Congress Chamber
Congress Tower,
Kelito city
Agartha, Anu Solar system
Divine Federation
Karkinos 3rd Y-1909
In a dimly lit chamber that stretched nearly two hundred meters into the air, over two thousand hover pads floated in silent suspension. Each was occupied by delegates representing the countless worlds of the Divine Federation.
The chamber itself was constructed like a colossal funnel—its walls sloping inward as they rose, lined with hover pads arranged in vast concentric rings that ascended from the floor to the distant ceiling. At its center stood a grand podium, where the President of the Divine Federation, the Vice President, and the highest-ranking administrative authorities—including the Speaker of Congress—presided over the session like arbiters of fate.
Yet order was nowhere to be found.
Voices clashed violently across the chamber. Senators, divided by faction and ideology, hurled accusations and arguments that echoed against the curved walls, their words cutting through the air like blades. The entire assembly teetered on the edge of chaos.
All of it stemmed from one name—
Lamentias.
Seated within one of the observation pads reserved for non-legislative personnel, Admiral Wilcock and Julia Haravok watched in silence. Their expressions were grim, their gazes fixed on the unfolding storm below.
Lamentias had once been a remote colony world, located beyond the Federation's outer rims. Classified as a Tier 1 planet, it possessed only a faint concentration of World energy—enough to sustain life, but insufficient to support meaningful evolutionary advancement. Compared to the core worlds of the Federation, it was insignificant… almost forgotten.
And yet, ten centuries ago, the Federation had claimed it.
The reason was simple.
Even the weakest worlds held value.
Lamentias was rich in Gallium crystals—an exceptionally pure resource essential for advanced semiconductor technology. From artificial intelligence cores to quantum computing arrays, Gallium formed the backbone of every high-functioning computational system in the known universe. Its purity on Lamentias was unmatched.
That alone made it priceless.
Unlike its neighboring world, Litvain, Lamentias had no World Deity—no guardian capable of shielding it from external forces. It stood exposed, vulnerable… a prize waiting to be taken.
And so, war came.
The Ganymede Empire, the Asterion Empire, and the Murim Alliance Forces each laid claim to the planet. What followed was a brutal conflict that raged for over two centuries—a war so vast it consumed entire fleets and erased civilizations in its wake.
Billions perished.
Though the warring powers attempted to contain the devastation, the violence inevitably reached the planet itself. Lamentias became both battlefield and casualty.
Its people—Lamentian humans—suffered immeasurably. Entire regions were reduced to wastelands, and even now, scars of that era lingered in the fractured lands surrounding the Neutral Free Zones.
The conflict threatened to spiral outward, risking the destabilization of entire galactic sectors.
That was when the Divine Federation intervened.
Under the decree of the Divine Peace, sanctioned by the Anunnaki faith, the Federation deployed Starlight—its most elite force—to end the war. Officially, it was an act of preservation.
Unofficially… it was conquest.
With the power of a single Divine Saint, the war was brought to an abrupt end.
Lamentias became the Federation's first colony.
In the centuries that followed, that number would grow to one hundred and forty.
The Federation established an unshakable presence on Lamentias. Corporate entities claimed ownership of the Gallium-rich lands, transforming the planet's economy into a system of controlled extraction. Power consolidated rapidly—and as always, it gravitated toward the Pleiadians, the dominant race of the Federation.
The Lamentian people were reduced to laborers.
Disposable. Replaceable.
They lived on scraps—sustained by the bare minimum provided by those who ruled them. Though the planet itself prospered under Federation development, its native inhabitants were deliberately denied the means to grow alongside it.
There was no crime—Sentinels handled that.
There were no threats—Starlight eliminated them.
There was no need for strength—because strength had been taken from them.
And so, the people grew complacent.
Their evolution stagnated.
This was not unique to Lamentias.
It was the fate of every colony under the Divine Federation.
Until twenty years ago.
The Uprising.
The Fallen Stars ignited something that had long been buried beneath generations of submission. Though their rebellion ultimately failed, their ideology spread like wildfire through the colonies.
Nowhere did it burn brighter than on Lamentias.
For the first time in centuries, its people resisted.
At first, it was subtle.
They began cultivating.
Mystic sects formed in secrecy. Martial arts returned. Magecraft resurfaced. Knowledge once suppressed began to circulate among the masses.
Then came the demand for resources.
For power.
For autonomy.
Clashes erupted between the awakened Lamentians and the Pleiadian elite. What began as isolated resistance soon escalated into full-scale conflict—battles fought not just for survival, but for the reclamation of ancestral land.
The shockwaves of their defiance spread.
Other colonies took notice.
Some followed.
Others hesitated.
The Federation's corporate powers responded swiftly—tightening their grip while offering calculated concessions. Better conditions. Controlled freedoms. Just enough to pacify dissent.
For many, it worked.
For Lamentias—
It did not.
Their rebellion intensified, growing beyond the reach of conventional enforcement.
And so, Sector Zero intervened.
The Federation's shadow arm. The force responsible for safeguarding its interests across the entire universe.
Their involvement marked a turning point.
And now—
It was tearing Congress apart.
Above the grand podium—where the President of the Divine Federation sat in silent authority—a Hovercam hovered, its crystalline lens radiating soft light as it projected a vision into the chamber.
What appeared was Lamentias.
Or rather—
what remained of it.
Once, it had been a world of breathtaking balance: sixty-nine percent ocean, thirty-one percent land. Vast, shimmering seas stretched endlessly beneath skies filled with avian leviathans—creatures that ruled both air and water. Towering mountain ranges pierced the heavens, their slopes draped in forests of silver-white crystal leaves that gleamed like frozen starlight. It was those very forests—those crystalline veins of the world—that had made Lamentias so coveted.
All of it—
gone.
Now, the projection showed only death.
The oceans had long since evaporated, their absence leaving behind a cracked and hollow husk. The mountains had been obliterated, reduced to scorched remnants and molten collapse. In their place stretched an endless sea of magma, churning and violent, devouring the surface of the planet in slow, inevitable ruin.
Above it, the sky had fractured.
The atmosphere itself had torn apart, giving birth to spatial storms—violent distortions of reality that rippled across the heavens. Black lightning surged through those tears, each bolt capable of annihilating anything foolish enough to approach.
No life could endure this.
Not even Automatons.
Lamentias was no longer a world.
It was a corpse.
And deep within that dying core, something far worse was taking shape.
Traces of impurity festered at the heart of the planet—an insidious corruption eerily similar to the miasma that had once plagued Cedar Lake on Terra. But this… this was on an entirely different scale.
The corruption was spreading toward the World Seed.
The core of the planet itself.
Once infected, Lamentias would cross the point of no return—it would become a Forsaken. An Infernal world. A twisted, sentient aberration born from planetary depravity.
A world that devours.
A planet-eater.
That was what Lamentias was becoming.
But it would never be allowed to awaken.
Beyond its shattered atmosphere, drifting in the cold silence of space, stood judgment.
An arkship.
Colossal in scale, it loomed like a monument to divine will. Its structure consisted of four massive concentric rings bound to a central cylindrical axis. At its forefront extended a singular construct of destruction—a cannon so vast it dwarfed entire fleets.
At its tip, a radiant mass of white energy gathered.
Cosmic Od.
The ambient essence of space itself, drawn from the void and from distant celestial bodies. Yet this was no ordinary Od—it shimmered with a purity that defied nature itself.
It had been blessed.
Sanctified by the will of the Divine Emperor.
The cannon absorbed more… and more… until the energy reached a threshold beyond comprehension. Then it began to change—refined, condensed, elevated into a form of mana so potent that even planets would pale in comparison.
A silence fell across the chamber.
Then—
it fired.
The beam moved faster than thought, faster than perception—light made manifest into annihilation. Lamentias, in its newborn state of corruption, could not even react. Before any defense could form, the beam tore through the molten crust, plunging into the very depths where the World Seed resided.
And then—
it bloomed.
A white expansion of absolute purity erupted outward, swallowing the planet from within. Infernal energy was erased, unraveled at the most fundamental level. The light surged across continents—what remained of them—flooding every crevice, every fracture, every lingering trace of corruption.
It did not stop at the surface.
The light consumed the skies.
Then it went beyond.
The projection itself began to distort, overwhelmed by the brilliance, until nothing remained but a blinding expanse of white.
Seconds passed.
And when the light faded—
Lamentias was gone.
Not destroyed.
Erased.
As if it had never existed.
Even its moon had been wiped from existence, its orbit reduced to empty space.
Silence fell over the chamber.
Admiral Wilcock's hand tightened into a fist.
His knuckles turned white as a slow, burning fury coiled within his chest. His jaw clenched so violently that the taste of iron filled his mouth—blood seeping between his teeth. It healed almost instantly, yet the pressure remained, forcing it to bleed again and again.
Beside him, Julia Haravok said nothing.
Her expression was colder than the void itself.
Her gaze—sharp, distant—carried the stillness of inevitability.
She had seen this.
Long before it happened.
As a seer, the threads of fate rarely surprised her. Yet even knowing… even anticipating this outcome did nothing to quell the quiet revulsion settling deep within her chest.
If he were still alive…
If Jonathan Haravok still walked among them—
this would have never come to pass.
He would have gone himself.
He would have purified the planet without destroying it—wresting it back from the brink of Forsakening through sheer, overwhelming power.
That was the kind of man he had been.
But he was gone.
And now—
there was no one left who could stand against this.
Not even Wilcock.
Even as a Paladin, even as an Admiral, he was bound by the chains of policy, of bureaucracy, of a system that had already made its decision long before this meeting had begun.
Yes—the civilians had been evacuated.
Yes—Adonis Yesh had intervened, saving as many Lamentians as possible, carrying them away aboard a vessel now drifting between the stars.
But the cost—
was unforgivable.
Millions had perished during the early stages of the Infernal conversion.
Thousands had fallen into depravity.
And the planet itself…
No one spoke of that truth.
A planet was not just stone and water.
It was alive.
A vast, sentient organism—an ecosystem of countless lives bound together in delicate symbiosis.
Lamentias had been young.
Promising.
On the verge of evolution—on the cusp of transcending into a higher-tier world like Agartha.
And now—
it was nothing.
All of it… erased.
Not just as a solution—
but as a message.
To the colonies.
To the rebels.
To the universe itself.
Defy the Divine Federation—
and this is what awaits you.
Wilcock's teeth ground harder.
Julia's eyes remained frozen.
And as the projection finally flickered out—
leaving only darkness in its wake—
the chamber held its breath.
For a single, fragile moment—
there was silence.
Then—
everything erupted.
"THIS—IS AN ATROCITY UNLIKE ANYTHING WE HAVE EVER WITNESSED!"
The voice of a Senator from Decimus rang through the chamber, raw with fury, his words echoing against the towering walls.
"SECTOR ZERO MUST BE BROUGHT BEFORE CONGRESS TO ANSWER FOR THESE CRIMES!" a Senator from Tir Na Org followed, rising from his hover pad, his expression blazing with indignation.
A wave of agreement rippled outward. Heads nodded. Voices murmured, then swelled.
These were the Progressive factions—those who had long opposed the Federation's colonial grip. They spoke not just for policy, but for a philosophy nearly forgotten: a return to an older era, when the Federation did not impose its will upon lesser worlds, but guided them—offering knowledge, aid, and the path toward ascension.
Not dominion—
but invitation.
Not control—
but faith.
They believed the outer worlds should be given the choice to rise, to walk the path of divinity willingly, to stand beneath the blessings of the living gods of their ancestors—not be crushed beneath them.
"SHUT UP!"
The roar cut through the chamber like a thunderclap.
A Senator from Olympia stood, his presence imposing, his gaze burning with contempt.
"WHAT ATROCITY ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?" he snarled. "DID YOU NOT SEE WHAT THAT PLANET WAS BECOMING?"
His hand slammed against the armrest of his hover pad.
"THAT ABOMINATION WOULD HAVE FED ON COUNTLESS WORLDS BEFORE TURNING ITS HUNGER TOWARD US!"
A surge of voices rose behind him.
"SECTOR ZERO DID EXACTLY WHAT IT WAS CREATED TO DO!" another Senator barked—a representative from Kanis Major, his tone sharp, unyielding. "IT PROTECTED THE FEDERATION. IT PROTECTED US!"
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"THE REAL QUESTION IS—WHERE WAS STARLIGHT?"
That question ignited the chamber all over again.
"YES—WHERE WERE THEY?" a Senator from Agartha added, her voice cutting, precise. "STARLIGHT IS MEANT TO BE OUR SHIELD—OUR DIVINE RESPONSE TO THREATS LIKE THIS. AND YET THEY ALLOWED IT TO ESCALATE TO THIS POINT!"
The Conservative bloc rose in force now, their presence heavy, their intent unmistakable.
Unlike the Progressives, they had no interest in relinquishing power.
The Federation had spent centuries building its dominion—expanding, conquering, consolidating. To them, that legacy was not a mistake to correct, but a foundation to preserve… and continue.
And yet—
even they were dissatisfied.
Expansion had halted eight centuries ago.
Progress had slowed.
And the growing support for Progressive ideals among the citizenry was a threat they could no longer ignore.
The chamber trembled with the weight of clashing ideologies—progress versus control, faith versus dominion, preservation versus evolution.
Voices rose higher.
Accusations sharpened.
And beneath it all, one truth loomed unspoken—
Lamentias was gone.
But what it represented…
was only just beginning to tear the Federation apart.
"NEVER—NEVER—HAS A FORSAKEN MANIFESTED SINCE THE FOUNDING OF THE DIVINE FEDERATION!"
The Senator's voice trembled, not with weakness, but with the weight of history itself.
"NOT SINCE THE BLACKSTAR INCIDENT—MILLIONS OF YEARS AGO!"
A hush, brief and uneasy, rippled through parts of the chamber at the mention of that name.
The Blackstar Incident.
The first Forsaken.
A Celestial Abomination born of Infernal corruption so vast, so incomprehensible, that twelve entire planetary civilizations had been forced into an unprecedented alliance just to bring it down. Worlds that had once stood divided—by culture, by ideology, by power—had united under a single purpose:
Survival.
And from that desperate unity—
the Divine Federation was born.
In the aftermath, Agartha's greatest military order was reforged into something more than an army.
Starlight.
The sword and shield of the Federation.
The eternal vanguard against the Infernal.
For millennia, Starlight had remained apart from politics—untouched by the shifting tides of Congress, immune to the petty ambitions of factions. Their purpose had been singular:
Destroy Abominations.
Protect existence.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
But while the blade remained sharp—
the hand that guided it had begun to rot.
The religious order that once stood as the moral spine of the Federation had long since decayed. Pride had taken root where faith once lived. Smug certainty replaced humility. They no longer guided the people—
they judged them.
The other eight races were seen as lesser.
Humans.
Automatons.
Even allied species were viewed as beneath the so-called "chosen."
They twisted the will of the Divine Emperor to suit their own desires, cloaking arrogance in divine authority. To them, free will was not a gift shared among all—
but proof of their superiority.
These were the Purists.
Not a faction—
but an infection.
They existed in the shadows, woven into both Progressive and Conservative ranks alike. Invisible. Influential. Untouchable.
They were the ones who whispered behind closed doors.
The ones who moved pieces without being seen.
The ones who supported Mallus from the dark.
And they were the reason the Yaeger Corps existed—
hunting them relentlessly under the command of Admiral Wilcock.
Yet even now—
they remained.
"THEN WHERE WERE THEY?!"
Another Senator surged to his feet, voice cracking through the chamber like a breaking star.
"WHAT WERE STARLIGHT DOING—WHILE THIS ATROCITY WAS ALLOWED TO BE BORN?!"
"SETTLE DOWN!"
The command thundered across the chamber, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
At the center podium stood President Jae Dallae—the leader of the Divine Federation, and a prominent figure within the Progressive faction. His voice carried authority, but beneath it lingered something heavier… something strained.
He knew.
This was no ordinary incident.
Planets did not simply become Forsaken.
Not without intervention.
And the moment the reports had reached his desk, Jae had already understood the truth he could not afford to speak aloud—
Sector Zero was involved.
His gaze swept across the chamber, watching the Senators descend further into disorder. Just days ago, this very assembly had been on the verge of something historic. The amendment bill—one that would strip the Federation of its right to forcibly occupy foreign worlds—had nearly passed.
Lamentias would have been free.
Free to govern itself.
Free to choose.
They would have even been offered a place within the Federation—not as subjects, but as equals. And if they refused… then the Federation would have withdrawn, leaving behind the infrastructure and resources it had invested over centuries.
It would have been the beginning of a new era.
A correction.
A redemption.
But someone—
something—
had made sure that future never came to pass.
Now, instead of progress, the chamber had devolved into a battlefield of voices. Progressives and Conservatives clashed openly, their ideologies colliding with no restraint, no resolution.
Jae exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple.
A headache.
Even as an Awakened, a being whose body and mind had long surpassed mortal limits, he could still feel the sharp, splitting pressure behind his eyes.
That alone spoke volumes.
The situation was beyond volatile.
It was dangerous.
He had to tread carefully.
Too carefully.
Because despite what many believed—despite the illusion of power that came with his title—Jae Dallae was not free.
He could not openly accuse Sector Zero.
He could not validate the suspicions rising from the Progressive factions, no matter how justified they were. To introduce the idea of internal sabotage—of deliberate corruption—would fracture the Federation far more violently than any rebellion ever could.
And that…
was a line he could not cross.
Many would look at him and see authority.
The President of the most powerful civilization in existence.
A man who commanded armies, governed worlds, shaped destiny.
But the truth—
was far more suffocating.
Once, Jae had believed in that illusion himself.
He had thought he could change things. That from the highest seat, he could guide the Federation back to the path it was meant to walk.
He had been wrong.
Painfully so.
Becoming President had not given him power.
It had shown him the limits of it.
The truth that hid in plain sight—
that the Federation was not ruled by titles…
but by forces unseen.
By hands that moved in shadow.
By games played beyond the reach of law, of politics, of even authority itself.
If Jae wanted change—
real change—
he could not do it openly.
He had to play their game.
And so…
he had created his own piece on the board.
The Yaeger Corps.
A weapon forged in secrecy.
A force tasked with hunting the unseen enemy—the Purists embedded deep within the Federation's structure. The true rot beneath it all.
Because in Jae's mind—
they were the real threat.
Not the rebels.
Not the colonies.
But the ones who hid behind righteousness…
and whispered the Federation toward ruin.
"THERE WAS NO WAY TO PREDICT THAT LAMENTIAS WOULD DESCEND INTO A FORSAKEN STATE!"
The Senator's voice rang with forced certainty, as though conviction alone could bury doubt.
"INSTEAD OF CASTING BLAME ON STARLIGHT, WE SHOULD FOCUS ON WHAT TRULY MATTERS!"
He swept his arm outward, gesturing to the chamber as if presenting a battlefield.
"THE PALADINS ARE ALREADY STRETCHED THIN—CONFLICTS BEYOND THE OUTER RIMS ARE ESCALATING. THE Ganymede Empire IS BEGINNING TO STIR AGAIN. TENSIONS WITHIN OUR OWN BORDERS ARE RISING BY THE DAY!"
His voice hardened.
"AND ON TOP OF ALL THAT—THERE IS THE LAND OF WA."
A ripple of unease spread through the surrounding delegates.
"YES!" another Senator surged to his feet, seizing the moment. "THAT WORLD ALREADY PERCEIVES US AS WEAK—AND IF WE SHOW EVEN A FRACTION OF HESITATION NOW, THEY WILL—"
The chamber dissolved once more into overlapping voices, arguments colliding in a storm of rising panic and wounded pride.
Amid the chaos—
Admiral Wilcock stood.
He said nothing.
He did not need to.
The tension in his frame spoke for him, coiled tight, restrained only by discipline. Without sparing the chamber another glance, he turned and walked away.
Julia Haravok followed in silence.
Neither of them looked back.
Remaining there any longer would have meant grinding his teeth to dust.
They moved through the quiet corridors of Congress, the distant echoes of debate fading behind them, until they reached the President's office.
There, they waited.
Minutes stretched into hours.
Two of them.
Neither spoke.
When the doors finally opened, it was not with ceremony—but with force.
They slammed inward.
And Jae Dallae stepped inside.
He looked… worn.
Not in the way of a man who had simply endured a long meeting—but in the way of someone being eroded from within. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, as though sleep had long since abandoned him. His azure hair, once pristine and meticulously kept, now lay disheveled, stripped of its former brilliance.
To those who knew him—
the difference was unmistakable.
This was not the same man.
This was a man being crushed.
Jae didn't greet them.
Didn't speak.
He simply walked past, his steps heavy, and collapsed into the throne-like chair behind his oval desk. The seat, once a symbol of authority, now looked more like a burden he could no longer bear.
And for a moment—
he just sat there.
Silent.
Exhausted to the very marrow of his being.
"Please… tell me there's some good news."
Jae Dallae spoke quietly, the exhaustion in his voice cutting deeper than any shout ever could.
"My donors are already pressing me," he continued, dragging a hand across his face. "They want to know how we plan to contain the fallout—what happens when word reaches the other colonies."
Silence lingered for a brief moment.
Then—
"The situation is deteriorating," Admiral Wilcock replied, his tone measured, but heavy. "Sector Zero has, from a strategic standpoint, prevented what would have escalated into a galaxy-spanning catastrophe."
His gaze hardened.
"But politically… they've handed Mallus exactly what he needed. Those who were uncertain—those who resisted his ideology—will now gravitate toward him."
Jae's jaw tightened.
"A planet was just erased," he said, his voice low, almost hollow. "A world rich beyond measure… gone in an instant." His eyes flickered, distant. "There had to be another way. We could have purified it—reclaimed it. There had to be a path that didn't end like this."
"It doesn't matter."
Julia Haravok spoke without hesitation, her tone cold, stripped of sentiment.
"Lamentias was one world. Against the thousands within the Federation… what is a single planet's life worth?"
The words hung in the air—sharp, undeniable.
Jae looked at her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
"You already know the answer," Wilcock added, his voice quieter now. "There was never a choice to begin with."
He exhaled slowly.
"Mallus has won this round. In the end, all that matters is the preservation of the Divine Peace. And the truth is…" his eyes dimmed slightly, "the Divine Emperor does not care how we achieve it."
Only that it is maintained.
The Divine Emperor—
a being who desired peace above all else.
War, conflict, discord… these were things he rejected utterly. Unity was the ideal he sought to impose upon existence itself.
At least—
that was what the Anunnaki doctrine taught.
It also taught something far more dangerous.
That the Emperor had granted free will to all who followed him.
And that how they chose to preserve that peace…
was entirely up to them.
If conquest ensured peace—then conquest was righteous.
If isolation preserved harmony—then isolation was divine.
If domination silenced conflict—
then domination was justified.
That single tenet—freedom in the pursuit of peace—had fractured the Divine Federation into irreconcilable ideologies.
One faction sought to withdraw, to protect only their own.
Another sought expansion, believing absolute control was the only path to stability.
And the Progressives—
they sought a balance.
A "just" peace.
Or at least… what they believed to be just.
Each side believed themselves righteous.
Each believed they carried the Emperor's will.
And so, when they cried out to the heavens for guidance—
they were met with silence.
An impartial god.
An indifferent answer.
It was this truth that had begun to push Wilcock toward an unthinkable line—
toward siding with the Fallen Stars.
"Which is why Litvain matters."
Julia's voice cut cleanly through the weight of the room.
"If we want any chance of strengthening our position—of passing the bill—then Meridien's efforts there will be critical."
Jae straightened slightly, tension returning to his gaze.
"What's the situation in Litvain?"
For a moment—
Wilcock and Julia looked at one another.
And then—
a faint, knowing smile formed on both their lips.