustaining significant damage.

Inside the bridge of the Dawn:

"Sealed off compromised areas. Hull integrity is down to 79%!"

"Captain! We've lost one-third of our drones, and two pilots are dead!"

"..."

Listening to the real-time reports, Captain Sean Rice said nothing, his gaze fixed on the holographic screen in front of him and the information it displayed.

The moment the green triangle representing their fleet reached the designated position, Sean Rice shot to his feet. Looking through the sealed observation window at the Reaper mothership looming just beyond, he shouted in a voice hoarse from the strain:

"Rotate the ship at full speed! Expose the underside to the target's damaged section!

"And, Communications Officer, inform the assault team—it's time to teach those alien scum a lesson!!"

___________________

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