Embedded Files
In the fractured age of Dwethia, no war is ever fought along simple lines.
Empires clash, alliances fracture, and ancient rivalries burn across the stars—but beneath every banner, another conflict unfolds.
Not of territory.
Not of resources.
But of reality itself.
Three great religious movements have spread throughout the galaxy, embedding themselves within every major faction. They do not stand as nations, nor do they claim worlds of their own. Instead, they move through existing powers like unseen currents, reshaping not only loyalties—but the very conditions under which events occur.
For these are not mere belief systems.
They are interpretations of existence that impose themselves upon it.
A commander of the Empire of Sol may kneel beside a devout follower of the Covenant—unaware that they no longer occupy the same certainty of outcome. A Citadel enforcer may secretly study the forbidden teachings of the Psionic Orders, learning not just to wield power, but to redefine the structure of matter itself. A Bloodpact rebel may abandon the cause of freedom entirely after swearing themselves to the Path Omega, embracing a reality that no longer adheres to reason or continuity.
Even among the lawless Blacksun Traders, crews fracture as competing beliefs take hold—each promising not simply a different future, but a different version of truth.
These religions do not divide the galaxy by race or allegiance.
They divide it by what is allowed to be real.
To some, the universe is something to be mastered—its smallest components broken down and rebuilt at will.
To others, it is something to be judged—where only certain outcomes are permitted to occur.
And to others still, it is something to be transcended entirely—its rules discarded as incomplete illusions.
Thus, every battlefield becomes something more than a clash of armies. It is a collision of realities.
Soldiers who once fought side by side may turn upon one another, not out of betrayal—but because they no longer agree on what outcomes are possible. Entire warbands splinter, reform, and clash again under the same colors, each enforcing a different version of existence.
Weapons do not merely kill.
They erase possibilities.
They enforce outcomes.
They deny alternatives.
No faction is immune. No alliance is permanent.
For in the galaxy of Dwethia, belief is not a matter of faith.
It is a matter of authority.
And the question is no longer who you fight for—
but which reality you are willing to make true.
The interior was vast. A cathedral of something long forgotten. Pillars stretched upward into darkness, walls lined with symbols no longer meant to be read.
And in the center—
A figure.
Gold and black armor, polished and pristine despite the age around it. Roman in shape, imperial in presence. A long blade rested easily at his side.
The Chosen.
He did not turn.
“You’re late,” the Draconic said calmly.
The Psion stopped a few paces away.
“I’m early,” he replied. “You’re just standing in the wrong place.”
A beat.
Then the Chosen turned.
And moved.
Fast.
Faster than most men could perceive—but not faster than the Psion.
Steel met empty air.
The Psion was already behind him.
A flicker—blue light surged along his arm as he struck. The Chosen twisted, catching the blow on his blade, the impact ringing through the chamber.
Again.
Again.
The Psion blurred—strikes precise, surgical, aimed to end the fight in seconds. Each movement optimized, each angle calculated.
But the Chosen—
The Chosen held.
Not perfectly. Not cleanly.
But enough.
Each block came just a fraction too late, each counter just slightly off—but driven by something deeper than skill. Something instinctive. Something growing.
A missed strike from the Psion became a near-fatal counter from the Chosen. A glancing blow. A crack in the armor. A reminder:
This was not a normal opponent.
The Psion stepped back.
Reassessing.
The Chosen smiled slightly.
“You see it now.”
Before the Psion could respond—
A third presence entered the room.
No sound.
No movement.
Just… there.
An Elder stood at the far end of the chamber.
Golden armor. Radiant. Silent.
In his hand—
The artifact.
Already taken.
Already his.
The Psion’s eyes narrowed.
The Chosen’s grip tightened.
Neither had seen him enter.
Neither had felt him move.
Because he hadn’t.
He had simply been there.
They attacked together.
No words. No hesitation.
The Psion vanished—reappearing at the Elder’s flank, blade forming in his hand, a contained singularity humming at its core. Reality bent inward along its edge.
The Chosen surged forward—perfect timing, perfect angle, blade aimed to strike in tandem.
It should have worked.
It was flawless.
It failed.
The Psion’s strike met resistance—not from the Elder’s movement, but because the Elder’s weapon was already there. Already intercepting. Already correct.
The Chosen’s blade followed—
And was turned aside just as effortlessly.
Not blocked.
Not parried.
Resolved.
Every opening closed before it existed.
Every strike answered before it was made.
The Elder moved—
No.
The world moved around him.
One moment he stood still.
The next—
The Psion was gone.
Not by choice.
A shift. A correction. A simple, almost gentle motion—and the Psion was thrown through stone, his body tearing through a wall as if space itself had decided he belonged elsewhere.
The Chosen roared.
And changed.
Armor split.
Bone stretched.
Wings tore free in violent bursts, claws elongating, form expanding into something vast and terrible. A dragon—not of flesh alone, but of something deeper. Something wrong.
The Draconic rose, towering, cosmic fire building in its throat.
It struck.
A massive claw came down with enough force to shatter warships.
The Elder raised one hand.
And stopped it.
Effortlessly.
For a moment, everything held.
Then—
The tail came.
A brutal sweep—unrefined, instinctive, overwhelming.
This time, the Elder moved.
Not enough.
He was thrown back, crashing into stone, the chamber trembling under the impact.
Silence.
Dust.
Then—
Light.
The Elder rose.
Wings unfurled—vast, radiant. A halo formed above his head, burning with quiet intensity. Scrolls of scripture drifted around him, symbols shifting, meaning rewriting itself with every glance.
From the rubble—
The Psion emerged.
Slowly.
Calmly.
His weapon reformed in his hand—no longer a blade, but a contained void. A black hole held in perfect balance, space bending inward, reality humming in protest around it.
Across the chamber—
The Draconic reared back.
Cosmic fire ignited in its throat, spilling outward, consuming everything in its path.
Three forces.
Three truths.
Colliding.
And just before the impact—
Everything froze.
Who will you choose?
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