The sky didn't scream, but it shuddered.
And from its ruptured silence, the Seraphine descended—black and regal, cloaked in the gravity of judgment. Behind her, like wings of steel and vengeance, came her archangels: the entire Warshade Armada.
Over 100,000 ships, each a sharpened whisper. Each a sermon written in ion and fire.
The Chrona Empire's capital choked on its own breath.
They didn't have time to mobilize defenses. They didn't even have time to doubt. Their entire sky was eclipsed by the storm Kael Renn had brought to their doorstep.
A transmission clawed through the static—sharp, panicked, unraveling:
"Unknown fleet… this is Chrona High Command. State your intention or you will be treated as hostile!"
On the bridge of Seraphine, the crew didn't laugh.
They cackled.
The threat was a sparrow hissing at a thunderclap. Elisa didn't even blink—she had already seen the future, and it wasn't one where Chrona survived.
Kael's fingers moved like whispers across the console. The comms opened.
His voice slid through the frequency like silk draped over a dagger.
"Check your ancient data cores. You'll recognize our emblem... though it's been centuries since you've seen it burn this bright."
Onscreen, the solar serpent coiled around seven wings, shimmering like a divine relic pulled from myth.
"I request an audience with your sovereign. President or King—it doesn't matter."
Behind him, Kael gave Elisa a quiet, coded nod.
Operation Pale Dawn—quiet as the name, lethal as the dawn it promised. Warshade Legions 10th through 15th moved in shadow, already forming the noose. If Kael so much as whispered, entire cities would fall like dominoes of bone.
Chrona buckled. Then, through cracked dignity, a voice responded:
"You speak to King Rauthen, ruler of the Chrona Empire. With whom do I converse? Which civilization dares arrive like this?"
Kael stood tall, the void glinting across his silhouette like a god dressed in steel.
"I am Kael Renn, Executor of the Warshade Legions. Our home? The Human Empire. A Level 7 civilization."
Then came his razors.
"Three hundred years ago, we scrapped a warship—TYRANT-OSIRIS. It was stolen. Buried. Forgotten."
"Now I find it here. Repainted. Repurposed. Piloted by trained soldiers under the mask of pirates. Sold to you through backdoor proxies."
His smile held no warmth—only the weariness of someone who had peeled truth from rot.
"Tell me, Your Majesty... what were you planning to do with a Level 6 prototype built to kill gods?"
The king stammered.
"I assure you, we had no knowledge—"
Kael raised his hand.
Silence obeyed.
"If you didn't know, then you're incompetent. If you did, then this… is war."
"I'm here to warn you before I erase your empire off the star map."
Earth – Federation Core World, Executive Command Chambers
Sirens moaned across halls of polished steel and marble. Emergency crimson bathed the chamber.
Holograms blinked to life—faces appearing like summoned spirits.
At the center, standing beneath the seal of the Federation, was President Ilaren Vos, his face carved from granite, his eyes storms bottled behind statecraft.
"Kael Renn has acted," Vos said calmly. "He's initiated war protocols against the Chrona Empire. Their king confirmed involvement. The fleet's already in position."
Panic erupted like wildfire.
"Impossible—no War Council authorization!"
"The Senate hasn't even voted!"
"He's gone rogue! He'll break the Empire!"
One slammed the table.
"He's just a boy! Who gave him that much power?!"
President Vos didn't speak.
He laughed.
Not a chuckle. Not a sigh. A slow, savage grin crawled across his face like an omen.
"He won't rebel."
"How the hell can you be sure?"
His voice dropped lower, into the tone of a man invoking a myth.
"Because of his blood. Because of who raised him."
Silence slammed the room.
"...Who?"
The President stepped forward. Each syllable that followed hit like the toll of a funeral bell.
"His father… is Adrin Renn. Most of you won't remember the name—because history itself flinched and buried it."
"But you'll remember the legend. His callsign—Lucifer."
The temperature dropped.
Voices whispered it like a curse:
"Lucifer..."
"The Grand Marshal of the Crimson Siege..."
"The one who fought gods and made them kneel..."
"The man who razed four planets alone—and left no graves behind."
President Vos nodded.
"You wanted him to follow orders? That man was the chain of command. The battlefield didn't shape him—he redefined it. Soldiers followed his name, not his orders."
"He disappeared not because we dismissed him—but because he let us live."
"To this day, he still holds the Elder Vote. All of them. One voice, and half the government stands down."
Stillness.
A minister swallowed hard.
"And the mother?"
The President's eyes narrowed, awe tinting his voice.
"Pedra A whisper with a kill count. An assassin who danced across empires. You know what she did?"
"She ended the Rogue Senate with a single message. Not a war. Not a battle. A message."
"She doesn't just control the comm network—her family owns it. She could dismantle our intelligence grid from her garden. She's the kind of woman who says die, and entire planets catch fire just to obey."
Another voice cracked:
"Why… why would they vanish?"
"To raise their son,"