You ever wonder what kind of world breeds monsters?
Let me show you mine.
This is the Vowzard Galaxy—the biggest damn galaxy in the known universe. You'd think that kind of space would be enough for everyone to mind their business. But no. Two powers rule it all: the Imperial Empire and the Holy Empire. And they've been at war for a hundred and seventy thousand years.
Yeah. You heard me right.
A war older than most civilizations. A war so long, no one even remembers how it started. The official story? The Imperial Empire calls magic a disease, something to be cleansed. The Holy Empire says psychic energy is unnatural, something to be purged. Two ideologies. One galaxy. No compromise.
But if you ask me?
There's a secret. A reason buried so deep neither side wants it uncovered. And one day… I plan to dig it up.
Let's talk about the Imperial Empire—the side I was born into.
Ruled by a man no one's seen in centuries. A shadow. A myth. They call him The Emperor. He's lived for as long as the war itself. Some say he was the first to ever awaken psychic energy. Others say he doesn't even bleed anymore—just hums with infinite power. Seventy percent of our Empire runs on his energy alone. Think about that. He's a living generator, a god among men. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… tired, maybe.
But if the Emperor is a god, then his angels wear black armor and carry death in their fists.
They're called Inquisitors. And among them, ten stand above the rest—Death Knights. You don't survive meeting one. You don't run. You don't beg. You're just gone. Deleted from the universe like you never mattered. The Death Knights never leave the Mother World, the heart of the Empire, unless the Emperor himself gives the order. That place? Safer than a thousand fleets of warships. Safer than hiding in a black hole. Safer than hope.
So where do I fit in all this chaos?
Nowhere important.
I'm not a prince. I'm not a prophet. I'm not trying to end the war or bring peace or balance or any of that idealistic garbage.
I'm just a kid from a burned-down colony.
One night. One Paladin. One symbol. That's all it took.
He slaughtered everyone—my parents, my neighbors, the people I loved. Just because they were Imperial. Just because they didn't use magic. Just because he could. I remember the crest on his armor, shining in the flames. Burned into my memory like a scar across my soul.
Since then, I've had one goal.
Not justice. Not redemption.
Revenge.
I don't care what I have to become.
Rip out my humanity. Strip me down to bone and steel. Turn me into a weapon so sharp I cut through stars. Let them rebuild me into an Inquisitor. Let me crawl up the ranks until I'm strong enough to stand with the Death Knights. Let me drown in pain, madness, and blood.
All of it's worth it.
Because one day, I'll look that Paladin in the eye—
And I'll tear his heart out.
This isn't a hero's story.
This is a vendetta.