Jarek kept an eye on the rulers' chat, soaking up every scrap of news. The past five years had been a mix of wins and wipeouts. Some lords bragged about beating back small-time locals—pirates, beasts, weak tribes. But the ones who crossed the Star League? Silent. Dead, probably. The League was a monster, bigger than Jarek had guessed, and its shadow loomed large.
Still, it wasn't all bad. The chat spilled secrets: the League wasn't solid. A civil war was tearing it apart, and those Void Storms—the wild energy tied to fast travel—were raging again. Trouble for some, maybe a chance for him.
"—my mind-shapers went nuts. What's happening?" one ruler typed.
"Same here. +1," another chimed in.
"Anyone know why? Mutants and freaks just showed up on my world," a third begged.
"Riots here. It's a mess."
"You don't leash your mind-shapers?"
"Leash? They're powerhouses—why would I?"
"Edge-worlders, huh? You don't get it. Mind-shapers tap the Void. They're strong, but they break. You don't control 'em, they'll wreck you."
"Break how?"
"Not just crazy. The Void's got rot in it—evil stuff. Loose mind-shapers spread it. Whole planet goes bad, and the League drops a Purge Order."
"Purge Order again? Stop it, man. Last guy who mentioned that got an ultimatum from the League and went quiet."
"No survivors under a Purge. Silence."
"Silence +1." *N
Jarek's jaw tightened. Mind-shapers—psykers, they called them—pulled tricks from the Void. Old tales named them witches or priests, but here they were walking bombs. The Steelborn had sniffed the Void's edges and backed off fast. "Bad energy," their reports said. "Twisted stuff inside." Now Jarek saw why. That rot could sink a world. Good thing the Ribs hated it on instinct—no psyker trouble for him.
He didn't type in the chat, just watched. Every word painted the galaxy clearer—wild, dangerous, full of traps. If Void-spawned demons ever hit Redstone, he'd be ready. A Pulse Cannon should do it. Two shots, max.
The Pulse Cannons—his prize from Ironreach—were real now. The Ribs had built them, and the first test was a jaw-dropper. They aimed at a rocky hill, a stubby thing jutting from the dust. One blast, and it was gone. Not blown up—gone. Laser guns could punch holes, sure, but this? The hill's molecules split apart in a blink, torn into loose atoms. A cloud of gray ash settled where it stood.
Jarek pictured it: drop water on a star, and it'd steam away, still water at heart. Hit it with a Pulse Cannon, and it'd shred into hydrogen and oxygen, no trace left. That hill became a pile of free atoms, then dust. Anything alive in that blast wouldn't just die—it'd vanish.
The Ribs running the test froze, their red eyes wide. Steelborn didn't spook easy—emotions were rare in metal—but this shook them. One broke the silence, voice flat but sharp: "This… doesn't make sense."
Another nodded, slow. "Sense or not, I like it."
"Like +1," a third buzzed. All fourteen Ribs on-site agreed, a chorus of cold approval.
Jarek grinned from the tower, replaying the footage. The Pulse Cannon wasn't just a weapon—it was a statement. Unreasonable, unstoppable, a match for their steel souls. The galaxy was a mess of psykers, raiders, and empires, but with this, the Steelborn could carve their place.
He turned to the holo-map. Redstone's system glowed—planets and moons stamped with his mark. The Ribs were arming up, Pulse Cannons rolling out slow but steady. Whatever came next—Void rot or Star League steel—he'd meet it head-on.