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SCL Chapter 133: Nobility Is a Choice
🕑 Added 2025-06-27 23:41:24 +0000 UTCCanis, within the asteroid belt orbiting Korhal IV.
This was a small satellite with a diameter of approximately 900 kilometers, whose surface gravity was only a fraction—less than one-tenth—of that of Korhal IV. Around it orbited smaller asteroids made of carbonaceous and metallic cores, as well as chunks of ice, all pulled into motion by the satellite’s gravity. These gray-brown celestial bodies, some spinning, others seemingly frozen in place, floated within the targeting range of the outpost turret network built on the satellite fortress.
When Lieutenant Colonel Kurt Josephine arrived at his garrison aboard a fast shuttle equipped with afterburner propulsion, he could see through the porthole the deep brown surface of the satellite, now completely covered in steel fortifications, interstellar missile silos, and anti-air missile towers.
This moon, named Canis, had once inspired countless fairy tales and poems. Now, astronomers peering through telescopes would see a surface that bore little resemblance to its natural form. The rocky terrain had been wholly transformed. Across both the near and far sides of the moon, more than a hundred towering fortresses had been erected, each bristling with railguns and clustered laser weapons by the thousands.
These majestic polygonal strongholds stood tall between craters, forming a vast interconnected complex of underground tunnels, missile launch towers, command centers, radar arrays, and barracks. The fortresses’ 3-meter-thick armor plates gleamed under the light of the system’s star. On each rooftop, the flag of the Korhal Revolutionary Army flew alongside the golden wolf standard of the Mengsk family, drooping under the pull of the moon’s slight gravity.
Canis had become a colossal space fortress, with a massive nuclear fusion reactor buried deep at its core—capable of powering all weapons and internal systems, and, if necessary, detonated manually as a last resort. The extent of human engineering here was so monumental, so awe-inspiring, that it had permanently altered the moon’s very geology—its gravity and diameter visibly changed.
At that moment, approximately 80,000 troops were stationed on Canis and across the sixteen orbital platforms within a 32-kilometer radius. The majority of these soldiers and operators of the turrets, missile towers, and other defense systems—over 85%—were natives of Korhal IV. The remainder were mostly Umojan volunteer forces.
Josephine’s shuttle touched down on the hangar platform of one of the far-side fortresses. Thanks to artificial gravity and the internal air-circulation systems, he could walk normally and breathe with ease. A group of a dozen officers—aides-de-camp, division staff, majors, and commanders from the Umojan volunteers—quickly approached him. They surrounded Josephine, bringing one piece of bad news after another.
“Lieutenant Colonel, twenty Behemoth-class battlecruisers,” reported the commander of the Umojan volunteer forces.
“Based on images transmitted by galactic telescopes and surveillance drones, the hull markings and insignias on their flanks indicate this fleet is a composite formation: Delta Squadron, Nova Squadron, Beta Squadron, and Omega Squadron.”
“Their support fleet is still mid-jump,” the officer continued.
“Based on trajectory data, the last recorded position of Omega Squadron was over a thousand light-years from Korhal. This means their transition into the Core Systems began at least three standard Earth weeks ago.”
“The flagship of the enemy fleet is less than two astronomical units from Canis,” another staff officer added.
“They haven’t deployed recon drones or strike craft yet. At their current speed, they’ll reach the gas giant Siren in no more than twenty minutes. The Revolutionary Army has nearly a hundred high-energy gas refineries on that planet.”
“But we only have a garrison of fewer than fifty thousand troops stationed there.”
“Who’s commanding them?” Josephine asked, clad in his thick officer’s uniform. He raised his eyes to the star-filled sky above.
Since Augustus had placed nearly twenty thousand Revolutionary soldiers under his command six months ago, even Josephine—despite his lack of aptitude—had gradually developed the poise of a leader.
Josephine was not a brilliant tactician or battle-hardened commander. A graduate of the Styrling Academy of Arts, he knew little of warfare. But he did understand the importance of listening to experts and how to manage a large military force with order and discipline.
“The flagship is the Norad I, from Beta Squadron,” the officer replied.
“According to intelligence provided by the Umojan Bureau, that battlecruiser is under the command of Garth Duke. Supposedly, he’s a relative of the famed Confederate admiral, Edmund Duke.”
“Perhaps they’ll stop at the gas giant to refuel,” Josephine speculated.
“The Federal Navy is already confident in its victory. Garth Duke is known to be a glory-seeker. We have no fleet capable of intercepting them—our only hope lies in the arrogance or stupidity of their commander.”
“Issue the order—” Josephine said.
“Scramble all fighters. Charge the fortress main cannons.”
“Yes, sir.”
The command was relayed swiftly and without hesitation.
From the top-level hangar platform of the fortress where Josephine stood, he could see Avenger-class fighters, painted in crimson basecoat with golden stripes, launching from the fortress's electromagnetic rails. Thousands of them soared into the sky like unsheathed blades.
The far side of Canis lay in shadow, the massive fortresses glowing faintly with low light. The ice-blue plasma trails from the Avenger fighters blazed upward like rising stars, while those launching from the satellite’s opposite hemisphere streaked across the darkness like comet tails.
A carrier, approximately 300 meters in length, cruised past Canis under the cover of a formation of Avenger-class fighters. Trailing it in a lateral formation were ten converted Titan-class frigates, all arrayed in tight defensive alignment. From the surface of Canis, these warships looked like dazzling stars against the dark void, hovering just a few dozen kilometers above the ground.
This was the last fleet they had.
Neither the ships nor the fighters had any real hope of returning. Every pilot and crew member who had set out did so with the resolve to die.
Josephine stood watching, grief and sorrow weighing on him.
If you were here, Augustus, what would you do?
We have no fleet left, nothing capable of resisting them. The outcome was sealed the moment Korhal IV rose in rebellion.
Despite being a naturally optimistic man, Josephine felt a tragic sense of duty settle upon him. Everyone fighting beside him had accepted the inevitability of sacrifice. He had once believed that greatness was a myth—that no one was truly noble. But now he realized: more than a million Korhalian soldiers possessed a spirit of selflessness and honor that defied imagination.
In moments when our species faces extinction, he thought, ordinary people will rise to extraordinary heights.
These Revolutionary Army soldiers were not brainwashed, resocialized drones. They were whole, independent individuals. They had minds of their own, and of course, they felt fear. Before shouldering Gauss rifles, many of them had been the sons and daughters of farmers and workers. Some had even lived selfish, small lives. And yet—they stayed on Korhal.
Everyone knew what was coming. If the Confederation intended to reduce Korhal IV to ash, then the Sons of Korhal were prepared to be consumed in the fire.
“Where is Marshal Mengsk’s fleet?” Josephine asked as he slipped on a military overcoat handed to him by one of his aides, then descended the spiral stairwell that led into the fortress.
“A classified Tier-5 transmission received yesterday reported that the First Fleet had reached star system MTY324586,” answered a young adjutant.
“It’s less than six light-years from Planet Dylar IV, home of the Dylarian Shipyards. They should have arrived by now. Even if the Terran Confederation's intelligence services managed to isolate that one message from the millions of decoys we deployed, it would still take them days to fully decode it.”
“If all goes well,” Josephine murmured as he stepped off the stairwell and entered the command center, “then by now the senators in the Tarsonis Federal Parliament are probably weeping and wailing in panic.”
The fortresses on Canis were built from modular plating, each equivalent in strength and scale to Fort Howe on Turaxis II. Every installation could house up to 5,000 fully armed Revolutionary troops, its interior designed with complex passageways and defenses. Deep beneath each fortress lay bunkers rated to withstand Class-4 nuclear detonations.
Along the corridor, Josephine passed numerous Revolutionary Army soldiers patrolling the passageways. To this day, only officers could afford powered armor, so the enlisted troops still wore standard deep gray uniforms, complete with side caps and arm patches.
Because the Korhal Revolutionary Army was not some ragtag peasant rebellion but a disciplined military force, the protocol of saluting superior officers on sight was enshrined in the enlistment oath itself. As Josephine passed, each soldier stood to attention, saluting him with expressions of solemn respect. This was a disciplined army, and Josephine felt a deep, genuine pride in being able to command it.
He had never imagined himself as an officer. He’d had dreams, both sweet and nightmarish, but none came close to the surreal reality he now lived. Just a year ago, Josephine had been an ordinary Terran Marine private, joining the military simply to lay low and avoid the consequences of his reckless life.
In his youth, Kurt Josephine had been considered a hopeless degenerate. His mother, Lady Josephine, had been so distressed by his debauchery that she was bedridden with grief. Josephine himself had never repented, never shown the slightest desire to change. His life, he figured, would end in some nameless battle on a nameless battlefield, just another expendable soldier in a war no one would remember.
No one would ask. No one would mourn.
Compared to his former commander Augustus, Josephine had been a far greater scoundrel in his early years. His cast-off lovers included noble heiresses, doctoral candidates at elite academies, and even the only daughter of a Styrling underworld boss. As for his many one-night stands, he’d long lost count.
By the time he realized how far he’d fallen, hired assassins were already impatient to claim his head. To spare his family from the fallout, Josephine had no choice but to enlist.
And if he were to die as a Terran Marine, so be it. A man like him—trash, really—deserved nothing more.
But Josephine had survived. War forged his will, and the bonds between comrades gave him a renewed sense of responsibility—one he might never have possessed before. His time among the Heaven’s Devils had taught him that genuine, unbreakable unity could exist between people. Gradually, he began confronting the past he’d run from, attempting to make amends for the mistakes he’d made.
Before this battle, Josephine had the chance to flee aboard the last wave of colonial ships evacuating the Korhal system. He could have saved himself.
But he didn’t.
His aging father had also joined the Korhal Revolutionary Army—and was now serving aboard the First Fleet.
The Josephine family was a noble house of Korhal, and Korhal’s nobility had always stood between its people and disaster. Like the knight-lords of old—those relics of a bygone age who still donned armor, raised greatswords, and mounted steeds—Korhal’s aristocrats carried the fierce spirit of their ancestors. Compared to Tarsonis, Korhal was a much younger colony, and its noble blood had not yet run cold.
Josephine had stayed behind for a simple reason. Like Lundstein, he was a Korhal native—a son of the old nobility. If outsiders like Harnack and Lisa Cassidy were willing to stay and fight for Korhal, then he could not flee without branding himself a coward in their eyes.
Among all the officers once of the Heaven’s Devils, only Josephine and Lundstein were born and raised on Korhal, noble sons whose forebears had sworn, in the early colonial days, to protect their people. Though the glory of that vow had long since faded, nearly every noble family that survived the waves of the Korhal Revolution had sent their children to war. Those without heirs had taken up arms themselves.
