"My ship has arrived."
Silas Vire's voice rang with quiet finality. The crowd around him turned once more—toward the dreadnought descending like a judgment from orbit—and then back to him. The impossibility of the moment clashed with reality.
Hayden Marr, flushed from his earlier mockery, froze. His eyes flicked from the void-cruiser to Silas, then back again.
Then his expression changed. Dread. Real, primal dread.
No sane man claimed ownership of an S-Class warship—not unless they held high office, commanded fleets, or belonged to one of the ruling bloodlines of the Solar Ascendancy. And certainly not a graduate from Starborne Academy.
"You've gone mad!" Hayden snapped, voice rising an octave. "Do you even understand what you're saying?"
"That's not just a warship. It's an S-Class vessel! Those belong to Planet Lords, Dominion Executors—men who destroy moons as warnings!"
"You're going to get yourself executed! You think the real owner of that ship won't have you dissected for saying it's yours?!"
The crowd shifted. Dozens stepped away from Silas, distancing themselves instinctively. The last thing they wanted was to be collateral damage when the true captain of that ship arrived.
"No orphan brat owns an S-Class cruiser," someone hissed.
"Lying is one thing," another muttered, "but this is how you disappear."
Even Captain Lyra Caelis, who had moments ago offered him a place on her ship, reappeared on the deck. She said nothing at first. Her eyes were narrowed in disbelief. Not confusion. Not pity. Just calculation.
"Silas," she said coolly, "are you insane?"
Silas turned his eyes toward her, impassive. "I'm not lying, Captain Caelis. The ship is mine."
Before anyone could speak again, the Hyperion responded for him.
Its primary hangar cracked open like a vault door, releasing a hiss of pressured atmosphere and synthetic mist. The sound echoed across the entire port.
Every conversation died.
From within, two columns of Marvin-class units emerged—sleek humanoid constructs, each plated in gunmetal composite alloys and bearing glowing blue optics. They marched with inhuman precision, forming an honor guard flanking the hangar ramp.
"Captain Silas Vire. Welcome aboard the Hyperion."
The declaration was loud, clear, and unmistakable.
Silas moved forward without ceremony, stepping between the synthetics like a sovereign returning to his throne.
Behind him, chaos broke.
"Captain, please! I didn't know—it was all a misunderstanding!" Hayden Marr stumbled forward, desperation in his voice. "Let me serve! I'll take no salary! Just deck scrubbing—I swear!"
Another shouted over him, "I'm a certified B-Class systems engineer! You need qualified crew, don't you?"
"Class-B navigation tech!" came another voice. "Fully certified—never missed a jump window!"
"I'm a C-Class nutritionist, I handle deep-cryo meal cycles! No salary needed!"
"You're a C-Class," someone sneered. "You think he's running a cafeteria?"
In seconds, Lunar Port had devolved into frenzy. People who wouldn't give Silas a second glance ten minutes ago were now fighting to beg for the lowest posts. The mere chance to walk the halls of an S-Class warship was worth any humiliation.
To serve aboard such a ship was to change your future. Even claiming you'd once stood on its deck would earn you influence in any star system.
Elsewhere, high above the fray, within the steel-boned bastion of Lunar Command, Lord Marshal Elias Draeven stood in silence behind a glass wall, overlooking the hangar below.
The man beside him—a nervous logistics officer—spoke in a whisper.
"My Lord, the ship's registry doesn't match any known fleet asset. It's not Ascendancy-owned, and none of the noble Houses filed docking permissions. It simply… arrived."
Draeven's gaze narrowed. "And the captain?"
"A man named Silas Vire. Graduate of Starborne Academy. Confirmed Terran descent. No noble lineage on record."
The Lord Marshal raised a brow. "And he owns that ship?"
"It appears so."
Draeven was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, "Notify Ascendancy Intelligence. Quietly. No alerts."
"But sir, should we detain—"
"No." Draeven's tone was iron. "Do not provoke a man who commands something like that. We observe. We wait."
The officer bowed and fled.
But Draeven kept his eyes on the hangar, on the ship, and on the young man now disappearing into the shadow of its hull.
This will send ripples through every house in the system, he thought. Every guild. Every fleet. Someone has disrupted the order...
Back on the tarmac, Silas turned at the top of the boarding ramp. He looked down at the crowd—still clawing for position, still pleading.
He raised a single hand. Silence fell like gravity.
"If you want to join my crew," he said calmly, "you'll need to meet the standard."
A pause.
Then:
"S-Class certification only."
The silence that followed was deafening.
S-Class certifications were reserved for the highest echelon of specialists in the entire solar system. The Ascendancy kept tight control of every license. There were fewer than a hundred such personnel across the system—and they were all already under contract.
To demand S-Class crew was to declare yourself not just a captain—but a kingmaker.
One by one, the hopefuls stepped back, shoulders slumping. Even the ambitious A-Class engineers lowered their eyes. They were simply not enough.
No one argued.
And Silas said nothing more.
He turned and stepped into the Hyperion. The hatch sealed shut behind him with a deep metallic sigh.
For those who remained, the moment would be remembered forever:
The day a forgotten graduate became the master of a dreadnought.
The day the Hyperion returned to the stars.