General Urn stepped into the command chamber like a force of nature.
The temperature dropped.
Even the ship's automated lights dimmed, as if bowing to her will. Her long coat—woven with divine threads of the god of life's essence—fluttered behind her, and her boots echoed across the metal floor like war drums.
Everyone stiffened.
She didn't look at anyone. She didn't need to. The pressure of her presence alone drove the commanders and officers to bow their heads in silence.
She was a living legend—rumored to have stood on battlefields alone, surrounded by thousands, and walked away without a scratch.
Not because of strategy, but because she simply refused to die. The god of life had chosen her, and she was more than mortal. She was myth walking.
When she finally reached the head seat, she sat with a slow, deliberate grace, as if the chair itself had to prove it was worthy to carry her.
Then came the voice—quiet, cold, yet filled with steel.
"What happened to my base?"
