She looked to Kallus, locking eyes with him.

“All we must do is open the gate.”

She let the weight of her words linger before concluding.

“This is the one path that fills our ranks, trains them just as well and as good compared to the academy we are creating, and does it all without weakening our position in real space. That is why I support it.”

Unintentionally, Admiral Elira Sela had spoken aloud the very thoughts that had been forming in Kallus’s mind. It was for that reason alone he had already made his position clear—this third and final option wasn’t just viable; it was the only one that truly aligned with their needs.

The other admirals weren’t much different, truth be told. Each of them had considered something similar. While there were variations between their individual thoughts and Elira’s proposal, the core idea remained the same: accelerated training within the Universal Plane could close the manpower gap.

Then, Admiral Alexander—always more enthusiastic when Earth was involved—stepped forward with a wide grin.

“Yes, Imperial Commander,” he said with growing excitement. “Our Void Fleet’s reputation far exceeds that of regional powers back on Earth—and even that of the Starfleet.”

He chuckled to himself before continuing.

“And now? With your flagship—the Obliterator-class Star Dreadnought—circling Earth for months, its image has gone viral on every platform. Those sleek, angular designs? People are comparing them to some old series—something called Star Warriors. You wouldn’t believe it, sir. We’ve got fans. Rabid fans. Folks back on Earth would kill for the chance to pilot something that looks like it came straight out of that show.”

He finished with a laugh, but it was met with a few odd looks. The room collectively blinked, before several admirals exchanged confused glances.

“Of course it is,” said Admiral Alexander with a wide grin on his face. “They’re obsessed.”

But Kale remained unconvinced. His brow furrowed slightly as he thought to himself, his face was full of confusion. After all, he—and most of the senior commanders, including Kallus—hadn’t been paying much attention to Earth’s pop culture or sociological trends in recent years.

They were aware of the Void Fleet’s stellar reputation, of course. Overwhelmingly so. But reputation alone wasn’t always enough to drive people to join a war where they might die.

Kale voiced the room’s unspoken skepticism. “I mean, sure, we’ve got prestige. But how many people would actually choose this path when they could live a peaceful life instead?”

It was a fair question—and one Kallus had been pondering himself.

He stood quietly, arms crossed, his mind working behind calm eyes.

True, not everyone on Earth had the will to rise. But not everyone needed to.

He mentally ran the numbers. Earth’s current population was nearing 12 billion. Among that, the 18–24 age bracket made up roughly 15%—around 1.2 billion people. Obviously, not all of them were willing to risk their lives in space, and certainly not all were qualified.

But based on projections, 25–45% of that group—roughly 300 to 540 million—did have the drive and willpower to join the Void Fleet, given the right incentive. Still, not every willing soul was suitable. Even among them, maybe only 10% had the raw talent, adaptability, or discipline required.

That left approximately 48-54 million potential recruits—people who could be shaped, forged, and transformed through accelerated training in the Universal Plane.

And he didn’t need all of them.

“If we take too many… the other alliance members will suffer,” he thought for a while.

Before thinking….

Just a few million… to start.

It wasn’t that Kallus feared Earth’s governments or global powers—not in the slightest. Not with their meager strength.

Even if he were to take in tens of millions from their populations, they would make noise, yes.

But they’d accept it—so long as he offered them something in return. Trade. Protection. Influence. Earth’s leaders were predictable like that. And even if he didn’t offer anything, they would hesitate to resist, afraid of provoking a wrath he hadn’t yet shown them.

Still, that wasn’t his way. If he took something, he would give something in return.

Just a few million… to start.

It wasn’t that Kallus feared Earth’s governments or global powers—not in the slightest. Not with their meager strength.

Even if he were to take in tens of millions from their populations, they would make noise, yes.

But they’d accept it—so long as he offered them something in return. Trade. Protection. Influence. Earth’s leaders were predictable like that. And even if he didn’t offer anything, they would hesitate to resist, afraid of provoking a wrath he hadn’t yet shown them.

Still, that wasn’t his way. If he took something, he would give something in return.

But he didn’t want to take everyone.

He didn’t need to.

A few million—well-chosen and properly trained—would be more than enough to push the Void Fleet past its current bottleneck. More than enough to achieve what came next. He had other plans for Earth, after all… and they didn’t involve stripping it bare.

That’s why he’d started constructing the Void Academy.

If he wanted to, Kallus could train every human on Earth within his Universal Plane—where time itself bent to his will. With such an advantage, there would be no need for institutions like Void Academy. Not at all.

And that was precisely why he never entertained the idea.

He restricted himself from even thinking about such a possibility. Why? Because he refused to become overly reliant on the Universal Plane, even if it was his own creation—his ultimate resource. It wasn’t meant to be used that way.

Yes, he could wield its power however he wished. But there was a self-imposed rule—one he had never broken: only those bound to him by both soul and body could remain in that realm. Aside from his own bloodline, only the utterly loyal had earned that right.

The Void Fleet fit that description—but even they were limited. Only the 10,000 crew members who had awakened with him aboard the Obliterator-class Dreadnought were truly connected to him.

The Universal Plane was never meant to become a public training ground. It existed for him—and for those who stood at his side, sworn and chosen.

It was his domain.

Yes, he was using the Universal Plane’s time-acceleration and safety to forge a vanguard—those rare few who could endure its pressure and thrive within it. And yes, he would continue to leverage its advantages, because he had no choice.

He needed to.

His fleet had suffered from a critical lack of manpower since the moment he awakened. It was only because of that desperate shortage that he found himself bending his own rule.

Not breaking it—not yet—but bending it. Just enough to fill the gap.

Just enough to ensure they had sufficient manpower—so that both he and his forces could press forward without fear of being stretched too thin.

Because the path ahead wasn’t one of peace.

It was conquest.

And as they began their campaigns across the stars, he couldn’t afford weakness, hesitation, or scarcity. Every soldier, every ship, every second mattered.

But because he Kallus knew the truth: he wouldn’t always be here.

Because deep down, he knew that absolute power could become a crutch.

The more he leaned on it, the more everything outside of it would seem weak, slow, and unworthy. He didn’t want his people to grow soft, shielded by artificial time or unearned safety. He wanted warriors forged by reality, tested by fire and challenge—not just the perfection of a controlled realm.

The Universal Plane was a gift. A weapon. A sanctuary.

But it was never meant to replace the real galaxy. or the super universe.

Thus, he came to a decision.

“We cannot rely on the Universal Plane forever,” he murmured to himself, hands folded behind his back as he stared at the swirling projection of the galactic display.

Not when they had access to the Superverse and its billions of galaxies—each teeming with resources, challenges, and opportunities.

Why would he chain his ambitions to one pocket of safety when the stars themselves awaited?

Out there, through struggle and hardship, they would forge something real. Something with strength, strategy, and the ruggedness to endure across ages.

Not a hollow empire propped up by his constant intervention.

He didn’t want followers who crumbled without him. He wanted a legacy that stood tall—even when he wasn’t there to hold it up.

That’s why this decision mattered. Not just recruiting talent. Not just building strength. But making a clean break from the dependency that had quietly formed between his fleet and his personal plane.

So Kallus made another decision—one that would shape the future of his empire:

After this new generation of Void soldiers was trained, equipped, and battle-ready…He would formally transition the entire Void Fleet into full galactic operation.He would sever their reliance on the Universal Plane.The war machine he built would take its place among the stars.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep