“No,” shouted the Fifth Supreme Elder as he rose from his seat, eyes locked on the Second Elder, who was preparing to execute the First Elder’s directive. His voice boomed across the Council Hall, infused with defiance and frustration. His aura flickered around him, uncontrolled, like a warning flame.

He raised his right hand and pointed directly at the First Elder.

“You can’t just decide for all of us because you want to, First Elder. That’s not how this works. If you want our entire clan to follow your course of action, then it must go through a vote—a Council Vote.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber. He was invoking protocol, and doing so boldly. But he wasn’t wrong.

The Fifth Elder knew exactly what he was doing. With ten of the twelve Supreme Elders likely opposing the First Elder’s plan, he was confident the vote would swing in his favor—and he wanted to make that known.

The First Elder, who had quietly assumed the decision was settled, raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He simply leaned back in his seat, watching. So did the Second Elder, who paused where he stood, respecting the process despite the delay it imposed.

Voting was standard in situations where the Twelve Elders could not reach unanimous agreement. It was not a suggestion—it was the law.

The Fifth Elder, sensing the momentum, straightened his back and declared with theatrical weight, “Then we shall conduct the vote. All those who support the First Elder’s plan—of contacting the Five Powers and disclosing the truth—raise your hands now. All who do not, and instead support the alternative—mobilizing our fleets to eliminate whatever unknown force now resides within the Holy Region—do not raise your hands.”

He extended his palm for emphasis. “Proceed.”

The chamber was silent but for the shifting of robes and breath.

Only two hands were raised: the First Elder’s and the Second’s.

The remaining ten—including the Fifth Elder himself—sat motionless, hands at rest. Their answer was clear.

A grim smile crept across the Fifth Elder’s face as he turned to face the First Elder once more. “You see?” he said with a mocking edge. “Ten votes to two. The majority has spoken. As per the laws of this Council, the decision is made. Our clan will go with our option, not yours.”

He stood taller, triumphant.

But the First Elder didn’t flinch.

“No,” the First Elder said calmly, his voice quiet but cutting. “That’s where you are wrong, Fifth Elder.”

The chamber’s energy shifted again. The First Elder stood from his chair—not quickly, but deliberately, with the weight of history behind every movement.

He continued, “You are correct about the voting protocol. Normally, the majority vote of the Supreme Council determines the course for our clan. That is the structure we agreed upon, the law we operate under.”

He paused, scanning the room, locking eyes with every elder present.

“But you have all conveniently forgotten one critical exception—one you should know well. The First Supreme Elder holds override authority. That authority was written into our foundation charter long before any of you sat in those seats. When invoked, it supersedes any council vote, regardless of the majority.”

For a moment, the other elders sat in stunned silence. It wasn’t that they didn’t know—just that in the heat of the crisis, they had forgotten. The First Elder’s seat was different for a reason. More than ceremonial, it held constitutional power.

It was easy to ignore that when decisions were unanimous.

Now it could no longer be.

The Fifth Elder’s expression collapsed into a scowl. “You mean to override a ten-to-two vote?”

“Yes,” the First Elder replied without hesitation. “Because I must.”

He stepped forward, his presence commanding. “I invoke my authority as First Supreme Elder. We will follow the initial course. We will not waste lives chasing a phantom threat we do not understand. We will inform the Five Powers. That is final.”

The room fell still.

The First Elder turned his gaze back to the Second. “Go. Contact the Star Empire first. Their response will determine our next step. The others will follow.”

The Second Elder gave a firm nod and exited the chamber.

As the doors closed behind him, the First Elder looked at the remaining ten elders—his once-proud council. His eyes swept over them with cold disappointment.

“You should have known better,” he said, voice hollow now. “This was never about pride. It was never about saving face. It was about protecting our people… and today, you all failed that test.”

He stepped away from the center of the hall and turned toward the side corridor, where Jarkon stood—still injured, still silent.

“Council adjourned,” the First Elder said, without looking back.

Then he left, with Jarkon quietly falling in behind him.

Only his last words remained in the chamber, hanging like judgment in the air:

“I’m disappointed in you all.”

Meanwhile, in the Central Star Region of the Star Empire…

At the heart of the Imperial Star System—on the radiant world of Imperial Planet itself—peace reigned only in appearance.

Within the Imperial Palace, under golden domes and marble spires that touched the upper atmosphere, the vast Throne Complex had fallen quiet again. A full galactic day had passed—thirty Earth hours—since the historic summit where three tier-one powers and two colossal intergalactic forces had come together to shape the future of a newly discovered Holy Region.

Though the chamber where it all took place now echoed only with the footsteps of butlers and guards, the consequences of that meeting still stirred like unseen waves beneath a calm ocean.

A thousand debates had been had. A hundred propositions made. And at last, a single unified decision had been forged—tense, but binding.

The Alchemy Association and the Forger Guild, the two cross-galactic mega-forces, had agreed to forgo direct territorial claims over the Holy Region’s strategic zones. Instead, each had negotiated for resources—specifically, what they knew best.

The Alchemy Association would receive:

The Alchemy Association would receive:

One major life-bearing planet with stable ley lines, ideal for spiritual farming and high-grade potion cultivation.

45% of the total known spiritual plants, rare herbs, and sacred growths in the Holy Region.

In return, they pledged alchemical support and defensive coverage through their long-established influence in outer sectors. They would not field large fleets—but their information networks and elite potion masters could tilt the balance in times of crisis.

The Forger Guild, ever practical, demanded:

A central forge-world—a mineral-rich life planet that could sustain both population and mega-scale forge works.

45% of rare materials: star-forged alloys, resonance ores, gravimetal veins, and any element exclusive to the Holy Region.

They too promised to lend support—through supply routes, artifact enhancement, and providing backup weaponry to the Star Empire and its allies.

The Emperor accepted both terms. Well, it wasn’t exactly acceptance—rather, he was grateful that they hadn’t demanded a share of everything from the Holy Region. Instead, they had only asked for certain resources. Painful as it was, he was willing to part with them if it meant gaining more control over the Holy Region.

It was not loss—it was investment.

It was an investment that both the Forger Guild and the Alchemy Association were making in his empire.

The Dark Elven Empire was next. Empress Velryss had shown tactical patience, knowing that overreaching would push others to resist. Her demands were clear:

25% of the spiritual resource pool, mostly mid-tier herbs, mana vines, and low-tier divine flowers.

A single outer star system on the rim of the Holy Region for a future outpost—likely for research, training, or diplomatic purposes.

Given that the Holy Region was estimated to contain between 22 to 24 star systems, and even its smallest regions contained 14 or more, this demand was modest. No one objected.

The Mountain Dwarf Clans made a similar request:

25% of the total material wealth—refined ores, enchanted minerals, and solid metallic deposits.

One rimward star system, to be developed into a crafting and industrial stronghold.

Supreme Elder Moegrin Anvilborn had argued passionately for this, invoking the ancient right of Dwarven peoples to have access to sacred metals. His calm, yet unyielding voice had won respect.

Now came the final issue: the Minotaur Clans.

They had no seat at the meeting. No voice in the room. No emissary summoned. Yes because they were insignificant.

Yet it was their revelation, their exploration, and their persistence that had led to the discovery of this Holy Region in the first place. No one present at the summit could deny that fact. And so, in a move both symbolic and practical, the five powers reached an unspoken consensus:

The Minotaur Clans would be granted two full star systems within the Holy Region. Each would be:

Fully life-bearing, with between 2–4 habitable planets.

Containing 12 or more resource-rich planets.

Positioned near the outer sectors, where development was still nascent but promising.

This was both a reward and a containment strategy. It gave the Minotaurs legitimacy—without handing them control over critical central systems.

And the rest? The heart of the Holy Region?

That belonged to the Star Empire.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep