Rex
Hyades City, Exterior Ward
Spring Court
Hidden world, Terra
Tellus solar system
Milky way Galaxy
Neutral Free zone
March 7th 2019
A day earlier…
Sleep would not claim him.
Each time Rex closed his eyes, they came again—faces half-consumed by rot, peeling from the dark like something the shadows themselves were trying to forget. Their hollow eyes fixed on him, knowing, accusing. Fingers—cold, skeletal, relentless—reached from the void and dragged him downward, inch by inch, into a depth where light did not belong. They showed him things. Not memories… truths. Reflections of what his soul must have become.
He fought them. Every time.
And every time, he lost.
Rex jolted awake, breath ragged, his body tense as if he had just clawed his way out of a grave. Silence filled the room, but it brought no peace. This was the fourth nightmare in as many nights. Sleep had become an enemy—one he had no desire to face again.
Why should he?
The Captain of the Black Knight had made sure of that.
The man's voice lingered like a curse etched into his bones. Rex had exposed himself—fully, irreversibly—to Sector Zero and Mallus. The game had changed. The Masked Man would come for him eventually. It wasn't a question of if, only when.
But fear was not what stirred in Rex.
Fear had long since been carved out of him.
Since becoming a Paladin—since joining the Yaeger Corps—his life had been a chain of battlefields and blood-soaked missions, each more unforgiving than the last. He had become what they needed him to be: a hound. A hunter loosed upon the rot festering within the Divine Federation. He had seen its underbelly, its secrets, its decay.
And to fight it… he had become part of it.
Lies. Theft. Killing.
Necessary evils, they called them.
There were still lines he refused to cross—thin, fragile remnants of the man he used to be—but even those felt like they were eroding, worn down by time and necessity.
His gaze drifted, unfocused, as his thoughts turned inward.
It had begun with his father.
The truth he uncovered had not simply shaken him—it had changed him. Something fundamental had shifted, like a fracture running through the core of his being. It was that fracture that led him here. That drove him to accept the Admiral's order—to annihilate Sector Zero without hesitation.
You and your father are a disgrace to the honor of the Pendragon bloodline.
The words struck again, sharp and unyielding.
Rex's jaw tightened. His fists clenched.
"No…" he muttered under his breath, a quiet defiance burning through the remnants of that voice. "The Federation is the disgrace."
A faint glow flickered in his eyes as he rose from the bed, the weight of his resolve pressing down on the room itself.
He was between missions now—a rare stillness in a life of constant motion. And yet, even in this pause, he had chosen to remain with the Fallen Stars.
Unfinished business.
The disk he had retrieved from Sector Zero—his leverage, his prize—had been taken by Sophia Sinclair. Now, he waited.
Admiral Wilcock had been clear. The Fallen Stars were not allies—they were tools. A means to strike at rival factions within the Federation's tangled web of power.
Which meant Rex had no choice.
He was now working alongside the very organization that had once terrorized his homeworld.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
At first, it had disgusted him. Betrayal tasted bitter, especially when it was directed at the place he had once sworn to protect. But understanding came quickly in a world like his.
This wasn't betrayal.
It was necessity.
…And perhaps something else.
Something selfish.
A quiet, gnawing desire that didn't align with the ideals of the Pendragon name. That didn't belong to a Paladin.
That was why the Captain's words had struck so deeply.
Rex exhaled slowly, pushing the thought aside as he glanced around the room. It was modest—almost sterile. A single bed, neatly made. A crystal lantern casting a pale, steady glow. A desk with nothing but empty space.
No windows.
No sense of the outside world.
A waiting room.
He leaned back slightly, lost in thought—
Shhhk.
The door slid open.
Titus Weevil stepped inside, his presence sharp and immediate. There was a weight to him—a quiet violence that filled the air. Even the guards behind him seemed strained under it, their composure cracking at the edges.
Rex, by contrast, barely reacted.
He blinked once… then rose to his feet.
"Her Lady will see you," Titus said, his tone clipped, devoid of warmth.
A grin tugged at Rex's lips—subtle, but unmistakable—as he reached for the silver jacket draped across the desk. He slipped it on over his red shirt, adjusting it with practiced ease.
"About time," he murmured.
Together, they stepped into the corridor.
White.
Endless, sterile white stretched before them, broken only by the faint hum of hidden machinery. Their footsteps echoed softly as they moved toward the lift waiting at the far end.
The doors parted with a whisper.
Inside, Rex drifted toward the rear of the elevator, where a pane of reinforced glass revealed what lay beyond.
And for a moment—
He paused.
Hyades City unfolded before him in silent grandeur.
Carved into the heart of a mountain within the Spring Court of the Hidden World, the city was a monument to divine craftsmanship. Legend claimed a god had hollowed the mountain itself before gifting it to the Dwarves—a story that suddenly felt far less like myth and far more like memory etched into stone.
Forges burned like captured stars across the cavern.
Below, an entire shipyard stretched into the depths—warships in various stages of creation, their skeletal frames suspended in the air, surrounded by intricate scaffolding and floating machinery. Sparks rained like golden snow as constructs and engineers moved in perfect, practiced harmony, shaping steel and arcane circuitry alike.
Some vessels were complete—sleek, imposing, brimming with power.
Others were unfinished—waiting, evolving.
Preparing.
As the lift ascended, the view slowly receded, swallowed once more by the mountain's interior.
Rex exhaled, then turned his gaze toward Titus, who had been watching him in silence.
"Looks like things are going well," Rex said, his tone light—but his eyes sharp, calculating.
This wasn't just construction.
It was preparation for war.
Whatever the Fallen Stars were building… it was far beyond anything Terra should have been capable of. Their technology brushed against the threshold of advanced civilizations—dangerously close to parity with the Federation's outer systems.
Maybe not equal.
Not yet.
But given time…
Rex's gaze flickered back to the fading view, a quiet realization settling in.
They wouldn't need much more.
"You should watch your mouth," Titus said, his voice low and edged with steel. "If it were up to me, you'd already be dead, Pendragon. A dog like you should only speak when commanded."
Rex arched a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting in faint amusement. This again. Titus had never bothered to hide his contempt—not since Rex began working with the Fallen Stars. Maybe it was the Yaeger Corps. Maybe it was history. After all, Rex had spent years hunting people like him under the banner of the Federation.
"I suppose it's a good thing you're not the one giving orders," Rex replied lightly.
A growl rumbled in Titus's throat—quiet, controlled, but real. It only widened Rex's grin.
"Tell me something, Titus," Rex continued, tilting his head slightly. "If it came down to it… who would you rather kill? Me… or him?"
Silence followed.
Not hesitation—something heavier.
When Titus finally spoke, it wasn't the answer Rex expected.
"What is it you want, Pendragon?" His gaze hardened, searching. "What would drive a hunting dog like you to stand with us… and turn your blade against the Divine Federation?"
The question lingered between them, thick with unspoken weight.
Rex didn't answer immediately.
For a moment, he simply stared ahead, jaw tightening as something deeper stirred beneath the surface. Truth or silence—which one mattered more here?
"…Do you know what happened to Lamentias?" Rex asked at last, his voice quieter now.
Titus's eyes flickered. "I heard there was a cleansing."
Rex let out a hollow breath.
"Ten million souls," he said. "Erased like it was nothing."
His gaze drifted, unfocused, as if seeing it all again.
"But of course…" he added, a trace of bitterness threading his tone, "what's ten million compared to the hundreds of trillions spread across the Federation?"
"Their 'Divine Peace,'" Titus muttered, the words laced with open contempt.
The irony of it hung in the air.
The very doctrine that justified expansion… conquest… annihilation.
"And they call you terrorists," Rex said.
Titus let out a sharp, humorless exhale.
"Even the Uprising didn't cost that many lives," Rex went on.
"The Uprising wasn't meant to," Titus replied. "It was a message. The breaking of chains."
Rex glanced at him, something unreadable passing through his expression.
"I don't blame you for leaving," he said. "If I were in your place, I would've done the same."
A pause.
"But I'm a Pendragon."
The name carried weight—legacy, expectation… burden.
Titus said nothing.
"You asked me what I want," Rex continued, his voice steady now, anchored in something deeper than anger. "It's simple."
He met Titus's gaze directly.
"I want to make sure no one in the Federation ever has to make the choice you did."
For the first time, Titus faltered.
Not visibly—but something shifted. A fracture in certainty. A hesitation that hadn't been there before.
The lift slowed.
Then—
Ding.
The doors parted with a soft hiss.
Titus exhaled through his nose, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. He gave a subtle nod to the guards stationed outside, then stepped forward without another word.
Rex followed.
They entered a large, circular chamber—open, elegant, and suffused with a quiet, deliberate luxury. A glass table dominated the center, its surface reflecting the soft ambient light. Surrounding it were low sofas and a long couch, arranged with casual precision.
And at the center of it all—
Sophia Sinclair.
She sat at the table as though the room itself had been built around her. Plates of untouched food were scattered before her, more for display than need. Her posture was relaxed—almost languid—but there was nothing careless about it.
She was striking.
Not in a simple way, but in something deeper—refined, deliberate. Long emerald hair cascaded over her shoulders like flowing silk, framing olive-toned skin that seemed to glow faintly under the light. Her green dress clung just enough to suggest, never to reveal, accentuating every curve with effortless elegance.
But it wasn't her beauty that held the room.
It was her presence.
Power—quiet, immense, undeniable—coiled beneath her calm exterior, like something ancient choosing, for now, to remain still.
Sophia lifted her gaze.
And the room, somehow, felt smaller.
"Ah… Xander. You're here," she said softly, lifting a glass of red wine to her lips.
The liquid caught the light as she took a slow sip, unhurried—deliberate.
Then her eyes found him.
Pale green.
Clear… and impossibly deep.
The moment her gaze settled on Rex, something within him faltered.
He didn't like that.
Rex Pendragon had built his life on reading people—micro-expressions, shifts in tone, the weight behind a glance. It was how a hunting dog survived. It was how he stayed alive in a world full of liars and monsters.
But Sophia Sinclair…
She was unreadable.
Not guarded. Not concealed.
Just… beyond him.
It wasn't simply her status as a Variant—if that was even the reason. No, it was something deeper. Something woven into the very aura she radiated. It pressed against his mind, subtle yet overwhelming, distorting his instincts, dulling his clarity.
Looking into her eyes felt like staring into something vast enough to swallow thought itself.
"I hope your rest was worth it," she added.
Rex forced himself to breathe evenly.
"It was," he replied. "Nice to have a moment."
A faint smile curved at her lips—amusement, but edged with something sharper.
"Yes… I imagine a dog serving more than one master would find such moments rare."
Rex exhaled through his nose, the tension easing into something quieter, more resigned.
So that was it.
One of the questions that had been gnawing at him during his confinement… answered, just like that.
"You always knew, didn't you?" he asked.
His gaze flicked briefly to Titus. The man's expression tightened—subtle, but telling.
Good.
That confirmed it.
Sophia had kept this to herself.
"The Matron knows all," Sophia said, her tone calm, almost absent of weight.
The Matron.
The name again.
It echoed through Rex's memory—whispered in reports, buried in intelligence briefings, spoken with quiet reverence or fear depending on who uttered it. Admiral Wilcock had mentioned it. Sector Zero operatives had hinted at it. And now, here, within the Fallen Stars, it surfaced once more.
A shadow behind the shadows.
Rex had long suspected the Fallen Stars were more than a rogue terrorist faction born from the Uprising nineteen years ago. There was structure here. Design. Power that extended far beyond what they should possess.
The Matron…
That was the missing piece.
And yet, for all his efforts, Rex had found nothing concrete. No origin. No form. Not even a trace.
Just influence.
Everywhere.
"…Did they know?" Rex asked, his voice cutting through the silence. "About the Abominations sabotaging the experiment?"
The memory surfaced unbidden.
His first meeting with Sophia—Aria at his side. The truth laid bare without hesitation.
Nova York.
The virus.
Project Starseed.
The Fallen Stars had unleashed it—calculated, intentional. A catalyst for the Celestial realignment.
But the Beast King…
He had turned their design against them. Twisted it. Spread his corruption through Terra like a plague.
And now the city paid the price.
Rex's jaw tightened slightly.
He hadn't meant the question as an accusation.
But it landed like one.
"You dare—" Titus stepped forward, fury flaring, his presence spiking like a drawn blade.
A single finger rose.
Sophia didn't even look at him.
And yet—
Titus stopped.
Just like that.
The rage in him coiled inward, restrained by nothing more than her quiet command. The tension in his posture lingered, but he said nothing further.
Rex couldn't help the faint grin that tugged at his lips.
"Are you familiar with the concept of fate, Pendragon?" Sophia asked.
Something shifted.
Not visibly—but the room changed.
The air thickened.
Pressure gathered, subtle at first, then suffocating—like the weight of an unseen ocean pressing down on his lungs. Had Rex been any weaker—anything below Grandmaster—he would have been forced to his knees, breath stolen before he could even resist.
Even now, it pressed against him.
Testing.
Measuring.
"I am," Rex said, steadying himself. "What about it?"
Sophia leaned back slightly, the glass of wine resting loosely in her hand as her gaze deepened.
"Fate," she said, her voice soft yet absolute, "is often mistaken for something immutable. A fixed thread. A predetermined end."
A pause.
A faint, knowing smile.
"But in truth…"
Her eyes glimmered—something ancient stirring beneath their surface.
"It is far more… fickle than that."
In other words—don't cling to foresight.
Don't trust it.
Rex had long since abandoned the idea of living by what might be. Possibilities were endless, uncertain things—shifting, unreliable. He refused to let himself be shackled by outcomes that hadn't yet taken form.
Instead, he focused on what lay within his reach.
What he could shape.
What he could control.
That was why he had stood aside.
Why he had allowed the Fallen Stars to exploit the chaos unraveling through Nova York, letting the virus spread while they moved beneath its shadow.
Did it weigh on him?
Yes.
There were nights—like this one—where sleep came fractured, haunted by consequence.
But regret?
No.
Not fully.
If given the same choice again, he would walk the same path. Without hesitation.
Only… if another route existed—one that led to the same end without the cost—he would take it. Every time.
"Blackearth Virus," Rex said, his voice cutting cleanly through the room.
Sophia's gaze lingered on him, curious. "What about it?"
"What's being done about it?"
"The Golden Dawn are handling it," she replied simply, as if the matter required no further thought. Then, tilting her head slightly, she added, "Why does it bother you? Terrans aren't your people. You're an offworlder… why concern yourself with a swarm of ants?"
"I don't," Rex said without hesitation.
And he meant it.
His voice held no pretense—only clarity.
"I just didn't think you'd be willing to risk an Infernal breach. If I had known the experiment would lead to Infernal energy leaking into this world…" His eyes hardened slightly. "I wouldn't have stood by."
"Even with Titus watching you?" Sophia asked, a faint note of amusement threading her tone.
Rex laughed—a low, unrestrained sound.
Truth be told, his unease had never been about the Terrans.
Not really.
He knew the numbers. The probabilities. The outcomes of Project Starseed. He had studied them—from Sector Zero's reports, from the Fallen Stars' own data. The success rate, the failures, the casualties.
That wasn't what kept him awake.
It was something else.
Something quieter… and far more dangerous.
He had handed them a weapon.
A future.
Power they were never meant to wield.
And one day—
That power would turn.
Back toward the Divine Federation.
Back toward home.
That was the betrayal.
That was the weight pressing against his chest when the world went quiet.
As for Titus…
Rex didn't spare him a second thought.
Yes, the man was strong—an Ascendant in the Master stage. Stronger than the Captain of the Black Knight had been.
But Rex had already stepped beyond that threshold.
He was Grandmaster now—standing at its beginning, but standing nonetheless.
The difference between them wasn't subtle.
It was absolute.
"I would've killed him," Rex said plainly. "Right there."
The room seemed to still.
"Mission or not… I wouldn't have cared. You could've offered me the entire Federation on a silver plate—it wouldn't matter."
His gaze sharpened, something fierce surfacing beneath the calm.
"I don't touch Infernal energy," he continued. "And I despise Abominations with everything I am."
For a moment, Sophia said nothing.
She simply watched him.
Studied him.
And in that silence, something shifted—some quiet recalibration of how she saw him.
Then, softly—
"You truly are a Paladin," Sophia Sinclair said.
Yes—at the end of it all, Rex was still a Paladin of the Starlight Order.
Titles, allegiances, compromises… none of it stripped away that core truth.
A Paladin's duty was many things—guardian, executioner, judge—but at its heart, there was one purpose that never changed:
The eradication of Abominations.
It was instinct. Doctrine. Identity.
And that was why Cedar Lakes lingered in his mind like an open wound.
The Beast Abomination faction had revealed itself—boldly, recklessly—and in doing so, had shifted the balance. The game was no longer hidden. No longer subtle.
Which meant one thing.
It was time.
Time to deal with a certain feline king.
"Do not worry," Sophia Sinclair said, her tone calm, assured. "The information you've provided is more than enough. The Matron has… taken interest. She would like a meeting with your Admiral."
Rex's brow lifted slightly. "Is that so?"
"Yes," Sophia replied. "We can arrange a time for our forces to convene."
A faint pause followed—then, with a subtle shift in tone:
"Provided, of course, that your Admiral keeps his nose out of matters that do not concern him."
Rex huffed quietly, though there was no real amusement in it.
"We'll see how that goes."
His gaze sharpened.
"What are you planning to do with the information I gave you?" he asked. "If you're going after him, it'd be better to move quickly. The longer you wait, the more time you give him to disappear."
Sophia's lips curved—slow, knowing.
"I was hoping," she said, "that before you officially take your leave… you might handle that for us."
A beat.
"The final price of our bargain."
Rex held her gaze for a moment—then rose from his seat, a faint smile settling onto his face.
"Appreciate the offer," he said. "But I've got something of my own to take care of first."
Something personal.
Something unfinished.
"Very well," Sophia replied, as composed as ever.
Rex turned, making his way toward the exit. As he passed Titus Weevil, he paused—just long enough to rest a hand on the man's shoulder.
A light pat.
Deliberate.
Titus stiffened instantly, a low growl slipping past his restraint.
Rex chuckled under his breath.
Then he stepped into the lift.
As the doors began to close, Sophia's voice followed him—smooth, almost playful.
"I do hope," she said, "you'll be more successful in dealing with Balial this time."
The doors sealed shut with a soft hiss.
And Rex's smile faded—just slightly.
Balial.
So she knew.
Of course she did.
The lift began its descent, carrying him away as his thoughts sharpened into something colder, more focused.
Unfinished business indeed.