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SCL Chapter 118: Korhal Must Burn
🕑 Added 2025-06-14 02:17:16 +0000 UTCUrthos System, Federal Frontier
Battlecruiser Iron Justice, en route to the capital planet of Artesia Prime. A.D. 2489.05.22, shipboard time: 08:54.
“Drop the nukes! Turn Korhal IV into scorched earth!”
The ship’s bar was packed with Marines in brown combat uniforms and fleet personnel in black space suits, all drawn there by the news. Most of the Marines belonged to the 33rd Ground Assault Division, the same unit Augustus had once commanded.
The bar, already cramped, couldn’t hold the crowd. Some soldiers had clambered onto the tables. The chaos was overwhelming—people crushed into the corners had scraped down the shooting competition posters from the walls, and the hanging ceiling lamps shook with every jostling movement.
Since the Iron Justice was still within the range of the Federation’s thirteen core worlds, it had been among the first ships to receive the breaking news.
A non-commissioned officer from Korhal IV was covering his face, sobbing uncontrollably. This was the same man who hadn’t shed a single tear even after losing part of his skull in the Sigma Landing—but now he was on the brink of collapse. Another soldier cried out his wife’s and daughter’s names, wailing, convinced that Korhal had already been annihilated.
“That’s his home. His family’s still there,” a fellow Marine explained to the others. “He can’t save them.”
More soldiers were pouring in from the upper deck compartments near the bar. As the crowd grew, latecomers had to line the corridor outside the door.
Everywhere, people were asking the same question—
What happened to Korhal IV?
But once they found out the truth, the soldiers could only stare blankly at the TV screen above the bar, utterly lost.
“Is this some kind of sick April Fool’s joke, or did UNN’s satellite feed get hacked?”
None of them could believe it—how could UNN be broadcasting a military secret that, even if true, should never have gone public?
“There’s no way this is real. Parliament would have to be completely insane to open fire on its own people.”
Ever since a few soldiers had first heard the news six hours earlier, the bar’s TV had been looping the same segment over and over.
“We’re sorry. We are currently experiencing technical difficulties. Our technicians are working to fix the malfunctioning equipment.”
That line played right after the Federation Speaker’s earth-shattering announcement—just before the emergency signal cut the broadcast.
The newscast had been hastily handed off to a daytime anchor who had been dragged out of bed by a Marine kicking in his door. The man still looked rattled, but at least he wasn’t stammering.
“And now, a word from the Marine Corps recruitment division: Answer the call of your government—enlist today! Defend our homes, repel the Kel-Morian Combine! It is the sacred duty of every Federation citizen.”
The anchor fidgeted nervously with his tie.
“For more information, please visit the official UNN Interstellar News Network website. We offer the most comprehensive and authoritative exclusive coverage. UNN’s motto: Uncover the truth, no matter the cost.”
But of course, those few sentences did nothing to dispel the confusion.
“Return to your posts! No loitering in the corridors!”
Suddenly, the voice of Lieutenant Colonel Horace Warfield came over the ship’s comms. Before the military police even arrived, the gathered soldiers began scattering like startled birds.
Only a few Marines from Korhal IV refused to leave. They stood silently inside the bar, still staring up at the television, hoping for more updates.
A few minutes later, Horace Warfield himself stepped into the bar, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant colonel—the commander of the 2nd Brigade of the 33rd Ground Assault Division. He glanced at the four or five Korhal-born soldiers.
“Why are you disobeying orders?” he asked.
“We’re from Korhal, sir,” one private replied.
Warfield paused, then spoke in a softer tone.
“Go get some rest. Sleep on it. Things will get better.”
“This isn’t over yet. It’s not too late to turn it around.”
The private shook his head, eyes full of grief but voice steady.
“Sir, until we find out what really happened… we’re not leaving.”
Warfield gave a small nod—and didn’t force them to comply.
Warfield stepped up to the television screen. Once again, the solemn and grand Hall of Reason appeared as part of the broadcast’s loop. The image of Speaker MacMasters—once a revered figure who had spoken firmly and bravely for the people—now appeared cold and procedural, creating a sharp and bitter irony.
“Switch to the live broadcast channel,” Warfield ordered. He had already seen this footage more than once and didn’t want to see it again.
Where Iron Justice currently was positioned, the news feed had nearly a thirty-minute delay. At that moment, the television was still airing a fashion ad for designer lingerie, and Warfield, unusually for him, began to show signs of irritation.
Even now, Warfield still couldn’t believe that the government he had fought for could commit an act bordering on genocide—a plan of racial extermination so cruel, so inhuman, that it echoed the darkest chapters of human history.
And yet… even so, it was still impossible to fully accept that it was real. It was simply too outrageous, too horrifying. A part of him clung to the hope that it had to be false.
As Warfield brooded over this unbearable truth, the bar’s television finally cut away from the ads. A man in a black suit and blue tie appeared, his hands resting firmly on the podium at a press conference. Below the stage, journalists held up microphones.
“At 08:00 Tarsonis time, the Federal Security Bureau held an emergency press conference. This is Lorraine reporting live for UNN from the city of Tarsonis,” the anchor narrated.
At the venue, more than twenty journalists from different news outlets were present. Many of them had been roused from their beds in the early morning, their instincts sharpened the moment they saw swarms of armed airships take to the sky.
“I am here only to answer a few questions,” the spokesman said gravely, tightening his tie.
“Baseless accusations and malicious slander will be addressed by the sacred and unshakable laws of the Federation.”
“Eyewitnesses claim that a group of terrorists stormed the UNN headquarters and took control for at least an hour. Can you confirm this?” asked a reporter from the Tyrador Union Daily.
“It’s true that terrorists infiltrated the UNN headquarters and caused some disturbances. The Federal Security Bureau is currently investigating the incident. We have sufficient evidence and reason to believe that the mastermind behind this terrorist act was Angus Mengsk, the 'Mad Dog of Korhal.' He and his rebel faction must be held accountable.”
“What role did the Tarsonis police force play in this heinous event? Our viewers want to know whether negligent officers are still worthy of taxpayer money,” challenged a reporter from Antiga Broadcasting.
“In fact, our police performed exceptionally,” the spokesman replied, shaking his head. “If you read our official reports, you’ll see that not a single hostage was harmed. That alone proves how successful our rescue operation was.”
“I’d like to hear your response to the allegations that the Federation Parliament has authorized the use of 1,000 Apocalypse-class nuclear warheads to annihilate Korhal IV,” a UNN reporter said bluntly.
“I have nothing to say to that. Any groundless accusation against the government is treasonous slander. Let me remind everyone: spreading rumors is against the law.”
“So you’re denying the authenticity of the unidentified footage? Because that was all fabricated by the rebels, right? Digitally manipulated images? Virtual simulations?” another journalist suggested, conveniently offering the spokesman a ready-made excuse. “Even the resolution to bomb Korhal might have been forged.”
“I don’t know,” said the spokesman. “Next question.”
“Has Parliament rescinded or withdrawn the resolution to use Apocalypse-class nuclear weapons on Korhal IV?” asked a reporter from Rosa Global News Broadcast, framing the question as if the resolution’s existence was already a given.
“I don’t know,” the spokesman replied again.
“In light of the riots and protests erupting across the Federation’s core and frontier worlds since this news broke, how does the government plan to respond?” shouted a journalist from Hermes Media Group.
"Naturally, those who scorn the law are criminals," the spokesman declared.
"Our reporters stationed on Korhal IV have captured footage of widespread chaos caused by mass panic. Shuttles carrying the wealthy were shot down moments after liftoff. Civilians began fleeing the cities en masse, digging deep into underground bomb shelters."
"Korhal IV must pay the price for its betrayal. The Federation government gave them more than enough chances."
...
—Silence.
“Damn it… He won’t admit it, because that would make it real.”
Back in the Iron Justice’s bar, a soldier of Korhal descent spoke through trembling shoulders, his brown eyes brimming with tears. Every Korhal-born soldier stood grieving, their thoughts consumed by memories of their beautiful homeworld and their loved ones left behind.
“They are going to do it. They will drop the nukes. If the Federation government had ever truly listened to its people, they wouldn’t have made a decision like this. We wouldn’t have needed to resist…”
The nearly seven-foot-tall Korhal native choked out the words to his commanding officer through sobs.
“Sir, we have to go back,” he said.
“Back to Korhal.”
“But right now, you must stay on this ship. There’s nowhere else for you to go. Even if I dropped you off at the nearest colony, we’re still over one million astronomical units away from anything.”
Warfield’s tone was firm—unshakeably so.
“Son, stay here. While you’re without a home, the 33rd Ground Assault Division is your home.”
...
Captain’s Quarters – A.D. 2489.05.25, Shipboard Time: 09:24
Inside the Iron Justice’s captain’s quarters, Lieutenant Colonel Horace Warfield stood before nearly a third of the ship’s senior personnel: non-commissioned officers, master sergeants, lieutenants, and commanders. More than eighty people packed into the not-so-spacious chamber. Some had to stand in the corridor outside due to lack of room.
These were Warfield’s trusted veterans—men and women he had led personally or promoted with care. Every one of them had been selected based on their background and political leanings, handpicked as the most dependable.
“Damn it, if that senator were standing right in front of me, I’d knock every last tooth out of his mouth,” growled Major Charles 'Chuck' Horner, his anger boiling over in the cramped space.
