The command deck of Judicator's Wrath remained deathly silent as the transmission link established.
A flickering screen materialized before Admiral Valen, static crackling before the battered image of the sole survivor emerged. The Rank 7 warrior was barely recognizable as a Dharma Soldier. His armor, once pristine, lay in shattered ruin, stained with blood and grime. His face was gaunt, hollowed by a fear so profound it had stripped him of all composure. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.
"Identify yourself," Valen commanded, his voice steady.
The soldier flinched as though struck. His lips parted, but no words came at first. His throat bobbed, struggling against something unseen—something far more terrifying than the admiral before him.
"I… I—" The words choked out, barely more than a whisper. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting wildly as if expecting death to strike him even now. "R-Rank 7 Dharma S-Soldier… Kieran…"
The way he stammered did not go unnoticed.
Valen's gaze sharpened. Kieran was not merely injured—he was broken. But not in the way of a warrior who had simply lost a battle. No. This was something deeper, something that had clawed into his very soul.
"What happened?" Valen pressed.
Kieran's breath hitched. His trembling hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white. For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn't answer, his mind trapped in the horror he had witnessed. But then his lips parted, and a single name slipped out.
"NOX Ashborn."
Silence.
A shudder ran through him, his entire body convulsing as though merely speaking that name summoned something monstrous. His fingers clawed at his own arms, as if trying to rid himself of an invisible curse. His voice dropped into a broken whisper.
"He's not… he's not human… He's not human…"
The officers aboard the command deck exchanged uneasy glances, but Valen remained motionless, his piercing gaze locked onto the soldier's unraveling state.
Kieran's eyes were wide—too wide, like a man who had stared into an abyss and found it staring back. He shook his head violently, his breath ragged, his words spilling out faster, frenzied.
"We—we thought the worst was the Dark Heaven Clan's resistance! We expected them to fight back! But—but it wasn't them… It wasn't them!" His body trembled, his voice cracking.
"It was that monster… That monster killed everyone… He—he is not human…"
"Fear him... You have to fear him... Please, you must..."
The words spilled from his lips in a fevered loop, a broken mind clinging to what little sanity remained, his breath hitching with each repeated phrase. He repeated the same sentence over and over again, his consciousness unraveling, lost in the nightmare he had barely escaped.
Admiral Valen exhaled slowly, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. He understood.
For a Rank 7 warrior—a veteran who had spent over a thousand years on the battlefield—to be reduced to this state could only mean he had witnessed a horror beyond anything imaginable.
Yet Valen felt neither anger nor disappointment. This was not Kieran's failure. It was the Supreme Society's.
A critical miscalculation.
They had provoked an Empyrean Clan with reckless, half-measured tactics, and now, the consequences were laid bare before him.
His expression remained unreadable, but his mind was already piecing the situation together. Someone in the higher ranks had orchestrated this debacle, a misstep that had cost them the lives of countless Dharma Soldiers and, more importantly, three Rank 9 Awakeners.
Had the Dark Heaven Clan butchered the soldiers as a warning?
A message to the Supreme Society—to those who believed they could act with impunity?
Valen exhaled slowly, a rare flicker of emotion tightening his jaw. Disgust, anger, frustration—all warred within him as he wrestled with the bitter truth.
Whom should he hate?
The higher-ups, who had dragged innocent soldiers into their power struggles and greed?
Or the Dark Heaven Clan, who had butchered them as nothing more than a warning?
There was no answer. Only loss.
It was a miserable feeling—to grieve for the fallen and not even know where to direct his fury.
He let out another breath before issuing his command. "Stay put. We're on our way to bring you in."
Though he had lost most of his forces, he was not the type to abandon even a single soldier. Even if it was an inconvenience, he would not leave Kieran behind.
That was the kind of admiral he was.
And the reason why his subordinates respected him.
Kieran's expression shifted in an instant. The dazed horror in his eyes sharpened into something raw and desperate as his mind forced itself back to lucidity—if only for a final warning.
"A-Admiral, you mustn't! You mustn't enter this realm!"
His voice cracked with panic, his breath coming in frantic gasps.
"Admiral… please, run away! That monster—he placed a curse, a monstrosity designed to slaughter Dharma Soldiers…!"
His screams turned into pleas, his voice breaking with sheer desperation. But after a few more frantic words, his body convulsed, his eyes rolling back as he lost consciousness.
Valen frowned.
Kieran's warning was incoherent, bordering on hysteria, but the admiral did not dismiss it. A warrior of his caliber did not beg without reason.
He tapped a finger against the railing, weighing the risks.
If Kieran was wrong, then retreating now would cost him nothing.
But if he was right… and Valen ignored him…
Then he would be responsible for his subordinates' deaths.
His decision was made in an instant.
"Retreat immediately! This is an order!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the tense silence. "I repeat—retreat the ship immediately!"
There was no room for argument.
The officers on the command deck stiffened before snapping into motion, relaying the order across the fleet. Soldiers scrambled through the docking bays, their movements urgent as the command spread like wildfire.
Engines roared to life. Ships adjusted their formation.
But they were too late….
The engines of Judicator's Wrath roared as the fleet prepared for an emergency retreat. The command deck was tense, officers moving with precision, their disciplined movements disguising the unease creeping into their hearts. They had faced death before, had braved countless battles, but this—this was different.
A weight settled over the ship, pressing against their very souls. It was unseen, unfelt, yet it was there, threading itself into the fabric of reality.
And then, it began.
The first to scream was an officer standing at the main console. His hands, once steady over the controls, spasmed violently before clutching his own head. His face twisted in agony, veins bulging against his skin as a ragged gasp tore from his throat. His voice, raw with disbelief, rang across the bridge.
"No… No…! My wife—she—" His breath hitched, his body trembling uncontrollably. "She's dying—she's dying—!"
Another officer staggered back, his fingers clawing at his uniform. His expression was frozen in sheer horror, his lips forming silent words before his knees buckled.
"Admiral…" His voice cracked. "My son…! He—he was at home—he was—"
He choked. Blood trickled down his nose, his entire body convulsing.
Across the bridge, more voices joined in.
"M-My mother—she's—!"
"My daughter—she was just a child—!"
"My brother—please—please no—!"
It was not an illusion.
It was not a trick of the mind.
Their families were truly dying.
From the lowest-ranked soldier to the highest-ranking officer, the curse spread across the entire fleet. It did not need a battlefield. It did not require a fight. The Nameless Decree had already decided their deaths.
Through the invisible law of causality, those who had stepped into this forsaken realm were already condemned. Their loved ones, no matter how far away, no matter how well-guarded, were being erased from existence.
And the soldiers felt it.
They felt the moment their families took their last breath.
They felt the despair as the connection between them snapped, as if a piece of their souls had been violently torn away.
Some clutched at their chests, as if trying to hold on to what had already been lost. Others fell to their knees, their voices breaking into guttural sobs. Their grief was raw, suffocating, all-consuming.
And the Nameless Decree fed on it all.
It was formless, yet vast beyond comprehension. It did not howl, yet its presence roared through the silent void. It did not touch them, yet it crawled into their veins, whispering their loss into the very essence of their existence.
Lieutenant Marek staggered forward, his body shaking violently. His breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers twitching as he forced himself to look at Admiral Valen. His face was twisted with sorrow, his voice nothing more than a whisper.
"Admiral… my wife… my daughter… they're… gone…"
His hands trembled. His lips quivered.
"They weren't even here," he whispered. "They were light-years away… but they're gone. Just like that."
He let out a breathless laugh—one of disbelief, of madness creeping in.
"How is this possible…?"
Valen remained silent. He had no answer to give.
The officers and soldiers under his command—their discipline, their honor, their unwavering faith in duty—had been crushed in an instant. They were not warriors fighting an enemy. They were men and women mourning the loss of everything they had ever loved.
And Valen felt nothing.
He stood amidst the storm of agony and despair, untouched. He should have felt something. He should have been consumed by the same pain, the same torment that had swallowed his soldiers whole.
But there was nothing.
No grief. No sorrow. No loss.
Because he had no one to lose.
He had never married. He had no children waiting for him. No parents who would grieve his death. No siblings who would mourn him.
The Nameless Decree had nothing to take from him.
And that, perhaps, was the cruelest thing of all.
His men, his officers, his soldiers—they had all lived for something beyond war. They had families to protect, homes to return to, people waiting for them.
And now, they had nothing.
The command deck was silent now.
Many had already collapsed, their bodies falling lifelessly to the ground. Others stood frozen, their minds unable to comprehend the weight of their loss.
Valen's grip on the railing tightened. His jaw clenched. He had faced countless horrors in war, but nothing had ever made him feel as powerless as this.
This was not just an execution.
It was a massacre that defied reason itself.
And yet, despite it all, despite the death, the grief, the sheer wrongness of what had just unfolded—Valen did not allow himself to break.
He straightened his back. His composure did not waver. His voice, when he spoke, was steady.
"Initiate full retreat," he commanded.
No one responded.
Not because they refused, but because there was no one left to carry out the order.
Valen exhaled slowly. He turned his gaze toward the main screen, toward the lifeless ships drifting in the void. An entire fleet, silenced without a single blade being drawn.
He knew, then, that this battle had already been lost.
It had been lost long before they had ever arrived.