First Intergalactic Emperor: Starting With The Ancient Goddess

Alexander Sterling’s penthouse was usually quiet at night. The kind of silence bought by money and fear. But tonight, the silence was broken—by his own ragged breathing and the endless storm of alerts flooding every device in the room.

The wallscreens plastered his face across every channel. ”BREAKING: Alexander Sterling Linked to Attempted Murder of Global Star.” His name scrolled on tickers in bold red, his face flashing alongside Xavier’s blood-soaked livestream clips. Commentators tore into him with savage glee.

He tried turning one off, but another screen lit up automatically, algorithms dragging him back into the chaos.

The public feed was merciless—hashtags chanting his death, clips of Xavier’s ”terrified” face racking up tens of millions of reposts. Old scandals Sterling thought buried were suddenly unearthed: corporate fraud, backroom dealings, rumors of assassinations long denied. Now the people stitched them all together, painting him as the devil wearing a suit.

Alexander’s phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. Calls from his lawyers. Calls from his ”friends” demanding explanations. Calls from enemies he never thought would dare to speak against him, suddenly emboldened by the mob outside.

When he checked the stock markets, Sterling Corp. was already in freefall—investors yanking billions overnight. His name wasn’t just being shredded by the public; his empire was bleeding out in real time.

He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, replaying the anonymous video in his head. That distorted voice, those goddamn files. Whoever leaked it hadn’t just pulled him into the light—they had dressed him in guilt so perfectly the world wouldn’t even question it.

He slammed his fist into the table, shattering his glass of wine.

”How....” he hissed under his breath. Because deep down, he knew who had orchestrated this. Only Jason had the reach, the pull, the iron rule of the underworld to frame him like this. And Xavier... that little brat was the centerpiece.

On the streets below, protests had already formed. Through the glass walls of his penthouse, he could see torchlights gathering like fireflies—angry mobs shouting his name, demanding his head. Security drones circled his building, but even they looked fragile against the tide.

For the first time in years, Alexander Sterling felt cornered.

He paced the room like a caged animal, rage boiling over fear. ”They think they can bury me? No... no, no, no...” His voice cracked into a manic laugh. ”I built this city. I own this world.”

But the screens didn’t care. They kept screaming his name, drowning his defiance in public hatred.

And for the first time, Alexander wondered if his empire—his entire legacy—was slipping out of his hands.

Jason leaned back in his leather chair, one hand resting lazily on the armrest while the other nursed a tumbler of whiskey. His screen showed Alexander Sterling pacing like a rat in a golden cage, ranting at shadows while the world outside his tower screamed for his blood. Jason smirked, eyes half-lidded, enjoying the performance.

”He’s cracking already,” he muttered, tilting his glass. ”Didn’t even last one night.”

A muted chuckle escaped him. For someone like Sterling, reputation was everything. Strip it away and he wasn’t a king anymore—just another man waiting to be eaten.

”I can’t believe that kid actually pulled it off. To bring down Sterling like that and turn him into an enemy of not only the entire world but also the galaxy.” He sipped his drink. ”Thousands died to take him down, but that brat did it so efficiently it almost looked too easy. However... needless to say, Sterling will break free soon and he will be back in no time. He has connections that goes deeper than the underworld.”

Meanwhile, across the city, Xavier sprawled on his couch in torn clothes he hadn’t bothered changing out of, a lazy grin tugging his lips. The underground feeds flickered across his phone, showing Sterling’s meltdown from half a dozen angles, hacked straight from the man’s own surveillance.

”Damn...” Xavier said, chuckling under his breath. ”That bastard’s losing it.” He scrolled the comments pouring in from the hidden network—mercenaries, smugglers, assassins—all laughing at Sterling’s downfall.

He propped his feet up on the table, twirling his phone in his hand. ”Didn’t even have to lift a finger. The world really loves me, huh?”

Somewhere in the city, Angel sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop balanced on her knees. Unlike the two men, she didn’t laugh. She simply watched in silence, Sterling’s hollow rage reflected in her cool, sharp eyes. She pulled the video back, replaying the moment his composure shattered, studying it like she was dissecting prey.

”Alexander Sterling,” she whispered, almost to herself. ”The untouchable wolf brought to heel by his own pack.”

A faint smile touched her lips, not of joy but of calculation. She was already thinking three steps ahead—what Sterling’s downfall meant for the city, for the corporations, for her. For Xavier.

The underground feeds stitched all three together—the champion, the brat, the strategist—each watching the empire crumble in their own way. And in Sterling’s penthouse, the cameras kept rolling, capturing every second of his unraveling for the world that once worshiped him.

Alexander’s hands shook as he jabbed the comms panel on his desk. The holographic console bloomed to life, call requests firing out one after another—to investors, board members, politicians, old ”friends” who owed him favors.

”Pick up, damn you,” he hissed, pacing the length of his office like a caged predator. The glass walls reflected his pale face, sweat slicking his forehead despite the air-conditioned chill.

Finally, one line connected. A tall, silver-haired man appeared, his background a sleek boardroom lit by morning sun. Alexander’s shoulders loosened—just a fraction.

”Harold, thank god—”

”Alexander,” Harold interrupted, voice flat. ”I can’t be seen with you. Not now.”

Alexander froze. ”What the hell are you saying? You sit on my board. You wouldn’t have that seat without me!”

The man’s eyes darted aside, like even being on the call was dangerous. ”That was then. Public heat’s too high. Investors are already shifting out. No one wants to sink with you.”

The call cut.

Alexander’s jaw clenched so hard it popped. He punched another name. A high-ranking senator.

The man answered, eyes baggy, voice groggy from being woken. ”Alexander... what in God’s name have you done? My phone’s been ringing all night. People are demanding statements.”

”I didn’t do a damn thing!” Alexander barked. ”This is a setup! You know me, senator, you know what I’ve built—”

But the senator was already shaking his head. ”Doesn’t matter what I know. The mob’s calling for blood. No politician can stand beside you now. I suggest you... lay low.”

The line went dead.

Alexander slammed his fist into the desk, the glass spiderwebbing beneath his knuckles. He called again—another ally, then another. Some refused to answer. Some cut him off with curt excuses. One man even laughed bitterly before hanging up, muttering: ”You were untouchable yesterday. Today you’re already poison.”

One by one, doors closed. Allies vanished. His empire, the one he thought indestructible, was collapsing faster than he could react.

By the time the last call failed, Alexander was breathing hard, sweat dripping from his jaw onto the fractured glass desk. His reflection in the shards stared back at him—not a king, not a ruler. Just a man cornered, hated, abandoned.

And outside his penthouse windows, the city glowed with the first light of dawn. Every screen on the street still blared his name—traitor, conspirator, coward. His people had crowned him yesterday, but this morning they wanted his head.

Just when Alexander thought he had no hopes left, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it and his eyes widened when he saw the caller ID.

”Dominic...”

It was a call from Dominic Hart, who was his best friend and one of the highest-ranking cops. And also a person who could potentially save him.