Legacy of the Void Fleet

All the accolades, the victories, the praise Jarkon had earned over the years—were they merely the result of favorable conditions? Of battles fought with overwhelming numbers, predictable enemies, and safe outcomes?

Because now, the instant those comforts were stripped away, when uncertainty and true danger reared their heads… Jarkon couldn't think straight. He couldn't adapt. He clung to tradition like a drowning man clutching a sword instead of a lifeline.

The First Elder clenched his jaw.

And the others…

He glanced around the chamber at the other Supreme Elders—pillars of wisdom, experience, and strategic brilliance. Or at least, they were supposed to be. Yet now, their expressions were clouded with confusion… or worse, empty pride. Their eyes no longer sharp with insight, but dulled by archaic beliefs. As if their intelligence had simply shut off, replaced by the echoes of a long-dead warrior code.

They weren't thinking. None of them were. All that remained in their minds was race pride. Hollow, inflexible, blinding pride.

And in the First Supreme Elder's heart, disappointment turned into silent fury.

How foolish we've become, he thought bitterly. How utterly idiotic.

The First Supreme Elder sat in silence, his expression carved in granite, his thoughts a storm beneath still waters. As chaos loomed on the edge of their civilization, the burden of truth weighed heavily on him. He was coming to terms with a grim realization—their race, once mighty and revered, had grown arrogant, complacent, and blind.

And the others? No better. If anything, they were worse.

He could see it on their faces. Embarrassment, yes—but not acknowledgment. Not remorse. They were ashamed they had failed, but not for the right reasons. Their pride had been wounded, not their sense of responsibility.

Still, they wouldn't say it aloud. None of them dared.

Then, the Eighth Supreme Elder—one known less for strategic brilliance and more for his emotional outbursts and impulsive decisions—finally broke the silence.

"So tell us," said the Eighth Supreme Elder coldly, his eyes burning with restrained fury. "What do you want from us, First Elder? Should we just sit here and do nothing? Wait for destruction to knock on our door—or go crawling to the Five Powers and confess everything?"

He let that hang in the air before continuing. "You say we won't be punished. That we won't be treated poorly for our failure. Fine. That may be true. But punishment was never our concern. Our agreement—our duty—was that the Holy Region remain hidden until the transition was complete. Until it was fully under our joint control. That's what we promised."

A low murmur passed through the chamber. Several of the elders shifted in their seats, uneasy.

The Fifth Elder gave a slight nod, eyes downcast. "He's right," he said. "Even if it was never formally discussed, all but the Star Empire were leaning in our favor. We had their goodwill. Their trust. This incident could shatter that."

Silence returned—thick and stifling.

But then the Second Supreme Elder stirred. He had been quiet until now, observing, brooding. And though his expression was stern, it held something more—understanding.

He had not liked the way the First Elder had addressed them earlier, that much was clear. The tone had been sharp, the accusations bitter. Yet despite the offense, the Second Elder could not ignore the truth that had been spoken.

"No," he said at last, his voice firm and unshaking. "We won't sit here and wait for things to get worse. That time has passed."

All heads turned to him.

"We will contact the Five Powers immediately," he declared. "And we will tell them everything. The destruction of the Seventh Light Fleet wasn't an accident. It wasn't a skirmish. It was annihilation—delivered by a force beyond anything we've ever seen. That human fleet... it isn't just stronger. It's absolute."

"But they were small in number—" the Third Elder began.

"And so is a black hole," the Second Elder cut in. "But what use is our size if we can't resist them? This is like asking a Tier-2 empire to challenge a Tier-1 war fleet. We simply don't have the technology, the doctrine, or the command capability to counter something like that. Not now. Not alone."

A beat passed. Then the Third Elder pressed again.

"But won't we lose something by doing this? Political leverage, resource shares, influence with the Four Powers?" the third Supreme Elder said coldly, his voice sharp with restrained frustration. "Aren't we just exposing our weakness? What kind of message does that send? We're already the weakest among our five so-called allies. Barely a Tier-2 power—and some of them have empires that stretch beyond a single galaxy."

The Second Elder raised his hands, almost in surrender. "I don't know," he admitted. "I honestly don't. Maybe we'll lose benefits. Maybe it will complicate future negotiations. Maybe some alliances will strain."

He lowered his hands, eyes hard.

"But that's tomorrow's problem. What I do know is that this human fleet—whatever it is—cannot be ignored. It might leak the location of the Holy Region. It might attract other predators. Worse, it might destabilize everything we've built. And if that happens, there won't be any benefits left to argue over."

His voice rose slightly, just enough to fill the chamber. "The First Elder is right. This is bigger than us. Bigger than pride, or protocol, or ancient pacts. We don't have the power to stop them. And even if we had numbers, they wouldn't matter—not against something so far ahead of us."

He paused, scanning the room.

"That's why we need to move. Now. We inform the Five Powers. We come clean, take the blow, and contain this before it becomes something catastrophic. Whatever damage that causes—it's nothing compared to what will happen if we do nothing."

For a long moment, no one spoke.

The Seventh Elder leaned forward, frowning. "You speak as if it's already over."

The Second Elder's expression darkened. He hesitated, then spoke in a low, uneasy voice."I'm not saying that… but what I am doing is highlighting the fact that this situation could very well spiral out of control if we don't address it sooner rather than later."

At the far end of the table, the First Elder exhaled quietly. Relief? Not quite. There was still too much uncertainty. But in that moment, he saw a glimmer of clarity—someone who finally understood what was at stake.

Still, the disappointment lingered.Not all of them had agreed—only some.

He looked around at his fellow elders—supposed paragons of leadership and foresight, pillars of the Minotaur Clan. But now... now he saw only shadows of the figures they once were.

Once, they had led fleets into the uncharted fringes of the galactic rim, clashing with unknown races, conquering hostile systems, and expanding the Minotaur Clan's influence across the stars.

And now?Now, they sat paralyzed—shackled by outdated doctrines and an obsession with political appearances.

Above all, their rationality—once their greatest weapon—seemed to have abandoned them. What remained were hollow figures, elders in name alone, who recoiled in fear at anything they couldn't instantly understand

How did we fall so far?

His jaw tightened.

Jarkon—his grandson, and once a source of immense pride.He had earned accolades across star systems as a key participant and commander of the 7th Fleet. His rise had been swift, marked by victories that brought prestige to their name.

And yet now, he stood as the very embodiment of their decline.

Every one of his triumphs now seemed questionable—products of favorable circumstances rather than true brilliance. It was as if every war he fought, every enemy he faced along the galactic rim, had been too weak, too predictable. Victory had come too easily, and in that ease, Jarkon had grown complacent.

He had never truly been tested. Never forced to adapt under pressure.And now, when confronted with genuine danger, he faltered.

He clung to titles, tradition, and past glories—when what was needed was change. Growth. Vision.Instead, he stood frozen, a relic of better times, unprepared for a future that demanded more.

Just like the rest of them.

Still, instinct guided him back to the one person among the outer circle of Ten Supreme Elders who truly understood the weight of their situation—and what kind of solution it demanded.

He looked the Second Elder in the eye and spoke with quiet authority.

"You have the floor, Second Elder. Reach out to our diplomatic representative stationed in the Earl of the Star Empire's domain. Inform them of this latest development. And make it clear—this is not a failure on our part. We did everything we could. The blame lies not with us, but with the circumstances we faced."

The Second Elder nodded once. "Understood."

And with that, the room shifted. The fear didn't vanish, but something had changed. A decision had been made. A course set.

The damage to their reputation could be managed. The loss of standing, navigated. But if the Holy Region fell into the wrong hands—or worse, became the center of another galactic war—none of that would matter.