Year 2132. Earth had evolved beyond the petty squabbles of oil, gods, and borders. Arcologies scraped the atmosphere, AI governed logistics, and humanity spread across the solar system. Reality blurred with virtual perfection.
Khalel Hans Anderson, age 32, was the son of a corporate titan—the chairman of one of Earth's largest conglomerates. His siblings were paragons of success: CEOs, military leaders, pioneers. But Hans? A failure in the eyes of the world. Cursed with a rare genetic illness, he was confined to a medical pod for the last decade of his life. His body was withered, lungs artificial, muscles wasted. He hadn't walked in seven years.
But in the virtual world, he was a god.
Crowned as the Phantom Monarch, the top-ranked player in every premier VRMMORPG, Hans ruled with intellect and strategy. He lived inside a polished VR capsule—a coffin of chrome and data, hidden deep in one of his family's abandoned private estates. Forgotten, but free.
Until one day... everything changed.
During the final raid of Legends of Sythranon, lightning from a sudden astral storm struck the estate's generator. Sparks flew. The capsule overloaded. And everything went black.
When Hans opened his eyes, he was not in the capsule.
He was on his back, lying in damp grass. Twin suns and many moons hung overhead in a violet sky. Groggy, his thoughts scrambled. But something was off—his arms were thinner, his skin smoother. He was younger. Far younger.
Then memories not his own flooded his mind. Faces, names, pain. Training grounds, noble tutors, cruel brothers. A name echoed: Hans Adrian Nazwreck. He had transmigrated into the body of a 14-year-old boy bearing his first name, a member of a powerful noble lineage within the Andromeda Galaxy.
The boy had been beaten and dragged to a floating palace after attending the Banquet of Young Aristocrats—a grand assembly of younger nobles from the sub-races under the rule of the Gaia race. But Hans had collapsed from the injuries dealt to him by several noble heirs from the House Vrandale.
He fell asleep in the grass land outside the banquet ground city, unconscious and broken.
Now, awakened by buzzing sounds, he sat up slowly. The sky shimmered with hovering ships. A sleek battlecruiser descended nearby, its engines parting the grass in waves.
Soldiers in obsidian armor seized him, then a female voice came in.
"By order of the House of Nazwreck, you are to be taken before the High Circle," one of them said.
Hans blinked, still dazed. "What day is it?"
The guard looked down, surprised by the question. "Fifth cycle of the Twin Bloom, Year 972 of the Unified Calendar."
Hans frowned. That meant nothing to him—yet a part of this new body understood. It had been days since the incident.
"What happened after the banquet?" he asked.
The guard hesitated. "Silence. You'll learn soon enough."
But Hans kept probing as they lifted him into the ship. "Where are we? What's the state of the war front? Has the Gaia Matriarch passed a new decree?"
The guard narrowed his eyes. "You ask too many questions for a crippled whelp. You may be trash, but you're still a noble of the Dominion of Terra Imperium."
The name echoed in Hans's mind—Dominion of Terra empire—the human-led empire guarding the Western Starfield. One of four major subordinate empires under Gaia oversight.
Hans said nothing, but the words echoed in his mind.
Dominion of Terra Empire.The last bastion of humanity, tasked with guarding the Western Starfield at the edge of the Andromeda Galaxy, under the ever-watchful rule of the Gaia race. Terra was one of four subordinate empires, a proud yet fractured dominion burdened with duty, politics, and the weight of irrelevance in a galaxy ruled by greater powers.
Though Hans was born talentless—his soul incompatible with even the lowest form of cultivation—his bloodline granted him limited access to the Imperial Archives. Out of curiosity and defiance, he spent what little freedom he had pouring over ancient records and forbidden knowledge.
That's when he learned the truth behind the ones who sat at the top of the cosmic throne.
The Gaia.Rumored descendants of the High Elves, the Gaia were considered a "fallen" or "adapted" branch—beings of nature like elves, elegance, beautiful and spiritual affinity. Unlike their warlike ancestors, the Gaia embraced balance between magic and science, cultivating forests that built cities and technologies that grew from the roots of worlds.
And yet, even the High Elves were not the pinnacle.
Voidborn Dragons – The apex predators of existence. Born in the heart of collapsing stars and tempered in the silence of the void, these dragons are older than recorded history. There are millions of them across the universe—each one a walking extinction event—but they are infamously lazy, slumbering for thousands or even millions of years in solitude, deep within supermassive black holes, shattered realms, or timeless astral pockets.
They do not move for war, politics, or conquest. They sleep because they choose to. But when they wake, entire galactic civilizations vanish overnight.
It is whispered in forbidden records that if even 1% of them chose to rise, the universe's current hierarchy would be obliterated. And among them, Ten Eternal Ancients—primordial beings that birthed the first suns—are said to be capable of annihilating all of the top ten races combined should they will it.
Titans of Varkharn – Colossal celestial beings born from primordial chaos. Each Titan dwarfs planets, their bodies composed of star-metal and living gravity. They embody destruction, order, and the silence between galaxies.
Archons of Aetherion – Divine angelic beings who enforce cosmic harmony. Radiating purity, they preserve life across star systems—yet do not hesitate to purge entire civilizations if it means saving the greater whole. Their morality is absolute, and terrifying.
High Elves of Solarian Descent – Masters of order, spirit, and elegance. Aligned closely with the Archons, they serve as both vanguard and architects of the great wars against the dark forces—chief among them, the Velkhoryn, an ancient demonic swarm that ravaged galaxies with an endless tide of corruption.
Demonic Abyssals – Entities born from the black voids between realms. They do not build—they infect, corrupting stars, civilizations, and even time itself. It was their reckless summoning that unleashed the Velkhoryn upon the known universe, and though many were sealed, their influence festers still.
Crystalians of Thae'Lorr – Sentient mineral beings formed from pure cosmic resonance. Their bodies shimmer like galaxies in motion, and their minds operate on a frequency beyond mortal comprehension. Though largely neutral, their knowledge of creation and energy rivals even that of the Archons.
Humans, on the other hand, are counted among the countless weakest races in the known universe. They don't even own a single galaxy. Their presence, compared to the vast empires of the stars, is but a flicker in the dark. And yet… they are unique.
Though fragile in body and short-lived in spirit, humanity possesses something even the High Elves and Titans envy—limitless potential.
From time to time, across the churn of eons and the trillions born, one human emerges. One soul who defies the heavens, carves his name into the bones of stars, and rewrites the fate of galaxies—whether through salvation… or catastrophe.
Gaia may own 265 galaxies, but history remembers the handful of humans who burned brighter than all of them combined.
"What level are you?" he asked.
The guard snorted, irritated. "Silver Knight, Bronze Metamorph—late stage."
Hans's heart skipped. That was two ranks above what this body had ever achieved. And she was just a guard.
Even the grunts of House Nazwreck are this powerful... then what about my sisters? The judges? The Matriarch?
His mind raced through what he remembered of the cultivation hierarchy:
Mortal Realms:
Apprentice (Lv. 1–10) — Super-athlete level. Builds basic physical and mana foundation.
Warrior (Lv. 1–10) — Comparable to Captain America. Early mana enhancements.
Apprentice Knight (Lv. 1–10) — strong like Spider-Mans. Begins elemental control.
Iron Knight (Lv. 1–10) — Element-infused combat. Enhanced strength, speed.
Bronze Knight (Lv. 1–10) — Greater elemental mastery. City-level threats.
Silver Knight (Lv. 1–10) — Can destroy cities, survive atmosphere breaches briefly.
Golden Knight (Lv. 1–10) — Survive in space briefly. Planetary-level threats.
Platinum General (Lv. 1–10) — Peak mortal. Can live 1,000 years. Full elemental dominion. like Thor from the ancient records of his past life
Spiritual Realms:
Spiritual General (Entry, Mid, High and Peak)
Spiritual King (Entry, Mid, High and Peak)
Spiritual Emperor (Entry, Mid, High and Peak)
Spiritual Monarch (Entry, Mid, High and Peak)
Spiritual Ancestor (Entry, Mid, High and Peak)
And beyond that…
Immortal Realms.
Hans clenched his jaw. This universe is dangerous beyond belief.
I'm just a Mortal Realm warrior, level 8... and the woman who dragged me back to the family compound—just a Silver Knight level 10—was already fast enough that I couldn't even react to her. Her aura made my bones feel like they'd collapse.
Hans narrowed his eyes.
But she was also a Metamorph. Bronze tier... That strange transformation only women can undergo. Their bodies evolve into something… terrifying. I don't understand how it works exactly, but once they hit Silver Knight rank, they begin the awakening of that force which reshapes them.
It's not just power. It's speed, agility, instinct. Some say they grow a second heart. Others say it's closer to a divine metamorphosis. Their presence alone warps the battlefield.
He felt small. Very small.
But not hopeless.
He leaned back, saying nothing more.
He had a lot to think about.
And a long climb ahead.
As the ship descended into the orbit of the Nazwreck judicial planet, Hans gazed in awe. Massive rings the size of continents circled the planet. Floating citadels glimmered with starlight. Spires pierced the upper atmosphere like spears reaching for the cosmos. Everything exuded power, judgment, and a terrifying sense of scale. This was not just a planet—it was the executioner's throne.
Hans felt a chill. The place where they decide who lives, who dies… and who gets forgotten.
As the cruiser docked in one of the planetary hangars, he saw legions of warriors training in open zero-gravity arenas, massive transports lifting titanic mechs, and robed judges moving through halls lined with golden scripture. No one here was weak.
So, this is one of the pillars of the Dominion's elite.
Hans descended with the guards, flanked on both sides. His footsteps echoed in the grand corridors of black marble veined with crystal metal color alike. A thousand names were engraved in the stone—heroes, traitors, martyrs. Perhaps his name would join them.
He was brought to the High Circle Hall.
In the Hall of Thrones, under banners woven with starlight, Hans stood before his family—and before judgment.
Elders from the Nazwreck house sat with cold expressions. A single representative of the Gaia race watched silently from a raised balcony, their role purely to observe and ensure fairness, not to interfere. Judges from both House Nazwreck and House Vrandale were present.
The air was thick with expectation.
High Judge Velmion of Vrandale, a tall man with eyes like polished bone, stood to speak.
"Hans Adrian Nazwreck. During the Banquet of Young Aristocrats, you were challenged to a Duel of Will. You accepted the terms, and then—before the duel could be formally concluded—you delivered a crippling strike to my nephew."
Hans raised his head, face still bruised, voice hoarse but unwavering.
"He rushed me with claws drawn. He transformed, broke the rules of the duel himself. I grabbed the nearest sword I could find and swung instinctively."
"You aimed to kill," Velmion sneered.
"I aimed to survive."
Murmurs spread across the chamber. One of the Nazwreck elders banged his staff for silence.
Then Judge Kaelzar of Nazowreck spoke—his tone dispassionate, as if reading from a document he'd already signed.
"This is not the first time Hans Adrian has brought shame to our House. He has failed every evaluation. Provoked his peers. We have overlooked insult after insult. And now this."
Hans glanced at the rows of his family, searching for a single sympathetic face. He found none.
Judge Kaelzar continued, "The Matriarch, currently stationed at the northern front against the Velkhoryn incursion, has reviewed this matter remotely. Her words were clear: 'This boy does not matter. He is without talent. Without honor. And without value. Let him be discarded, like others before him.'"
Hans flinched. Discarded.
It wasn't the first time House Nazwreck had exiled one of its own—but now, it was him.
General Ryssara Nazwreck—his eldest sister, clad in obsidian ceremonial armor—stepped forward. Her face was unreadable: no anger, no pity. Just cold finality.
"By authority of the High Circle, and with the Matriarch's approval from the frontlines," she declared, "you are hereby stripped of your name, your rights, and your titles. Hans Adrian Nazwreck no longer exists."
Hans' fists trembled. "So that's it? You're just throwing me to die?"
"You did that yourself," Ryssara replied, voice like steel. "We only chose the direction."
One of the Vrandale judges spoke next. "He will be cast to the outermost fringes of the Human Starfield—to Zone K-47, known as the Crimson Expanse. A warzone."
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
"That region has been under invasion for the last sixty-two years," the judge continued. "The Velkhoryn have breached its stars. Few return."
Hans' chest tightened. He remembered this name—Velkhoryn. The devourers. The swarm. A race sent by arch demons across the galaxies even the Immortals feared. The Crimson Expanse wasn't exile. It was a death sentence.
The Gaia representative, seated above, finally stood.
"So recorded. Let the ruling be final. No external aid or interference will be tolerated. House Nazowreck shall not be held liable for the exile's fate."
A heavy silence fell over the chamber.
Without warning, a ripple of pressure slammed into Hans. A towering figure moved through the assembly—his boots echoing like drums of war across the polished marble. This was no ordinary guard. He was clad in executioner-grade obsidian armor, adorned with jagged crimson insignias—symbols of absolute authority in the House's darkest affairs.
His face was masked by a wolf-like helm. His aura was suffocating.
Hans felt his knees weaken.
"Sleep," the Executioner muttered, raising a gloved hand.
A shimmer of red light surged from his palm—an executioner's technique It struck Hans's forehead like a hammer. The world around him twisted and collapsed into darkness.