(The Righteous Faction's POV)

News spread quickly amongst the Righteous Faction that a massive Cult army had been spotted leaving the Dimensional Portal of the Stilled World, as spy crafts positioned near the portal reported unusual activity.

At first, the reports were not met with disbelief, nor with panic, but with a restrained acknowledgment, as contingency protocols that had existed only as simulations were quietly elevated to active status, and sealed channels lit up across administrative and military networks that had long prepared for this exact possibility.

They had always known this could happen.

Ever since intelligence leaks surfaced weeks earlier, detailing the Cult's internal unrest and their likely reaction to Aegon Veyr's scheduled execution, projections had circulated through high-clearance briefings, outlining a grim but expected response, one that involved coordinated retaliation strikes against no fewer than twelve Righteous-controlled planets to be carried out on the same day as Aegon Veyr's execution.

The logic had been sound.

The timing predictable.

The intent clear.

And yet, knowing something was possible was not the same as watching it unfold.

As confirmation after confirmation streamed in, each sharper than the last, as fleet silhouettes stabilized on long-range sensors and portal distortion patterns aligned perfectly with mass transit signatures, even the most seasoned officials felt a tightening in their chests that no amount of preparation could fully suppress.

They had expected this.

But seeing it made it real.

Estimates adjusted rapidly as analysts refined their models, troop strength figures settling between three and four billion as revised counts synchronized across intelligence hubs, while formation data painted a picture not of a chaotic exodus, but of discipline, hierarchy, and intent.

This was not a reckless surge.

This was an army.

Sweat beaded beneath pristine collars and ceremonial armor as senior administrators and military commanders scrolled through live feeds in silence, their expressions carefully neutral even as the weight of confirmation pressed down upon them.

"So it begins…."

They mused, as they felt the small hope in their hearts shatter.

The hope that perhaps the Cult would not come out….

That perhaps the Cult would hesitate,

That perhaps exile had softened them.

That perhaps they did not have the courage to fight the Righteous Faction anymore after losing most of their home lands.

However, unfortunately, those hopes died quietly as trajectory vectors were finalized.

The fleet that had emerged from the Stilled World was not dispersing.

It was moving with purpose.

Primary course projections converged unmistakably on Planet Ixtal, the Cult's ancestral ground and symbolic heart, as observers quickly realized that this was not yet the retaliation itself, but its opening act.

The execution was still fifteen days away.

Which meant this was positioning.

Staging.

A declaration made not through words, but through mass.

Emergency councils convened across fortified command worlds, not to debate whether the Cult would strike, but to finalize which planets would bleed first if containment failed, as veteran officers reviewed long-established response plans that had been prepared a week ago.

They had prepared for this scenario.

They had run the numbers.

They had planned for the war.

Yet planning for war and watching it begin were two very different things.

And now that the Cult had stepped back into the wider universe in force, heading first toward Ixtal, the Righteous Faction understood that the countdown had truly begun.

Not to the execution.

But to the day where history's most brutal clash would occur for the first time in over a millenia.

—----------

(Meanwhile, The Eternal Garden, Raymond's POV)

Raymond stood beneath the layered boughs of the Eternal Garden, light filtering down through divine silver leaves, as a translucent data panel hovered before him, its contents scrolling slowly while his brows drew together in quiet displeasure.

Four billion.

He read the number again, then again, as if repetition might make it grow, however, unfortunately it did not.

"Hmm…. This is wrong—"

He mused, as he realized that for an army meant to strike twelve planets in coordinated retaliation, the figure felt… lacking.

"Something feels VERY wrong here," Raymond muttered as his fingers traced idle patterns through the air, dismissing secondary data streams and pulling up raw projections instead.

"Four billion to attack twelve planets leaves them with barely three hundred million soldiers per world."

His eyes narrowed.

"And that is assuming equal distribution," he continued as his thoughts sharpened.

"But even then, with such pitiful attack numbers they would be outnumbered 3:1 on the weakest worlds or 5:1 on the strongest ones…. *Sigh*,"

He let out a slow breath.

"Either their technology has advanced to the point where numbers no longer matter to their war strategy…. or they are willingly sending their armies into battles where they will be heavily outmatched."

Raymond said quietly, as neither explanation truly satisfied him.

The Cult's whole strategy currently made no sense to him.

And yet, everyone else seemed to already know what was to come.

*Sigh*

Raymond sighed heavily as his gaze drifted upward, past the floating data, into the vast blue sky of the Garden, as a familiar unease crept in, the kind that came not from fear, but from pattern recognition.

"No," he murmured. "This is not a frontal campaign."

The Cult had survived too long to be careless.

Which meant the twelve planets were not the objective.

They were noise.

A distraction.

However, just as he began to reorganize the projections, attempting to strip away the assumed targets and look for the absence instead, a presence entered the Garden behind him, subtle but unmistakable, causing the air itself to tighten.

"Forget about the Cult rats for now, boy," Kaelith muttered as he strolled casually into the clearing, hands clasped behind his back, his expression one of mild annoyance rather than concern, as Raymond stiffened instantly and turned his head in respect.

"Greetings, father," he said without hesitation as Kaelith acknowledged him with a small nod, his gaze already drifting past Raymond toward the floating data panels as if they were scarcely worth his attention.

"It does not matter what the rats do," Kaelith said calmly. "Or whether they conquer twelve planets or one hundred and twenty."

He stopped beside Raymond, looking out over the endless expanse of the Garden as if contemplating something far more important.

"What matters is Soron.

Without him, the Cult is nothing."

Kaelith continued, his voice sharpening slightly.

"Take him away and everything they build will collapse under its own weight."

Kaelith said as his eyes hardened.

"So the only question worth our attention is how to defeat Soron, because once that is done, the Cult is already dead."

He declared, as Raymond felt the wrongness deepen in his heart.

Something about Kaelith's approach to this situation did not sit right with him, yet, he still bowed his head and accepted his father's words, for he respected Kaelith even more than his own intuition.

'I might be wrong here, but if the Cult truly believes that Uncle Soron is their only pillar, then why would they care about conquering other planets.

Surely, they understand what would happen to their organisation if Soron dies as well right?'

Raymond wondered, as he felt as though the Cult strategist had gotten everyone wrapped around his fingers.

That they were all looking everywhere except where it truly mattered, and that the whole situation was extremely dangerous.

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