Five years in, Jarek's Steelborn had turned the Redstone system into a fortress of metal and might. He still tuned into the rulers' chat, picking up whispers of the galaxy's chaos. Bad news piled up—lords snuffed out by locals, green raiders, or the Star League's iron fist. A few notched small wins against weak foes, but the League? That was a graveyard for anyone dumb enough to test it. Its power dwarfed anything Jarek had pictured, a beast with millions of worlds.
But it wasn't unbreakable. Word slipped through the chat: the League was cracking, split by a civil war. Void Storms were kicking up again too, scrambling their grip. Jarek saw an opening—chaos was his kind of game.
"—my mind-shapers lost it. What's happening?" one lord typed.
"Same. +1," another echoed.
"Mutants and shadows crawling over my planet. Help!"
"Riots here. Total collapse."
"You don't cage your mind-shapers?"
"Cage? They're my strength—why would I?"
"Outer-rim fools. Mind-shapers drink from the Void. They're power, sure, but they snap. No control, and you're done."
"Snap how?"
"Void's tainted—evil in the currents. Loose mind-shapers spread it. Whole world rots, and the League drops a Purge."
"Purge again? Last guy who said that went dark after a League warning."
"No one walks away from a Purge. Silence."
"Silence +1." *N
Jarek smirked. The Steelborn had dodged that bullet—their gut hate for the Void kept them clean. No mind-shapers, no rot. Still, the chat painted a galaxy on edge, and he liked knowing where the traps were.
His focus shifted to the Ribs' latest toy: the Pulse Cannons. Their report was blunt: anything flesh hit by it was toast—molecules ripped to atoms in a flash. Energy beings? Fried by the magnetic surge. Jarek didn't blink. "Good," he said. "Mount them on every attack ship."
Maybe it was the game, maybe it was Redstone's harsh roots, maybe it was the League's shadow—but Jarek wanted firepower, billions strong. He wasn't taking chances.
The Redstone system was his now, all but one holdout: Coldspire, a frozen rock twelve years away at old speeds. Back when the Dustwalkers were flesh, that was half their lives—unthinkable. Now, with the Steelborn's tech, it was six months. Five years had juiced their ships twenty-four times faster, and a fifteen-thousand-strong crew launched for it. Coldspire sat at minus 230 degrees, a death trap for meat. For steel? Perfect. The chill even cooled their rigs and labs.
The ship touched down, and a steel tent rose on the ice. Coldspire was claimed. The whole system—planets, moons, rocks—flew Jarek's flag. The Forge System chimed:
"System fully claimed. World Strength up by 5,000."
"Reward: One tech draw."
"Draw it," Jarek said, leaning forward.
"Tech gained: Living Steel."
He blinked. Living Steel wasn't just metal—it grew, healed, lived. Build a Rib with it, and scratches fixed themselves. Build a ship, and maintenance was history. In a fight, it'd hold together when others cracked. Down the line, it could birth wild stuff—star-sized shells, unbreakable fleets. Pulse Cannons shredded; this endured. Jarek didn't get the science—too weird, even for him—but the Ribs would. Their brains would crack it fast.
The Steelborn didn't slow down. They hardened the system—force shields wrapped Redstone's orbit, a buffer against war. Outposts sprouted in the asteroid belt: science hubs, ore mines, and watchtowers. If anything alien sniffed close, they'd see it coming. Jarek wasn't just building—he was arming. Factories on every rock could churn out Pulse-armed ships and millions of Ribs at a snap. The Forge's 8x boost meant billions if he pushed it. Every Steelborn, civilian or not, could fight with a rifle in hand.
Jarek stared at the holo-map, Coldspire's dot blinking fresh. The League might come—civil war or not, they were still a titan. He'd meet them with steel and fire. "This is our galaxy now," he muttered. "Let 'em try taking it."