Legacy of the Void Fleet

It wasn’t that Kallus rejected the resources of the Universal Plane—far from it.

He welcomed them. Utilized them. Wielded them in service of his grand design: to build an empire not merely vast in territory, but enduring in peace. A place where war would be but a memory, where power would shield and elevate, not exploit.

But even so—he knew the Universal Plane wasn’t his creation.

It had been given to him.

Bestowed, rather—by the one who ruled far above the known cosmos.

A gift from the Supreme Being.

Not a tool of dominion, but a crucible—designed to accelerate growth, to refine potential, to forge legacy. And that was the core of its intent: Kallus’s growth.

Moments Earlier – While the Void Fleet Crushed the Minotaurs

Far beyond the reach of gods and demons, in a dimension so ancient and foundational that existence itself was built atop it, there lay a plane no mortal or divine could survive for even a second.

It is not merely another world, but an entirely separate plane, detached from time, unshackled from space, where no form of life or energy as we understand it could survive even for a single instant.

This is the Realm of Primordial existence — a name woefully inadequate for a place where creation and destruction are in constant, unrelenting flux.

Here, in the realm of primordial existence, the very laws of time and space convulsed in endless fluctuation. Creation and Destruction weaved into one. Time collapsed inward, only to explode outward in bursts of chaos. Space bent like liquid, then tore like brittle glass.

Here, every fundamental law—gravity, energy, entropy, even the fundamental laws of life, death, light, darkness, destiny, and others—exists in there most potent and raw and unfiltered state.

A mere speck of power from this realm could unravel the fabric of the multiverse, crumple entire dimensions like parchment, and yet, to the rare eye capable of withstanding the crushing presence of this place, its beauty would be beyond divine comprehension — chaotic, violent, infinite... and yet, somehow, harmonious.

If one could reach a level high enough to withstand its pressure, they would see it: a sight more divine than any paradise. A realm of raw perfection, bathed in golden harmonies that transcended even color.

At its very center — where the impossible settles into its rare moments of stability — stands an incomprehensibly vast palace, not bound by size but by conceptual enormity. Planets would seem like dust beside even a single brick of this place, and even the universe would fall short to be even being called a brick.

This palace was known as the Eternal Palace—a name the being had chosen without much thought. Yet, it carried an undeniable weight. It reflected not the powers of the palace itself, but of the supreme being who resided within. He was eternal—an existence beyond time, beyond death.

Even if all of creation were reduced to nothingness, stripped of the very essence that gave it life, utterly annihilated... he would still remain. For he was truly eternal, unkillable—a being that could never cease to be.

For he existed before all things—even before existence itself had a beginning. He was beyond the concept of beginnings and ends. He was not born from creation; creation unfolded after him. He was the origin before origins, the silence before the first word was ever spoken.

Inside the enormous Eternal Palace—at its very core—lay the throne room. But to call it ”enormous” would be a disservice. In this place, the very concept of measurement was meaningless, absurd even. The throne room had never welcomed a soul other than its creator since the moment of its formation. It was a place untouched by time, unvisited by gods or mortals.

At the center of that timeless chamber stood a grand throne—monumental in presence, yet dwarfed by the vastness that surrounded it. And upon that throne lounged the supreme being himself—the creator, the ruler of this unfathomable palace of eternity.

And seated lazily within its endless halls… was the Supreme Being.

The Almighty.

His true name was known by no one—not even the gods of the higher realms. To speak it, one would need to be at a Certain Level, a rank so high that none in all existence had reached it since the beginning of time.

The being lounged upon his eternal throne, reclining lazily, he let out a deep yawn, his gaze fixed on something before him, watching the events of the mortal worlds unfold like a living mural across the vast celestial dome.. His posture, his expression, even the stillness of his divine form… all revealed one thing clearly:

He was bored. Deeply, unmistakably bored.

He was watching none other than Kallus himself.

”He’s done well... better than expected, even,” the Supreme murmured, a faint smile brushing his lips.

Kallus had grown rapidly. Just two months ago, he was merely a potential—no, not merely potential. He was truly unique in his own right. The difference, however, was striking: the supreme being had been born mighty, forged in eternity itself, while Kallus was starting from nothing—climbing from the ground up, step by step.

Now, nearly three months since his reincarnation, Kallus had achieved the unimaginable. He had managed to build a fleet of warships powerful enough to dominate most of his foes. With the aid of his greatest gift—the Universal Plane—he had harnessed its limitless resources and mastered its time-accelerated environment with remarkable efficiency.

In such a short span, he thrived without any hurdle and challenge. He had done something truly extraordinary.

…but but—the Supreme Being paused mid-thought, the golden glow of his throne dimming slightly—there was a limit to tolerance.

Yes, Kallus had grown in power. In spirit. In ambition.Yes, he was crafting something far greater than most beings in this cycle of existence ever dreamed of.And yes, even his inclination toward Earth, sentimental as it was, had borne some fruit—Luna being the most shining example.

But still...

”Why Earth?” the being whispered, voice laced with curiosity and faint exasperation. ”Why cling to a world so limited, so small, when the stars themselves beg to be taken?”

There were hundreds—thousands—of human civilizations scattered across the galaxy.

Some seeded by forces unknown, shaped by environments far more brutal, far more demanding. In many ways, they were more evolved, more hardened, and far more useful to Kallus’s cause than the sheltered masses of Earth.

And yet—Kallus, in all his strategy and foresight, seemed to move with deliberate affection around Earth. He crafted plans to recruit from its population, build his academies with Earth youth at the core, and even designed portions of his fleet and culture to appeal to their media, their fiction, their nostalgia.

”It is... inefficient,” the being concluded.

But inefficiency, while irritating, was not sin. At least not yet.

The Supreme Being leaned back again. He would not interfere. That much he had vowed. Kallus was to walk his path with freedom, with agency. The gifts he’d been given were not chains—they were scaffolding.

Still, the being’s eyes narrowed slightly.

”...but if he loses sight of the stars because of that world—then I will remind him.”

A subtle pulse rippled from the throne room—not a decree, not an intervention. Just a soft... alignment. A minor tilt in fate’s flow. Barely perceptible, even to Kallus.

But it would be enough.

Enough to put the idea in his head.

Enough to make him look beyond Earth.

Enough to start asking:

What other humans are out there? And how many of them are waiting for a chance to rise?

Because if Kallus truly wanted to build a galactic empire worthy of the legacy being shaped…He would need more than Earth.

And while the being had declared he wouldn’t interfere, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t act when something he disliked began to unfold. That was the real problem—the very dilemma the eternal being was now contemplating. His promise of non-intervention was not absolute. It was conditional, subject to his whims… and right now, something was beginning to bother him.

That was the journey Kallus had taken. And while, yes, it was impressive—remarkably so—there were… issues.

Habits Kallus had developed along the way. Subtle at first, but now more pronounced. And the being didn’t like them. Not one bit.

”Too smooth. Too convenient,” the being thought, his golden eyes narrowing.

The Universal Plane, meant as a crucible, had instead become a crutch. It offered everything: time, safety, resources, isolation. And while Kallus used it masterfully—training elite soldiers, building ships, establishing order—it came at a cost.

”He’s facing too little pressure. Too little resistance.”

The trials within the Universal Plane were formidable, yes—but they were not truly challenging him anymore. Not physically. Not mentally. Not in the way he needed to be challenged.

”If this continues,” the Supreme Being mused, ”he will reach power… but without the strength to carry it. Potential without pressure creates weakness.”

He didn’t bring Kallus this far for him to rise through shortcuts and luxuries. Not when the road ahead would pit him against true threats—things beyond empires and ancient technology. Things born before time, slumbering at the edge of infinity.

”I will not let him ascend to my level… only to fall the moment true weight presses on his back.”

No.

That would not do.

The being leaned forward on his throne. His fingers drummed once against the armrest.