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Chapter 1 - Ch: 1 Orders of the Cold Void

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Empire Reforged

Chapter 1: Orders of the Cold Void

Location: Raithal Imperial Academy — Core Worlds

Date: Galactic Standard Year — BBY 8

The sky over Raithal was a sterile shade of silver-gray, a color as lifeless and institutional as the world it blanketed. Shuttle traffic roared overhead in tight formation, the occasional scream of TIE fighters cutting jagged lines through the sky like scalpels on glass. Beneath that sound, beneath the tremor of repulsorlifts and ceremony, cadets stood motionless.

Rows upon rows of black-clad figures in stark formation filled the parade grounds. Glossy boots, starched uniforms, and polished discipline. The Empire, distilled into shape and silence.

Among them, Lucan Virex stood perfectly still.

Twenty-eight years old. A decade older than most of the fresh-faced youth around him. No family name. No bloodline. No sponsors. Just scores, scars, and a mind sharpened by observation.

The speech had ended minutes ago. Some Grand Moff's declaration of duty and loyalty and vigilance. Hollow words for most. But not for Lucan. Not because he believed them—but because he understood the machine that produced them.

"Cadet Virex," a voice rang out from the command platform. "Step forward."

Lucan obeyed instantly.

Three crisp steps across the permacrete. A halt. A salute. The breeze rustled the black cape of the officer before him—Admiral Gallius Vorn, head of the Raithal Academy. A man of sharp eyes, sharp words, and little patience.

The admiral studied the datapad in his gloved hand. "You are not a standard case."

"No, sir."

"Entered Academy by merit. Age twenty-six. Orphan background. Bracca, Sector S-23. Top percentile in strategic theory, systems operations, and void logistics. Disciplinary record: clean. Social integration: minimal."

Lucan didn't respond.

Gallius narrowed his eyes. "Why not pursue fleet staff? You tested high enough. You'd be halfway to Coruscant by now."

"I requested a front-line patrol assignment, sir. Preferably Outer or Mid Rim."

"That wasn't my question."

Lucan held the admiral's gaze. "Because command is learned under pressure. Not from behind a desk."

A faint twitch at the corner of Gallius's mouth. Not a smile. But not disapproval either.

"Very well. You're to report to the Centares orbital depot immediately. You've been assigned to the IPV-120 Vigilance. Patrol ship, Mid Rim border. Ship is currently under dock command. You will assume full command upon arrival."

Lucan absorbed the information without visible reaction. An IPV-120. Small, under-armed, decades old. Not a frontline warship. Barely even an escort.

But it was his.

"You will receive a sidearm, clearance codes, and deployment logs within the hour," Gallius continued. "The shuttle departs at 0500. You will not return to this academy."

"I understand, sir."

"Do you?" Gallius asked, tilting his head slightly. "The Centares region is not prestigious. Your ship is obsolete. You will be surrounded by inefficiency, indifference, and bureaucratic waste. You'll receive no support, no reinforcements, and no praise."

Lucan's voice was quiet but steady. "Then I won't be distracted by politics."

Gallius closed the datapad with a snap. "Dismissed, Lieutenant."

Lucan saluted, turned sharply, and marched back to formation.

He didn't look back.

The transport hangar stank of coolant and burnt lubricant. A shuttle hummed idly on the platform, its wings extended like the claws of a carrion bird waiting for its next feast. Uniformed figures moved briskly through the launch corridor—pilots, gunners, navigators. The sound of authority and friction. The Empire in motion.

Lucan moved with purpose, his issued duffel slung over one shoulder. His new rank insignia—thin silver bars—had already replaced the cadet markings on his collar. No fanfare. Just a quiet shift in stitching.

A sergeant met him at the ramp.

"Lieutenant Virex?"

"Yes."

The man handed him a sealed datapad. "Orders. Ship's logs. Centares manifest. You're scheduled for orbital insertion in seven hours. Flight time is three. You'll be in hyperspace within the hour."

Lucan took the pad, scanned it briefly. Everything was in order. No congratulations. No handshake. Just the cold mechanics of Imperial duty.

He boarded the shuttle without a word.

Inside, the cabin was mostly empty. A pair of officers sat strapped in near the front, discussing fleet rotations. A lone droid occupied the corner seat, its photoreceptors dim.

Lucan chose a rear seat and strapped in.

The engines spooled up. The hull vibrated as thrusters ignited. Outside the viewports, the academy buildings shrank into the distance, then vanished beneath a haze of sky and metal.

For a long moment, Lucan sat in silence.

Bracca had taught him to survive. Raithal had taught him to think. But neither had prepared him for what lay ahead—not in tactical simulations, not in political briefings, not in the doctrine of the Naval Code.

The real Empire wasn't forged in ceremony or corridor whispers. It was shaped out there—in broken systems, in crumbling sectors, in forgotten patrol routes where war didn't end with medals but with silence.

That was where Lucan would begin.

With a rusted ship. A nameless crew. And the quiet certainty that he would carve something better—not with speeches, but with command.

He leaned back, eyes closed, and waited for the stars to blur.

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