The chamber of the High Council, carved from titanium-infused obsidian and set deep beneath the heart of Federation Command, was a place built for power, not comfort. Rows of councilors, admirals, ministers, and intelligence chiefs sat beneath the cold glow of floating holopanels, where every breath felt measured and every silence dangerous.
A single transmission played above the central dais, its speaker calm, efficient—unyielding.
Kael Renn.
"For your attention—I bring one more critical observation. There are multiple pirate factions operating across the outer belts. Most are disorganized… irrelevant, even. Our supply cruisers can eliminate them without backup. But one group... is different."
"They wield Level 6 technology. Unknown origin. Their energy emissions resemble relic-level deep-core weapons, but their vessels are freshly manufactured, modular, tactically modern. I'm still tracking their network. I await your directive."
The message cut. Static replaced the voice.
Silence held for one second.
Then—
"Level 6?!" roared Minister Rylos, slamming his fist on the table. "That's forbidden tech—restricted by every major galactic accord. Not even the Alliance of Black Stars deploys it openly!"
"They shouldn't have it," growled Supreme Admiral Vel Darrin. His voice was gravel and command, earned from bloodied decades in the Core Wars. "So the question becomes—who gave it to them? or where they taken from?"
The room simmered with tension.
Supreme Commander Mal leaned forward, his steel-gray uniform still creased from battlefront inspections. "You're missing the real threat. We spent five years building those 'supply corridors.' Five years of covert movement, fleet cloaking, black budget routes. And now a twenty-year-old Major tears it apart with a single report."
"He's not just a major anymore," Vel Darrin muttered. "Not after Seraphine. He's... the Warshade Sovereign now."
The murmurs deepened—soft gasps, exchanged glances. The legend was becoming too real.
Then—thud.
The President stood, raising one hand. Silence fell instantly.
"I've reviewed every decision Kael Renn has made since his graduation," the President began, voice slow and deliberate. "And I will tell you something most of you refuse to see."
He walked the perimeter of the table, measured steps echoing like judgments.
"When he returned home, an officer raided his family's lands. His father was injured. Crops were destroyed. As a decorated major, Kael had every right to retaliate. Instead, he disguised himself, gathered intelligence, compiled a report... and submitted it through protocol."
"That officer was tried, arrested, and executed through formal channels."
The President stopped at the head of the table, facing them all.
"This is the man you fear? A soldier with discipline stronger than ego?"
He let the question hover in the stale air.
"He thinks differently—yes. He builds quickly—yes. But not to rebel. He wants to cut out the rot we've been hiding behind for years. If he turns against us one day, it won't be because of ambition... it will be because someone in this room betrays him first."
Another pause. Another weight.
Then his voice dipped, low and dangerous.
"Do any of you even know what Seraphine truly is?"
Ministers exchanged wary glances. A few paled.
"Wasn't that part of the decommissioned Leviathan program?" asked Marshal Doran.
The President let out a humorless chuckle.
"No. Seraphine is the only Leviathan-Class Mothership we've ever completed. Not a model. Not a concept. A living weapon. Warp-capable with full fleet synchronization, adaptive intelligence, and powered by a 13th Generation Electron Core Reactor."
"She is more than a ship. She is a Goddess of War."
"And she now belongs to Kael Renn."
Gasps rippled across the chamber.
Minister Elenya's hands trembled slightly. "And the Federation just gave it to him?"
The President smiled darkly.
"I did."
Supreme Commander Malkov stood.
"I propose we stop fearing him—and start empowering him."
He raised a formal motion:
"Effective immediately, promote Kael Renn to Marshal. Grant him control over Forty Legions, and designate his command as the Warshade Legion—a separate force, answering only to the President."
An uproar followed.
"This is suicide!"
"He's too young!"
"He'll go rogue!"
"Are we grooming an emperor?"
"Should we eliminate him now?!"
Vel Darrin rose, voice cutting through the panic.
"You assassinate Kael, and he'll become exactly what you fear. A ghost king. A vengeance-fueled warlord. Right now, he's loyal. He's effective. You leave him alone—and you let him win the war for us."
The President stood firm.
"He was never on a leash. You can't leash someone born to lead armies. You guide him. You support him. And most importantly... you don't backstab him."
He looked directly at the defense ministers.
"You want your sons to lead this war? Some of them can't even win against Level 4 civilizations, let alone Level 6. You want to place them at the front so you can control them like dolls? This warfront will eat them alive."
The room fell into a heavy, uncertain silence.
One hour later, a secure line connected to Seraphine.
The display flickered, then settled on Kael Renn—calm, composed, seated within the glowing tactical core of his command bridge.
The President's voice rang through:
"Major Kael Renn—you are hereby promoted to Marshal of the Federation Armed Forces. You will command Forty Legions, operating under the codename Warshade Legion, echoing your personal call sign. This unit will operate independently and report only to me."
Kael nodded once.
"I obey the Senate. I serve the Federation."
Then he spoke again, eyes sharp.
"I propose a strategic initiative. Designate the corrupted sectors as Living Jails—quarantined warzones. We'll keep civilians out, place advanced sentries and quantum cloaks to suppress detection. That way, I can move freely."
"Once I find the source of this Level 6 tech—I will start from there."
Not a single voice responded.
The chamber was silent. Because the strategy proposed... had never even crossed their minds.
Minister Elenya (almost in awe):
"…He thinks like a tactician. But moves like a sovereign."
Admiral Vel Darrin (smirking):
"Told you. He's already playing at levels we're barely preparing for."
Commander Malkov (to no one in particular):
"Living jails… gods help us. That's not just strategy. That's war doctrine."
Minister Rylos (sweating):
"And you're comfortable giving this boy—this unpredictable asset—forty legions?"
The President (flatly):
"No. I'm not comfortable. I'm committed."
Marshal Doran (with quiet resignation):
"…Then let's pray he stays ours."
And in that silence, the truth echoed louder than any vote, any rank, or any protocol:
Kael Renn was no longer just a soldier. He had become the blade they couldn't control—only aim... and pray would never turn around.