Adrian gripped Arcton’s severed head by the hair, the lifeless silver-blue face swinging at his side as he streaked across the void. The edge storms tore around him, the shattered remnants of concepts swirling in his wake as he pushed forward with unrestrained speed.

In mere seconds, he crossed the distance between Drakthor and the Aethelian Imperial Capital System.

The suns of Aethelia flickered as if startled when Adrian entered the system.

A few breaths later, he descended upon Aethelia Prime.

The throne world shuddered as he streaked across its skies, a white-grey streak dragging a dead ancient cultivator with him.

He crashed straight through the outer barrier of the Imperial Palace. Dust and shards of marble rained down as the palace trembled under the force of his landing.

He walked forward, steps heavy, deliberate, absolute.

The corridors filled rapidly with elite imperial warriors. They recognised him instantly as the origin clan’s patriarch, but still, no matter who Adrian was, no one could breach the imperial capital.

“Stand down!”

“Surrender yourself!”

They lunged at him.

Adrian summoned his Source blade, and a white-grey arc swept across the hall. His strikes were silent and merciless, a single fluid motion erasing dozens at a time. Bodies collapsed before they registered what killed them. He did not use his domain, nor did he call upon his source form, which would have ended them in an instant.

He simply didn’t want to. He didn’t want to go into that emotionless state; he wanted to finally pour out all his anger, rage, fury, everything he had contained till now.

He wanted every step forward to carry the weight of the anger he had buried for so long.

From the moment he stepped into the galaxy, it was like the entire galaxy was against him.

One had to realise Adrian had grown up in a world where humans supported each other, where there was no heavy politics, no backstabbing, and every single human stood together. Even though children were pushed into harsh training, it was done for survival.

When a human lived in that kind of world, suddenly exposed to the galaxy’s cruelty, they would surely feel their entire perception changed. Adrian was not an exception to it.

He learned its rules quickly.

Absolute strength held absolute authority. The weak survived by kneeling. The strong survived by stepping on the weak.

From all the things he went through in the galaxy, he understood there were always powerful beings above him, and so he was always under constant pressure looming over him, and since his every single decision and action would impact his entire clan and his people’s lives, he didn’t act recklessly.

So when Aethelia kept pushing him, he swallowed all his fury again and again.

He had endured it, believing that reacting recklessly would endanger the lives of his clan.

But patience in this galaxy was not seen as a virtue. It was seen as a weakness, an invitation for further humiliation.

Finally, he realised something painfully simple: If he did not crush the hand raised against him and his people, then that hand would never stop striking.

You are only safe when you are feared… he learned this lesson the hard way.

So now he unleashed everything he had repressed.

Today, the anchor that held his fury was Helcarion, emperor of Aethelia.

More warriors poured from side passages. Adrian cut through them without pause.

“Send word to His Majesty!”

“The palace is under attack!”

A captain raised his hand, essence gathering. Adrian’s blade took his arm before the spell formed. The man’s scream was cut short as the second strike ended him.

Adrian stepped over the corpse; seeing this, the others hesitated to attack.

Eventually, Adrian reached the throne chamber.

Massive golden doors stood before him, inscribed with formations that had protected Aethelia’s emperors for millennia.

Adrian raised his hand, and the doors exploded inward.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Helcarion sat upon his grand throne, draped in imperial robes of gold and crimson. His fingers drummed against the armrest as he smirked when he saw Adrian enter.

The bloodied footsteps, the rage carved into every line of his face.

Helcarion read it all as confirmation.

He believed Adrian’s fury came from loss. He believed the Origin Clan had been annihilated; he believed Arcton stood behind him, ready to appear at any second to finish what he started.

His voice dripped with mockery, “Such an angry face doesn’t suit you, Adrian Blackwood.”

Adrian kept walking.

Helcarion leaned back, spreading his arms across the throne, “Did you watch your people die? You must have realized it by now that no matter how high you climb, you will never stand against Aethelia.”

The emperor’s smile widened. “You only exist because my empire allowed you to. Your clan rose under my stars; every breath your people take is within my dominion.” He tilted his head, “You thought you could exist without paying the price?”

Adrian stopped at the base of the dais, blood dripping from his blade onto marble.

Helcarion shook his head with exaggerated disappointment, “You should have bowed when you had the chance. Now your entire clan will serve as the example.”

Adrian finally replied, “You speak as if you created us.”

Helcarion sneered, rising slightly. “Every clan born within Aethelia’s borders belongs to Aethelia. You are a talented piece, but you were foolish to think you could escape our ancestor—”

Adrian tossed something lightly.

It rolled across the marble, bouncing once, twice, then stopped at the foot of the throne.

Helcarion looked down.

Arcton’s severed head stared back at him, its silver-blue skin already dulling, its expression frozen in disbelief. The ancient cultivator’s eyes remained open, locked in that final moment of incomprehension.

For a full heartbeat, Helcarion did not understand what he was seeing.

His mouth opened, closed. His fingers tightened on the armrests.

Then the colour drained from his face, “No… no, this is impossible.”

Helcarion shot to his feet, essence exploding around him in violent waves of tri-essence light. His rage barely covered the panic in his eyes, “You dare—!”

He launched himself at Adrian, fist wreathed in tri-essence, the palace shaking under the force of his unleashed power. Helcarion was not weak; he was a true stellar warlord, tempered by structures at the Edge and years of imperial dominance.

His punch could shatter mountains and crush fleets, but Adrian raised his free hand and caught it easily.

The impact rippled through the hall, walls cracked in spiderweb patterns, pillars shuddered, and ancient stone groaned. The shockwave blasted outward, shattering windows across three floors.

Helcarion’s arm stopped; his fist remained in Adrian’s grip, unable to move forward even an inch.

The emperor’s eyes widened. He pushed harder, pouring essence into his strike, veins bulging across his forearm, but he couldn’t move an inch forward.

Adrian tightened his grip.

Helcarion screamed as his arm was crushed and forced downward, bones grinding, essence scattering like broken glass. His knees buckled, and the emperor of Aethelia collapsed onto one knee, robes pooling around him.

In that moment, the emperor of Aethelia knelt like a helpless man before someone who simply no longer cared to hold back.

Adrian stared down at him, “Masters of masters keep arising… isn’t it?”

Helcarion’s eyes widened with primal fear, the kind that stripped away titles and authority, leaving only the animal recognition of a predator. He knew in that instant that he was facing not a rebellious patriarch, but something beyond the empire’s ability to quantify, something that had killed a higher existence.

“You—you killed him. You actually—” Helcarion choked on the words.

As Helcarion trembled, warriors burst into the throne room from every entrance. Arkan led them, tri-essence blazing, rage flashing in his eyes. He knew Adrian was too strong, but he couldn’t let the emperor be humiliated, so he launched himself forward in desperation, hand already forming a spatial tear to sever Adrian’s head.

But the moment they stepped within a few meters, Adrian activated his domains.

Fifteen overlapping forces crashed down simultaneously.

The warriors didn’t scream; they simply ceased. Erased. Bodies collapsing into dust before they hit the ground. Arkan’s tri-essence guttered like a candle in a hurricane.

Adrian released Helcarion’s fist, letting the emperor collapse to the floor, clutching a mangled arm.

A node floated beside Adrian, “Connect public channels.”

The node pulsed once in acknowledgement.

Across the galaxy, every node, screen, and projection flickered as an unscheduled broadcast seized priority. Billions looked up from their lives as the Origin Clan’s symbol blazed across their vision.

Adrian’s face filled the galaxy, “If anyone has an objection to what is happening, come. The location is attached.”

An open challenge to the entire galaxy.

Helcarion stared up at him, blood trickling from his mouth, “You’re insane! The other empires will—”

Adrian’s Source blade shifted, unravelling into a luminous whip that wrapped around Helcarion’s leg.

The emperor howled as he was dragged across the marble floor, leaving streaks of blood behind him.

Loyal Aethelian clans rose in fury, mobilising instantly; Fleets turned toward Aethelia Prime, engines roaring to life.

Adrian leaned slightly toward him, “Let’s go for a parade.”

He dragged Helcarion behind him, pulling him across the throne chamber floor. The emperor clawed at the whip, tried to break it with tri-essence, lightning crackling uselessly against Source-forged matter. He tried to twist away with space manipulation, but the whip ignored his efforts. He slid across the floor, dignity shredded, crown abandoned, robes gathering dust and blood with every meter.

They crossed the chamber, passed through shattered corridors where corpses still cooled.

Then they shot through the shattered palace roof, emerging above Aethelia Prime.

The broadcast followed.

Every living soul with a screen saw it. Aethelia’s ruler being dragged like a prisoner through the sky of his own world. The emperor, who had ruled for millennia, was reduced to a broken figure trailing behind the Origin Clan’s patriarch.

Imperial fleets reacted instantly, hundreds of ships locked onto Adrian, forming a blockade across the void.

Adrian paused, his gaze sweeping across thousands of hostile warships that dared to point their cannons at him.

Helcarion coughed blood, his voice hoarse, “You can’t stand against the entire galaxy, you will—”

“Let them try.”

He did not want a mindless slaughter, but he would not hesitate to kill anyone who dared stand with the empire that tried to butcher his people.

This parade was for one purpose.

To show the galaxy the price of touching his people.

To make the galaxy understand that the Origin Clan does not kneel.

To teach a lesson etched in the bones of anyone watching.

With this broadcast, he would show what would happen when anyone dared to touch his people to the entire galaxy.

The weak had always been taught to bow or be broken.

Today, the lesson would go the other way, and the entire galaxy would feel something new when they hear the name Origin Clan.

Fear.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep