According to the military's original strategic plan, the massive second fleet departing from Moon Base would have become the decisive force to crush ZAFT's defenses completely. But now, this fresh force that carried the Earth Alliance's final hope of victory, along with the entire rear base, had become a sacrifice to the void beneath Genesis's single strike. The reinforcements they had awaited would never reach this battlefield.
Had they truly lost?
That terrifying thought pierced deep into Djibril's mind like an icy poisoned thorn.
The word defeat was an unbearable humiliation to Djibril, who had always held himself in high regard and viewed Coordinators as inferior creations.
No, absolutely not. We had not lost. How could those arrogant Astray monsters possibly defeat humanity's pure bloodline? But the situation had already spiraled completely out of control.
Djibril clenched his teeth so hard that the taste of blood seeped from his gums.
His once fair and handsome face twitched faintly with humiliation and rage, yet in his supremely pragmatic and cold eyes, an utterly clear calculation of self-interest flashed in an instant.
He had to retreat from here immediately. If he remained in this airspace, which could be swept by another blast of Death's Light at any moment, then his incomparably precious life would be reduced to space debris alongside these soldiers for no reason at all.
Lord Djibril was a man possessed of immense ambition for power and racial superiority, and his hatred of Coordinators was enough to drive him to plot war after war of extermination.
But beneath all that fanaticism, rooted deep in his bones, was cowardice beyond that of ordinary men and an extreme fear of death.
Yet for a politician in high office, this almost instinctive sensitivity to danger was precisely the talisman that had allowed him