Bzzzzzz—!
A sound not belonging to any natural creation broke the stillness of the void, shattering the unchanging silence of this dead space. It was the deep, throbbing hum of the powerful engines at the rear of a battleship, rising and falling like the tide. The blinding plasma exhaust flickered intermittently against the dark curtain of space.
In the boundless, dark void, only a few steel leviathans drifted forward aimlessly.
The bow of the ship still retained its sharp ramming structure, yet something seemed missing from it. The cavities that should have held grand sculptures—or perhaps large weapon modules—had been replaced with small, thin cannons that seemed almost comically undersized.
The weapon arrays on the heavy armor plating also appeared somewhat… meager.
Incongruous.
Like a small horse pulling a heavy wagon—or a large horse pulling a tiny one.
It evoked that strong sense of awkwardness one feels when a child, ignoring fit and size, forces on their parents' clothing and runs out proudly to show it off.
If a soldier of the Sacred Selene Empire's military—or even a civilian enthusiast familiar with the Imperial Navy—were present, they would recognize at a glance that this was a decommissioned, old-model Lunar-class cruiser.
Not only had its military-grade armaments been dismantled, but all insignias marking its fleet, department, or legion affiliation had been removed. The luxurious, radiant craftsmanship unique to military vessels—and the bridge plaques commemorating the ship's campaigns and its legion's glory—had all been completely refitted.
According to the Imperial Navy's standard construction protocols, the bridge of every commissioned warship must bear the Empire's twin-headed eagle and a grand sculpture of the Divine Empress, Her Majesty Selene.
But on these ships, without exception, such majestic symbols had been stripped away. In this, the Empire's military displayed both pettiness and pride.
You filthy civilians have no right to bring the Empress' effigy aboard your ships!
Only the regular Imperial Navy may do so!
Clearly, this was a civilian wanderer fleet granted an official privateering license by the Empire's provincial governor.
Due to the unique quasi-military status of these merchant wanderers, they could, with the proper documentation and connections, purchase retired Imperial Navy warships—or even directly commission new vessels from the Imperial Forge Department.
Most, however, bought second-hand ships. Commissioning new ones required immense wealth and influence, and even then, only frigates and destroyers—ranging from two to five kilometers in length—were available. Retired, partially disarmed mock-version Lunar-class cruisers, about ten kilometers long, represented the upper limit for ordinary merchant wanderers.
Of course, merchant wanderers who had been ennobled enjoyed far greater purchasing privileges.
At this moment, within this merchant wanderer fleet of seven or eight armed vessels, aboard one of the two Lunar-class cruisers—the flagship, and the best-armed among them—a fierce argument was underway.
In a tall, cathedral-like chamber—
"Mr. Dubois, this is the opinion of my senior navigator—and my own as well. We should cut our losses, make a clean break, and return…"
"What?! Return?! You want me to turn back?!"
"To retreat empty-handed again, tail between my legs, with nothing to show for it?!"
A sharp, youthful male voice suddenly drowned out the deeper one, shattering the quiet within the chamber.
The high-domed bridge retained part of the Imperial-era layout, but new elements added by its current owner gave it a different flavor.
It was a curious hybrid of Gothic and Rococo—majestic yet gaudy, luxurious yet faintly vulgar, like the home of a nouveau riche nostalgic for the old nobility.
Blue draperies hung from the vaulted ceiling, hooked with bronze fasteners to either side of the arching walls. Dim light filtered through the portholes, falling upon a faded red carpet—delicate yet worn, as if scavenged from an ancient palace.
"No! Absolutely not! I've already returned empty-handed three times—three times! Those people are just waiting to laugh at me. No! I refuse!"
The young man addressed as Mr. Dubois was tall, with delicate features and an androgynous elegance. His flowing golden hair and bright blue eyes made him look like a storybook prince—someone who could live off his looks alone.
Except, at this moment, his face was twisted in frustration.
"Precisely because we've already come back empty-handed three times, we must be even more cautious this time! After the last jump, we surveyed the surrounding star systems—they're all barren worlds without atmospheres, lifeless and worthless."
"With our fleet's current supply reserves and remaining funds, if we turn back now, we'll still have enough for at least two more expeditions."
The speaker was a burly middle-aged man.
Unlike the tall, slender young man before him, he was a true giant—broad-shouldered, thick-waisted, with a terrifying scar across the left side of his face. He wore a uniform devoid of any insignia or rank, over which hung a gray square-collared coat.
"If we continue to delve deeper into the unknown void according to your plan, sure—riches may lie ahead. But you must understand, among those who strike it rich, the lucky few are only the numerator of a vast denominator."
"Between risking everything on another blind jump and conserving what's left for two more controlled expeditions… I believe the latter offers far greater safety."
The man held firmly to his judgment.
A merchant wanderer fleet venturing into the star sea required immense investment—ships, troops, crew, and logistics. Every single day of operation consumed staggering amounts of resources.
"How do you know that if we press onward, we won't discover some untouched world teeming with riches?" the young man snapped. "If we turn back now and someone else reaps what should've been our reward, will you take responsibility for that?!"
Typical of youthful recklessness and pride.
"With all due respect, Mr. Dubois," the burly man continued evenly, "your recent expeditions have been driven more by wounded pride than sound planning. You rushed preparations because of Mr. Pallet's success—and his taunting words—just to outshine him before Miss Imitée…"
"Enough!"
Like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, Dubois leapt up from his chair in fury. "Don't you dare mention that bastard's name in front of me! He's nothing but a lowborn bastard—how could he ever compare to me?!"
He hurled the crystal goblet in his hand—still half-full of fine wine—onto a nearby incense burner.
Crash!
The cup shattered instantly. The flames within the burner flared bright red as the spilled alcohol ignited, the smoke curling upward, thick and acrid.
"I paid a fortune to hire you! Don't forget who saved you when you were wounded, abandoned, and starving to death in the cold!"
"Do you remember our first aborted expedition? That damned Pallet—he followed right behind us and picked up the prize we left behind!" Dubois slammed his fist on the tactical table so hard that the scattered documents and instruments on its surface trembled from the impact.
Back then, it was his own hesitation that had cost him everything.
"Cybertron—that was its name, wasn't it? That despicable upstart still won't shut up about it! Always bragging about how clever and heroic he was!"
"Utter nonsense! His so-called 'wisdom'? It was my generosity—my pity—that led me to share the scouted coordinates I'd worked so hard to uncover, and that parasite stole my discovery!"
Dubois's voice rose to a roar.
"Heroic? Ha! What a joke! Don't think I don't know—half his fleet of rust-buckets didn't even make it back! He tried to loot the colony and got beaten senseless by those metal freaks… And then what? He played the victim, sold the coordinates to the Imperial Navy when they arrived, and got rewarded for it!"
The shadows cast by the flickering firelight made his already grim face even darker, his expression that of a wolf baring its fangs, hungry for blood.
If it had been me, I could've done it too.
Ah—
What a delicious morsel it had been.
Cybertron.
The homeworld of silicon-based mechanical intelligences—possessing technologies for stellar energy extraction and interstellar colonization, and filled with hardy mechanical laborers. Complete star maps, fully developed industrial colonies…
Magnificent. Exquisite. A treasure beyond compare.
If only—if only it hadn't slipped through his fingers.
Every time he thought about it, Dubois's heart twisted with pain and fury.
That was his fortune! His title of nobility!
"…"
Tch. And to think—you were the one who insisted on pressing forward that time, the middle-aged man thought bitterly to himself.
To continue exploring meant falling into an endless pit of losses. When fate handed him the chance to exploit his own bastard half-brother as the unlucky scapegoat to take over his failed expedition, Dubois had extorted him viciously before finally returning home, satisfied.
Yet later, when that same half-brother returned in glory—using the very navigation data Dubois had abandoned—earning both wealth and renown, Dubois could not bear the humiliation.
At a gathering of exiled colonial nobles and second-generation wastrels, he was upstaged, mocked, ridiculed. Enraged and blinded by pride, Dubois stormed back to his merchant wanderer fleet and ordered another immediate launch.
He completely reversed his previous methods—once cautious and hesitant to risk loss, he now charged ahead recklessly, determined to press on until the end.
From one extreme to the other.
Typical binary fool, the middle-aged man thought.
Well… so be it.
A job's a job.
That was the mercenary's creed.
The contract stated everything clearly. Even if the fleet lost everything, it wouldn't be his responsibility. He had warned him, advised him—more than once. He had done all he could.
The middle-aged man touched the scar running down the left side of his face, lost in thought.
That scar was a relic of the Sacred Selene Empire's invasion—earned during the city street battles of the Conquest War. A laser rifle shot had pierced his cheek from over a kilometer away, shattering his jaw and knocking him unconscious on the spot.
Had the royal family not surrendered swiftly enough, the infection and blood loss would have killed him.
It was only thanks to the queen's kindness—renowned among the common people—that he and countless abandoned soldiers survived. After the war, she had personally funded the rescue of wounded men left to die on the battlefield.
But fate was cruel.
Good people never lived long.
The queen, having contracted toxic gas and bacterial agents from the battlefield while tending to the wounded, soon fell gravely ill. Frail by nature, worn down by exhaustion and mental strain, she succumbed before Imperial medics could arrive.
Ironically, those same biological and chemical weapons had been launched by his own unit in a desperate attempt to halt the Imperial advance.
And the young man he now called "Mr. Dubois"… was that queen's only child.
Mr. Pallet, meanwhile, was Dubois' half-brother—born of the same father.
After the fall of the kingdom, the royal family—drawing upon their wealth, heritage, and lingering prestige—transformed under Imperial guidance into one of the largest merchant wanderer groups within the local governorate.
The middle-aged man, after recovering, had joined the colonial auxiliary forces, passed the Imperial recruitment exams, and served in the Imperial Navy for several years before retiring.
Upon returning home, driven by gratitude, he once again entered the service of his former royal masters.
The difference was, this time, it wasn't loyalty—it was business. No oaths, no etiquette. Just a paycheck and commission.
"Cat got your tongue? Speak up!" Dubois shouted at his hired officer. "This is my fleet! Execute the order!"
"Understood."
The man nodded, signaling the operators ahead.
A deep hum filled the chamber as servo systems powered up, the flickering displays showing the data stream from the Honkai warp engine's calibration system.
Silent, the middle-aged man folded his arms, staring blankly at the emerald glow of the scanning radar.
Suddenly—
Bzzzz—
"Contact! Captain, we've got something!" The radar operator's voice broke the tense quiet.
As the electronic hum intensified, the ship's onboard AI took over the data stream. The operator worked frantically for several minutes, cross-checking readings—then his eyes widened with excitement.
"A new wavelength!"
The ship's warp engine and scanners were old models, unable to identify specifics. But the activity and distortion ahead were unmistakable—an unprecedentedly vibrant and chaotic warp field.
Compared to the dead, iron-still void they'd been exploring, this was alive.
"I knew it! My instincts are always right! By Selene above, the goddess of fortune smiles upon me today!"
Slamming the table, Dubois sprang to his feet, beaming as he poured himself another glass of wine. "Signal the crew—"
"Sir," the middle-aged man interrupted cautiously, "my advice—out of prudence—would be to send the mechanized legion ahead to scout first."
Dubois' face darkened, pride stinging, but in the end he restrained himself. Reckless as he was, he wasn't suicidal. Exploring the unknown void demanded a measure of caution.
"Deploy the mechanized legion."
"Yes, sir!"
...
None of them noticed that the faint knock of the intruders' arrival—the ripple they made in the void—had already drawn the gaze of beings from a higher dimension.
The deep roar of the molten forge.
A thick, damp chuckle.
A shifting, musical trill.
An androgynous whisper.
And finally—
A flash of cold, silent golden light.
...
—
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