The atmosphere inside the Commander's office at the Opal Starfield Theater Command was suffocatingly oppressive.
The seat of power had already been claimed by a new master.
Augustus Raphael.
He sat with his legs crossed, casually resting a pair of polished military boots on the office desk, his posture lazy and nonchalant. It was as if he weren't in the office of the Commander who held authority over an entire theater, but rather in his own private living room, radiating an air of careless arrogance.
His gaze drifted indifferently over the two people before him.
Strauss and Bradley.
A half-smile curled on Raphael's lips, his tone practically dripping with amusement.
"Tsk, tsk."
Raphael lightly wiggled his toes, his military boot making a soft scraping sound against the desk. Then, he spoke slowly.
"Feeling pretty frustrated, aren't you, Strauss?"
Strauss's expression was as grim as iron. He remained expressionless throughout, lips pressed tight, not uttering a single word. Only in the depths of his eyes did a flicker of imperceptible endurance pass, allowing the other man's mockery to prick him like needles.
Seeing him like this, Raphael's smile grew even more triumphant. He spread his hands, his provocation intensifying.
"Didn't see this coming, did you? Back then, you called me a bookworm every chance you got, looking down on me in every possible way. You probably never imagined that one day, I would sit above you and become your direct superior, right?"
He paused deliberately, emphasizing his words with a mocking tone.
"Quite a surprise? Quite a delight?"
Strauss remained silent, the atmospheric pressure around him dropping to a terrifying level. However, Bradley beside him could no longer contain himself; the rage in his body nearly burst from his chest.
He took a sudden step forward, his fists clenched so tightly they cracked. His voice was kept low, yet it couldn't hide the surging hostility.
"Presumptuous!"
Bradley's eyes widened as he glared at Raphael, his voice full of reprimand.
"Is the name of General Strauss something you can just call out casually? You are nothing more than a gold-plated incompetent dropped in from above. The Opal Star Sector is not a place for you to run wild, nor is it a theater you are fit to lead!"
The smile on Raphael's face slowly faded, and a cold glint entered his eyes as he shifted his gaze to Bradley. His gaze drifted slightly downward, glancing at the four military stars on Bradley's shoulder.
Unlike the military ranks of the Federation, the epaulettes of an Empire Admiral had one fewer star.
The curve of Raphael's lips deepened, his mockery now undisguised.
"Just a four-star Admiral."
As he spoke, he slowly raised his hand. His fingertips lightly brushed the General's epaulette on his own shoulder, the symbol of the highest authority in the theater. The golden military stars shimmered with a cold light under the lamps.
"It seems you aren't qualified to speak to me in that manner, are you?"
Bradley's face instantly flushed deep red, like a boiled shrimp. His lips trembled, wanting to say something, but he was rendered speechless by the other man's status and overwhelming pressure.
Raphael didn't bother looking at him again. His gaze returned to Strauss, the mockery in his voice thickening.
"No wonder you were routed by the Federation, unable to defend even half of the Opal Star Sector."
He glanced at the trembling Bradley and sneered.
"A dignified Admiral, and you've forgotten the most basic military regulations? To dare defy a superior in such a way. Was the unconditional obedience and respect for superiors taught at the Military Academy fed to the dogs?"
As his voice fell, he withdrew his gaze. His tone was casual, yet it carried an unquestionable command.
"Does a fellow who disregards military law and doesn't know his place deserve to be the Theater Chief of Staff? Go back to the grassroots of the fleet for more tempering. When you've learned how to follow the rules, come back and see me."
Strauss, who had been as silent as a mountain, finally spoke. His voice was low and steady, breaking the dead silence of the office.
"If you intend to drive Bradley away..."
He paused slightly and looked up at Raphael. His gaze was calm and rippleless, yet it held an uncompromising resolve.
"...then by all means, kick me—the man who irritates you so much—out along with him."
"Commander!"
Bradley turned sharply, his pupils shrinking. He looked at Strauss in utter disbelief, his body shuddering slightly. He had thought the Commander's previous jokes were merely casual consolations and had never taken them to heart. He hadn't expected his Commander to actually mean it!
Hearing this, Raphael waved his hand dismissively. His tone was light, as if discussing a trivial matter.
"Then please, be my guest. It saves me the trouble of playing the villain."
Strauss looked at Raphael and said calmly, "Even after several decades, my evaluation of you remains the same: unqualified."
"You always believe you are the master strategist, capable of calculating every detail and controlling every variable. But you don't realize that sometimes, your calculations are merely the most insignificant link in someone else's scheme."
As the words fell, the corner of Raphael's mouth twitched. A flash of undisguised ferocity crossed his eyes, and the hostility and resentment accumulated over decades surged within him.
The floodgates of memory burst open, and Raphael's thoughts were instantly pulled back to his student days.
At that time, Strauss was already a renowned veteran of the military world. He had been invited to Raphael's academy to engage in a public tactical simulation with the student recognized as the academy's tactical genius.
Back then, Raphael had indeed achieved early fame; he was high-spirited, his eyes full of arrogance and conceit. But when he truly faced the experienced and meticulous Strauss, he was utterly defeated—swiftly and cleanly, without a single shred of room to resist.
What he truly resented to this day was not the failure itself, but the merciless belittlement Strauss delivered after the simulation ended.
The man had looked at him, his tone cold and blunt, stating plainly that he was an abysmal commander who was fundamentally unfit to hold military power.
That sentence was like a poisoned thorn driven deep into his heart, remaining there for decades, gnawing away at his self-esteem and pride day and night.
From then on, he cast aside his arrogance and began to strive for strength. Day after day, high-intensity tactical simulations and simulated combat training followed one after another, never ceasing. Eventually, he broke every training record in the academy's history, stepping stone by stepping stone to his current position.
Everything he did, everything he struggled for, was so that one day he could stand proudly before Strauss and personally tear that evaluation to shreds, proving that he was not as pathetic as the man had claimed.
Thinking of this, the hatred in Raphael's heart dissipated slightly. After all, Strauss was now his subordinate. He had won—he had won that contest from years ago, and he had won over the obsession of these past decades.
Strauss was unaware of the turmoil of the past and the obsession swirling in Raphael's mind. He simply gave Raphael one last deep look, his voice heavy.
"You command twelve Sequence Fleets, and you bear the survival of the entire Opal Star Sector on your shoulders."