The warfront burned like an endless forge.
The Dwarven Empire had just endured a clash so violent that the stars themselves seemed dimmed by the thunder of colliding Absolutes. Thirty-one of their finest had fallen an irreplaceable loss to a people who measured honor by endurance and survival. Emperor Thorine Steelsword stood in his command hall, gauntleted hands pressed against the ironstone table as reports streamed in.
His people could not back down. To yield would mean subjugation, slavery under the arrogant Elven civilizations whose expansion never ceased. Yet the losses bit deep. Their armories strained, their reactors bled energy, their fronts shivered under the pressure of war. A sense of inevitability hovered over his generals until the unexpected arrival.
From the dark void of their rear flanks, a colossal Golden Lion Empire carrier tore through the veil of space. Its golden sigils blazed against black hull-plates, flanked by legions of Imperial Marines in disciplined formation. Crates and containers stamped with the lion crest descended like lifelines from heaven.
The dwarves watched in astonishment as the first container was cracked open. Inside pulsed Ena Energy Cores compact spheres of compressed power, shining with hues of azure and gold. Enough to replenish entire legions, to reignite their failing reactors, to keep weapons humming for decades.
And more. Within the shipment lay not just energy cores, but weapons and armor the likes of which few dwarves had ever seen energy bombs whose core hummed with compressed annihilation, plasma-forged rifles that could shear through elven crystal plating. Tools for slaughter, designed for efficiency.
At the head of the diplomatic detachment stood James Furn, the Golden Lion Empire's Grand Councilor of Diplomacy. Immaculate in his black and gold-trimmed tuxedo, he strode with professional precision, his expression a mask of cold composure. No wasted words, no arrogance. He greeted the dwarven officers, verified the transfer, then without lingering turned and boarded his carrier once more.
It was all too calculated. Thorine's eyes narrowed as realization dawned: the Golden Lion Empire had timed this perfectly. They had allowed the dwarves to bleed to desperation, only to deliver salvation at the very brink. Tools of war dropped at their feet, as if by a cheering neighbor who wanted their neighbor strong enough to keep fighting but never strong enough to win outright.
The dwarves cheered nonetheless, voices booming through caverns and citadels. To them, this was not manipulation it was a reprieve. With new weapons, new armor, and the lifeblood of energy cores, they could fight not just for years, but for generations. Perhaps another fifty years of endurance, another fifty years to deny their enemies dominion.
Thorine Steelsword, however, remained speechless. Half in gratitude, half in cold recognition that his empire had become a pawn. Still, he clenched his fist around his hammer-shaped scepter and muttered:
"May the lions use us, then. Better their schemes than elven civilization"
Far from the embattled dwarven fronts, James Furn's carrier sailed through subspace back toward the Golden Lion Empire's edge fortresses.
The empire's borders were ringed with colossal bastions anti-jump fortresses suspended on the galactic rim, their cores woven with space-lock fields to choke any hostile intrusion. One such fortress loomed now before James, its armored plates bristling with cannons large enough to split moons. Upon its highest balcony, Emperor Theodore Lionheart surveyed his domain.
James disembarked, his steps echoing across polished hangar steel. Without flourish, without theatrics, he delivered his report:
"The mission was successful. The Dwarven Empire received the cores."
Theodore merely nodded, calm eyes reflecting the endless void beyond. That was all. There were no celebrations, no speeches. The emperor knew the meaning of this move: not mercy, not generosity, but the precise calibration of influence. The dwarves would now bleed for decades longer, keeping their enemies occupied and in that span, the Golden Lion Empire would maneuver freely.
James bowed and returned to his carrier. Another mission awaited.
This time, beyond their galaxy.
The void swallowed his vessel as the carrier engaged its hyperspace drive, the stars stretching into streams of pale light. Ahead lay two human civilizations: the Holy Sacred Empire and the Tersiac Intergalactic Alliance.
Humans again.
James leaned back in his command chamber, fingers clasped over the black case that housed his personal diplomatic codes. Memories drifted memories of humanity in another age, when their civilizations had been titans of innovation and cruelty. The Golden Lion Empire still bore scars from those encounters.
But these humans? Weaker. Smaller. Type III civilizations at best, their fleets primitive compared to the Golden Lion's dreadnaught swarms. Their Absolutes numbered in the hundreds, not the thousands. Their technologies mirrored fragments of Golden Lion innovation mech tech, energy tech, spatial craft but all diluted, crude compared to the empire's mastery.
The Holy Sacred Empire wrapped itself in faith and fire. Their Pope, George Rampest, commanded six hundred and fifty Absolutes, their fleets spanning seven galaxies. They worshipped divine light, their mechs gilded with symbols of sanctity. James smirked coldly. He had no love for zealots.
The Tersiac Intergalactic Alliance, meanwhile, was pragmatic a coalition of militarists led by Zamiac Ruthera. Three hundred seventy Absolutes, their fleets disciplined but unimaginative. Efficient, yes, but lacking the raw madness that gave civilizations the edge in true galactic war.
Both would need to be tested. Negotiated with if useful, cut down if hostile. For James Furn, it made little difference. His role was to move like a shadow, delivering lifelines or daggers as his emperor willed.
The carrier glided closer to the borders of human-controlled galaxies. Golden Lion intelligence had already mapped their defenses, calculated their responses. This was no blind venture; every move was orchestrated.
In his private chamber, James sipped black coffee, his gaze lingering on the holographic map. Dwarves, elves, giants, humans all pawns on a galactic chessboard. And above them, only one empire remained constant, immortal, eternal: the Golden Lion.
Theodore Lionheart's will was law. James was merely the hand that extended, open or closed.
As hyperspace rippled around his vessel, James allowed himself a rare thought: What face will these humans wear when the lions come calling? Fear? Gratitude? Defiance?
Whatever it may be, he would record it, deliver it, and move on. For in the end, all paths led back to the roaring heart of the empire.