Lord of the Truth

Somewhere deep within Mid-Sector No. 100—

Sip of Darkness.

That was the planet's name. A grim, poetic title whispered in the shadowed corners of trade stations and outlaw outposts. A name soaked in despair, echoing the fate of the world it labeled.

Destiny had not been kind to this planet. From the moment of its birth, it had been shackled to a dying blue dwarf star—a sun too weak to nourish, too sickly to sustain. The planet's skies were forever tinted in cold, pale hues. Its lands bore little fruit. Vegetation struggled to grow, and wildlife was sparse, fragile, and twisted by evolutionary desperation. Even its sentient inhabitants had suffered under that cursed sun, growing pale and sickly, their strength slowly drained generation by generation.

But if that tragedy alone was not enough, the star itself—this frail, dying heart of the solar system—had grown ill. Terminally ill.

Tap. Tap.

Like a hesitant knock in the heart of midnight, it now emitted slow, rhythmic pulses. Energy waves, weak and strange, rippling through the cosmos with eerie consistency. Not destructive—yet—but undeniably unnatural. Its light, once at least barely adequate, had dimmed to the point of insignificance. The "sun" no longer deserved its name. It barely outshone the moons that orbited the outer belts.

It had become a silent siren of cosmic decay. A fading warning.

Yet no one listened. No one cared.

The death of stars was a story that took hundreds of thousands—sometimes millions—of years to tell. It was a tragedy too slow for mortals to fear.

The original natives of Sip of Darkness?

They were no more.

Some had died in the violent planetary fluctuations that followed the star's illness. Others had fled, scattered like ash on the solar wind. Those lucky enough to escape often found themselves pressed into labor as slaves or servants on richer, more vital worlds.

And so this world—this silent, cold husk—was reborn.

Not as a sanctuary… but as a haven. A refuge for the unwanted.

A den for outlaws.

A cradle for those who thrived in chaos.

It became a hideaway for space pirates, smugglers, escaped convicts, and perhaps most notably… the heart of the most infamous mercenary syndicate to rise in recent galactic memory.

This organization had no name in public records until a mere century ago. Then suddenly—it appeared.

Without warning, it erupted into existence right here in Mid-Sector 100. No rumors, no whispers, no precursors. Like shadows birthed from the void, they established bases across dozens of planets with uncanny speed. Each outpost housed hundreds—sometimes thousands—of cold-blooded operatives. Their origins? Unknown. Their loyalties? Mysterious. Their power? Undeniable.

They accepted contracts of all kinds:

Silent assassinations.

Corporate espionage.

High-value data retrieval.

Personal bodyguard services.

Sabotage. Smuggling. Surveillance.

They didn't care whether the job was clean or dirty. Legal or forbidden. As long as the price was right, they delivered results with chilling precision.

For decades, not a single World Cataclysm had emerged among their ranks. This was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it kept the organization flexible, low-profile, and widespread. On the other, it meant their most powerful targets often survived long enough to retaliate.

Entire branches were wiped out by vengeful survivors. Thousands of members lost. And yet…

They did not fall.

Instead, they adapted.

They multiplied their branches, reducing the number of operatives per station to limit damage. Soon, their numbers grew back—almost too quickly. Some whispered of a "nest," a hidden spawning ground that spewed forth replacements endlessly, no matter how many were lost.

And then came the marketing.

They began promoting their services across the Soul Society and beyond, exploiting every known method of communication. They called themselves the most professional. The most reliable. The most efficient mercenaries available for any job that doesn't Include a World Cataclysm.

And in the age of interstellar expansion and borderless trade routes… that claim began to ring true.

The Shadow Swords had become one of the most trusted name in mercenary work.

The most expansive.

The most feared.

And perhaps—most hated.

Step. Step.

In that very moment, the door to a massive chamber slid open with a soft mechanical hiss. A young man, cloaked entirely in black, entered with precise, quiet strides. His every movement was disciplined. Calculated.

"Your highness," he spoke, his voice low but steady, "we've found nothing useful from the Soul Society today either. But… the situation is deteriorating."

The man he addressed stood like near the room's central window. Nearly two meters tall, his back was turned, his presence radiating stillness and quiet menace. Draped over his shoulders was the fur of a jet-black beast, its origin unknown. A hood of the same pelt covered his head, concealing his features in shadow.

Beyond the glass, the fading blue star pulsed weakly against the horizon. A slow, dying heartbeat.

For a moment, silence reigned.

Then, in a voice softer than the drifting wind, yet weighted with immeasurable gravity, he spoke: "…Any changes, Leonid?"

"Almost. A short while ago, several organizations started aggressively investigating rumors of a Human—specifically in Mid-Sector 100. A detail that, frankly, is bizarre. There's been no trace, no evidence, nothing to indicate he ever originated from this place."

Leonid, his face veiled in darkness save for the sharp glint of his eyes and furrowed brows, narrowed his gaze.

"We initially assumed the Human they were after was His Majesty himself. You ordered us to sabotage their efforts, to throw sand in their gears—and that's precisely what we did."

"What's new, Leonid?"

The Chief turned slowly to face him. The flickering candlelight revealed his striking features: Theo, tall and statuesque, his flawless countenance now sharpened by shadows and lit only by dim, golden flame. His eyes—those obsidian abysses—held a stillness that could silence storms.

Over a century ago, Theo had journeyed to Orlando with General Raiden. From there, Raiden, wielding authority over the space portal, had diverted Theo to the trade-planet of Shrinus. That moment marked their final encounter.

It was also the beginning of Theo's true purpose.

There, under starlit secrecy, Theo began building the foundation for what would become the Shadow Swords. He started by bribing portal keepers on a desolate, forgotten mining world under nominal imperial control. Through its portal, he brought in the first thousand operatives.

His recruitment continued like whispers in the dark, growing in silence. He brought more—dozens, then hundreds, then tens of thousands.

His father's final gift—an unrestricted budget—meant Theo had the freedom to shape an empire. He forged warriors with ruthless efficiency. Among them, the Night Cats became his most reliable tool. He trained them by the thousands. They swept through Mid-Sector 100 and beyond, into Mid-Sector 99 as well!

Piece by piece, Theo executed the grand vision. He didn't just build a mercenary guild—he created a trustworthy, decentralized force, a regional sanctuary of elite operatives capable of operating without detection.

Then… the unexpected happened.

Human appeared.

Theo's breath had caught the instant he saw the Field Hospital Array—a signature design. No other being, no architect, no soul in this era could've built such a thing.

It had to be him.

"Unfortunately, we haven't located him yet," His new right hand, Leonid, admitted, the frustration under his voice barely hidden. "Still, that in itself is a kind of good news. With all our spies, scouts, and informants spread across the sector… the fact that we still can't find him means those other organizations won't have any better luck either."

Then, his voice grew darker. Sharper.

"But that's not the real reason I came. Since the release of the Five Martial Arts, something else has started brewing—something quiet but undeniable."

He stepped forward slightly.

"A confirmed rumor is now circulating. That His Majesty is somewhere within Sector 100. Because of it, some of the largest organizations across the Core and Fringe Sectors have begun turning their full focus to Mid-Sector 100—ignoring all other leads."

"...What?!"

Theo's voice, typically as calm as moonlight, suddenly shattered the silence.

It wasn't panic—but it was alarm.

"How?! Has His Majesty leaked something? Has he revealed his position—intentionally or not?!"

"Unknown." Leonid shook his head grimly. "There's been no public broadcast. No data traces. No rumors with substance. Human hasn't spoken a word. Whatever led those organizations to this sector—it had to be privileged information. Direct. Quiet. A whisper delivered only to the right ears."

Theo's jaw clenched, muscles tight like a bowstring. He didn't shout again. He didn't need to.

"Then what are you waiting for?" he said, his voice now a blade.

"Track down that information. I want to know exactly who leaked it—and how."

"At once."

Leonid gave a curt bow and then melted—literally—into the surrounding shadow, vanishing without a trace.

Crack.

Theo's hand clenched with such force his knuckles cracked beneath the pressure. Then… a deep exhale escaped his lips.

The storm in his eyes subsided, returning once more to the stillness of a bottomless ocean.

He turned slowly back to the window, gazing out at the dying blue sun that hung above the horizon—faint, flickering, whispering of collapse.

"…Stay safe until we reach you, Father." Theo murmured, barely above a whisper.

"Though a part of me hopes that we never do."