The Senate's approval had come in faster than expected—barely veiled behind political theater and cautionary clauses. They feared Kael Renn, yes—but they feared what lurked in the Outer Sectors more. Fear, after all, made for an excellent accelerant.
Within days, over 500 Herald-class reconnaissance and tactical vessels were transferred to the Warshade Legion. Their sleek forms, forged for silence and shadow, joined the 200 already under Kael's command.
Seven hundred ships.
A fleet of whispers. A storm behind glass.
And Kael wasted no time.
The moment the codes transferred, the Heralds vanished—dispatched into every dark and ungoverned corner of the galaxy. Like spectral wolves unleashed across ancient fields, they hunted not for prey—but truth.
"Seraphim," Kael said, seated within the Warshade Sovereign's command throne. "Compile all data. I want patterns. Timelines. Ship signatures. Pirate factions. Everything."
"Acknowledged," the AI replied. "Compiling complete galactic trace-log of Level 6-class tech movements. Parsing through three centuries of military archives and black-box fragments."
It took two months.
Two months of unrelenting scans, raids on pirate havens, intercepted transmissions, decrypted trader logs, and sleeper-agent reports from the border sectors.
Two months before Kael stood before the holotable—and smiled.
A rare thing. A dangerous thing.
Seraphim's voice rang like silver bells across the command bridge.
"Level 6-class cruiser identified. Origin: Human Empire Archive Convoy, Cycle-303. Convoy en route to scrap disposal sector in orbit of dead star: Vatraxis-7. Convoy was ambushed and looted. Record indicates one Level 6 artifact-class vessel stolen: Prototype Designation TYRANT-OSIRIS."**
Kael's fingers twitched at the name.
Three centuries old. Lost during peacetime when the Human Empire was dismantling its ancient war fleet.
That ship… that single ship… had tech and power centuries ahead of anything in the modern charts. Its loss had been quietly buried to avoid panic.
And now it had surfaced. In pirate hands. No—in foreign hands.
Seraphim's interface pulsed again.
"Chrona Empire transaction logs recovered. Timeline matches pirate movement. The pirates were acquired—bought—by Chrona intelligence proxies. They've been using them to test reclaimed tech."
Kael exhaled slowly.
"That's why they moved like trained legions. That's why they didn't run."
He leaned in, his voice cold iron.
"They weren't pirates. They were a test bed."
The Warshade Legion had arrived. All of them. Forty legions.
Docked across the Orbital Line of Seraphine, their titan vessels hovered like a mechanical archangel's wing, their hulls reflecting stars like ancient armor.
Kael stood at the heart of it all—calm, collected, yet burning inside.
This was no longer theory. No longer suspicion.
This was casus belli.
He opened a secure comm-line to the Federation's highest authority.
Target: President Alron Kevarn – Federation Executive Command
The screen flared.
"Marshal Renn," the President said, eyes tired but alert. "You said it was urgent."
Kael didn't flinch.
"I have proof. Level 6 ships were stolen from our empire during a peaceful dismantlement operation three centuries ago. They've resurfaced in the Outer Sectors—used by pirate factions now tied directly to the Chrona Empire."
He let the weight settle.
"I now have every legal and military cause to initiate wartime operations."
President Kevarn rubbed his temples. "The Senate will argue."
"They already approved the Herald units," Kael replied coolly. "They won't get to unapprove what I do with them."
A beat of silence.
Then the President nodded grimly. "Then… play your hand, Marshal. And make it count."
Kael turned to the bridge, shadows falling behind his boots like stormclouds.
"Elisa," he said, calm and sharp as a warblade. "Assemble Warshade Legions One and Two. Tell the crews to prep their weapons and warp cores. We're setting a course."
Elisa, in her crisp white command uniform, saluted and smiled faintly. "About time we stopped knocking on doors."
Kael faced the holotable.
"Seraphim."
"Yes, Sovereign."
"How long to reach the Chrona Empire?"
A pulse. Then her voice replied: "Half a month with current warp calibration. If we burn at 92% efficiency, no ship left behind."
"Send the coordinates to the NAVEX Core of all Warshade legions," he ordered. "I want every helm officer awake. We're paying them a visit."
As the command echoed through Seraphine, the Warshade armada came to life.
Engines pulsed. Armor interlocked. Shields shimmered into position.
Across the void, seven hundred Heralds slipped into stealth mode, fanning out like spectral daggers ahead of the fleet—mapping warp rifts, scanning Chrona defenses, marking silent kill-zones.
Kael stared out into the stars, his reflection cast in the glass.
No drumroll. No anthem.
Just war.
Calculated. Cold. Controlled.
In the depths of Seraphine's systems, Seraphim whispered to herself, unheard by all.