Admiral Valen stood motionless on the command deck of Judicator's Wrath, his gaze locked onto the formless entity unraveling before him.
It was Nameless Decree.
It had no shape, yet its presence stretched beyond comprehension. It lacked eyes, yet he felt its gaze. It had no voice, yet its whispers coiled around his thoughts like phantom chains. It was not bound by time, nor space, nor logic—yet it existed, a shifting mass of nothingness, seething with the echoes of those it had consumed.
And it had taken everything.
Valen had seen death before—lost men in battle, watched comrades fall, met the lifeless eyes of those beyond saving.
But this… this was different.
His soldiers had perished, not in combat, but in the grasp of something far worse. The Nameless Decree had not merely slain them. It had reached beyond the battlefield, beyond war itself.
Their families had died first.
Millions of lives, extinguished in an instant—wives, husbands, children. None had been spared. And their end had not been swift. He had heard their screams, their agony, their desperate cries for salvation.
And he had been forced to listen.
His soldiers had died knowing the ones they fought to protect were already gone. Their final moments were filled with helplessness, their spirits crushed before their bodies followed.
No battle had been fought. No struggle had been given.
Only this.
This slow, deliberate punishment.
The fallen Dharma Soldiers—once proud, once unshaken—were now nothing more than unraveling remnants of their former selves. Their corpses twisted, their essence stripped away like threads plucked from reality itself.
And even in death, the Nameless Decree did not stop.
It devoured.
It fed on more than flesh.
Their despair, their terror, the very causality that had once anchored them to existence—all of it was consumed, absorbed into the abyss.
And with every soul it claimed, it grew.
A hunger without end.
Valen clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms.
The Supreme Society had always spoken of duty. Of righteousness. Of the weight they carried as warriors of order. But what had it given them? A purpose? A legacy?
No.
It had given them this.
A death so complete that even mourning was denied. Not even their bones remained.
His breath hitched.
He had seen cruelty before. Witnessed massacres. Ordered executions. Sent men to die, knowing they would not return. But this—this was different. This was not conquest. Not strategy.
This was hatred, given form.
Whoever had forged this curse had suffered before. Had lived this pain. Had endured a loss so profound it had become something beyond grief—beyond loss—beyond reason.
And now, they had ensured the Supreme Society felt it too.
The Nameless Decree was not merely a weapon. It was retribution. A curse woven into existence, a force that transcended battlefields, realms, and time itself.
Whoever had created this monstrosity had felt this suffering before.
They had lost.
They had stood in his soldiers' place.
And now, they had made the world understand.
Valen exhaled slowly, the weight of that realization sinking into him.
This was not a battlefield.
This was judgment.
He had no hatred for the Dark Heaven Clan. No fury left for the Supreme Society's arrogance. None of it mattered anymore. This was the price they had been made to pay.
And Valen—
Valen, who had no family, no ties beyond his fleet and duty—felt nothing.
It should have terrified him. The realization that, in the grand scheme of existence, he had nothing left to lose. That for all his accomplishments, for all the battles he had fought, he would leave behind nothing.
But there was no terror.
Only exhaustion.
He had been a warrior of the Supreme Society. A man who had stood upon the pillars of order and duty. A man who had lived for the cause, for his soldiers, for the countless lives that depended on their strength.
But now—there was nothing.
No home. No future. No past.
His soldiers had been erased. Not merely slain, but stripped from history itself, reduced to forgotten whispers.
So why continue?
What reason was there to take another breath?
The hunger of Nameless Decree loomed before him, stretching across the void, endless and absolute.
It had taken his men.
It would take him next.
Valen exhaled, his expression unreadable as the last vestiges of resistance crumbled.
Perhaps this was fitting.
Perhaps this was justice.
For all their righteousness, their judgment, their crusades in the name of order—perhaps this was what they deserved.
He did not close his eyes as the entity surged forward.
He did not scream as its formless tendrils reached for him, siphoning away the last traces of his existence.
He simply let go.
And then—
He was no more.
*******
Darian Heavenhart stood alone in the vast emptiness of space, just beyond the Genesis Realm. His golden eyes gleamed with cold intensity, reflecting the distant stars as he remained poised—vigilant.
He carried himself like a swordsman at the cusp of battle, anticipating the first clash of steel, the first strike that would set the cosmos ablaze.
For hours, he had waited.
And the Supreme Society's fleets had arrived with all the precision of a disciplined war machine, their insignias gleaming under the distant starlight. Their weapons had been primed, barriers activated, formations executed with the kind of ruthless efficiency only the Dharma Army could maintain.
Everything about them spoke of an impending battle—of warriors ready to fight, to kill, to die.
Darian had prepared as well.
He had braced himself for the storm of bloodshed, for the sky-tearing force of Dharma Arts, for the weight of bodies falling in the cold void.
He had anticipated locking blades with their strongest warriors, feeling the resistance of flesh and steel, measuring the worth of the Supreme Society's forces against his own.
Yet now, his brows furrowed.
Something was wrong.
The warships hung in eerie silence, drifting like the remnants of a forgotten era. No signals. No movement. No trace of life.
Where were they?
His fingers, which had been resting idly on the hilt of his sword, slackened slightly.
His divine sense expanded, sweeping through the nearest vessel. He expected the pulse of warriors, the weight of countless trained minds at their posts. Instead, he felt… nothing.
A cold unease coiled around his spine.
He stretched his perception further, piercing through reinforced hulls and scanning the warships' interiors. Everything was untouched. Terminals flickered with idle light. Control panels blinked steadily. Rows of seats remained in perfect formation. Every corridor, every chamber, stood as if waiting for someone to return.
And yet, there were no signs of combat.
No wreckage. No blood. No bodies.
But he knew—they had been here.
He had sensed them when they arrived, their presences flaring like beacons in the vast void. He had felt their battle fervor, the righteousness burning in their souls. And now, as if devoured by something unseen, they were simply… gone.
His expression darkened.
His mind turned sharply, grasping for reason. Had they retreated? No. The Supreme Society did not retreat. Not without orders. Not without a single transmission.
Had they been slaughtered?
His grip on his sword tightened. But that, too, made no sense. There were no signs of struggle. The warships were intact, undamaged, pristine. No breaches. No shattered hulls.
And yet, they were empty.
That was what disturbed him the most.
Death always left traces—a whisper of agony, a stain of suffering, echoes of pain lingering in the air.
But this? It was as if the universe had simply… erased them.
His unease deepened.
His thoughts sifted through possibilities, but the more he considered, the more he found nothing to grasp. There was no logic to this. No precedent.
Was this an illusion?
No. His senses were too refined to be deceived. This was real.
Darian exhaled sharply, feeling his heart still hammering in his chest. This entire situation was beyond bizarre, and for once, he was grateful he hadn't thrown out any cheeky remarks when the fleets first appeared.
Because, really—how humiliating would it have been if someone had caught him shouting battle threats at a bunch of empty ships?
He sighed, running a hand through his golden hair. "Whatever. My nephew asked me to stop them, and I did my job flawlessly. Effortlessly, even."
His lips twitched as he crossed his arms. Should he really be worrying about how strange this was? Someone—or something—had done his work for him, and he wasn't about to complain. If anything, he should be celebrating.
No exhausting battles. No bones aching from excessive effort. No annoying paperwork afterward.
For once, things had gone his way.
…And yet, deep down, a nagging feeling told him he should be anything but relieved.
This was the true nature of the Nameless Decree.
It did not announce itself with a grand display of Dharma Arts, nor did it shake the heavens with an earth-shattering clash. There was only silence—an eerie stillness before and after its wake.
Once it had fulfilled its purpose, there would be nothing left. No traces. No lingering echoes in causality. No history to recall its existence.
It was a curse woven from the very essence of Nameless and Unrecorded, concepts that defied recognition, slipping through the grasp of even the most omniscient beings.
Even NOX himself had yet to unravel the full extent of these principles. And if the true depths of Nameless and Unrecorded remained beyond his comprehension—then one could only imagine the sheer terror of a curse born from such unknowable power.