Legacy of the Void Fleet

Meanwhile, at the farthest corner of Earl Verion Flame Born’s estate, stood the Outer Western Palace—a place of both luxury and quiet isolation. It was a structure that bore all the aesthetic and architectural grandeur of the Star Race’s legacy: soaring silver-white columns, hovering crystal chandeliers, and expansive gardens that glowed faintly under a twilight sun.

Yet despite its splendor, its status was known to all who understood Star society: this palace was reserved for the unimportant. For those who were tolerated, not welcomed. For those who did not command the respect of the Star Throne but were not insignificant enough to be discarded.

To the Star people, the Minotaurs were exactly that—beings of strength and culture, yes, but not equals. And so, while they were granted hospitality, they were granted it here—at the fringes.

In one of the palace’s wide halls, a circular chamber ringed with carved stonework and high arched windows, six Minotaurs sat around an obsidian table. Though the atmosphere was calm, tension crackled between them like static.

All five of them kept glancing toward the sixth—their leader and envoy—who sat slumped slightly forward, one arm still clutching his side. His body, built like a fortress of flesh and muscle, was clearly still recovering from the violent encounter with Earl Verion.

The wounds he bore were not just physical. Across his neck, a blackened scar had formed—raw and almost seared into the skin—evidence of the moment Verion had lifted him with one hand and nearly ended his life with the other. More disturbingly, despite all efforts, the wound had not healed. They had tried sacred healing chants, regenerative energy infusions, even the use of high-grade vitality herbs from the Minotaur homeland. Nothing had worked.

And then it clicked.

It was mana poisoning.

A terrifyingly common affliction in the galaxy—but one that only happened when a person was wounded by someone of vastly superior cultivation. Verion’s violent grip had forced volatile mana into the envoy’s body. Like venom, it lingered in his bloodstream and refused to dissipate. Their own meager powers were insufficient to purge it. Without a Grade-9 Mana Cleansing Pill—an artifact so rare that entire planetary economies revolved around them—his healing could take decades, maybe centuries.

The envoy, despite his pain, kept quiet. But the rest of his delegation was seething.

The Minotaur to his right slammed his heavy fist onto the table. The impact would’ve shattered stone—yet the table didn’t even crack. That alone was proof of the craftsmanship of Star Race materials.

Still, the fury in his voice cut just as deep.

”Damn that arrogant earl!” he growled, fangs baring. ”Who does he think he is—to treat us like some filth dragged in from the gutters of the galaxy?”

Another Minotaur, equally agitated, nodded. ”Indeed. How dare he! We came to him with information that could change the fate of three sectors—something their entire race has failed to find for millions of years. The Holy Region—we brought its existence and location straight to his gates! Without us, they’d still be chasing myths!”

The others muttered in agreement, their breath thick with anger.

Yet, despite their shared rage, one of them—the third—spoke up, his voice bitter, but grounded.

”What did you expect?” he said, glaring across the table. ”That they’d welcome us with banners? You forget who we are. We’re not guests here. We’re bargaining chips—and not even valuable ones. You all know how the Star People are. Proud. Vain. Cruel. To them, power is the only measure of respect. And we… are weak.”

His words caused a pause. Silence fell like a heavy curtain. But it didn’t last long.

The fourth Minotaur erupted in disagreement, slamming both fists into the table and rising to his full towering height.

”And what? You suggest we grovel?” he roared, pointing toward the envoy’s neck. ”Was that necessary? Was there a need to leave him on the floor, gasping for breath like an animal? We might be weaker than the earl, but we came with peace, not with threats! And still, he almost killed our leader! For what? To prove a point? To show that even our goodwill means nothing?”

The fifth Minotaur sighed, placing a hand over his face and shaking his head.

”You’re all right,” he began, his voice weary. ”And yet… you’re all wrong, too.”

They turned to look at him. Even the envoy’s tired eyes flicked up.

He continued. ”Yes, we were disrespected. Yes, they are proud, and arrogant, and obsessed with hierarchy. But that’s not new. We knew exactly what we were walking into when we came to this empire. And we came anyway. Why?”

He glanced at each of them, holding their gaze.

”Because we needed their power. Because we can’t secure the Holy Region without them.”

He then nodded at the envoy. ”And whether they treat us like honored guests or chained prisoners… if we’ve made our point clear, if we’ve shown them what’s at stake… then the plan is already in motion.”

The others frowned, but didn’t interrupt.

The fifth Minotaur leaned forward.

”Do you really think the Star Empire will let this go? That they’ll ignore a claim to the Holy Region—something they’ve obsessed over since their rise from the Stellar Abyss? No. They’ll act. Even if they hate us. Even if they don’t trust us. They’ll move. Because that’s who they are.”

The second Minotaur muttered, ”So, what… we just take the beating and wait?”

”No,” the fifth said. ”We endure it. Because in the end, it’ll benefit us more than them. They’ll want a stake, but we’ll have the claim. We’ll have the leverage.”

The envoy—his breathing slower now—managed to speak, his voice cracked but clear.

”...and if the empire moves to take the Holy Region entirely for themselves?”

The room quieted again.

The fifth Minotaur smirked.

”For that, we have the Alchemy Association and the Forgers’ Guild, along with the Dark Elven Empire and the Mountain Dwarves,” the fifth Minotaur continued calmly, his voice steady and commanding. ”Our council chose them because they counter each other perfectly. Each holds immense power… but none can dominate the others. That is the balance.”

The others nodded slowly.

”So we need not fear if the Star Race starts scheming,” he added. ”Their ambitions won’t matter in the face of those four. And even the Star Empire isn’t foolish enough to try seizing the entire Holy Region. They know, as we do, the strength behind those two Associations—and the wrath they’d bring if provoked. No one wants to fight a war on three fronts over a land they can’t even control.”

The head Minotaur envoy, still recovering from his injuries, gave a slight nod—just enough to acknowledge the words despite the pain. ”That is… only if our other companions succeed in securing the alliance with the remaining four powers. There shouldn’t be any major obstacles… but we can’t afford to be overconfident. Not until we receive a concrete reply from each faction. Without that, we’re still vulnerable.”

”I believe they’ll succeed,” the fifth Minotaur replied firmly. ”There shouldn’t be a problem. Both the Dark Elven Empire and the Mountain Dwarves understand the value of this alliance. The same goes for the Alchemy Association and the Forgers’ Guild. All of them have long coveted the superior resources found only in the Holy Region—rare materials and spiritual veins that can’t be matched anywhere else in the galaxy.”

He leaned forward slightly, his voice steady. ”For any of them, the chance to secure even partial control or access to the Holy Land is a rare and irresistible opportunity. They will not refuse.”

A silence of mutual respect followed those words. Not born from pride, but from shared resolve. The Minotaurs were not here to beg or bargain from a place of weakness—they were laying the foundation of a pact. One in which the Star Empire would become a partner, not a master. The Minotaurs weren’t bowing to anyone; they were building something larger.

And the Star Empire, for all its arrogance, would agree—because even a piece of the Holy Region was worth more than a galaxy of unclaimed void.

Just as the conversation settled into quiet contemplation, a soft chime echoed through the chamber.

A cube on the center table lit up, projecting a three-dimensional image of a stern-faced Minotaur clad in star-forged armor. It was their fleet commander—the leader of the escort fleet stationed beyond the estate.

His gaze sharpened as it landed on the wounded envoy. ”What happened to you? Did everything not go as planned?”

The head envoy winced, unable to move his neck fully due to the lingering pain. ”The mission proceeded… with complications,” he said through clenched teeth.

The fleet commander frowned. ”If you say so.”

The envoy nodded slightly, then asked, ”Why have you contacted us?”

”Ah, yes.” The commander straightened. ”I reached out to inform you—the Earl’s fleet has just exited the system. They used the central stargate moments ago, and they’re moving fast. It appears the Earl is headed straight for the central capital… likely to report this encounter to the Star Council.”

That caught the delegation’s attention.

”So,” murmured one of them, ”the game begins.”