Neirko, Orbit Broadcast Array Theta-Vox
The Prime Relay pulsed.
From its orbit around Neirko, the ancient vox-spire ignited with blue flame—carving the emperor's final decree into light and code across the stars. Every Prime World received the message within seconds. From the iron forests of Draxa, to the bio-crystal reefs of Orrh-Val, the call had gone out:
Ascendance Trials Initiated.
On each of the Thirteen Prime Worlds, a new name would rise—or fall. Each heir carried not only their world's bloodline, but its pride, its power, and its weapon.
1st Prime World – Velharn
A mountainous fortress-world carved into obsidian cliffs. Here, Prince Arken Tal-Velharn stood in a hall of stormglass, the winds of the void howling beyond the spires. His fists were wrapped in goldplate, still stained with training blood.
"They'll all come for the throne," Arken murmured. "Let them."
Behind him, a burning blade floated in stasis—a relic left behind by Lucius Karo himself.
3rd Prime World – Yevan IX
The hive-libraries buzzed with whispers. Princess Eira of Yevan, cloaked in white and wire, walked barefoot across circuits etched with prayer. Her mind was vast—augmented since birth—and already, she calculated the variables of every other heir.
"The bloodline narrows," she whispered, eyes glowing. "The Void stirs. And the war-born will clash again."
5th Prime World – Ro'th Venn
A world of gladiator rings and tribal citadels.
Kael Ro'th, known as the Beast Prince, howled as he broke the back of his last challenger. Blood painted the sand as he raised a skull high.
"Let the gods watch. I'll rip the throne out with my hands."
Meanwhile – Nightfell, The Dream-Crucible
Kiro stood barefoot in the dust, sweat bleeding from his brow, veins aglow with coursing red Viora.
Across from him, the Naught—the last of a forgotten race—watched with eyes older than galaxies.
"You learn fast," the Naught rasped, "but not fast enough."
A sound tore through the air—like cloth being shredded across time. A fracture had opened.
The sky above Nightfell twisted, not physically, but in the way dreams twist—rips forming in unreality. And through them... black teeth.
The Voidling Warlord pressed against the veil. Not yet inside. But close.
"Listen well, blood-son," the Naught said, placing a clawed hand on Kiro's chest. "Their hierarchy is ancient. Endless. They do not conquer. They consume."
"Soldiers. Captains. Magnus Guard. Warlords..."
"And above them... Kings. Emperors."
Kiro swallowed hard. "How many kings?"
"None seen for a thousand ages. The Emperors even longer."
"But the Warlord?" Kiro asked.
"He is almost through. I give you a ship, if you survive one more rite."
The Naught gestured, and the ground split open. A platform of stone rose—covered in pulsating Viora lines. Atop it sat an orb of star-blood, flickering with visions.
The Rite of Fractured Flame.
"Enter it," the Naught said. "Ascend or break. No more time."
Meanwhile – Beyond the Rift
The Voidling Warlord coiled like a god-sized serpent of black glass and bone, singing to the fracture in the veil.
Below him, in the shattered dream remnants of the City of the Gods, only one deity remained—hidden in a tomb of light.
A voice echoed inside the silence:
"I see you, Warlord. I cannot stop you. But I see you."
And the god vanished.