Legacy of the Void Fleet

Now, the responsibility shifted to his subordinates. It was their turn to prove their worth—their ability to handle such operations with precision and efficiency. Whether they could meet the expectations and deliver within the designated time frame would be their test.

Now that kallus had fulfilled his duties, it was time for his subordinates to step up. The responsibilities had shifted to them—assigned by their respective state departments and authorized by Clause himself. This was more than an opportunity; it was a test. Could they handle complex operations with precision and meet the standards he expected? Could they deliver results on time and without compromise? Clause would be watching closely.

Meanwhile, as kallus and the Red Empress’s , together had organized the deployment of the fleet.

In orbit near the moon, the White Fleet had been reduced from 100,000 ships to 70,000. The other 30,000 had been dispatched across the SOL region to patrol and secure territory. Their task: secure 24 star systems—some of them even larger than the Solar System. Chief among these was the Central Star System, the command hub of the SOL region. Roughly 2,000 to 3,000 ships were stationed there to guard its strategic value.

The remaining systems, not facing any immediate external threat, required only routine patrols. Some of these systems were rich in resources; others were nearly empty. Still, they were watched.

The 30,000 ships sent internally had an even more critical task: maintain control over already-conquered systems now under the rule of Widely or other allied states. The alliance’s control was currently limited to the SOL region, but expansion was inevitable—and expected.

The remaining 70,000 ships were divided evenly among seven battle groups, each commanded by one of the original Grand Admirals. These were: Grand Admiral Ezra, Grand Admiral Elira, Grand Admiral Ryn, Grand Admiral Kyle, Grand Admiral Thrawn, Grand Admiral Varyn, and Grand Admiral Alexander. Together, they formed the backbone of the White Fleet’s leadership.

Each fleet had once consisted of just 182 ships. Now, each Grand Admiral commanded a force of 10,000—an extraordinary leap in power and scale. These weren’t just more ships; they were vastly superior in capability, design, and firepower compared to the earlier models.

With the surge in numbers, each former battle group had finally earned the right to call itself a fleet—and a formidable one at that. The title upgrade wasn’t just symbolic. The jump from a few hundred ships to 10,000 per fleet massively boosted not only their firepower, but also their operational reach.

These new fleets weren’t just combat units anymore. They carried the infrastructure to sustain long-term campaigns. Each was equipped with ships capable of fabricating resources, constructing battle droids, and deploying enforcement units to stabilize newly conquered planets.

Manpower had scaled up too. From an original 10,000 personnel, each fleet now housed around 10 million military personnel, supported by an additional 2 million in logistics. Yet even with this growth, they were stretched thin—tasked with maintaining control over dozens of planets while still pushing forward with expansion, all under Kallus’s directive.

Kallus knew this wasn’t sustainable. Even with cloning as a potential shortcut, he hesitated. He didn’t want to build an empire of clones—at least, not yet. Instead, he leaned on automation. The Imperial Research Department had developed advanced droid systems capable of performing most human tasks with equal efficiency.

Battle droids were a smart investment for Kallus. This technology freed him from the burden of human manpower almost instantly. And that mattered—because Kallus had bigger plans. Three neighboring empires near the SOL region stood in his path: the Monitor Clan, the Genomes Empire, and the Asura Dominion.

The Monitor Clan was marked for annihilation. Their pride and physical power made it certain they’d resist assimilation. Kallus fully intended to crush them—erase them, if needed. But the Minotaur race, though similar in strength, held potential as pawns. They weren’t to be destroyed, not yet. He saw value in bending them to his will instead.

The Genomes Empire was another matter entirely. Their technological capabilities were far beyond most others at their level. Their only limitation was their stagnant biological evolution. That was something Kallus could fix. He didn’t just want to conquer the Genomes—he wanted to use their brilliance to elevate his empire. With his skill, God of Machine, he believed he could bring them to their peak and make them a cornerstone of his technological dominion.

As for the Asura, Kallus had no plans—yet. They bore a resemblance to humans, which intrigued him. He chose to wait and observe, to decide later how best to use or integrate them.

Only after securing these three powers—through war, assimilation, or alliance—would Kallus push deeper into the galaxy. His plan was simple: conquer what resisted, and offer alliance only to those rare few who could provide long-term value. But such alliances, he knew, would be the exception—not the rule.

While Kallus planned the larger conquest, his Grand Admirals were locked in what could generously be called a debate—though ”turf war” was closer to the truth.

Aboard the Oblivion-class flagship of the 2nd Fleet, under Grand Admiral Elira Seal, the seven original Grand Admirals had gathered in a high-security strategy chamber. Before them hovered a massive 3D star map, projecting the territory of the Minotaur Clan. About 50 star systems were shown—each marked in red, each classified as low-grade.

[Note: Star systems in this galaxy are graded low, mid, or high based on mana purity, raw material density, and the quantity and quality of habitable planets. A single mid-grade system on the galactic rim is considered a rarity.]

But the classification didn’t matter now. They weren’t here to debate resources—they were here to divide the spoils of war.

Kallus had issued a direct order: begin the assault on the Minotaur Clan. But he’d left the operational details to them, and with that freedom came opportunity. Each Grand Admiral saw this as a chance to prove themselves—both in battle and in ambition. The prize: command of the Imperial Naval Forces, a supreme rank Kallus had promised to award to whichever admiral performed best in the campaign.

Every success, no matter how small, would be logged, calculated, and tallied.

Now, with that rank on the line, the real fight had begun.

Each Grand Admiral was lobbying—sometimes demanding—the most valuable systems for themselves. Systems with rich ore veins, strategic warp points, or hidden mana reservoirs were hotly contested. None of them were willing to back down. This wasn’t just planning—it was positioning. This was about legacy, status, and power. And none of them intended to be outmaneuvered by their peers.

Each of the Grand Admirals knew this alone wouldn’t be enough to secure the promotion they craved. The title of Supreme Commander wouldn’t be handed over for a single campaign. But even so, every merit mattered. Even a drop in the ocean has weight when the ocean is made of war.

That’s why they fought so hard over every system, every operation. It took hours of pushback, posturing, and negotiation before they finally reached a compromise: the Minotaur Clan’s territory would be divided into seven operational regions—but not based on land area or strategic density. Instead, each admiral would earn control of systems based on performance.

Merit was now the currency of war.

Whoever conquered their assigned systems with greater efficiency, lower losses, and faster execution would earn more. But there were other ways to rack up merit: discovering valuable resources, securing advanced research sites, recovering enemy tech, or stabilizing newly captured planets without civilian uprisings. Every success, no matter how small, would be logged, calculated, and tallied.

The rules were clear: win fast, win clean, and extract value. Leadership, crew coordination, and tactical precision would define their standing. The competition was set—not just against the enemy, but against each other.

This was Kallus’s plan—to instill a healthy sense of competition among them. He wanted them to come up with their own strategies and methods to outplay their fellow colleagues and prove themselves superior. In the upcoming battle, which would begin in just a few hours at most, they would have the opportunity to demonstrate their abilities through whatever tactics they could devise, gaining every possible advantage. It was their chance to rise above their current rank and establish themselves as more capable than the rest.

And all the Grand Admirals understood this. They shared the same mindset—this approach wasn’t just a test for the commanders, but also a demonstration for the thousands of lower-ranking soldiers in the military pyramid. It showed that they too had a chance to rise if they proved themselves capable.

To support this, multiple measures had been put in place—not only to encourage healthy competition but also to prevent the kind of dangerous ambition where some individuals might seek merits by any means necessary. After all, Kallus no longer possessed the skill that once allowed him to place absolute trust in others—or anything even close to that.