In the vast, boundless void beyond the Genesis Realm, a lone figure stood amidst the celestial expanse. Stars and galaxies stretched infinitely in the distance, their radiant glow casting an ethereal backdrop against the infinite darkness.
He waited in silence.
Clad in an ancient black robe, embroidered with intricate golden patterns, the insignia on his chest shimmered faintly—a symbol of the Celestial Heaven Clan. His golden hair flowed weightlessly in the vacuum of space, and his piercing blue eyes reflected both wisdom and an indomitable presence.
This man was Darian Heavenhart—Lucas' guardian.
His gaze remained fixed on the void, his expression unreadable as thoughts flickered through his mind.
"If what that brat said is true, then the Society's reinforcements should be arriving soon."
A low murmur escaped him as he mulled over the accuracy of Lucas' prediction. How had he known all of this in advance?
Was he a time traveler?
Or had he awakened some kind of advanced divination ability?
The absurdity of these possibilities made Darian scoff to himself, yet he could not deny the eerie precision of Lucas' knowledge.
His musings, however, were soon interrupted.
A faint ripple in the void reached his senses—an unstable fluctuation of energy.
His eyes sharpened as he pierced through space with his gaze, focusing on the distant battlefield.
There, he saw Tirius engaged in combat against two generals and an assassin. Unlike his usual lethargic demeanor, the man moved with unrestrained lethality, weaving through the battle with an ease that spoke of overwhelming superiority.
A smirk played at Darian's lips.
"So, the lazy excuse of a guardian is actually putting in effort for once. He must be livid."
The thought was almost amusing. Tirius, a man who abhorred unnecessary exertion, was forced to act today. If nothing else, watching him be dragged into the mess was a rare form of entertainment.
But the amusement was fleeting.
Within moments, he saw Tirius crush the life out of his enemies without hesitation, without mercy. There was no negotiation, no concern for reasoning—just ruthless efficiency.
Darian exhaled, his expression unreadable.
The consequences of this battle would not be minor. It was no longer a matter of mere clan rivalry or personal grudges. The tides of war had shifted. Today's actions—Tirius' ruthless execution, his own impending intervention—would leave ripples across the Lower Plane itself.
This was no longer just a confrontation with the Human Supreme Society.
It was defiance against the very world order they had established.
And in doing so, they had made an enemy of the world itself.
Darian's thoughts shattered as the void trembled, space itself rippling under an immense force. The reinforcements had arrived.
His gaze lifted toward the cold abyss, narrowing as the fabric of space twisted.
A heartbeat later, the void split open, and fleets of colossal warships emerged, their vast forms cutting through the darkness like celestial behemoths descending upon Genesis Realm. Their hulls gleamed with the insignia of the Human Supreme Society—a symbol of absolute authority, a force that had long dictated order across the countless planes of the Lower Realm.
At the center of the armada was Judicator's Wrath, the flagship of Admiral Valen. His name alone carried weight, a figure whose presence signified more than power—it heralded judgment.
Inside the command deck, officers moved with practiced efficiency, their dark military coats flowing with each step. Their high-collared uniforms, adorned with silver insignias, bore the rank and status of seasoned warriors. The segmented armor plating woven into the fabric gleamed under the cold blue glow of the holographic displays.
Urgent voices echoed across the chamber as incoming reports flooded the consoles.
The distress signal had come moments ago—a transmission from General Alden and General Seraphina.
Both had been deployed with an entire fleet to apprehend NOX Ashborn, the most cherished heir of the Empyrean Clan.
Given the significance of their target, resistance was inevitable. The Dark Heaven Clan would not simply stand aside as the Supreme Society took their heir into custody, not when their patriarch was among the Twelve Council Lords.
It was expected that they would refuse to hand him over without a fight. The generals had been prepared for defiance.
But they had not been prepared for slaughter.
Headquarters had responded swiftly to their call for reinforcements, deploying dozens of fleets led by warriors strong enough to shake the balance of power in the Lower Realm. At the helm of this force was Admiral Valen, a man whose strength could rival Tirius Ashborn himself.
Yet as they arrived in Genesis Realm, the silence was deafening.
No response from the generals. No signal from the fleet. No signs of life.
At the helm, Admiral Valen remained still, his gloved hands resting against the polished metal railing. The deep navy of his admiral's coat, lined with silver filigree, hung motionless around his broad frame. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, remained fixed on the screens before him. His expression betrayed nothing. No anger. No grief. Only cold calculation.
Then, the transmission from headquarters arrived.
A shimmering screen materialized before Admiral Valen, revealing the grim countenance of a high-ranking officer. His voice was steady, yet the weight behind his words was inescapable.
"Both generals have fallen."
The chamber froze.
A breath later, the silence erupted into fury.
The command deck shook as voices clashed in anger. Fists slammed against consoles. Restraint crumbled beneath the force of betrayal.
"The Dark Heaven Clan has turned against the Supreme Society!" a captain roared, his voice shaking with rage.
"They didn't just resist," another soldier spat. "They butchered the generals and our men!"
A lieutenant's grip tightened on his weapon, the black metal of his blade reflecting the cold artificial light. "They slaughtered an entire fleet for a single man." His voice carried the sharp edge of hatred. "That bastard heir—NOX. How many lives is he worth?"
The weight of their fury pressed into the air, thick and suffocating.
The Dharma Soldiers had been sent to enforce a decree. Their mission had not been a declaration of war but an execution of justice.
Yet the Dark Heaven Clan had not only refused to surrender their heir—they had responded with a massacre.
Was there even a need to resort to such slaughter? These were their own kind. Warriors of the Supreme Society. Had their duty meant so little that they could be wiped out as if they were nothing?
Admiral Valen exhaled slowly, the subtle motion barely perceptible.
His battle-worn face betrayed nothing as his gaze remained locked on the reports before him.
He was not a man ruled by impulse. Where others sought vengeance, he sought clarity. Where others burned with hatred, he calculated.
The Dark Heaven Clan was not a rogue faction acting on desperation. Their patriarch was one of the Twelve Council Lords, a man whose authority reached the highest echelons of the Supreme Society. This was not mere defiance—it was a calculated decision. A declaration of war.
His fingers, clad in reinforced gloves, tapped once against the console, a measured motion that silenced the chamber. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of command.
"Survivors?"
The room fell into stillness. A communications officer hesitated before responding.
"Admiral… only one."
A ripple of unease passed through the chamber.
"One?" The disbelief in the soldier's voice was echoed in the unreadable expressions of those around him.
The officer swallowed before continuing. "A Rank 7 warrior. He is the sole survivor of the detachment that accompanied the generals."
Silence settled, heavier than before.
"They slaughtered hundreds of our comrades, and only one remains?" A soldier's voice cracked under the weight of loss.
"That damn clan didn't just protect their heir," another spat. "They eradicated us. And they still dare call themselves nobility?" His voice was thick with contempt. "They're no better than devils."
The demand for retribution thickened, coiling like a beast ready to strike.
This was no longer about politics or diplomacy. It was no longer about arresting a fugitive. The generals had led their forces knowing the Dark Heaven Clan would resist, but even they had not anticipated such a ruthless response.
Had it not been enough to drive them back? Had it not been enough to show their strength?
Why had they chosen to slaughter their own kind?
That truth alone was unforgivable.
Admiral Valen's fingers curled against the railing, his first true sign of reaction. His focus sharpened, his mind narrowing onto the one undeniable fact.
"Contact him!" Admiral Valen ordered, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. For the first time, a crack formed in his composed demeanor—not of fear, but of urgency.
The soldiers might have been young, their fury raw and untempered, but their reckless words bordered on ignorance. To curse a Council Lord so carelessly, simply because they had lost a few generals and soldiers, was a mistake born of inexperience. They did not yet understand the weight of such authority.
Valen's concern lay elsewhere.
The Dark Heaven Clan had not simply reacted in defense of their heir—they had slaughtered an entire fleet.
That meant one of two things: either they were consumed by rage, or they had foreseen this confrontation long before it arrived. Their swift and ruthless response suggested the latter.
Whatever their reasoning, one fact was clear. They were not afraid of the consequences.
For a faction of their standing to take such decisive action, they had already considered the fallout. They were prepared.
And that was troubling.
Valen's fingers pressed against the cold steel of the console as his thoughts sharpened...
The Supreme Society would not wage war against Dark Heaven Clan over the deaths of a few officers, no matter how high their ranks. A civil war among the Council Lords would spell disaster for the entire human race.
Because in the end, it did not matter who emerged victorious—the cost would be catastrophic. The losses suffered would be irreversible, leaving humanity vulnerable. And the moment their forces were weakened, the predatory races lurking in the shadows would not hesitate to strike.
The universe did not abide by morality. It did not care for justice.
When it came to racial conflicts, order and laws meant nothing. They were mere formalities, fragile illusions that shattered the moment weakness was exposed.
In the end, only strength dictated survival.