“Good afternoon, Admiral.”
In the opulent hall of Soulnaught, there sat the notorious tyrant upon his grand throne—a marvel of craftsmanship, reminiscent of both splendor and dread. His youthful visage, strikingly handsome and radiant, bore seemingly no imperfections, as though the creator had sculpted him from the finest marble.
Yet there he perched, slightly hunched, leaning sideways in a posture that spoke of nonchalance, as if he regarded the affairs of mortals with the utmost indifference.
“You must’ve heard about me.”
Propping his chin on his arm, with his elbow nestled against the ornate armrest, he exuded a sense of regal apathy. His golden eyes flickered with a disarming charm, yet beneath that veneer lay a frosty disposition, dark and bottomless.
The shadows danced on his alabaster skin, cast from the harsh light that poured through the grand hall's floor-to-ceiling windows, imbuing him with a menacing aura that one could only describe as delightfully terrifying.
“But this marks our first official meeting, so allow me to extend the courtesy of an introduction.”
Despite the grandeur surrounding him, his expression was a study in ironic detachment. “I am Caliburn Pendragon.”
“How dare you… Do you know who I am?!” a man yelled, his voice taut with indignation. “I am the son of Marquis Blitzen! I was born a noble from the Fifth Heaven! You dare capture me, you low-born tyrant—”
The tyrant interjected with a throaty chuckle as one of his men, garbed in the heavy armor of his knights, presented a white contraption, just unearthed from the struggling man’s private ship.
The one sitting on the throne immediately cradled the contraption like a precious treasure, finally touching and examining it up close. “Another White Dwarf! How delightful.”
The older man on the screen in front of him frowned, his visage tightening.
After losing one of those formidable planet-destroying weapons to this tyrant, he had been racking his brain for a strategy to recover it. Yet here was his junior, unwittingly tossing another weapon into the mix, all while getting himself captured.
“Caliburn Pendragon, what is the meaning of this?” the old man on the screen sharply asked, his voice a deep rumble, cloaked in wariness yet tinged with frustration.
Letting his junior concoct a solution had been quite the miscalculation. Asking for the return of the lost weapon? How quaint. They were dealing with a tyrant, a man infamous for single-handedly decimating the first wave of the Alliance’s troops.
He should’ve known.
“Oh, please,” the tyrant mocked, his voice a deep, teasing growl. “Didn’t you lose a White Dwarf to a gaggle of mercenaries intent on claiming my life? And now you have the gall to send your little junior on a retrieval mission?”
“What do you want?” the senior asked, his tone a simmering cauldron of fury.
The tyrant shrugged with an air of unconcern. “There’s nothing you can provide that could possibly intrigue me. It was you who lost the weapon, after all. Why are you so surprised that I have zero intention of returning it?”
“Well, yes, it wasn’t exactly a heartfelt handoff from you to me, but still, you lost it, I found it. Seems fair enough, wouldn’t you agree? And let’s not forget it was meant to terminate me,” the tyrant remarked, handing the weapon back to his men.
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The senior opened his mouth to unleash a retort but was interrupted by a woman, who stepped forward, now facing the screen.
“I understand now,” she said. “It seems our fleet misplaced the treasure we so generously entrusted to them, and it conveniently found its way into your hands.”
Behold, a vision of the future, as if someone finally figured out how to blend the cosmic with the avant-garde. Draped in a midnight cape, the woman resembled a walking piece of the cosmos, with glistening constellations woven into the fabric—who needs a night sky when you can wear it?
Her skin, ethereal silver, was a subtle trick of the light, because pale was just too boring for deep-space aesthetics. The spaceship and the surrounding void made her glow like a cosmic beacon, drawing attention from admirers and enemies alike.
Gaze into her swirling black galaxy eyes, where mischief danced like a playful comet. Those orbs were not just deep; they could easily pull unsuspecting souls into an existential debate—if only they could keep up with her wit.
“You may keep the weapon. It’s not as if we’re running low on such trinkets,” she said suddenly, leaving the senior and the others in stunned silence.
“Lady Mahkato—”
She raised a hand, silencing him. “But my dear barbarian, might I inquire about your grand design behind detaining our admiral and conducting a raid on his personal vessel?”
Her hair, iridescent black, cascaded in tendrils that looked like liquid shadow. Surrounding her were elite space guards, adorned in ornate armor that could only be described as “fashionably lethal.”
And when her words dripped with menace, it was a threat laden with substance—a far cry from mere bluster. Proven by how that subtle change made the guards around her immediately shift, ready for command.
Sure, the tyrant took the weapon they’d lost, but detaining an officer of the Alliance who’d come to negotiate? Bold move.
“Oh, this guy?” the tyrant chuckled, a humorless spark in his eyes. “If you want me to return both White Dwarfs, give me the right to kill him.”
The man rose slowly, a striking figure, his sword floating gracefully into his waiting hand, glimmering ominously. Each step he took down from his throne resonated with the sharp clinks of his metal-heeled shoes, echoing through the hall like a death knell.
“What?!” the senior admiral couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You dare!”
“It seems he thought he could wreak havoc on this world with the shiny trinket he brought the moment I refused to return the first one you misplaced,” the tyrant said. “Isn’t he the problem, then?”
“Who let you all misplace the first one? Could it be him too? Since he is so eager to kill me along with this world, of course, it was him, yes?”
At that, the junior’s expression morphed, his eyes bugging out like someone caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Shame, anger, and a dash of arrogance flickered across his face. “It was you who rejected the Alliance’s generous offer! I suggested helping you conquer the land, and you—!”
“Do I look like I need help?” the tyrant shot back, his tone so cold it could freeze fire.
The woman’s eyes became cold.
“But it seems you really don’t care about this world, do you?” he continued, a hint of mockery lacing his words. “After all, what could possibly captivate the minds of people like you in this barbarian’s realm? And let’s be honest, you wouldn’t have bothered with a world-destroying weapon like the White Dwarf if your intention was merely to set up shop here.”
There was something the outsiders desired in this world. And the deployment of not one but two White Dwarfs made it abundantly clear just how much they valued this little planet. The tyrant was all too aware of its significance, and now, she knew that he knew.
The very presence of that world-destroyer was proof that their ambitions weren’t merely about claiming dominion—oh no—they were prepared to obliterate this place if their grand designs went awry.
They were understandably cautious about the source of power they sought, yet the allure of it was evidently too intoxicating to resist.
This world existed merely as a pop-up in the larger saga, but the junior admiral appeared blissfully unaware of his supporting role.
“Nonsense!” the junior howled, his indignation ricocheting off the walls. “Even if I were remotely tempted to raze this world to the ground, it’s obvious it’s doomed anyway! These backward peasants—how dare they question the great Alliance and capture me, the illustrious offspring of Marquis Blitzen!”
Yet here stood a barbarian tyrant, an audacious thorn in their grandiose plans, someone with enough audacity to challenge the universe’s most formidable army.
He unsheathed his sword. “You waltzed into my peaceful little backyard, and even after I silenced your ramblings once, you think to try again? Clearly, you’ve not grasped the concept of ‘lesson learned.’”
The junior’s bravado crumbled as the man strode down the steps of his throne platform, black sword gleaming ominously. “No… no! You can’t be serious! I am Rudolf Blitzen! My father is—”
Burn lifted his sword high, intent on delivering justice personally.
And the blade descended.
SLASH!!!
Blood spilled.
And the junior admiral’s head rolled to the ground.