Mali stood on the command deck of the Sovereign, but he was no longer a ghost haunting its edges.
He was, at Anya's insistence, now a permanent fixture, an observing shadow at the long-range strategy table, listening to the endless, droning reports from sector commanders and fleet admirals. He wore his black Alkahest regalia as if it were a second skin, though it still felt like a costume. His Political Acumen (LVL 1) buff was the only thing that kept him from fidgeting.
Jararu's training was still a daily, brutal reality, but the victories were starting to stick. His Alkahest Lance (LVL 3) could now dissolve a drone at 50 meters, and his CTL stat had crept up to a hard-won 10. He was still a 'scary cat,' but he was a scary cat with claws.
"Admiral," Kaelen's voice rumbled, pulling Mali from his thoughts. "The Kratos Drift. We are approaching the primary tithe-lane."
Admiral Vorlag, his face as cold and pragmatic as ever, brought up a holographic map. A cluster of ugly, reddish icons appeared, blocking a major starl-ane.
"As expected," Vorlag said, his voice clipped. "The 'Junk-Barons' of Kratos. Since the Emperor's... passing... they have consolidated their power. Scrappers, pirates, and opportunists. They have declared the lane 'sovereign territory.' They're demanding 'tribute' from all Imperium tithe-ships, claiming the old authority is gone."
Kaelen's gauntleted fist clenched. "An insult. A disgrace. They spit on the Emperor's memory. My Scions will wipe them from existence in an hour."
"A waste of Scions," Vorlag countered, not looking up from the map. "They are a rabble, not a threat. My 4th Cruiser Wing will suffice. A simple, overwhelming show of force to remind them of their... place."
Both men, as they always did, turned their heads to the silent, dark-clad figure at the head of the table. They were seeking a rubber stamp, a simple nod to one of their plans.
Mali looked at Kaelen's plan: brute force, fueled by honor. He looked at Vorlag's plan: brute force, fueled by efficiency. Both were sledgehammers.
He thought of Jararu. 'Stop being a sledgehammer and be a scalpel.' He looked at Anya, who was sitting at his right, observing the proceedings as if she were a student. But her eyes, when they met his, were not a student's. They were expectant.
Mali took a breath, feeling the Imposter Syndrome whisper, 'Let them handle it. You don't know this.'
He spoke, and his voice was quiet, but it cut through the hum of the bridge.
"No."
Kaelen and Vorlag both froze. Their heads snapped back to him. The entire bridge crew, officers at their consoles, seemed to stop breathing.
Mali stood up, placing his hands on the glowing table. "This isn't a military problem. It's a... a statement problem. They think the Alkahest line is broken. Sending a fleet is what they expect. It's what our enemies would do. It shows we're scared."
He was making this up as he went, but the words felt... right. He was using Anya's logic.
"This is a test of authority," he continued, gaining a sliver of confidence. "They don't need to be reminded of the Imperium's fleet. They need to be reminded of the Imperium's bloodline."
Kaelen's eyes widened. "Your Highness... you don't mean..."
"I will go," Mali said. The words were out before he could stop them. His System flashed a [DANGER] warning, but he ignored it. "You, General. A single Scion escort. And... my wife."
"Your Highness!" Kaelen was on his feet, his voice a horrified protest. "That is unacceptably dangerous! These are cutthroats! We cannot risk you—"
"General."
Anya's voice, calm and unshakeable, silenced Kaelen. She stood up and placed her hand on Mali's arm. She wasn't holding him back; she was anchoring him.
She looked at the General. "My place is by my husband's side."
Kaelen looked at the steel in her eyes, then at the new, hard set of Mali's jaw. He was a soldier, and he had just been given a direct order by his two ranking royals. He bowed, his armor groaning. "As... as you command, Your Highness."
The Stiletto, Kaelen's personal scout ship, was fast, black, and utterly silent. It dropped out of a spacetime fold into the Kratos Drift, the Sovereign holding a system away.
The Drift was a graveyard. The shattered hulls of ancient cruisers and freighters, relics of a long-dead war, floated like tombstones. And swarming among them, like jackals, was the Junk-Baron's fleet.
They were ugly. Twenty-five ships, all mismatched, bolted-together monstrosities of scrap, bristling with oversized, salvaged weapons. They immediately swarmed the Stiletto, surrounding it.
A face appeared on Mali's main viewport. It was a man, or at least, half of one. His face was a mass of scar tissue and crude cybernetics, a jagged metal jaw replacing his own. He was laughing.
[JUNK-BARON KORR (LEADER)]
"Well, well, well," the Baron's voice crackled over the comms, full of static and arrogance. "Look at this pretty little thing. A blackbird in our scrapyard! Didn't your mama teach you to pay the toll?"
Kaelen's hand was on his weapons console. "Your Highness, permission to..."
"Wait," Mali said. His heart was a drum against his ribs.
"What's the matter, little bird?" the Baron taunted. "Scared? Good. Power down your engines and prepare to be boarded. We'll be taking your ship, your cargo, and... ooh, look at that, a pretty little doll on the bridge."
His crude gaze had fallen on Anya.
Mali's vision went red. The Imposter Syndrome vanished, replaced by the same cold, Alkahest rage from the Crucible.
"He... just made a mistake," Anya murmured, her voice dangerously calm.
"Yes," Mali whispered. "He did."
"Fire a warning shot!" Baron Korr barked to his crew, his voice full of glee. "Show 'em our 'new authority'!"
A huge, salvaged mass-driver cannon on the Baron's flagship, the Gorgon's Gaze, whined to life. It fired. A massive, clumsy, molten-hot slug of scrap metal came tumbling toward the Stiletto.
"Evasive!" Kaelen roared, his hands flying over the controls.
"No."
Mali held up a hand. Kaelen froze.
Mali stepped up to the viewport, planting his feet. The molten slug filled his vision, a symbol of everything he hated. The 'big guy' bullying the 'little guy.' The Corrupted. The Barons.
He remembered Jararu. 'Be a scalpel.'
He raised his hand. He wasn't on a training deck. This was real. His System was screaming at him. [INCOMING PROJECTILE: LETHAL]
He didn't just target the slug. He targeted the cannon that fired it, kilometers away, on the Baron's flagship.
He didn't just push. He didn't pull. He hurled.
He focused all his training, all his rage, all his CTL: 10 into a single, perfect thought. He didn't just use Alkahest Lance. He became it.
A spear of pure, black-purple nothing lanced out from his outstretched hand. It was silent. It was instantaneous. It was beautiful.
It struck the molten slug.
The slug did not explode. It vanished. It unraveled in mid-flight, dissolved into a puff of inert, gray dust.
But the Lance didn't stop.
It crossed the remaining distance in less than a microsecond. It struck the Gorgon's Gaze.
It hit the massive, salvage-yard cannon.
The Junk-Barons, watching from their ships, expected a light show. An explosion. A shield to flicker.
What they saw... stopped their hearts.
The entire, twenty-meter-long cannon assembly—the barrel, the mount, the power conduits—did not break. It did not melt.
It unraveled.
Like a sweater being unthreaded, the atoms simply came apart. In a single, horrifying, silent pulse, the cannon, and the entire forward gun-port of the ship, dissolved into a cloud of elemental dust, which then dissipated into the void.
Silence.
The comms were dead silent. On the main screen, Baron Korr's cybernetic jaw was unhinged, his one good eye wide with a primal, religious terror.
Kaelen was staring at the space where the cannon had been, his mouth open.
Mali lowered his hand. He was shaking, but he was standing. His EP was down 50%, but he was standing.
He stepped up to the comms panel, his new, black regalia making him a figure of pure shadow.
He pressed the "transmit" button. His voice, cold, steady, and amplified by the ship, broadcast across the entire enemy fleet.
"The Alkahest line is not broken."
He let the words hang, a death sentence.
"It is... under new management."
He looked at the Baron's terrified face.
"Pay your tithe. And go."
He cut the comms.
For a full ten seconds, the Junk-Fleet was frozen. Then, as one, they broke. Engines flared, ships collided in their haste to get away, their comms filled with screams of "It's him!" "The Ghost!" "The Unmaker!"
In less than two minutes, the Kratos Drift was empty, save for the Stiletto.
Mali finally let out the breath he was holding and sagged against the console.
[+5000 REPUTATION - AETHEL IMPERIUM]
[+1000 REPUTATION - GALACTIC UNDERWORLD]
[NEW TITLE GAINED: THE UNMAKER'S HEIR]
[DEBUFF UPDATED: Imposter Syndrome - PENALTY REDUCED. (Social-based action (CTL) at -20 penalty)]
[CTL (Control): 10 -> 12]
He looked at Kaelen. The General was staring at him, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated awe.
Then Mali looked at Anya.
She was radiant. She didn't clap. She didn't cheer. She just walked up to him, her eyes shining, and she very deliberately, right in front of the General, took off her glove.
She raised her hand and gently, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, she turned his face to hers.
"That," she whispered, her voice full of a pride that made his knees weak, "was the most impressive thing I have ever seen."
And this time, her kiss was not a promise. It was a reward.