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  The Eighth Judge of the Court of Seven, Ozriel, drifted through the shimmering threads of the Way, his senses taut and alert. Officially, he was searching for Daruman, the lost Executioner of the Abidan.

  His presence stirred within him, its voice a steady thrum in his mind. [The Mad King's influence is absent from this sector. I recommend we turn back.]

  Ozriel dismissed the suggestion and stepped from the blue swirlings of the Way into the raw Chaos at its border. The transition felt seamless yet tangible—a shift from order into the seething, formless dark that whispered of dissolution. In this realm, he was the Reaper, the embodiment of Death; only he among the Judges could endure the Chaos unscathed.

  His presence pressed on him, its tone insistent. [Time is wasting. The Mad King's trail is growing colder by the moment.]

  Yet Ozriel's gaze remained fixed on the swirling void ahead. There was something out there, a ripple in the fabric of Chaos. It was not Daruman, but it carried an unusual pull that reeked of his workings.

  "Silence," he commanded, his voice cutting through the mental link with authority.

  He cast his awareness outward, letting his perception unfurl across hundreds of thousands of parsecs. The cosmos spilled into his senses: star systems glinting like scattered gems, barren planets spinning in solitary orbits, and the vast emptiness that stretched between them. Intelligent life was absent here—until he found it.

  A lone space station drifted in the void, unmoored and unmarked, positioned a hundred parsecs from the nearest planet. More troubling, however, was what lay within. Ozriel's eyes narrowed as he focused.

  Nine Silverlords.

  Not the diluted, weak-willed kind that swarmed the fringes of the multiverse—these were elites, their power sharp and blinding.

  He commanded his presence, "Identify their faction." The Vroshir were notorious for being a collection of multiple groups and alliances rather than a united front.

  Silence followed, unnervingly prolonged, stretching long enough for Ozriel's hands to clench into fists. Finally, his presence spoke, its tone laced with unease.

  [Unable], it relayed in a single word, then hesitated. [Signatures of the Silverlords are also unidentifiable.]

  Ozriel's lips pressed into a thin line. Reaching into his soul space, he summoned his weapon. The broom appeared first, a simple tool of worn wood. As he ran a hand over its shaft, the wood splintered away, revealing the blackened core beneath: the handle of his Scythe.

  The weapon hummed with latent power, its blade an edge of void, sharp enough to carve reality itself.

  His presence gave a resigned sigh. [A battle, then.]

  "Interrogation," Ozriel corrected, though he knew the distinction might not matter. He adjusted his grip, aware of the Scythe's familiar and absolute weight.

  The Vroshir here were hiding something; their dedication to secrecy was unlike anything Ozriel had encountered. He had stumbled upon them by chance, but unfortunately for them, luck was on his side.

  Prangkas the Good stood rigid on the bridge of his ship, Kelapa , his gaze fixed on the void beyond. The darkness outside seemed endless, but the red glow bathing the bridge was suffocating. Alarms blared in deafening cycles, the sound drilling into his skull. His nails dug deep into his palms, leaving crescents of pain that barely grounded him.

  "Sir! He's closing in—estimated arrival in ten minutes!" the Lieutenant shouted, his voice cracking as his fingers mashed erratically across the controls.

  Prangkas barely registered the panic. His thoughts churned, a rising tide of disbelief and fury. Why now? For centuries, they had operated in the shadows, meticulous with every step. No witnesses. No trails.

  "How did the Abidan discover us?" His voice was cold and clipped, each word carrying the weight of suppressed rage.

  The ship's AI responded with an infuriating calm. "Analysis suggests the Judge was pursuing The Mad King and discovered our presence by chance."

  Chance. Rotten, cosmic luck. He knew of the Abidan Judges—relentless enforcers of their tyranny, wielding authority that could snuff out entire realities. And now, one was coming for them.

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  He cursed The Mad King silently, bitterly.

  "Divert all power to the Rebirth-OX, " Prangkas ordered, his voice cutting through the cacophony. "From this moment forward, it is our highest priority."

  The Lieutenant hesitated, his hands freezing over the console. "Sir...?"

  Prangkas turned to face him, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "You knew what you signed up for," he said, his voice low but heavy. He swept his gaze across the bridge, taking in the faces of his crew. Fear burned in their eyes, raw and undeniable, but beneath it lay something stronger: resolve. They would follow him, even to the edge of annihilation.

  The ship's AI chimed in again, its dispassionate tone almost mocking the gravity of the moment. "Energy diverted. The Rebirth-OX is now priority one."

  "Good," Prangkas said, exhaling a slow, measured breath. He turned back to the void, his mind already calculating their defence. They could not run, not from a Judge. And surrender? That was never an option.

  "Summon the rest of the Bhayangkaras," he commanded the AI.

  "Already done," it replied.

  The bridge seemed to grow colder as the weight of his decision settled over the crew.

  Prangkas's hands curled into fists, but his voice was steady, resolute. "We will be the defence."

  Beyond the ship, in the endless void, the embodiment of Death was coming.

  In their barracks, the Bhayangkaras prepared in silence. They discarded their usual armour, knowing it would be useless against a Judge, and instead dressed in simple brown and gold cloth patterned in the style of their leader's home world. Each fold and knot carried meaning—a quiet defiance in the face of certain death.

  When Prangkas entered, his gaze swept over the men and women. His attire mirrored theirs. He held a wooden box in his hands. The brown wood had remained pristine despite its age. He opened the box and walked to each of his men. They took the gold sumpings and fastened them on their ears.

  "You look ready," he said to the Bhayangkara closest to him.

  A silver-haired veteran stepped forward, her voice steady. "We are."

  Prangkas nodded. "Then let us go out there and die." He slammed his fist into his chest.

  The warriors saluted as one, their resolve unshaken. Brown and gold would meet the storm head-on.

  Nine Bhayangkaras floated in front of Kelapa. Shrouded by golden light, their forms shone in the darkness of space. A shadow darker than the black of space appeared before them a parsec away.

  Prangkas the Good, blessed by a thousand blessings from a thousand worlds, unsheathed his weapons, a pair of short curved and hooked swords, his Kujangs.

  "Bhayangkara one, ready," he stated, his voice booming in the darkness.

  Rana the Protector, empowered by the strength of a thousand lesser gods of a thousand planets, summoned her weapon, a golden boomerang the size of her body.

  "Bhayangkara two, ready."

  Akhan the Just, enforced by the transplantation of a thousand artefacts from a thousand worlds, called forth his weapon, a giant sword of swirling steel: his keris.

  "Bhayangkara three, ready."

  Visor the Caring, healed by the healings of a thousand worlds, held his hands out. They glowed with a soothing green.

  "Bhayangkara four, ready."

  Ishi the Generous, tattooed with scripts of a thousand worlds from head to toe, held her bamboo stick against her mouth.

  "Bhayangkara five, ready."

  Singa the Hopeful, empowered by the blood of greater creatures of a thousand worlds, grew his nails into claws.

  "Bhayangkara six, ready."

  Kranas the Steadfast, his body modified by the greatest technicians of a thousand worlds to be more machine than man, armed his guns.

  "Bhayangkara seven, ready."

  Hanath the Heartful, her heart shattered into a thousand pieces, gathered power from a thousand worlds. She held her weapon in a stance, a five-pronged trident, her Besi Lima.

  "Bhayangkara eight, ready."

  Sayuri the Content, opened her meditating eyes. Her palms were empty, but her eyes were filled with the wicked desires she had cleansed from a thousand worlds.

  "Bhayangkara nine, ready."

  They were ready to die.

  Ozriel clapped at the display. He wiped an imaginary tear from his eyes.

  "Wonderful everyone," he mocked. "Brilliant display!"

  The Bhayangkaras before him remained silent, but he could feel their grip tightening around their weapons. Those that had any, at least.

  "Let us discuss this over tea," he offered. He was trying to be less destructive. His ego was still bruised when he learned he had no affinity to the Phoenix division.

  The Silverlord with the bamboo stick blew a poisoned needle at him. The needle cut through space and time, moving a hundred times the speed of light.

  Ozriel caught the needles between his fingers. He felt the corruption of Chaos on the needle, and the Chaos threatened to consume him. Of course, it would not work; his armour was there for a reason.

  "That was rude," he commented jovially.

  [They're trying to buy time], his presence informed him.

  Ozriel sighed, gripping his Scythe tighter. "I know. ... I know."

  He swung his Reaper Scythe, which cut through space, a black line rushing towards his targets.

  One of the Silverlords stepped forward and held his hands outwards. His hands glowed and took the form of a lion's paw, the size of a planet. He caught the blow, and he pushed back against the oncoming attack. The blackness was drowned by gold. When the light disappeared, the Silverlord was a smoking mess. His palms were bloody, and a gash ran across his chest.

  Ozriel raised his eyebrows at the sight.

  His presence spoke in his mind, and Ozriel heard a hint of irritation. [Can we stop wasting time?]

  "Alright, alright," Ozriel waved and prepared for another strike. "Let's try one per cent."

  "This could have gone more peacefully," the Judge said to Prangkas.

  Prungkus floated through space; his weapons and limbs were gone. He wondered why the Judge had not killed him already like the others. His eyes stared at the red light of his ship's bridge. They dragged the battle as far away and for as long as possible, hoping to buy enough time as the Judge could not travel through the Way. The crew still needed more time.

  "There can never be peace with tyrants," he choked a death rattle.

  The Judge's face softened in a manner that Prangkas thought was mocking. But the white-haired man did not argue; he smiled instead. "That we can agree. But you see, the Abidan are not tyrants."

  Prangkas laughed and almost choked on his own blood. "You should listen to yourself more often." His eyes met the Judge's. "I have heard about you. We call you the Reaper. For how many worlds you have destroyed to the ground."

  The Judge's face flinched. Prangkas realised his words had struck a chord.

  "How many more people will the Abidan kill to keep their control over worlds? Control that you maintain with an iron fist?" Prangkas thoughts whirled in his mind. He could no longer fight to buy time. But he could talk.

  The Judge's face darkened, and his grip on his Scythe tightened. "We are not perfect," he answered. "But you threaten to plunge the universe into Chaos."

  "We would rather be free," Prangkas hissed.

  The Judge looked like he wanted to retort but held his tongue at the last second. He sighed. "You're wasting time, aren't you?"

  Prangkas did not answer.

  "I only want to know where the Mad King is and what the purpose of this facility of his is," the Judge said, pointing in the ship's direction.

  Prangkas eyes shifted to the ship, focusing on the now-darkened bridge. The Spirit-OX was complete. He fought to suppress his smile. He did not know if his blessings would work on a Judge, but he tried anyway.

  "Daruman seeks to harness the power of other Chaos beings," Prangkas lied.

  The Judge's eyes went wide. "I guess he took after his name after all." He eyed the limbless man. "Tell me where he is or where he'll go next, and I'll make it quick," Ozriel lifted his Scythe onto his shoulder.

  Prangkas nodded, inhaling deeply. Then, he unleashed all the power he could muster and yelled toward his ship. "INITIATE SELF DESTRUCT-"

  His bellow was cut off as Scythe swiped through his neck, separating his head from his body.

  Ozriel rushed towards the ship before the first drop of blood could spill from the dead man. He held his hand out, attempting to stop the self-destruct. However, he was inside Vroshir territory. The Way was not present here. The ship imploded, clamping down the structure of matter of the ship into nothing but atoms. There was not a single trace of the vessel left.

  "That was a waste of time," Ozriel muttered, his Scythe taking the shape of a broom and disappearing into his soul space.

  [I told you so].