Sector 101 – Mid Region, Planet Shadhar

Claaack!

A thunderous sound echoed through the air as a colossal figure descended from the sky, his boots striking the marble tiles at the entrance of the imperial palace. Dust rose gently from the impact before settling around his imposing frame.

The man appeared to be in his forties, yet the weight of countless campaigns was etched into the lines of his face. His physique was formidable — broad-shouldered, carved like stone, and radiating the aura of someone who had spent a lifetime amidst battlefields.

His jaw was square and strong, cheekbones sharp and pronounced, and his gray hair cropped short in military fashion. Covering his entire body was a set of gray-black armor, sleek yet monstrous in design. Every plate, every ridge of that armor pulsed faintly with dormant energy — the kind that made the air itself quiver around him.

Each segment bore runic inscriptions that shimmered like veins of molten silver, and together they exuded an authority so suffocating that any ordinary soldier would freeze in his presence. This was no mere mid-tier epic armor — its aura alone suggested that it had been forged in the heart of a dying star.

The man straightened his back and began walking toward the grand entrance, his steps echoing like the strikes of a hammer. But after only a few strides, his instincts flared — honed by decades of warfare — and he turned sharply to glance behind him.

"Hmm?"

Clack!

A second impact followed, softer but no less deliberate. A woman landed gracefully at the same spot he had, the identical armor encasing her slender frame — though on her, it moved like a second skin, emphasizing her feline grace rather than raw strength. Her movements were measured, deliberate, almost predatory.

"Marshal Thran…" she called, her voice smooth and clear, yet carrying a sharp undertone. "Even you were summoned?"

As she approached, her eyes — wide, glimmering with alert intelligence — darted briefly across the palace walls. "Seems today's meeting is broader in scope than I anticipated."

"There have been far too many of these 'full-scale convocations' lately," Thran replied, his tone gravelly, the weight of old wars buried within it. He waited for her to reach his side, then began walking again. "The last one was thirty-five years ago — the day His Majesty warned us about the disturbances in the southwestern Aurora Starfield. And now this…" His expression hardened, a deep furrow forming between his brows. "I fear… today's call will bring the declaration."

His words hung heavy between them.

Thirty-five years ago, His Majesty had summoned every Marshal and Archlord in the empire to an emergency meeting — a call so grave it had only ever happened once before in recorded history: the day His Majesty's father had launched a direct assault on Planet Shadhar itself.

At that historic gathering, the Emperor had revealed something that shook even the most stoic generals — that they stood mere steps away from a true cosmic war, one that would pit them against the Behemoths themselves: Zavaros, Behemoth of Savagery; Darvion, Behemoth of Curses; and, most likely, Kaylis, Behemoth of Purity, who would surely join at the decisive moment.

The chamber had fallen into silence that day — not out of fear, but disbelief. The Emperor's next revelation had turned that silence into dread. Through projection orbs, he had shown them live images of the southwestern Aurora Starfield provided by the shadow swords — thousands of enemy fleets amassed in the dark, poised to strike at a single command.

Thousands.

That number had made even the most battle-hardened officers shift uncomfortably in their seats. Even the strongest empire in the entire Mid Sector 101 — their empire — could not summon more than four hundred fleets in a full-scale war.

And yet, at the end of that meeting, Emperor Hedrick had not shouted orders, nor had he demanded strategies. He had merely told them to prepare.

Withdraw from all open conflicts.

Cease expansion.

Repair the fleets, train the armies, and gather resources.

Then — wait.

"The declaration will come today?" the woman finally said, breaking the silence as they walked beneath the looming palace towers. "You mean the declaration of cosmic war? Under those conditions we were told before? I doubt it. Wars of that magnitude… they take centuries to ignite. Even a hundred years wouldn't be enough to ready us."

"It didn't happen quickly," Thran muttered darkly. "We were simply too blind to see it forming." He clenched his gauntleted fists so tightly that the air cracked faintly around them. "The trap has been closing for centuries — and we only noticed when the jaws were already locked. Let's hope His Majesty used these thirty-five years wisely." His eyes hardened into cold steel. "This summons isn't for ceremony. If we are not the ones declaring war today…" He looked up at the darkening sky. "…then someone else already has. And that — is the only reason to call another Empire-wide council."

The woman's eyes narrowed as unease rippled across her face. She turned back toward the towering palace doors. "You've managed to worry me more than I already was," she murmured. "Let's hope, for both our sakes, that neither of us is right."

Thran smirked, the kind of grin that belonged only to men who had seen too many wars to still fear death. "No need to worry," he said, stepping forward and planting both hands on the colossal metal doors. With a grunt, he pushed — the hinges groaned, ancient and heavy, as the gates slowly parted before him.

"It's just another war," he said with a dry chuckle. "In the end, death's the same — no matter what name the enemy wears."

Rrrr

At once, the throne hall revealed itself before them.

"This…?"

The atmosphere was nothing like what they were accustomed to.

His Majesty, Hedrick, was not seated on the towering throne with guests lined up before him in ceremonial order. Instead, the center of the hall was dominated by the massive strategic map platform, its ethereal glow painting the surrounding walls in shades of blue and crimson.

At the head of that platform stood Lord Hedrick himself, clad in full military attire. His long, silvery-white hair was tied back, exposing the face he usually kept hidden beneath his imperial veil. His expression was one of steel—sharp and solemn—and his eyes blazed like two crimson rubies, radiating both authority and a restrained, terrifying fury as he stared down at the map before him.

Around him stood roughly thirty figures, their presence alone enough to shake the air in the hall. Beside him were Heigra, his personal aide, and Drais, the Royal Soul Master—his right and left hands, respectively. The rest were high marshals, grand generals, and commanders of the Imperial Guard, each one a Nexus State wielder, a being whose soul was bound to a cosmic law.

Every one of them was focused on the glowing map before them, their postures rigid and expressions grim. And yet, from time to time, subtle, almost reverent glances were cast toward their ruler's uncovered face—toward the man whose presence alone could bend wills. It was as if many of them were seeing the true Hedrick for the first time.

"Thran, Livia." His Majesty's calm yet commanding voice echoed from the platform. "Do you two not intend to join us?"

"Oh—right away, Your Majesty!" The two quickly crossed the hall and took their places among the gathered officers. The instant they laid eyes on the map, their sharp minds grasped its meaning, and tension coursed through their bodies like an electric surge.

It was a map of the Southwestern Aurora Starfield—a complex region filled with dozens upon dozens of luminous worlds. But fifteen of them shone in a deep, blood-red hue. The significance was unmistakable: His Majesty intended to strike those fifteen worlds.

"Will anyone else be arriving?" Hedrick asked quietly, not looking up. His words hung in the air, and everyone understood that only one person in the room was authorized to answer such a question.

Heigra's voice broke the silence. "No, Your Majesty. The remaining Nexus States are either stationed around the Galactic Seed of Verilion, or assigned to the defense of our western starfield borders, in case the enemy moves before we do."

"There's already been troop deployment to our borders?" Marshal Thran frowned deeply, disbelief evident in his tone. "Why wasn't I informed of this?"

His duty was overseeing expansion, subjugating and integrating new worlds. Border defense was not under his command. Yet for a movement of such magnitude to occur without him being notified—it was troubling, even insulting.

"No matter," Hedrick said coldly, eyes never leaving the map. "You will all know everything after this meeting."

Then, with deliberate calm, he extended his hand toward the star map. "All of you," he said, his voice gaining a heavy, resonant edge that filled the vast hall, "memorize this layout of the Southwestern Aurora Starfield well."

He pressed his palms against the edge of the table, leaning slightly forward, his gaze sharp as a blade drawn for war.

"Because the coming centuries of your lives will be spent within it. You will either return victorious…"—he paused, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips—

"…or you will never return at all."

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