The dream always started with fire, but tonight, it was the sound of millions of whispers—the dying thoughts of planets consumed by the Superior Civilization. This time, the sorrow was deafening, a chorus of extinguished life ripped through the Stellar settlement's quiet atmosphere.
.
.
Leo stood on a crumbling asteroid—the memory of a battle long lost—though his physical body lay restless in his simple bed on the land. Before him, an impossible sight: three figures. His friends—the Superior, the Human, and the Stellar—all stood silently on the precipice of a black hole. They didn't look at him; they looked at each other with unyielding hostility.
.
.
Then, a voice, close enough to be inside his own skull, yet as ancient as starlight, spoke in a tone of weary resignation.
"The truce is done. You are a bridge, Zen, and bridges are the first things destroyed when the armies march."
.
.
Leo snapped awake, his back instantly arching off the mattress. He was panting, cold sweat slicking the skin beneath his simple tunic, the phantom chill of the black hole still clinging to him. The land beneath him was real, solid, yet the weight of cosmic sorrow was unbearable.
A soft knock preceded the entry of two junior Stellars. They stopped short, seeing his distress.
.
.
"Senior, another bad dream?" the younger one asked, his voice laced with genuine concern. "You can share with us, Sir. You're our inspiration."
.
.
A flicker of warmth, small and agonizingly brief, touched Leo. He appreciated their loyalty more than they could know, especially since they never dared to ask about the cryptic intensity he carried. He managed a small, painful smile, a practiced gesture that didn't quite reach his distant eyes.
.
.
"It's alright. I am fine," he said, forcing his breathing to slow and steady. He sat up, shaking off the residual fear with the practiced ease of command. "And please, save the titles for the Overlords. You don't need to make me your 'inspiration' or 'Sir,' just Senior is enough." He stood, already moving toward the door, the dream—the certainty of war—filed away into the sealed vault of his mind.
.
.
"It's alright. I am fine," he said, forcing his breathing to slow and steady. He sat up, shaking off the residual fear with the practiced ease of command. "And please, save the titles for the overlord. You don't need to make me your 'inspiration' or 'Sir,' just Senior is enough." He stood, already moving toward the door, the dream—the certainty of war—filed away into the sealed vault of his mind. He paused, turning toward the door, his gaze distant. "So," he murmured, his voice low and devoid of the forced calm, "they are coming for us."
.
.
.
In the bustling plaza of the settlement, a small group of citizens huddled, their voices barely above a whisper, thick with curiosity and excitement.
.
.
"So, Senior Leo is going to turn eighteen tomorrow," a young man speculated, adjusting his hood.
.
"I wonder what will happen," another replied, curiosity shining in her eyes.
.
.
"And he's so handsome, right?" a girl sighed dreamily to her friend.
"Talking about love or feelings will affect your stellar immortality."
The voices froze. Leo stood directly behind them, having approached with his unnervingly silent, powerful stride. He offered a slight, controlled smile, but his eyes were utterly unreadable, making the gentle warning feel like a threat delivered by a machine.
.
.
The girls immediately bowed their heads. "Sorry, Senior. We will remember it."
.
.
"Good for you," Leo said, the smile fading. "But it is entirely up to you what you choose to be: a Stellar, or a Stellar Immortal." With that final, cryptic pronouncement, he turned and continued his path, leaving the juniors stunned.
.
.
He walked alone for several minutes, the noise of the plaza fading behind him. A curse, he thought, the term settling over his vast power. Why am I so strong? Is this strength a curse for me or something else?
.
.
His thoughts drifted to his past. He didn't have parents; they had died when he was born. All he possessed of them was their surname and a single, confusing note urging him to learn the sword art. Stellars utilized their inherited magical powers to combat the Superiors, who, in turn, relied on advanced swords and specialized battle suits. The suggestion was an anomaly, an irrelevant relic.
.
.
I wish I were a Superior, he mused, without expression. Their minds were simple, their purpose defined by cold logic.
Shaking off the thought, he reached the training compound entrance. He was expected. He was the leader of the Arcana Protocol, one of the strongest groups on the planet Arcana.