The Baraken Consul Fortress rose from the planet's surface like a spear of iron thrust into the heavens.
From orbit, it shimmered faintly against the golden clouds of Baraka, its towering silhouette etched in shadow and flame. But as the shuttle descended through the upper atmosphere, the full magnitude of the structure revealed itself — a monument to power, endurance, and will.
The fortress stood upon a plateau of black volcanic glass, the ground around it cracked and scarred from centuries of war and industry. A vast city sprawled at its feet — an expanse of iron and smoke, where the endless rhythm of machines echoed beneath the watchful eyes of the Empire's banners.
At the city's heart, the Consul building dominated the skyline. It was tall, wide, and unyielding — half citadel, half cathedral, its walls layered with steel plating and adorned with the engraved crests of conquered worlds. Turrets and observation towers pierced the amber sky, their spires crowned with white beacons that pulsed faintly through the haze like the heartbeat of the planet itself.
Crimson and black banners rippled along the outer walls, each marked with the serpent sigil of the Baraken Empire — the serpent devouring its own tail, surrounded by geometric rings and sacred glyphs. Each one told the story of a conquest. Each one marked a world fallen under the shadow of Baraka.
The main gate was a masterpiece of intimidation — a colossal archway of obsidian and steel guarded by silent ranks of soldiers. Their armor gleamed like molten glass, their faces hidden behind mirrored visors that reflected only the endless flame of the forges below.
Inside, the Consul Hall rose like a temple built for gods. Pillars as wide as ships supported the vaulted ceiling, each etched with reliefs depicting the rise of the Empire — from the forging of its first light-speed engines to its earliest conquests among the stars. The polished black floor reflected every torch and banner, so that the chamber seemed suspended above its own reflection.
At the far end stood the High Throne of Command, carved from burnished steel, and behind it, an immense window gazed out upon the burning skies of Baraka — a reminder to all who entered that the Empire did not rule in silence, but in fire.
As Mahin led the crew of the Tartarusios through the gates, even Oscar, who had seen battlefields burn and stars collapse, felt small. This was not a hall of politics. It was a fortress of eternity, a living testament to power made manifest.
Zoma's holographic form flickered beside them, her voice soft, almost reverent.
"This… this is home. I'm finally here."
Mahin glanced over his shoulder, his tone formal but edged.
"Soon, the Emperor himself will join us. I suggest you all behave accordingly. God or man — it matters little here. You stand on Baraken soil now."
The crew exchanged uneasy looks. Their ideals, their defiance of monarchy — none of it mattered now. Here, in the shadow of the Empire's heart, they were guests in the house of titans.
Then, a sound began to echo through the chamber — measured steps, deliberate and rhythmic, growing louder with every second. The soldiers at the gate straightened. Mahin lowered his gaze.
And from the far end of the hall, two figures emerged.
The first was a woman.
The Emperor's aide, known throughout the Empire as Lady Veyra Solane, was a presence that drew silence as effortlessly as breath. She was in her mid-thirties, an age where beauty and danger no longer competed but coexisted in perfect balance. Her long blonde hair shimmered like molten gold, bound loosely at the nape by a strip of black metal — the insignia of her station. Her eyes were a cold gray-blue, the color of the upper storms of Baraka: calm at a glance, but alive with hidden lightning.
She moved like calculation given form — every gesture measured, every glance weighted with thought. Even the soldiers shifted uneasily when her eyes passed over them.
She stopped a few paces ahead of the crew, placing a hand across her chest, the other gesturing toward the man beside her. Her voice was steady, rich with grace and power.
"Dear travelers," she said, "I am honored to introduce to you His Imperial Highness — Emperor Kaiser Baraka the Third."
He emerged from the golden light like a figure carved from myth.
Emperor Kaiser Baraka, sovereign of the Baraken Empire, was a man whose very presence demanded reverence — not through force, but through the quiet gravity of power perfectly contained. He stood tall, his posture poised and still. His hair, a brilliant gold, brushed the edge of his collar and was tied neatly behind his head with a silk band — a relic of the royal houses of old. His eyes, a deep and tempered green, carried the calm of wisdom and the fire of ambition all at once.
He wore no crown. He didn't need one. The weight of the Empire itself rested upon his shoulders, and it was enough.
Veyra turned toward Mahin.
"Captain Mahin," she said, "hero of the Empire — we stand here by your request before His Majesty. But tell me… who are these others with you? They are no natives of Baraka."
Mahin stepped forward and fell to one knee, his voice steady but edged with awe.
"Lady Veyra, Your Highness," he said, "I thank you for granting this audience. I have returned from my mission — one I fear will sound impossible to believe — yet I swear upon my honor and my blood that every word I speak is truth."
The hall grew still.
"During my return, my ship was caught by the gravity of a black hole," Mahin continued. "We were swallowed whole. And yet, I stand before you now — alive. I cannot explain how. But I know where I went. A realm beyond all imagining. A place they called Sacros — the land of gods."
A ripple of disbelief passed through the council, yet none dared speak.
The Emperor's expression remained calm, unreadable — but his eyes sharpened, the faintest spark of intrigue behind them.
"Through that place," Mahin said, "I met these beings. They crossed the corridors with me. They came in a vessel unlike any I have ever seen. They told me they were sent to share wisdom and knowledge with our people… and asked for an audience with you, my Emperor."
He bowed his head low.
"I believe, with all my faith and experience, that they come not as deceivers… but on divine will."
The silence that followed was absolute.
The Emperor rose slowly from his seat, his green eyes fixed upon the crew of the Tartarusios. For a long moment, he said nothing. The air trembled faintly — the hum of the conduits beneath the floor pulsing in time with the beating of hearts.
Then, in a voice calm and commanding, Kaiser Baraka spoke.
"You claim to come from the land of gods… and yet you stand in the house of men."He paused, stepping down from the dais."Tell me, wanderers — which of us is truly divine?"