The warship cut through Jupiter’s upper atmosphere like a blade, descending toward the sprawling fortress-city below. Storms raged across the gas giant’s surface, flashes of lightning illuminating the endless, churning clouds.

Rust stood at the bridge, watching as the estate came into view. Lord Vext’s citadel was a towering bastion of black steel and crimson banners, an unassailable fortress nestled within the storms. A place built for war.

Behind him, his men stood silent, awaiting orders. They had slaughtered their way through Outpost Helix, securing another victory in their bloody campaign. But this time, Rust felt something shift. This wasn’t just another mission. Vext had called him back for something more.

The ship landed with a hiss of steam. The ramp lowered. Rust stepped forward.

Vext was waiting in the grand hall, seated upon his throne of black iron, flanked by his ever-watchful attendants—figures draped in ceremonial armor, silent as the grave.

He looked up as Rust approached, his silver eyes gleaming.

“Welcome home,” Vext murmured, voice smooth as silk. “I trust the hunt was satisfying.”

Rust smirked. “You should’ve been there. You’d have liked the carnage.”

Vext chuckled, motioning for Rust to follow as he stood. They walked side by side through the halls, the massive fortress humming with power. Soldiers, servants, and scholars parted before them, bowing as Vext passed.

“Tell me, Rust,” Vext mused, “what do you think of this world? Of the nobility that governs it?”

Rust’s eyes narrowed. “It’s rotten.”

“Indeed.” Vext clasped his hands behind his back. “The nobility sits upon thrones of stagnation, clinging to traditions that serve only their own comfort. Once, long ago, strength dictated rule. The powerful carved their names into the stars through battle, through conquest. But now?” His voice darkened. “Now, bloodlines and bureaucracy strangle ambition. Weaklings are born into power while true warriors are cast aside, shackled to a system that fears them.”

Rust listened, silent.

Vext turned to face him. “This is why I seek to tear it all down. Not for the sake of rebellion, not for vengeance—but for renewal. To return the galaxy to what it once was. A place where might makes right. Where those with the will to rule may do so, not because of their birth, but because they seize it.”

Rust met his gaze, considering the words. There was truth in them. Rust had spent his life as nothing, a nameless orphan left to the mercy of fate. But now, he was more. He was power, he was strength. And he would never return to the shadows.

“I agree with you,” Rust said finally. “This system is weak. It chains the strong and lets cowards prosper. But I won’t live in the past. I won’t return to any ‘old world.’ I’ll build my own.”

Vext studied him for a long moment, then smiled—a slow, pleased expression.

“Good,” he said. “That is the answer I hoped for.”

He gestured, and one of his attendants stepped forward, carrying something wrapped in black cloth.

“A gift,” Vext said. “A symbol of your new path.”

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Rust unwrapped it, revealing a blade unlike any he had seen before. It was long, sleek, forged from mastercrafted alloys and infused with nanoblood filaments that pulsed with latent energy. The edge shimmered with barely contained power, sharp enough to cut through armor like flesh.

“This is Bloodwake,” Vext said. “Forged in the heart of my forges, tempered with the essence of the strongest warriors I have slain. It is yours now.”

Rust ran a hand along the blade, feeling it hum beneath his touch.

“And one more thing.” Vext stepped closer. “You will no longer be a nameless soldier. From this day forth, you are Rust Vext—my son, my heir.” His voice rang with finality. “The world will know you not as a stray dog, but as nobility. You will stand at my side as we break this system and forge a new one in its ashes.”

Rust met his gaze, then grinned, the fire in his chest burning bright.

Rust Vext.

He liked the sound of that.

The doors to Vext’s inner chamber hissed open, revealing a vast, dimly lit sanctum. The walls were lined with ancient relics, trophies of wars fought in ages past—shattered banners, broken weapons, and preserved skulls of long-dead rivals. The air was thick with the scent of incense and metal, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken power.

Rust followed Vext inside, his new blade strapped to his back, his mind still lingering on the weight of his new name. Rust Vext.

Vext strode to the center of the chamber, where a great table of black stone sat, its surface embedded with shifting holograms—maps of the solar system, military deployments, supply routes, and political connections, all shifting like pieces on a game board.

The Duke—no, more than a Duke—turned, his silver eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“Do you know what I was before I took this title?” Vext asked, voice almost conversational.

Rust folded his arms. “A warrior. A conqueror.”

Vext chuckled. “Yes. But before that, I was a Magistrate.”

Rust’s eyes narrowed. He had heard whispers of the Magistrates, but they were little more than myths to most. They had been the highest authority before the Dukes, before the nobility had divided the system into feudal houses. The Magistrates were the hand of order, ruling with absolute authority. Above the Dukes. Above the Barons. Almost above law itself.

“Magistrates are gone,” Rust said. “Eradicated.”

Vext’s smirk widened. “No, boy. They only wanted you to believe that.”

He gestured to the relics surrounding them. “I once stood at the pinnacle, above the nobles who now play at ruling. I commanded fleets. I bent entire civilizations to my will. But the structure I upheld… it weakened.” His voice darkened. “The other Magistrates grew soft. They sought stability where there should have been war. I saw the rot setting in, saw the aristocrats plotting to divide our power among themselves. And so I did the only thing that made sense.”

Rust tilted his head. “You abandoned your title.”

Vext nodded. “I let them believe I had faded, that I had been erased in their little purge. And in doing so, I ensured that I would never be watched too closely again.” He spread his arms. “A Duke commands power, but a Magistrate commands scrutiny. I did not need a throne—I needed freedom. I needed space to maneuver, to act outside their sight, to prepare for the day I would burn it all down.”

Rust let the words sink in. The aristocracy had feared the Magistrates, but they had believed them to be dead and buried. Yet here one stood before him, not as a relic, but as a force that had allowed the nobility to think they had won.

“You understand now, don’t you?” Vext asked, watching Rust’s expression. “I did not disappear. I did not fall. I simply chose to become something else.”

Rust exhaled slowly, the realization settling in. Vext had spent centuries moving in the shadows, manipulating, waiting—and now, he had chosen him to stand at his side.

“And now?” Rust asked.

Vext’s smirk returned. “Now, I step back into the light. And you, my son, will stand beside me when we tear the foundations of this broken system apart.”

Rust grinned, his fingers tightening around the hilt of Bloodwake.

“Then let’s start breaking things.”

The chamber’s low light cast long shadows across the walls, the relics of Vext’s past standing as silent witnesses to their conversation. Rust stood with his new blade strapped to his back, feeling the weight of his new name, his new place in the world. He wasn’t just a weapon anymore—he was a noble, a leader, and soon, something far greater.

Vext poured himself a glass of dark, amber liquid from a crystal decanter, then offered another to Rust. He took it, the glass cool in his hand.

“You've told me about yourself,” Rust said, swirling the liquid. “But what do you want, Vext? What’s your endgame?”

Vext chuckled, taking a slow sip. “Endgame? There is no end, boy. There is only the next war.” His silver eyes gleamed. “I have lived a thousand years through nanoblood and steel. I have seen empires rise and fall, and I have crushed men who thought themselves gods. The noble houses think they are untouchable, but they are rotting.” He set his glass down, gaze sharpening. “I want to strip the power from their feeble hands and give it back to those who can wield it. You understand that now, don’t you?”

Rust smirked. “I understand that I’ll never be powerless again.”

Vext grinned. “Good.” He leaned back. “Now that you bear my name, you need something else—a past. A proper identity.”

Rust raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

“You were a nobody,” Vext said simply. “And nobodies don’t have birthdays. But Rust Vext? He was born with purpose.” Vext gestured to one of his attendants, who stepped forward with a data slate. “From this day forward, your birth records will state that you were born eighteen years ago, on this very day.”

Rust blinked. “So today’s my birthday?”

Vext chuckled. “That’s right. And in noble society, eighteen is the age of a man.” He stood, stepping toward Rust. “And a man should have his own command.”

With a flick of his wrist, he activated a holographic display. In it, a fleet of warships hovered in the void, sleek and deadly—battle cruisers, strike frigates, carriers armed with squadrons of fighters.

Rust’s eyes widened slightly.

“These ships are yours,” Vext declared. “A small fleet, but enough to carve your name into the stars. Every soldier aboard them is handpicked, trained to follow you.” His smirk widened. “Happy birthday, my son.”

Rust let out a breath, taking in the sheer scale of it. He had spent his life fighting in the dirt, clawing for survival, taking orders. And now?

Now, he had an army.

He grinned, fingers flexing with the thrill of it.

“This,” he said, staring at the fleet, his fleet, “is the best damn gift I’ve ever had.”