Chapter one
A colossal body drifted seamlessly through the vast expanse of space—a floating planet, far larger than Earth, its surface shimmering with an ethereal blue glow. This was Giamistian, home to one of the most formidable warrior races in the universe. At the heart of this mighty civilization stood an imposing palace, crafted from indestructible celestial stone, towering like a fortress above the world below.
Inside the grand throne room, a being of unparalleled strength sat upon a throne carved from the bones of fallen titans. His body, five times the height of an ordinary man, radiated an aura so immense that the very air around him trembled. His skin, a deep purple-blue, pulsed with power, and upon his head rested a crown forged from the core of a dying star—an artifact that marked him as the supreme ruler of Giamistian.
His name was Gramolus, the mightiest king in the history of his race.
Kneeling before him were twenty of Giamistian's highest-ranking chiefs and elders—warriors whose strength once commanded the respect of galaxies, but now, fear flickered in their eyes.
One of them, his voice quivering yet firm, spoke first.
"Shre thia mo," he declared in their native tongue, his head bowed in reverence. "We worship the Great Lord, Ruler of Giamistian."
Another elder quickly followed.
"Sa thi dadore gadi maku," he said cautiously. "We acknowledge your unparalleled might, Lord Gramolus, but according to the Universal Legion, this enemy is beyond anything we have ever faced."
A female elder, her silver armor reflecting the glow of the palace torches, stepped forward.
"Sema sutu aira saki," she pleaded, her voice carrying an urgent desperation. "The great Solava race has been eradicated—utterly wiped out. Their power was equal to ours, yet they fell in mere days. We must leave Giamistian before it is too late."
The other elders solemnly nodded, their expressions heavy with dread. They had heard the whispers across the cosmos—the legends of an unstoppable force known as The Enders. These beings did not conquer, they erased. Entire civilizations, some stronger than the Giamistians, had been turned to dust. The warnings had been clear: to fight the Enders is to welcome extinction.
Yet only one man's decision mattered.
A heavy silence filled the throne room as all eyes fell upon Gramolus.
The king, unmoving, closed his eyes. A long breath escaped his lips, a sound that sent ripples of energy through the hall. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes—blazing golden orbs filled with an unshakable will.
His voice, deep and thunderous, reverberated through the chamber like a celestial decree.
"Seja siko remari si," he intoned, his words laced with simmering fury. "So you suggest that I, Gramolus, Ruler of Giamistian, should flee from battle?"
The weight of his gaze alone sent a shudder through the elders. They dared not speak, dared not breathe. The King of Giants was angered.
A trembling elder finally mustered the courage to reply, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Su ma ta Ra ta... Not at all, Lord. We merely suggest there is no need to fight. We can move our people to another world, away from destruction."
Gramolus stood.
The throne room darkened as his sheer presence seemed to blot out the very light. His towering form emanated an overwhelming power, and the very walls trembled in response. With a single step, the ground cracked beneath his feet.
"Kusi tu Rati Sukil," he declared, his voice filled with the authority of a god. "I will overlook your cowardice—just this once. But know this…
His piercing gaze swept over his warriors, his commanders, his most trusted chiefs—the same men who had once stood unshaken before entire armadas.
"We are Giamistians."
He clenched his fist, and the air itself twisted from the sheer force.
"We do not flee. We do not kneel. And we do not cower before shadows!"
A pulse of energy erupted from his body, shaking the entire palace, as if the planet itself was responding to its king's will.
He stepped forward, looming over his chiefs.
"The Enders will come."
Another step.
"And when they do…"
A final step. The air was thick with unspoken dread.
"We will not run. We will not beg. We will fight."
He raised his massive hand, and in an instant, his great battle sword appeared—an enormous celestial weapon forged from the shattered core of a fallen star. The weapon pulsed with raw, untamed energy, responding only to its master's call.
"We Giamistians shall not perish. We shall carve our names into the very fabric of the universe!"
The elders, though still fearful, felt the fire of battle reigniting in their blood.
There was no turning back now.
War was inevitable.
And at its center stood Gramolus, the unyielding king, ready to face the darkness head-on.
Above the vibrant, blue-skinned warriors of Giamistian, the sky stretched endlessly, illuminated by the faint glow of three green stars. Their massive bodies stood firm, clad in thick armor forged from the cores of dying stars, their weapons gleaming with raw, untamed energy.
Yet, beneath that steel exterior, uncertainty lurked.
Suli Lamera, a seasoned warrior with battle scars etched across his skin, exhaled heavily, gripping his colossal hammer. His voice rumbled through the ranks.
"La Mo Tatu Selu… It has been three green stars… Three whole cycles of waiting. I don't think these so-called Enders are coming."
Suturu Memo, another warrior, furrowed his brow. "We must follow the king's orders, regardless."
The murmurs spread. Were the Enders truly coming?
Just then, the sky darkened.
A shadow loomed over them, swallowing the horizon. The air turned cold—deathly cold.
A single cry tore through the silence.
"Gusu! Look at the sky!"
A colossal warship descended, a monolithic structure that dwarfed their world. Its obsidian hull pulsed with a malevolent aura, stretching across the heavens like the embodiment of death itself. It was no mere vessel—it was a world-killer.
Descending from its abyssal depths were figures shrouded in darkness. Dozens—no, hundreds.
Their faces were veiled by an eerie, shifting fog, with only two piercing red eyes visible, burning like twin stars in the void. Their very presence sent an unnatural chill through the warriors.
Sanku, his voice trembling, whispered, "It's them."
Then another, louder, more frantic.
"Kuri Rata! It's the Enders!"
A suffocating terror spread through the ranks. No amount of preparation could erase the stories they had heard—of planets reduced to dust, civilizations wiped out with a mere flick of an Ender's blade.
These were not beings.
These were not monsters.
They were something far worse.
A voice, deep and commanding, cut through the tension like a blade.
"Kairu Katu Sekai Ruma!"
Their king.
King Gramolus.
Standing atop the highest battlement, his massive form radiated authority. Unlike his warriors, he showed no sign of fear. No hesitation. No emotion.
"Steady your hearts. Fight like warriors! We are Giamistians! We shall win this war!"
A deafening roar erupted from the soldiers. Their weapons, infused with pure energy, flared to life, illuminating the battlefield with an ethereal blue glow.
But the Enders…
They did not react.
They simply stared.
Then, in unison, they spoke—cold, mechanical, and devoid of all emotion.
"Irrelevant life must end."
With an unnatural stillness, they rushed forward.
The first clash was a symphony of devastation.
A Giamistian warrior, towering over the enemy, swung his colossal fist with lightning speed, aiming to crush the frail-looking creature before him.
Then—BOOM.
A shockwave rippled through the battlefield.
The Ender did not dodge.
The Ender did not block.
The Ender merely countered.
A single punch, small and unassuming, met the warrior's attack head-on.
Silence.
Then, an explosion.
The Giamistian's entire arm—along with half his body—was obliterated in a single instant. Blood rained down like a storm.
Gasps of horror. Staggered breaths. Disbelief.
"Impossible…" one muttered.
But reality offered no mercy.
The Enders moved like specters of death, slaughtering without pause.
Blades of pure darkness sliced through armor, cleaving warriors apart with unnatural precision. Their wounds—fatal, devastating—would begin to heal the moment their strikes ended. For every Ender felled, ten… twenty… Giamistians perished.
The chiefs, standing atop the warfront, watched in horror. Sweat gathered beneath their battle-worn armor. They were losing.
No…
They were being annihilated.
It took four… six thousand warriors to take down a single Ender. And yet, they still fell.
Grim realization set in.
This was not a battle.
This was a massacre.
"Sli Urans! Join the battle!"
King Gramolus's order was clear.
The chiefs charged in. Unlike the standard warriors, their speed, power, and experience gave them an edge. Their weapons—ancient relics of war—carved through the Enders more effectively.
They struck with the force of gods.
And finally—finally—an Ender fell.
Two chiefs working in tandem managed to slay one. A victory… but a fleeting one.
For every minute that passed, more chiefs perished.
From thirty… only twelve remained.
Then, from twelve…
Only one.
The final chief, body bloodied and broken, stood amidst the carnage. His breath was ragged, his massive form barely standing. Around him, Enders—hundreds of them—watched.
But he did not look at them.
He looked at his king.
And his king—Gramolus—had not moved.
Had not lifted a single finger.
Rage, despair, and betrayal clashed within the last warrior's chest as he bellowed, "Why? WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN US?!"
Gramolus did not flinch.
His golden eyes gleamed, gazing at the battlefield with no remorse.
Then, he spoke.
"So Sli Akso Rati MESI Ta…"
His voice was cold.
"You have all grown weak over the last thousand years. You basked in peace while your enemies sharpened their blades. You stagnated. I am… disappointed."
A sharp chill spread through the air.
"Mezi Laktuba Riki Sukendi Skoe Iri Ataku."
His tone did not change.
"Do not worry. I, Gramolus, will avenge you by eradicating the Enders myself."
His voice grew darker.
"And when I do, I shall birth a new race—one more deserving to take your place."
Silence.
The last chief's heart plummeted.
This was not war.
This was sacrifice.
His king… had used them.
Before he could utter a single word, a flash of black streaked past him.
A sharp slash.
A dull thud.
And then, his head rolled across the battlefield.
The last of the Giamistians… had fallen.
The Enders turned in unison, their eerie, fog-covered faces shifting toward the lone figure atop the ruins.
King Gramolus.
Their piercing red eyes locked onto him.
And, as one, they spoke.
"Irrelevant life must be ended."
To be continued.