The first thing I noticed wasn't the silk sheets worth more than most planets' GDP, or the bed that could comfortably fit an orgy.
It was my hands.
They were wrong. Too long, too elegant, too pale. Like someone had downloaded my consciousness and installed it in hardware I didn't have the specs for.
I sat up, and the world shifted wrong. My center of gravity was off. Every movement had too much reach, too much power. Like trying to play a game after someone fucked with your sensitivity settings.
"What the fuck," I whispered, and even my voice was different. Deeper. Smoother. The kind of voice that could order genocides over breakfast and make it sound reasonable.
Memory fragments crashed through my skull—but wait, that one was mine. Choking on instant ramen in my studio apartment, monitor still showing Galaxy Conquest VII's defeat screen. My last thought: "Fucking Raven Vex'thara and his bullshit final phase—"
And now I was here. In his body.
The irony tasted worse than the ramen that killed me.
I stumbled toward what I hoped was a mirror, my new body moving with a grace I couldn't control. Like it knew how to walk better than I did. When I saw my reflection, I nearly had a second heart attack.
Lord Raven Vex'thara stared back at me. Dark hair and crimson eyes
"Holy shit," I breathed. "I'm fucking gorgeous."
The room around me was Black chrome and crystallized starlight.
Weapons that could level continents hung on the walls—though the scorch marks on the ceiling suggested they weren't just for show.
Three different blood types stained the carpet (a helpful display informed me:
Type A-positive human,
Type G Grokkies,
Type Unknown-analysis pending).
A woman's earring was embedded in the wall at what had to be terminal velocity.
The kind of room that said 'I have violent sex and violent arguments, sometimes simultaneously.'
What the hell had I inherited?
My hand moved to the nearest console before I'd decided to reach for it. Fingers dancing across controls I'd never seen but somehow knew. The display responded before I touched it, systems reaching out to meet my intent halfway.
That... wasn't normal.
KNOCK KNOCK.
The sound interrupted my thoughts.
My body moved without consulting me—hand dropping to where a weapon should be, stance shifting to something combat-ready. Muscle memory of a killer, installed and ready to run.
"Enter," I called, and the word came out sharp enough to draw blood.
The door slid open with a whisper of advanced engineering, and Commander Meus stepped through.
Every thought immediately evacuated my brain.
The game developers hadn't just been conservative—they'd been criminal. Because there was no way any rating system in existence could have handled what I was looking at.
Meus was built like someone had asked a war god to design the perfect warrior, then decided to make her devastating in entirely different ways. Six feet of controlled violence wrapped in an Imperial Guard uniform that was fighting a losing battle against curves that violated several laws of physics.
"Lord Raven," she said, dropping into a bow that nearly made me swallow my tongue. "The preparations are complete."
I forced myself to meet her eyes—brown, sharp, constantly assessing threats. Even while bowing, she was calculating different ways to kill me. The knowledge sat in my brain uninvited: she was fast enough to do it, too.
"Preparations?" I managed.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she straightened. "For Grokkies Station, my lord. As you commanded." A pause. "You're... contemplative this morning."
Shit. "Problem with that?"
"You usually make execution decisions before your eyes fully open." She said. "Yesterday you had three people spaced before breakfast."
Double shit. "I'm trying a new thing. Delayed gratification."
"Of... murder?"
"Exactly."
She studied me with the kind of intensity that made me understand why Original Raven kept her around despite the obvious threat. That analytical mind was as dangerous as her body.
"The assault fleet awaits your signal," she continued, though something in her tone suggested she was filing my behavior away for later analysis.
Right. Grokkies Station. In the game, this was where Raven's villain arc really kicked off—a brutal orbital bombardment that would cement his reputation as a monster and set up his eventual downfall three acts later.
But I wasn't bound by the game's script anymore.
"Change of plans," I said, moving to the tactical display. "I'm not sending the fleet."
For the first time since entering, Meus showed genuine surprise. "Sir?"
As I reached for the controls, the display shifted before I made contact. Not like motion sensors—like the machine was reading my nervous system directly.
Data flowed across the screen: Grokkies defense patterns, shield frequencies, vulnerability windows. Information I'd memorized for a perfect game run, now served up by technology that seemed eager to please.
In the game, their shields cycled every 3.7 seconds with a 0.3-second vulnerability window. The wiki had been precise down to microseconds. But that was a game. This was real. Would the patterns hold?
Only one way to find out.
"My lord?" Meus stepped closer. "Are you alright?"
"I'm going myself," I said, the words coming out before I'd fully thought them through. "Solo."
"That's impossible. You can't take an entire station alone—"
"Watch me." I pulled up ship inventory through the room's interface, my fingers knowing exactly where to gesture. "The Nightshade. My personal stealth frigate."
The ship's specifications materialized in the air between us. In the game, this had been endgame content—the kind of ship that made other players rage-quit. Here, it was real metal and murderous intent.
"Sir, even with the Nightshade, the Grokkies have quantum regeneration systems. Their ships can rebuild from molecular damage in minutes—"
"Not after I'm done with them." I accessed Raven's personal armory, scrolling through an inventory. "Molecular disruptors."
Meus went pale. Actually pale. "My lord, those don't just kill. They make death contagious. The last person who used them created a three-system quarantine zone. They're banned by seventeen treaties—"
"Good thing I don't give a fuck about treaties." The words came out in Original Raven's cadence, and for a moment, I felt him there—a ghost of cruelty whispering approval. "Fear is a tool, and I need a very sharp one today."
Her hand actually twitched toward her weapon before she caught herself. That's how bad molecular disruptors were—even his bodyguard considered stopping me.
"What exactly are you planning?" she asked.
I turned to face her fully.
More memory bleed—I knew that look. It was the one Raven wore before doing something spectacularly violent.
"I'm going to knock on their front door and have a conversation," I said. "After I demonstrate what happens to people who keep me waiting."
The Nightshade's systems came online.
The whole room seemed to pulse in sync, technology responding to intention before action.
"Prep the ship for immediate departure," I ordered, surprised by how naturally the authority came. The voice, the stance, the expectation of obedience—all hardwired into this body. "And Meus?"
"Yes, my lord?"
I smiled, and felt the expression settle into something dangerous. "Clear my schedule for the next few hours. I have a reputation to maintain."
Before she could respond. The lights dimmed to emergency levels. Every piece of technology in the room cowered as the priority communication array activated.
The Imperial seal materialized in the air—not projected, but burned into reality itself. My father's personal sigil, reserved for two things: emergencies and executions.
"Raven." The voice didn't come from the speakers. It came from everywhere. From the walls. From my bones. From the space between atoms. "You have thirty seconds."
The transmission cut off, leaving silence heavy enough to crush planets.
Meus was watching me carefully, her expression unreadable. That analytical mind working overtime. "My lord? Your orders?"
I looked at the communication array, then at the tactical display showing Grokkies Station, then back at her magnificent... eyes. Definitely her eyes. Though my new body had very different priorities than my old one, and they were making themselves known.
Time to find out what kind of villain I was going to be.
"Tell my father I'll call him back," I said. "I have a speedrun to complete."
"A what, my lord?"
"Nothing. Inside joke. With myself." I headed for the door, trying not to think about how naturally this body moved toward violence. "One more thing, Meus."
"Sir?"
"In the game—I mean, in theory—how long would it take one ship to reduce a station's defenses to nothing?"
She calculated instantly. "With conventional weapons? Seventeen hours minimum. With molecular disruptors?" A pause. "Forty-three minutes."
I grinned. "I'll do it in thirty."
Her eyes widened slightly. "My lord, you can't just ignore the Emperor—"
"I'm not ignoring him. I'm showing initiative." I moved toward the door. "Besides, it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Especially when you bring back results."
Meus hesitated for a moment.
"The Nightshade requires a full pre-flight check," she said finally, falling into step beside me. "I'll need to ensure all systems are operational."
I glanced at her, surprised. "You're coming with me?"
"You're planning to assault a neutral station with banned weapons while ignoring a direct Imperial summons." Her expression was professional, but I caught something else in her eyes. "Someone needs to ensure you survive long enough to explain yourself."
"And that someone is you?"
"I'm your personal guard, my lord. Your survival is my responsibility." She paused. "Besides, someone needs to witness whatever insanity you're planning. For the official record."
I grinned. "Meus, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful and terrifying partnership."
"Just try not to get us both executed, my lord."
"No promises," I said, heading for the hangar. "But I'll make it entertaining."
---
[Grokkies Station - Command Center]
Commander Zyx'ara watched the sensor ghost flicker across her screens. One ship, running silent, but she knew that signature. Everyone in the sector did.
"It's the Nightshade," she said quietly. Her scales shifted through colors her subordinates had never seen—purple fear, amber curiosity, and something that might have been rose anticipation. "He's coming alone."
"Alone? That's insane."
"That's Raven Vex'thara." She pulled up archived footage—stations burning, fleets scattered like toys. "When he comes alone, it means he's making a point."
"What do we do?"
Zyx'ara's scales settled on an unusual rose gold. "Prepare for negotiation. Or annihilation. With him, they're often the same thing."
"Should we power weapons?"
"No." She closed all four eyes briefly. "When death comes calling, you offer it tea and hope it's thirsty."