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SCL Chapter 142: Apocalypse-Class Diplomacy
🕑 Added 2025-07-07 03:32:59 +0000 UTC[We never imagined a day would come when Tarsonis could be conquered. It’s like being told God was assassinated by a back-alley thug, or tha
[We never imagined a day would come when Tarsonis could be conquered. It’s like being told God was assassinated by a back-alley thug, or that Jesus never rose from the dead. Whether it's the silk-draped, hollow politicians of the Federal Parliament, the stinking-wig-wearing justices of the High Court, or the double-tongued ministers of the Cabinet, all of them are panicking like headless chickens, screaming: Where's my damn carriage? Pick up my 20 mistresses! Don’t forget the diapers—I’m out of here!]
While Mike Liberty, editor at the UNN News Bureau, was still typing at his keyboard, the 'earthquake' struck. Potted plants tumbled to the floor, bookshelves shook violently, and even the ceiling shifted side to side.
In the span of a calm sip of coffee, Mike noted at the bottom of his document:
[2489.6.21 — Earthquake. Tremors felt in Tarsonis City.]
“Why the hell are you still sitting there?”
The voice belonged to Anderson, chief editor of the UNN Interstellar News Network. A rotund middle-aged man, bald on top with twin curls of black hair at his temples.
Anderson had just glanced into Mike Liberty’s office while lugging a briefcase, and immediately let out a shrill cry. The layers of fat around his stomach rippled violently as he gasped for breath.
“The rebels are here! They’re already here!” he shouted.
“Run, Mike! Or do you really want to take another rifle butt from those rebel bastards? If you ask me, the only reason you’re still alive is dumb luck!”
“The rebels?”
Mike Liberty’s face instantly twisted in alarm. “Anderson, I thought it was just an earthquake!”
“You didn’t hear the alarms?”
Anderson was baffled. The young man looked completely unbothered. Was he deaf or something?
“I overslept,” Mike shrugged. He showed no fear at the idea of the revolutionaries coming for him—because, strictly speaking, he was one of them now.
Not long ago, he had joined the Pan-Terran Party. Officially certified. A revolutionary comrade.
Anderson stood frozen, stunned by Mike’s brazen indifference—and even more by how casually he admitted it.
But in truth, Anderson felt a strange admiration.
This ability to stay calm with the world collapsing around you—that was exactly the kind of journalist who could rush straight into danger to land the big story.
He also genuinely appreciated Mike’s sharp, biting writing style.
Hard-hitting, truthful journalism had always had a strong market.
But just as Anderson turned to leave, a deafening explosion shattered his nerves.
Outside Mike’s office, a Leviathan-class battlecruiser crashed into the northern district.
Even from more than 20 kilometers away, the fireball was visible—towering high into the sky.
The impact resembled a fleeting, semicircular sun.
The shockwave blew out the windows of skyscrapers, peeling away their upper facades to expose the steel skeletons beneath.
Phosphorus-laced dust from the explosion ignited massive fires across residential and commercial blocks, consuming everything in a radius of several kilometers.
Thick, black smoke rose in endless plumes.
“Now the death toll won’t just be in the tens of thousands,” Anderson muttered, his face pale.
“God knows how many people are going to be burned alive.”
Mike shook his head as he watched the scene of devastation outside.
“We should’ve sent more people to help evacuate the civilians caught in the blast.”
“Tarsonis… is burning.”
...
Korhal System, Fourth Planet – Second Moon: Ursa
Ursa was a small, dark brown moon with a diameter exceeding 1,100 kilometers. Like its sister moon, Canis, its surface had been completely transformed into a colossal military fortress—crisscrossed with bastions, electromagnetic railgun towers, anti-air missile silos, and sprawling Starport cities.
Centered on Ursa, with Canis and the orbital defense platforms Skyshield II and Skyshield III as supporting points, the defense network formed a deadly web of firepower designed to blockade the Confederate fleets. Nearly 1.9 million troops of the Korhal Revolutionary Army were stationed here. Each orbital defense platform alone deployed over 2,000 sentry drones and automatic turrets.
Even with such fortifications, the Revolutionary Army struggled to withstand the overwhelming pressure from four Federal fleets—comprising over 60 Leviathan- and Behemoth-class warships, along with thousands of support vessels.
The main reason the Confederate fleets were able to deal such a devastating blow to Korhal's defenders in such a short time was their sheer ruthlessness in deploying nuclear weapons. They showed no hesitation—and no regard—for the collateral consequences.
As Angus Mengsk watched on the main screen from the command center on Ursa, the scene was horrifying:
Just minutes after the Confederate fleets arrived, Canis—on the opposite side of Korhal’s orbit—suffered a catastrophic strike. Footage from several Revolutionary military satellites, which had somehow survived the jamming interference, showed Canis buckling under extreme heat, the surface visibly warping from the blast.
Dressed in a plain dark gray officer’s uniform, Angus Mengsk stood motionless. His sharp, defined features were now marred by deepening wrinkles. Never in a single day had he paced so many times.
That image made it all too clear: Commander Kurt Josephine—scion of one of the oldest noble families of Korhal—and more than 80,000 soldiers under his command had perished within seconds. Their vibrant lives, ambitions, and dreams were all reduced to ashes—swallowed by fire and silence. Countless families would never see their irreplaceable loved ones again.
Human beings are emotional creatures. The wounds left by war become lifelong scars in their brief existences—wounds that never truly heal.
Angus Mengsk now realized he had made a grave mistake. He had once likened the Confederate government and the monopoly aristocrats it represented to a wicked dragon—but he had grossly underestimated just how vicious that dragon could be.
Reality had turned out even more twisted than propaganda. Now it was obvious: if the Old Families weren’t acting out of absolute apathy, then their fury over the failed assassination attempt on Angus had pushed them into a blind and merciless rage.
The assassination attempt had not only failed—Angus had ample evidence proving that it had been orchestrated by the Confederacy out of fear. And that, in itself, revealed the truth: the Confederate government feared him so deeply that it resorted to such despicable tactics.
With each vicious attack and smear campaign broadcasted by the UNN Interstellar News Network and UNN Galactic Television, Angus—and the new ideology and regime he represented—only gained greater notoriety and prestige across the Terran Confederacy.
Gradually, as the vote in the Confederate Parliament to authorize the use of Apocalypse-class nuclear weapons against Korhal was leaked to the public, the number of people who believed that Angus and the Korhal Revolutionary Army were the evil terrorists portrayed by official propaganda became equal to those who believed the Confederacy itself was utterly inhumane.
What the Confederacy truly sought was to eliminate the Korhal problem once and for all. Why waste decades, generations, and untold resources trying to reassert control—when total annihilation was so much simpler?
No matter how brutally he imagined the price of revolution might be paid in blood, Angus had never considered the possibility that the entire planet of Korhal could be wiped out by nuclear fire.
And yet, even now, he had no regrets about the path he’d chosen.
Since his grandfather’s time, the Mengsk family had opposed the Confederate government’s policies of centralization and colonial exploitation. This illustrious lineage had always believed that with power came the sacred duty to protect the people—even if, so far, all Angus had brought them was war and suffering.
When Canis was obliterated, a sudden sob broke the silence in the command center on the Ursa moon. It came from an ordinary communications technician.
Neither Angus nor the officers beside him could bring themselves to rebuke the man. His father and all his brothers had been stationed on Canis.
“Activate all missile interception systems,” came the order after a heavy sigh. “If even one nuke lands on us, we’re all dead.”
Colonel Lundstein had given the command before Angus needed to say a word.
As a few soldiers gently helped the grief-stricken technician out of the room, twelve more Confederate Behemoth-class battlecruisers short-jumped into orbit above Ursa. Their hulls bore the unmistakable black-and-red paint scheme, each emblazoned with a massive inverted U-shaped insignia.
The moment they appeared, their missile bays opened and unleashed a torrent of warheads. Beams of laser fire scorched deep, menacing grooves into the armored walls of Ursa’s military fortress—armor composed of reshaped ceramic steel and the latest alloy plating, several meters thick.
