The Supreme's fist tasted the world.
When rebels arose on the capitol, incensed by his conduct at the end of the Dawn Contest, he struck them down. When a plague of pirates rose up at the edge of Supremacy territory, he tore them apart. When the Kingdom Moon Cult rose over seventeen worlds, he destroyed each and every acolyte with his own two hands.
Blood poured down his hands -- but it wasn't nearly enough. There was a hole in him now, an emptiness, and -- no matter how much blood he offered -- he hadn't yet been able to fill it.
If anything, it seemed to be growing. Cracks were spreading across the titan that was him.
He'd made new allies. He'd fought alongside legends, as he'd once dreamed. The abilities those bonds had given him, and his own increasing strength, had made him an absolute power. There wasn't a person in the world who could stand against him.
…there wasn't a person in the world who could stand against him.
One evening, aboard the Shesha, the Supreme was staring off out of one of the great windows, looking at the vast void of space. He was the ruler of that emptiness. The thought brought a bitter smile to his face -- and the memory of the last thing that had brought him passion made him scratch a finger along his now-healed ear.
"My Supreme…"
The Supreme glanced behind him. One of his attendants, a young man in white robes, was kneeling at the entrance to the observation chamber. These people were quiet, but he still didn't appreciate their presence. With his mind the way it was, he'd appreciate a more total kind of isolation. Perhaps he'd get rid of them, and just keep enough for the Prisoner down below. Enough to keep him locked up until the stars burnt out -- or he agreed to a rematch.
"My Supreme?"
The Supreme slowly blinked. His thoughts had wandered. They did that often these days. Sometimes he found himself drifting off for minutes at a time, dead to the world -- or, more accurately, uninterested. There was little here to occupy him anymore.
"What?" the Supreme said wearily, one massive hand resting on the cold window.
It had hardly seemed possible, but the attendant somehow bowed even lower. "An envoy has come to speak with you, my Supreme," he said.
The Supreme's eyes were dull. "Send them away."
"Of course, my Supreme," the Attendant said, bowing once more. "It's only… they claim you'll definiely wish to speak to them. The envoy is from Home, I believe?"
The Supreme paused, hand still flat against the glass, and the chill of it seemed to intensify as he digested the words. Finally, though, he just squeezed his eyes shut.
When he thought of home, of Home, he thought of objects . It was unpleasant. In a rotten world like this, there was no reason to subject yourself to further discomfort. Malaise answered for him.
"Who cares?" he muttered.
Another low bow, and the attendant drifted from the room. The Supreme never heard from Home again.
It was fine. There was nothing there for him. He was the Supreme. His dominion was the galaxy itself. When faced with the stars as subjects, why should one weep for the ants? Why should one dream of objects ?
They shouldn't. It did not happen. The Supreme took a deep breath, and then let it out. This gravity crushing down on him was not absolute -- only he was. The… boredom he was experiencing was a temporary state of affairs, born from the weakness of those around him.
The Esmeralda boy had shown him the way. For life to have meaning, death must be possible. The emptiness he felt was the result of an unchallenging world. The Contender Program would change all that.
There was still hope.
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There was no hope.
The boy who'd been created to fight him, and the man who'd risen through merit to fight him. Avaman and Lho Rho. Both were worthless. To any ordinary person, they were mountains that could never be conquered… but to the Supreme, they were nothing but flatland.
They had failed to kill him, after all, hadn't they? That was the crux of the Contender Program. Why had he thought that people who had failed to kill him would ever pose a challenge, ever provide meaning? How foolish. Part of him had a mind to disband the Contenders all together, but then again…
…who cared?
It had been years since the Supreme had seen Yoten, and since then the old man's health had declined. He was bedridden now, awake for just a few hours a day, coughing and shaking from whatever combination of illnesses had finally gotten him. The Supreme hadn't bothered to ask the doctors.
He sat before that deathbed in that dark room, comically large in the small chair that had been provided, looking down at his old teacher.
How many years had he been Supreme now? Ten? Fifteen? Time seemed to slip away so quickly. When had the terror of his youth become so small and fragile? The Supreme drummed his fingers along his leg, his mouth a flat line.
"Look at you," Yoten wheezed, looking up at him. "Look at you."
The Supreme shrugged. "What's there to look at?"
"I have lived through the reigns of three Supremes," Yoten grinned dreamily, half his teeth missing. "Without a doubt, without a doubt, my boy, you stand atop them. Gael was too idealistic, Henri too monstrous… but you. You are strength. You are power..." He coughed, spittle flying from his lips. "... power manifest."
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The Supreme blinked again, and let out a heavy breath. "But you knew that, right?" he said, voice dull. "You knew that when you chose me. That I had potential."
Yoten hesitated for a second, and then shook his head. The Supreme frowned, furrowing his brow.
"What?" he said.
"You were at the starting line," Yoten said, his eyes cloudy as he stared up at the ceiling, settling back into his bed. "But it was the minimum. A lucky punch and synchronization. Nothing… innate. You were… worthless."
That old cold chill began to spread out over the Supreme's body once again, freezing his blood, slowing his thoughts. The floor and the ceiling seemed so far away, like the room was spreading out before him, like it was becoming an endless void he could fall through forever.
"I wanted to see," Yoten confessed, drool slipping out of one side of his mouth. "I wanted to see if I could take something worthless and make it… make it absolute. Make it Supreme. It would be… my masterpiece. And you, you, boy, are my masterpiece. I did it."
"Yes," the Supreme replied softly. "You did it."
Without another word, the Supreme reached over and placed a huge hand over the old man's face. He held it there until the thrashing stopped. It was nothing. He didn't even have to use Aether.
"Supreme," the man spat bitterly.
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When the planets of the Dranell system had declared their rebellion, the Supreme had already known he would find no challenge there.
On the death march he'd undertaken near the start of his reign, he had already defeated every single person who could challenge him. The next strongest people had become his Contenders, and any prowess they possessed was overshadowed by their scheming and skulduggery.
It was nothing but a headache.
No -- when the Dranell system had declared it was defecting from the Supremacy, and establishing itself as an independent government -- the Supreme had decided that it was time. It was the perfect setting, after all, a climactic battle with the pride of the Supremacy at stake. Armies would clash, worlds would burn… in such an environment, it could happen easily.
In such an environment, the Supreme could kill himself.
And yet…
The Supreme stood alone, for all the rest had already been reduced to ash. In one hand, he held aloft a broken and rusty sword, wreathed in hellfire -- the pulses that burst out from it shattering the lands and the skies.
Ein Sof. The sole Aether Armament that the Supreme himself had created. The sword that accepted, intensified, and unleashed everything.
A heartbeat that had torn the world to pieces.
Starships protruded from the ground where they'd fallen, like massive gravestones, dark contrasts to the blood-red sky. The ground beneath him had opened up long ago, magma flowing forth and incinerating everything it touched -- save for the Supreme himself. He stood there unharmed, up to his knees in the lava, his expression stoic as he continued his grim work.
At the beginning, there had been screaming -- but now, hours later, there was just the sound of burning. Anyone capable of screaming had died long ago, before the Supreme had cracked the planet open.
His nostrils flared.
His mouth twitched.
His eyes narrowed…
…and tears flowed down his cheeks, evaporating before they hit the ground. He had slain so many, and again -- again -- had failed to kill the person he'd wanted in the first place. He was standing here, still alive, beaded against the fury of a dying world.
Even this wasn't enough?
Slowly, still submerged in the magma, the Supreme began to laugh -- a bitter, mad laughter that was barely audible over the sounds of apocalypse. Ein Sof dissipated into golden Aether as the Supreme put his hands to his belly, throwing his head back as he laughed and laughed and laughed. This proved it, then. This proved it.
He really was the strongest.
He was the man who’d become Supreme.
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The Supreme reclined on his throne, staring into the void once more, ignoring the Contenders kneeling at his feet. Names and faces had changed, but it didn't really matter. None of it really mattered.
He had… he had gotten everything he'd ever wanted. He had. By all rights, he should be experiencing happiness beyond any other. But… at the top of the world, all that awaited you was the empty sky. The end of the climb that was a life.
The Supreme sighed.
Any second now, he would sit up. Any second now, he would open his eyes. Any second now, he would breathe.
But then again… who really cared?
And so he reigned Supreme.
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Dragan walked through the burning forest, feeling the rain pelt against the parts of his face that currently existed. Pain lingered in some far-off corner of his mind, but he ignored it. It wasn't necessary for what he had to do right now.
He needed to get the Supreme to Skipper. That was all. The exhaustion and the pain could wait until he was done with that task. The fear he surely should have been feeling could come after that, too. Fear… why fear?
His foggy mind took a second to remember that the Supreme himself was walking behind him. It only made sense right now. He was pretty much dead on his feet: talking and walking was all he could do. He didn't have the energy to fear for his life.
Dragan took another step --
I’m dead A HAND LANDED ON HIS SHOULDER I’m dead
-- and pulled him out of the way as a bullet slammed into the spot he'd just been standing. The Supreme, one hand still grabbing Dragan, glared at the source of the attack.
"Hey," the massive man growled. "This is your guy, isn't it? Don't fuck around."
Dragan followed his gaze, and saw that -- at the top of the hill -- a man had revealed himself. Through the haze and the smoke and the exhaustion, it took a second for Dragan to recognise him: but even so, that face was unmistakable. Those stitch-scarred lips, and that black billowing hair.
"Taking care of outside factors," the attacker said, his voice a growl. "Don't want Esmeralda's dog getting in the way."
Johan Blackbird stepped out of the trees, pointing his rifle-prosthetic right at the Supreme. Strange magenta Aether was broiling around the barrel of the gun -- and for some reason, the Supreme seemed to be regarding it with something close to caution.
As Dragan looked up at the Supreme, still stunned, the man who was like god looked back down at him.
"You can disappear -- right, kid?" he said. "Check out for two minutes or so. Otherwise…"
The Supreme looked up, and that flat mouth spread out into a wide and bloodthirsty grin.
"... you’ll die. My warm-ups are pretty messy."
Dragan didn’t need to be told twice. With a flare of electric-blue Aether, he vanished from this world -- just as it exploded into a rhapsody of chaos.