Chapter 6: The Last Stronghold

The day receded with a heavy gloom, the horizon painted in muted grays as if mourning the losses yet to come. The earlier proceedings, which had erupted in chaos, did little to slow the relentless advance of the Emperor's war machine. The air was tense, filled with the echoes of distant gunfire and the hum of approaching imperial forces.

As the curtain of night began to fall, the southern fleet prepared for their stand.

---

"Get over here, you pieces of shit!" bellowed Lord Bolton, commander of the southern fleet, his voice cutting through the noise like a whip. "Move your lazy asses! We need to fall into defensive positions now!"

The soldiers scrambled into formation, the urgency in Bolton's voice leaving no room for hesitation. His fiery demeanor was both feared and respected. The commander stood tall amidst the chaos, his presence a rallying point for the battle-worn soldiers.

"The empire's war machine has reached our doorstep!" Lord Bolton thundered. "Move, soldiers! We are humanity's last hope!"

---

The assault on Earth's capital—humanity's final stronghold—raged on. The sound of blaster fire, the screech of falling bombs, and the cries of battle painted a grim symphony of destruction. Azazel, positioned on the front lines, fought with ferocity, firing at the advancing imperial forces with unyielding determination.

"Uncle!" Azazel called out, his voice barely audible over the deafening roar of combat.

Lord Bolton turned, his face hardened but focused. "What is it, son? Remember, I'm a commander first before I'm your uncle. There's no room for camaraderie in war."

"I'm not here for that, sir," Azazel replied, panting. "I bring grave news."

Bolton narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. "What's wrong, Azazel? Speak quickly."

"Boyka has been captured by the imperial forces," Azazel said grimly. "And…" he hesitated, swallowing hard. "They've encircled the capital. We're completely surrounded."

Lord Bolton's face fell for the briefest moment, a flicker of sorrow passing through his stern expression. With a heavy sigh, he gave a sad grin, his shoulders straightening as he absorbed the weight of the news.

"That's the worst report I've heard all day," he muttered. His voice, though calm, carried a depth of emotion that only those closest to him could detect. "Azazel, run ahead and have the soldiers gathered at once."

"Yes, sir!" Azazel shouted, saluting before dashing off into the fray.

---

As Azazel disappeared into the chaos, Lord Bolton turned back to the battlefield. His mind raced, formulating strategies in the face of impossible odds. The imperial forces were closing in, and time was running out. Yet, for all the despair that threatened to overwhelm him, he knew one truth: surrender was not an option.

Bolton's gaze swept over his soldiers, battered but unbroken, each one a testament to humanity's resilience. They were the last line of defense, the final flicker of hope in a world teetering on the edge of annihilation. And as long as he stood, he would not let that flame go out.

"Hold the line!" he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. "We fight for every inch of this ground! For every soul that remains free! For humanity itself!"

The soldiers responded with a resounding battle cry, their voices filled with defiance and determination. The southern fleet braced for the storm, ready to meet the empire's fury head-on. In their hearts, they knew the odds were against them. But in that moment, united under their commander's unyielding resolve, they were more than soldiers—they were humanity's last stand.