Lord of the Truth

"...Can't they say the same? Can't they at least claim that we can move through the atmosphere as we please, entering and leaving whenever we wish?"

"Who cares what they think?" Fargus said with a low chuckle that quickly turned into a sharp tone of certainty. "Even if they've got an entire division of analysts dedicated to watching you, tracking your every breath, the most they'll ever achieve is suspicion. Let them suspect all they want. Let them investigate, theorize, and dig through endless data — it will all lead to the same place: a dead end."

He motioned toward the armor again, his gloved fingers tapping the metallic surface with growing fascination. "These armors… holy mama, they're beyond impressive. I've never seen craftsmanship like this. They don't just hide who you are — they erase your very presence. No sensors, no scanners, no soul sence can trace what's beneath them. The fact that every one of your soldiers wears the same design? Wow."

Then he leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting from analytical to darkly excited. "And secondly—" his eyes gleamed, "you saw it yourself, didn't you? The carnage around Verilion. The battlefield littered with corpses of World Cataclysms and shattered Nexus States, the torn fragments of soldiers spinning endlessly in orbit. The blood — there was so much of it that it dyed the void itself crimson. Even the stars seemed to dim under that color. Tell me, Sakaar... didn't you feel alive in that chaos? Didn't you savor the battle, even just a little?"

"...?!" Sakaar froze, his expression stiffening.

Fargus wasn't hinting anymore — he was speaking openly, recklessly, as if acknowledging the unspoken truth: he was talking to the Red Plague.

"...Aren't you afraid of us being on Verilion's surface?" Sakaar asked, his voice quieter now, edged with caution.

Fargus took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth. "Afraid?" he echoed softly, almost as if tasting the word. "No. I've long accepted that your kind had a century and a half to do whatever you wanted — yet you didn't destroy the planet. You preserved it. That means something. I keep reminding myself that His Majesty Hedrick personally sanctioned your existence here. That's enough reason for me to believe there's a purpose to it."

He paused, then tilted his head, his expression changing into something strange — a blend of curiosity and thrill. "Even so... you'll have to forgive me. Curiosity eats at me like acid." His lips curved into an unnerving smile. "How?"

The single word struck like a blade.

How could a Red Plague reason with him...

How could a Red Plague protect what should be its prey...

How could a Red Plague forge armor and weapons more sophisticated than human technology...

How could a Red Plague serve the interests of great powers rather than consume them...

A dozen thoughts tangled together — all beginning with how, and all sharing a single, inevitable answer.

"We have a good Lord," Sakaar said at last, his tone as cold and solid as iron. "There's no need to ask who he is. You'll hear no more of him."

"I've already heard rumors from my peers," Fargus replied, waving a hand casually, though his eyes glimmered with intensity. "They say our master's ally is someone called Lord Human— the one who sent you. Perhaps only someone like him could achieve this — to subdue one of the cosmos' greatest threats and wield it as a weapon under his banner. Astonishing, truly."

"...?" Sakaar frowned slightly. The name meant nothing to him. "Lord Human" — perhaps a codename, a mask meant to conceal the true name of their Lord.

"Tell me, Sakaar," Fargus said suddenly, his voice low and serious, "do we have an agreement? I want you at my side for the rest of this war — not just as a weapon, but as a strategist. You've seen the tides of battle, haven't you? You understand chaos, timing, and fear better than anyone. Perhaps I wasn't entirely sane back then, but I remember every second of what you did to Brontor."

He gestured with his hand, as though replaying the memory before his eyes.

"How you showered him with those spectral daisies, how you turned the air around him into a fog that dulled his soul sence. How you used the chaos to bring your Hammerbearer friend close, how you wrapped Brontor in mist — trapping him, confusing him, giving your comrade the window to deliver the final strike. And all of this... after you had taken a direct blow from him. A strike powerful enough to shatter a mountain, delivered by someone at the peak of a Nexus State — a breath away from becoming a Guardian! Everything was... masterful."

Fargus's voice deepened, the admiration in it unmistakable. "I had no idea your kind possessed such intelligence, such precision. I thought you were beasts — mindless creatures that tear and bite until nothing remains. But you... you think, you adapt, you plan. Stay by my side, Sakaar. I'll make you my right hand, my second-in-command. When I step onto the battlefield, you'll take command in my stead. What do you say?"

Sakaar was silent for a few moments before answering. "...We cannot remain in open space with you," he said quietly. "My people have a duty — to eat and reproduce, to sustain our kind. But I can emerge when you need me. On two conditions. First, you provide us with the same cover you gave last month, or you help us build another underground gate. Second... you allow us to harvest any blood or flesh that falls from your daily battles."

"Done!" Fargus barked with relief, slapping his thigh with a laugh that echoed in the chamber. The weight that had haunted him for centuries — the fear, the uncertainty, the silent dread of Verilion's end — finally began to lift. For the first time in ages, he felt the faint, fragile glimmer of hope that perhaps... just perhaps... Verilion might survive a little longer.

The last few days felt like fragments of a dream… or perhaps a nightmare that refused to end.

"Wait—did you just say a month ago?" Fargus's voice cracked in disbelief. "The battle was a month ago?! How—how could that be?" His eyes widened, the reflection of the cabin lights trembling within them. "What happened to Verilion? Where are we right now?!"

Sakaar exhaled slowly, his expression calm but edged with exhaustion. "Verilion was displaced—shifted to random spatial coordinates by the Emperor of the Crumbled Meteors Empire himself." His tone carried both admiration and a trace of resentment. "For the past month, we've been drifting through the void, traveling in one constant direction away from the battlefield at maximum possible speed. During that entire time, we've been transmitting encrypted signals—each one routed through the private communication bands of the Crumbled Meteors fleets—hoping someone would respond."

He leaned back, his voice steady but hollow from the weeks of silence. "Only three days ago did we finally receive a signal—a coded response with a new set of coordinates. We're already en route. If nothing interrupts our course, we should arrive in about three weeks… maybe a little less, if the engines hold."

"Excellent!" Fargus's entire demeanor shifted in an instant. He slapped his thigh with a loud thwack, a grin spreading across his face. "Did you receive any further intel? Is Verilion still holding out? Are they under attack right now?!"

"There's no attack," Sakaar replied, a faint gleam crossing his sharp features. "Quite the opposite, in fact." His voice hardened, pride seeping through. "Verilion has never been in a better state for centuries. Before I left, I placed General Helga in full command—along with the main bulk of my forces. My final orders were simple: fight without concern for anything. And since I haven't issued any recall signals since then… I can only assume she obeyed to the letter."

He clasped his hands together. "Verilion is completely clean now. No enemy remains alive on its soil. The skies above it are silent and clear — not a single hostile ship lingers. Multiple fleets have already converged on its orbit, and every single one belongs to our allies."

"..." Fargus felt his chest tighten with excitement. His blood surged like fire through his veins. "Lord Human…" he murmured, voice trembling in reverence. "What a man… what a terrifying mind." Then he turned sharply toward Sakaar, eyes narrowing with half a grin. "How does someone even conceive of such a plan to seize the entire Young Belt? Your presence alone on that battlefield was like bending the rules of the universe. It's unfair to every other commander alive!"

He laughed — a low, wild laugh that filled the room with raw energy. "After all these centuries, the surface of Verilion is finally pure again. No more invaders, no more siege lines… only our banners standing tall." But then his laughter faded, his brows knitting together. "Still… something doesn't add up. Why haven't the Allied fleets arrived yet? Normally, they'd reach the same rendezvous point as ours — or at worst, be a day or two behind. Those ships are far faster than this cargo vessel…"

Sakaar nodded slowly, his tone dropping into a quiet, weighty register. "That's a question," he said, "that only Lord Hedrick himself can answer."

"You mean…?" Fargus's smile faded. His posture stiffened.

"I'm not certain," Sakaar admitted. "I don't know if they ever found Marshal Brontor or what state their fleets are in. But…" his gaze drifted toward the dark viewport, where streaks of light warped by their ship's speed shimmered endlessly, "I have a feeling they're heading back toward the Middle Belt. And if my instincts are right, then while Verilion may be safe for now… Lord Hedrick's own fate may soon take a far darker turn."