135: Chapter 135 The Humble Races Suffering Heavy Losses

Even when merely facing mindless biological weapons like Mutalisks, corrupting agents, and Corruptors that had slipped past the first line of defense, the weaker races were being unilaterally slaughtered.

Before the war, these races had fantasized about proving their worth and winning a greater voice within the Alliance of Ten Thousand Races. But reality slapped them hard—in the face of true cosmic-scale warfare, weakness itself is the original sin.

The Kobold race's flagship, the "Gold Digger," was currently burning in space.

This "capital ship," converted from a large mining vessel, was only three kilometers long, and its thickest armor was merely fifteen meters.

Its only main cannon was indeed, as Major General Zhao Yu had said, no thicker than the arm of an adult human male. Such firepower might suffice against a lone Mutalisk, but when twelve Corruptors targeted it simultaneously, its fate was sealed.

The acidic spores sprayed by the Corruptors etched honeycomb-like holes into the armor plating of the "Gold Digger," and subsequently, more spores burrowed through these holes into the interior.

Inside the bridge, the Kobold captain watched helplessly as the alloy walls melted before him, and green acid mist poured in through the ventilation ducts, dissolving his crew one by one into bubbling pus.

"Abandon ship! All hands aban—" The captain's final order remained unfinished; a pool of acid dripped onto his head, and two seconds later, only a smoking skeleton remained in the command chair.

The fate of the Gnome race was even more ironic.

They had not formed a line on the second front, but instead prepared to execute the teachings in their tactical manual—"Utilize all available cover." The problem was that their judgment in choosing cover was truly terrible.

Three Gnome destroyers attempted to hide behind a heavy cruiser of the Light Giant Race, which had seemed like a good idea. However, they had not anticipated that the cruiser would suddenly receive orders to turn and support friendly forces in another sector.

The cover moved away, and they did not follow.

Exposed to the Zerg Swarm's firepower, the Gnome destroyers' weak shields were pierced within five seconds. Worse still, the engine of one of the destroyers exploded under overloaded operation, and the explosion affected the adjacent friendly ships, triggering a chain reaction.

Thirty seconds later, those three warships had turned into floating metal wreckage, and none of the 1,200 Gnome crew members inside survived.

The Slime Race... they no longer wished to recall what had just happened.

As a race primarily composed of liquid life forms, the Slime Race's warships were themselves a miracle of biotechnology—giant, translucent gelatinous vesicles filled with high-energy nutrient solution, in which the Slime crew floated, controlling the warship through neural links.

This design gave the Slime warships extremely strong self-repair capabilities and environmental adaptability, but it also brought a fatal weakness: an extreme fear of high temperatures and energy impacts.

When a group of Devourers sprayed plasma fireballs at the Slime fleet, disaster struck. The high temperature caused the gelatinous vesicles to rapidly solidify and become brittle, subsequently shattering under the energy impact.

The internal nutrient solution boiled and vaporized in the vacuum, and those poor Slime crew members... most of them were directly evaporated by the high heat, while the few survivors became shriveled gelatinous fragments floating in space.

The most tragic was probably the Halfling race.

This race was known for their stubbornness and sense of honor; even when clearly outmatched, they still chose to fight to the death without retreating. Their fleet was small in scale, with fewer than fifty frigate-class ships.

When swarms of Mutalisks and Corruptors lunged toward this node, the Halfling fleet did not flinch.

"For the Alliance! For honor!" the fleet commander issued a final shout over the communication channel.

The fifty frigates formed a dense defensive array, firing all available artillery at the bugs. They were like a fragile wall, attempting to block the surging tide.

The wall held for four hours. Four hours later, the Halfling fleet had lost one-third of its strength.

And such tragedies were playing out in every sector of the weak races.

"Report! The Goblin race's Third Fleet has been completely wiped out; survivors are boarding lifeboats and retreating to the rear."

"Report! The Murloc race's mothership, 'Deep Sea,' has suffered heavy damage and has lost combat capability."

"Report! The Lizardman race's 'Scale Fleet' has suffered losses exceeding sixty percent; the commander is requesting... no, he is requesting permission for them to surrender."

Bishop Albert listened to these reports, his face growing paler and paler. He sat in the command chair, his fingers tapping the armrest unconsciously, and finally sighed deeply.

"Approve the evacuation requests of all weak races," his voice was exhausted. "Let them preserve their strength and retreat to the rear safe zone to reorganize."

The adjutant hesitated, "Bishop, if they all withdraw, the pressure on the right flank will shift directly onto us and the Angels and Devils; at that point..."

"I know," Albert interrupted him. "But keeping them on the front line is meaningless now; it only increases casualties in vain. These races... they should never have appeared on a battlefield of this level."

He paused and smiled bitterly, "Tell Major General Zhao Yu of the Blazing Dragon Federation that the Holy Alliance does not intend to continue investing in the Alliance of Ten Thousand Races' development fund next year. With this money, we might as well build a few more Radiance battleships; at least they can play a practical role on the battlefield."

The adjutant took the order and left.

Bishop Albert looked out the porthole, where the remnants of the weak races' fleets were retreating in panic. Their formations were scattered, morale had collapsed, and some were even colliding with each other in the scramble for escape corridors. Behind them, the Zerg Swarm's pursuing forces were in hot pursuit, like sharks smelling blood.

"This is reality," the Bishop muttered to himself. "If you are weak, you get beaten. Even escaping... depends on the whims of the strong."

The front line was slowly and steadily pushing backward.

Although the Blazing Dragon Federation and the Olympia Empire were still resisting stubbornly, although the Holy Alliance was doing its best on the right flank, and although the Angels and Devils were fighting to their limits, the absolute disadvantage in numbers was gradually turning into an irreversible battlefield situation.

From the front line at the start of the war to now, the Alliance of Ten Thousand Races coalition had retreated a full 0.1 astronomical units. And behind them lay the destination of this trial—Planet G-77-3.

"At this rate of retreat, in at most ten hours, the Zerg Swarm's vanguard will enter the planetary orbital fire zone."

Major General Zhao Yu announced the latest simulation results at the joint command center, "By then, not only will the trial students on the ground be unable to evacuate, but it will even be a question of whether we ourselves can retreat unscathed."

Prince Krol's projection had come back online; his right arm had finished regenerating, though the new skin still glowed with an unnatural pink color.

The expression of this veteran Tier 6 powerhouse was equally grave: "I have fought Oriana, and although I blew her up once, that old monster definitely didn't die. She is hiding deep within the Zerg Swarm healing, and once she recovers, she will definitely command the general offensive personally."

He looked at the star map, his gaze falling on Planet G-77-3: "We must get the children out before that."