Yamamoto sat comfortably before the monitors, scanning the shifting data streams with only mild interest.
To him, the situation was already decided.
The enemy’s movements were obvious—too obvious. Capital was splitting, forces scattering, retreat paths forming. In Yamamoto’s eyes, this wasn’t strategy. It was panic.
He let out a short, dismissive laugh.
“So that’s it?” he murmured. “That’s all they can do?”
He had observed Noah Steele’s side long enough to believe he understood them. Technically competent, yes—but limited. Predictable. The kind of opponent that collapsed once pressure increased.
That was exactly why Kameda’s insistence that he personally intervene had irritated him so deeply.
To Yamamoto, it felt like an insult.
Using him for this was like bringing artillery to hun
