Legacy of the Void Fleet

She was right.

As harsh and merciless as her words had been, they cut through the fog in his heart like a blade of truth. He had changed. Or so he thought. Yet, somewhere beneath the newfound strength and power, beneath the image of the Imperial Commander—the true Kallus had remained shackled. Still chained to the ghosts of a past he couldn’t change, still drowning in a guilt that was never fully his to bear.

He closed his eyes.

Everything he had done—building fleets, unlocking ancient technologies and that to with ease after all he had system store with purchasing power that renewed every month, and yet he always that that all this he had done as if trying to prove something. Not to the galaxy. Not even to his enemies.

And definitely not the Supreme being.

But to himself.

And now… he realized that all of it had been a mask. The darkness within him, the weight of his other self—the Kallus who had merged with this universe’s version, broken and burdened—it hadn’t vanished.

It had simply been suppressed.

Swallowed. Buried.

But never healed.

Was it right to forget? To let go?He didn’t know.Not yet.

But he did know one thing:

He couldn’t allow this festering shadow inside him to keep dragging him backward.

Not when countless lives now stood behind him.

Not when his actions decided the fate of entire worlds.

Not when the future of Earth… of Luna… of every soul under his command now depended on him standing tall.

He exhaled slowly, his breath steady now. His gaze sharpened.

No more.No more wallowing in guilt.No more hiding behind regret.

He might not be ready to let go of the past completely—but he would no longer let it define him.

Responsibility didn’t wait for healing. It demanded resolve.

And for their sake—for everyone who followed him, who trusted him—he would find the will to move forward, even if he had to rebuild it from the shards of his broken self.

Even though the fire of newfound resolve now burned steadily within him, Kallus said nothing.

Not a word.No declarations.No promises.

Instead, he met the Red Empress’s eyes—just for a moment—and gave her a look. A quiet, unwavering look of reassurance.

It said everything words could not.That he would act.That he would plan.That this time, he would move not from emotion—but with clarity, with conviction.

Then, without a sound, his form shimmered and vanished from the command room of the Obliterator, whisked away to the vast and mysterious Universal Plane.

Leaving the Empress alone in the quiet hum of the command deck.

She stood there silently for a while, her crimson eyes still focused on the spot where Kallus had just stood. The afterimage of that look—so simple, yet so weighty—lingered in her mind, echoing louder than any speech he could have made.

And then, without her realizing, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at her lips.

She exhaled softly and murmured to herself, ”Looks like my words actually reached him this time…”

It wasn’t triumph.It wasn’t pride.It was something gentler.

A sense of quiet relief.

She turned away then, her posture straightening as she faced the holographic displays hovering before her. The burdens Kallus had left in her care—overseeing the cleanup operation, managing fleet logistics, stabilizing the situation—these were her responsibility now.

Even if only for a few hours… she would treat them with the seriousness they deserved.

Because she, too, understood—this wasn’t just about orders anymore.

This was about trust.

And she would honor it.

Meanwhile…

Far, far away from the Regied Star System—thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of light-years distant—lay one of the core worlds of the enigmatic and ancient Star Race.

Its name: Genesis.

A world wrapped in solar winds and burning skies, Genesis was no mere planet. It was a sovereign domain ruled by one of the Star Empire’s noble lords, Earl Vireon Flameborn of the Flameborn Family. As an Earl of the Empire, Vireon held dominion not just over Genesis, but over a dozen neighboring star systems—granted to him directly by the imperial household as a fiefdom, a token of trust and status.

Like all of the Star Race, Vireon had been born with something other races could only dream of: an inner world of his own.While Dragons, Phoenixes, and other mythical species labored for centuries to forge their inner worlds through cultivation, the Star Race was born with them—a trait that made their kind uniquely powerful, born with potential that dwarfed others even before their first breath.

Yet even among Star Race nobles, the Flameborn bloodline stood apart.

Each child of the Flameborn Family was intrinsically tied to the element of fire. Their inner worlds burned with molten seas and volcanic mountains, echoing their lineage’s profound elemental affinity. It was no surprise, then, that Vireon’s domain radiated with the same ferocity—his capital city pulsed with geothermal veins, its skies streaked with crimson ash.

Inside Vireon’s ancestral manor, deep within the volcanic mountains of Genesis, there lay a grand chamber. It bore the structure of a throne room, yet lacked the pomp—replaced by burning braziers, obsidian floors, and a ceiling wreathed in slow-moving embers.

At the head of the chamber sat the Earl himself.

Vireon Flameborn.

A towering figure nearly eight feet tall, his obsidian-like skin glistened with a metallic sheen, as though he had been sculpted from volcanic glass. His hair blazed like golden fire, flowing upward and flickering constantly, as if the very flames of his inner world leaked into reality.

Before him knelt six towering figures—creatures that bore a striking resemblance to the Minotaur Race.

And indeed, they were Minotaurs.

Armored in dark steel, each one radiated raw physical might and ancestral fury. But more than that, they carried a scent of blood, war, and something else…

Urgency.

These Minotaurs were no ordinary warriors.

Though their appearance—towering forms, bulging muscles, horns like scimitars—radiated power, they were not emissaries of brute force. No, they were diplomats, or rather, representatives of the Minotaur clan

In the grand hierarchy of the Galactic Domain, the Minotaur clan stood near the bottom. They lacked the influence to be received by dukes, archdukes, or any figure of true authority in the great interstellar empires. Even meeting an Earl like Vireon Flameborn was a rare opportunity, one afforded only by necessity or carefully calculated petition.

As for the Star Emperor himself? That was a dream they dare not speak aloud.

Their purpose today was singular: the Sol Region.

They had grand designs for it. Ambitions. Plans.

But their power, even combined with allied forces, had proven woefully inadequate. Unknown to them, their ”proud fleet”—deemed sufficient to seize control of Sol—had already met an unseen fate. But even now, ignorant of this, the Minotaurs had come to court favor with one of the most feared noble lines in the galaxy.

And they knew what was at stake.

Inside the obsidian chamber of Earl Vireon Flameborn, silence reigned.

Then came the voice—deep, regal, and suffused with scorching pressure.

”Speak.””Why do you, people of the Minotaur race, seek the attention of my kind?”

The weight of those words slammed into the chamber like a solar flare.

The six Minotaurs, already kneeling, were nearly crushed to the floor. Their hearts pounded, instincts screaming that a wrong word would mean death. Their muscles tensed, not in defiance—but as if preparing for annihilation.

Then one spoke.

The lead Minotaur—a war-scarred diplomat draped in ceremonial armor—lifted his head just enough to be heard.

”O great people of the Star Empire... Lord Vireon Flameborn...””We of the Mirriort Clan do not seek to waste your time, nor your Empire’s. That is something we dare not do.””We bring news. News that your Empire may wish to hear.”

That earned a slight twitch of Vireon’s brow. Intrigued but skeptical.

The oppressive aura lightened ever so slightly—not removed, but enough for the Minotaurs to breathe. Yet they did not rise. None dared to look directly at the Earl—except the one who led them.

Vireon’s voice curled with mocking disbelief.

”Heh... News, you say?””Something my people would care about... brought by Minotaurs?””You do know where you are, yes?”

Still, the lead Minotaur pressed on. His body trembled, but his voice held firm.

”The matter concerns... the Holy Lands.”

Those words struck like lightning.

Vireon’s eyes narrowed. The flicker of true interest passed through him.

He did not speak, only inclined his head slightly—giving silent permission to continue.

He did not speak, only inclined his head slightly—giving silent permission to continue.

The Minotaur nodded gratefully.

”Near the Eastern border of our clan Domain... there lies a forbidden zone. A vast, ancient one. Even though it is on the Galactic Rim, we believe your intelligence network knows of it.”

Vireon gave a short nod. ”That I do.”

”And what,” he said slowly, ”does this forbidden zone have to do with the ’Holy Lands’ you speak of?”