The screen flares to life in shadow. There is no preamble. No crest. No anthem. Only darkness and the hollow sound of distant breathing, like wind through a crypt.
Then he appears.
Darth Empyrean.
Emaciated. Eternal. The faint gold of Sith runes burning along his pallid flesh like veins of fire beneath clay. His eyes are twin crucibles, molten and unblinking. Behind him, the spires of Sluis Van groan under the pressure of unreality—the veil between worlds stretched thin, and humming with things that should not be.
He speaks.
“Sith. Warriors. Betrayers. Heirs to the True Path.”
“You have awoken into a galaxy smaller than the one you left behind. The stars you once touched are now beyond your reach. The hyperlanes are broken. The voices you knew are gone to silence. You are alone. And in that aloneness, you are free.”
“The Blackwall has expanded. From this world—Sluis Van—it spreads, an artery of shadow cutting through the galaxy. A thousand worlds sealed. Cut off. Buried. Do not ask why it was done. You already know. You have always known.”
“This is the Velgrath.”
A pause. The word echoes unnaturally. It is not Basic. It is older. It feels heavy, like a stone thrown into water that never hits bottom.
“The Velgrath is the oldest Rite of Ascension known to our kind. Spoken in the tongue of the Old Lords. Invoked only in eras of fracture. Of hunger. Of war. It is a Kaggath—but not for titles, nor temples. This is a Kaggath for dominion.”
“Each of you—each Sith Lord—shall be granted a fleet. Equal in strength. Equal in promise. No banners but your own. No blood oaths but those you force others to make.”
“You will choose a world. Not one already ruled by Sith, but one worthy of conquest. You will take it. Claim it in your name. And from that world you shall spread. You will seize others. Crush rivals. Subjugate their acolytes and lieutenants. Break them. Bend them. Make them kneel.”
“This arena is yours. This violence, your inheritance. There shall be no death without purpose, no slaughter without benefit. When you strike, strike to claim. When you conquer, conquer to rule. And when you bow—know that you have lost.”
“The last to remain—the one who holds all others in chains—shall be declared Imperator. The Fourth Legion shall be yours. Not through bloodline. Not through favor. But through war. Through cunning. Through strength.”
“But know this.”
He leans forward now, slightly, voice lower but harder than stone.
“No fleet may leave the Wall. No power may cross its threshold. When you return, you return alone. Leave your conquests behind. Leave your armies behind. Bring only the proof of your supremacy. And that proof will be your name, spoken on the tongues of all who survive you.”
“Begin.”
The screen goes black. There is no signature. No ending.
Only silence.
And in that silence, thousands of Sith engines begin to stir.
