Out of darkness and light, born of both cradle and grave, the Seventh’s champion shall rise, to break the fell-fated bonds of tyranny. Seven to become one, thy indomitable will be done.

‘The Prophecy of the Seventh' from the Moblog of Ptoth

Satrap Osmius stood on the highest balcony of his mountain-top palace, surveying the landscape below. The ceaseless, violent storms that usually plagued the dying planet of Rixalcatros had briefly subsided for a rare moment of relative calm, offering him a clear view that stretched for miles across the desolate plains. This world’s surface, once green and teeming with life, was now barren, its biome stripped long ago.

The land had been meticulously reshaped, the artificially flat plain crisscrossed with intricate, fractal-like runnels and gulleys carved deep, following the ley lines running through the bedrock. These geometric patterns spiraled out from strategic points, leading to vast boreholes that plunged down through the planet’s mantle.

The surviving population had been herded together below, gathered in their millions like a living mosaic against the rock. They stood, silent and rigid, within their designated spots, aligned with the fractal patterns beneath them. Hands splayed wide, bodies twisted into excruciating contortions, their faces grimaced with pain. Not a single gasp or cry escaped their clenched teeth as they held the precise poses demanded by the ritual.

Osmius could feel it—the air thickening above the plain, the culmination of his efforts on Rixalcatros nearing fruition. Excess Pain mana, so pure and so potent, drifted like a crimson mist from the suffering millions below, swirling upwards, coalescing into a red aura that shimmered through the atmosphere. The bulk of the energy was captured, surging downwards, towards the epicenter of the planet, intensifying with every passing day.

Each one of the agonized slave-supplicants below played their part. Through the soles of their bare feet, a steady trickle of Pain flowed, seeping into the intricate network of runnels and gulleys carved into the living stone. Their agony was funneled—through the crust and mantle—until it reached the runic condenser buried deep within the planet’s core.

All of his efforts, the endless conquest and the personal sacrifice, would be proven worthwhile. The destruction of yet another species and their planetary home was just another step on his Path. All to acquire one more Pain-aspected, Grade D world-core. He could feel it growing closer—just a few more days before the crystalline structure of the world-core finally condensed, ripe for harvesting.

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Osmius briefly took his attention away from the vast crowd of tortured slaves below him to look inside his dimensional storage, his eyes gazing covetously at the rack of glowing world-cores within. Seven. A paltry seven was all he had managed to find so far—seven suitable planetary bodies, each hosting species with the exquisitely refined sensoriums required for the ritual. Out of the thousands of newly assimilated worlds he had conquered since ascending to Grade E, only these few had been worthy.

Seven species, and soon he would savor the eighth. One step closer to his final goal.

Osmius thought back to the centuries of struggle that had led to this point, how far he had come since wresting control of Glogly Sector from his Vogellian swarm-brothers. At first, mere survival had been his only hope, but now, he wanted so much more. His ascension to Grade D was close, the evolution that would grant him the strength to begin his true journey—onwards towards the Core and the semi-mythical Omega Point, finally able to leave this backwater on the fringes of the System-universe.

Osmius’s admiration of the suffering below was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of his Ejdar assistant, Bezoar. The irritating yet indispensable creature silently presented a tablet of scrying.

Bezoar, barely reaching the knees of his towering master, was keenly aware of the strength possessed by the giant, reptilian being before him. One strike from Osmius’s grey, black-clawed hand would send him hurtling off the edge of the balcony.

Hissing in irritation at the intrusion, Osmius snatched the tablet from the imp. But as he scanned the data on the screen, the irritation faded, replaced by a slow, creeping smile stretching across his wrinkled, grey face. Without lifting his eyes from the runic tablet’s display, he asked, “When?”

The red, horned creature shifted nervously, despite the good news he carried. He was well aware of the capricious, unpredictable nature of his master, and the grisly fate that had befallen his two predecessors.

“Sensors indicate System subsumption will occur within approximately two months. We should be able to start the World Champion induction process around three weeks before that.”

Osmius’s eyes narrowed, his cruel smile widening. So soon! His path to ascension suddenly felt more tangible, immortality beckoning him. The words of the ancient Vogellian philosopher Erazmus came unbidden to his lips: Fate is a slave; to be mastered, it must be boldly struck and thrown down.

The planet and its primitive inhabitants were perfect—tailor-made for the ritual. Still fixated on the tablet and the glowing blue orb pictured on the screen, he asked in a low, deliberate tone, “What do the natives call this world?”

Bezoar’s lips twitched into a nervous smile as he uttered the absurd name. “Earth sire, they call it Earth…”