SUPREMACY- Clash Between Heroes and Villains Chapter 50:Convocation of the Four Lights

 For the first time in what felt like centuries, Titanumas exhaled.

The great warfronts fell silent—no violet dreadbeams shredding skylines, no shadow fleets ghosting through harbors, no blackened bombardments turning cities into burning diagrams of fear. The Deathenagruppenzeithgrantz had broken away from Galaxenchi's skies, limping into the dark like a wounded god-machine. The Darkened, Blackened, and Shadow Regimes had all withdrawn as well, not defeated in full, but bruised badly enough to vanish back into their strongholds.

The reprieve was not peace. It was a pause between heartbeats.

Across the golden-yellow continent of Galaxenchi, the world of scholars and stargazers tried to remember how to live without sirens. In Sollarisca, the solid-orange homeland of the Solar Regime, candles burned in front of ruined districts while rebuilding crews worked through the night. On the sapphire continent of Lunna, Lady Moonbeam's people lit quiet lanterns along rivers and seas. In emerald Starrup, the Star Regime recalibrated eco-grids and re-grew forests blasted open by orbital fire.

Each Absolute Leader returned home to speak to their people.
Each regime held its own councils, its own ceremonies, its own rituals of grief and resilience.

But high above all four, in the theorem-lit observatories of Galaxenchi, one man in gold decided that separate healing would not be enough.

Galaxenchi – The Professor's Decision

Professor Galaxbeam stood alone in the upper tier of the Chronolux Observatory, sleeves rolled back, golden-yellow hair tied loosely at his neck. Rows of crystalline projectors floated around him like obedient moons, replaying the last encounter with Doctor Deathwing from a dozen spectral angles. Equations—curved, angular, some written in languages long dead—burned across the air.

Outside the tall windows, the capital's sky was clear for the first time since the Death Regime invasion. Students walked the promenades again. Bells rang from academies that had recently been bunkers.

"Retreat," Galaxbeam murmured, watching the recorded silhouette of the Deathenagruppenzeithgrantz disappear into a stitched, unstable warp scar. "Not surrender. He changed the page, not the lesson."

A soft chime sounded behind him.

"Professor," came a steady, respectful voice. "The Supreme Command is assembled."

Galaxbeam turned. Two figures waited at the doorway of the observatory boardroom.

The first was Galaxadye, his glasses flashing data as lines of light crawled up his sleeves—logistics incarnate, his expression calm but eyes fiercely awake.

The second was Galaxastorm, cloak still torn from the last space-borne engagement, short golden hair restless as if it held static charge. He carried the weather of war around him, restrained but never fully stilled.

Behind them, several elites waited in silence—armored silhouettes with the "Galax-" sigil burning faintly on breastplates, faces a mix of exhaustion and stubborn will.

Galaxbeam smiled faintly, the way a tired teacher smiled when the most difficult class had finally shown up on time.

"Come in," he said. "We have a universe to re-arrange."

They gathered around an oval holo-table. With a gesture, Galaxbeam dismissed the replay of Deathwing's retreat and summoned a new projection: Titanumas, turning slowly, continents blooming into focus.

First he showed Galaxenchi, its cities flickering with defensive sigils and freshly reinforced chronolines.

"Galaxenchi is stabilized for now," he said. "We have patched the timeline fractures, redistributed libraries, and re-threaded the civil research nets. If Deathwing returns here too soon, he will find the board... uncooperative."

Then his hand drifted, and the world rotated. Sollarisca brightened into orange, then Lunna into blue, Starrup into green. Lifelines of light wove between them, symbolizing treaties, resource agreements, cultural exchanges.

"Yet our enemies do not think in just continents," Galaxbeam continued softly. "They think in vectors. If they failed to break our minds here, they will probe elsewhere—Westonglappa, Eastoppola, Istantopola. We cannot afford to heal apart and be surprised together."

Galaxadye folded his arms, thoughtful. "So you propose a convocation. A rebranding of the war—Allied Evolution Salvation stepping forward as one face."

Galaxastorm's lips quirked. "And here I thought we were finally getting a semester off."

"Consider it," Galaxbeam said, eyes glinting with dry humor, "a cross-departmental seminar. Mandatory attendance."

He expanded Sollarisca's image until the orange continent filled the room with warm light.

"First, we go to General Sunbeam," he decided. "The Solar Regime has bled the most recently. The people must see that the AES stands beside them, not just in orbital equations but at street level—speeches, press, rebuilding projects, shared campaigns."

Galaxadye nodded. "Logistics are... tight but manageable, Professor. If we depart within the hour, we can reach Solvanairebolis before their evening cycle. Shall I prepare a small escort unit?"

"Two Supreme Commanders," Galaxbeam said. "You, Galaxastorm. And a handful of elites. Visible enough to reassure, not so many as to look like occupation."

He turned away from the table, golden eyes narrowing as he gazed out over his recovering capital.

"The Darkened, Blackened, and Shadow Regimes have retreated for the moment," he said quietly. "But retreats are just inhalations before a shout. We will use this breath to align our lights."

He glanced back, smile sharpening into resolve.

"Prepare for departure. We begin in Sollarisca."

Sollarisca – Orange Dawn After the Storm

The Solar Regime's capital, Solvanairebolis, still carried the scars of the Darkened invasion. Entire districts bore fresh scaffold lattices, where streets had been split open and re-fused. Sun-colored banners hung beside shrouded ruins, the regime's emblem painted over defensive barriers that had yet to be removed.

As Galaxbeam's golden shuttle descended, the city's horizon glowed in layered shades of orange—burning clouds, holographic adverts resurrected after wartime blackout, the distant flare of repair forges.

General Sunbeam waited on a sky-terrace that overlooked the Radiant Plaza. His bright orange hair caught the sunlight like a living banner, eyes the same blazing hue, his full solid-orange attire immaculate despite the faint fatigue in his shoulders. Beside him, security details and Solar elites stood in respectful formation, their uniforms a spectrum of tangerine and sunrise tones.

The shuttle's ramp opened with a hiss of stabilized air. Galaxbeam emerged in flowing golden-yellow robes, trimmed with academic sigils, the light around him adjusting as if acknowledging its rightful owner. Galaxadye followed, crisp and composed, data-sleeves already syncing with local networks. Galaxastorm brought up the rear, cloak fluttering in the thermal wash.

For a heartbeat, the two Absolute Leaders simply regarded one another.

Sunbeam stepped forward first, his usual easy smile tempered by the subdued weight of recent loss. "Professor," he said, voice warm yet hoarse from too many speeches. "Welcome to Sollarisca. Sorry about the mess. We had uninvited guests."

Galaxbeam inclined his head. "I saw the test papers they left behind. You passed."

A faint, genuine grin flickered over Sunbeam's face. For an instant, the orange general looked less like an untouchable icon and more like a human man desperately grateful for an ally who understood the joke.

"Come on," Sunbeam said. "The press is waiting to devour us. After that, I owe you coffee. A lot of it."

Joint Press Conference – Two Suns on the Stage

The Radiant Plaza had become a tidepool of cameras and holo-drones. Reporters in orange armbands clustered behind floating cordons; citizens filled the outer rings, some still bandaged from recent battles. Screens across the city broadcast a live feed as Sunbeam and Galaxbeam walked onto the temporary dais, their auras—orange and gold—intertwining in the air like twin coronas.

Sunbeam stepped to the podium first. Microphones adjusted automatically to his height; something in the way he leaned on the lectern betrayed that he was more tired than his posture admitted.

"People of Sollarisca," he began, voice strengthened by force of will. "A few days ago, this city echoed with Darkened engines. Our skies were vandalized, our streets tested, and many of our own gave everything to protect this land."

The crowd quieted. Even the drones hummed more softly.

"As of this hour," Sunbeam continued, "I can confirm that Lord Darkwing is dead. The Darkened Regime has fallen back with heavy casualties. Their spearhead against our continent is broken."

There was a surge of cheers, fists raised, tears shining. Sunbeam let it crest, then raised a hand and the plaza gradually stilled again.

"But victory," he said softly, "never comes free."

He bowed his head.

"We lost elites. Friends. Family. Names you know, faces you've seen, hands that pulled you out of rubble or handed you food in the shelters."

On the enormous screen behind him, a slow scroll began—portraits fading through orange-tinted light.

"Sunazai. Sunblock. Sunbond. Sunborn. Sunbrass. Sunbrassolsky. Sunbreeze. Sunchammelia. Suncliff. Sunco. Suncrystal. Sundeath. Sunfelix. Sunflare. Sungummy. Sunhug. Sunlass. Sunmantha. Sunmerricka. Sunmitri. Sunna. Sunnero. Sunpew. Sunphoenix. Sunplate. Sunpunch. Sunrift. Sunrift—" he repeated the name, voice catching for a moment, "—Sunsam. Sunsaria. Sunscar. Sunshawn. Sunshine. Sunmuta. Sunn. Sunny. Suntaj. Sunven. Sunchi."

Each name landed like a heartbeat in the crowd.

Sunbeam inhaled slowly, straightened, and turned slightly aside.

"Today," he said, "I stand with someone who understands that every casualty is not just a statistic, but a narrative cut short. Please welcome Professor Galaxbeam of the Galaxy Regime—our ally, our neighbor in the skies, and the one who turned back the Death Regime's first exam."

Polite applause broke into genuine cheering as Galaxbeam stepped forward. He did not raise his hands or play to the cameras; he simply regarded the vast crowd with quiet, penetrating attention.

"People of Sollarisca," he said, voice clear and measured, each syllable like a line of script in a cosmic textbook. "In my world, we grade on curves and probabilities, on the likelihood that a student will grow beyond who they were yesterday. War is the most brutal kind of exam because the questions are written in bone, and the wrong answers are... permanent."

He glanced at the scrolling list of fallen Solar elites.

"The Darkened Regime believed they could force a failing grade upon you," he continued. "They calculated that terror would erase your capacity for love, for community, for the gentle chaos that makes humanity worth preserving. They were wrong."

He let that land. A few reporters lowered their tablets, listening instead of calculating soundbites.

"But I am not here only to praise your resilience," Galaxbeam went on. "I am here because the cosmos has not finished testing us. The Darkened are wounded, the Blackened are plotting, the Shadow Regime studies you from behind veils, and the Death Regime has not yet closed its book on this world. The war has moved to new theaters—Westonglappa, others—but every front shares a single truth: divided, we are cheap lessons. United, we are a curriculum too dense to conquer."

He stepped back, golden eyes shining, and inclined his head lightly toward Sunbeam.

"General," he said. "If you would permit me, I would like to pay my respects to your fallen more closely. In private, if possible."

Sunbeam's throat worked. For a second, the cameras caught the raw, unmasked grief in his orange eyes.

"Yeah," he whispered. Then, stronger: "Yes. Come with me."

The Field of Embers – Names in Stone

Away from the cheering plaza, a lift carried them down through the city layers to a quiet district near the sea. The air was cooler here, tinged with salt. No reporters followed; only Galaxadye, Galaxastorm, and a small escort of Solar guards accompanied the two Absolute Leaders.

They emerged into a wide memorial garden—the Field of Embers.

Obsidian pillars rose from the ground in concentric rings, each carved with a name and capped with a small orange crystal. The crystals burned in slow pulses, like sleeping stars. Paths of polished stone wound between them, lined with lanterns and benches where families had sat through the long nights after the battle.

Sunbeam walked slowly, his boots whispering against the path. His usual easy swagger had fallen away; his shoulders were bare of cape, his orange uniform jacket unbuttoned at the throat.

"This is where we laid them," he said quietly. "Where I told the people... that even Absolute Leaders can't protect everyone."

He stopped before a cluster of pillars where the names just spoken at the conference glowed softly.

"Sunazai. Sunblock. Sunbond..." He touched each crystal as he named them again, voice fraying around the edges. "They followed me without hesitation. I—"

His words failed. The orange glow of his eyes dimmed.

Behind him, Galaxastorm looked away, jaw tight. Galaxadye busied himself with an unnecessary interface, giving his leader the illusion of privacy.

Galaxbeam stepped closer, studying the carved letters. He reached out, fingers hovering a hair's breadth above one of the plaques, feeling the lingering temporal echo.

"You buried them properly," he said. "You let the story end with dignity."

Sunbeam gave a short, bitter laugh. "Did I? I keep replaying every move. There's always a version of the script where I get there faster, turn a corner earlier, throw myself in the way."

"Spoken like every good teacher I have ever met," Galaxbeam murmured. "Reliving the exam after the bell."

He straightened, expression sharpening.

"General," he said. "May I... interfere with your syllabus?"

Sunbeam blinked, turning to look at him. "What do you mean?"

Golden light began to gather around Galaxbeam's hands, not in the harsh, weaponized way it had on battlefields, but in soft spirals, as if the air itself were remembering what it was like to be starlight.

"In Galaxenchi," he said, "we study not only physics and fate, but the edges where they fray. The Death Regime believes they own resurrection—that only their necro-science can pull the fallen back. They are wrong. They merely hijack decay. They do not understand life."

He glanced at Sunbeam, eyes searching.

"I cannot resurrect everyone who has ever fallen," he said. "The balance would shatter. But these elites... they died recently, within a still-flexible segment of the timeline. Their echoes are loud. Their choices were selfless. And you, Sunbeam, have carried this grief as if it were your sole responsibility."

His smile turned gentle, almost mischievous.

"Consider this," he said, lowering his voice. "A correction to the marking scheme."

Before Sunbeam could answer, Galaxbeam stepped between the pillars and raised his arms.

The crystals atop each memorial flared, orange light intensifying until it blended with the gold pouring from Galaxbeam's palms. Ancient sigils of geometry and language stacked in the air—some Solar, some Lunar, some Star, many Galaxenchi, all interlocking. Time in the garden thickened; the breeze slowed to a syrupy crawl.

Galaxadye's eyes widened. Galaxastorm sucked in a breath. Even the guards fell to one knee, instincts screaming that they were witnessing something few mortals were allowed to see.

The inscriptions on the plaques began to glow so brightly they became unreadable. Then, one by one, the letters dissolved into motes of light, rising from the stone like fireflies.

Where each pillar stood, a silhouette coalesced—first just an outline of radiance, then color, then cloth and hair and eyes.

Sunazai gasped back into existence, clutching at the chest where a spear had once pierced him. Sunblock blinked, arms instinctively raised as if blocking a blast. Sunbond staggered, reaching out until Sunbeam's hand closed around his forearm, steady and shaking at once.

All around them, the garden filled with voices.

"General?" Sunbrass's familiar timbre cracked. "Did we win?"
"Sunchammelia, report—wait, I'm standing—what—?"
"Suncrystal here—why is everyone crying—?"

Sunbeam stared, jaw trembling, orange eyes flooding with tears that gleamed like molten amber. One by one, the revived elites recognized their surroundings, then their leader, then the golden figure at the center of the spell.

Galaxbeam folded his hands behind his back, breathing only slightly harder than before, as if he had just finished an intense lecture rather than rewriting death.

"Welcome back," he said politely, as though they had simply returned from a field assignment. "Please file your after-action reports with your General at your convenience."

Sunbeam let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. He grabbed Sunbond into a hug, then Sunhug, then Sunny, pulling them into a chaotic cluster that quickly became an orange avalanche of crying, laughing, shouting elites.

"You—" Sunbeam finally managed, turning back to Galaxbeam. "You knew I was... blaming myself."

"I heard you," Galaxbeam said, tapping his temple. "You are not subtle. Also, grief has a... resonance. Hard to ignore for those of us who listen."

He reached out and placed a hand lightly on Sunbeam's shoulder, golden and orange light touching.

"Let us agree on this, General," he said. "We will not allow the Death Regime to monopolize miracles. If they weaponize corpses, we will weaponize hope."

Sunbeam swallowed hard, then squared his shoulders, his usual grin returning with renewed ferocity.

"In that case," he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, "we're not leaving this place in silence. We're going to throw the loudest, hungriest memorial party Sollarisca has ever seen."

Feast of the Returned

News of the resurrection raced through Solvanairebolis faster than any official broadcast. Within hours, the Field of Embers was transformed.

Food carts rolled in from every district—spiced skewers from coastal markets, steaming bowls of sun-yellow noodles, stacks of citrus cakes, vats of bright orange punch. Lanterns were strung between the pillars, turning the once-somber paths into glowing aisles of celebration. Musicians set up at the edges, instruments tuned to both mourning songs and dance beats.

The revived elites found themselves mobbed by friends, families, and overjoyed strangers.

Sunbrass inspected a tray of grilled vegetables with professional suspicion before pronouncing it "adequate fuel." Sunlass wove through the crowd distributing extra scarves to anyone shivering from lingering shock. Sunphoenix tried to pretend he was not crying as children tugged at his sleeves, thanking him for coming back.

Sunbeam moved among them like a burning comet, laughing, clapping shoulders, occasionally stopping just long enough to breathe and look at them as if reassuring himself they were truly there.

At the center of it all, a makeshift stage had been set up—nothing grand, just a raised platform of repurposed armor plates. Sunbeam hopped onto it, pulling Galaxbeam up beside him.

"People of Sollarisca!" he called, and the noise gradually dimmed. "Tonight, this isn't about speeches or strategy. This is about life rudely refusing to stay buried. So eat, drink, hug someone you didn't expect to see again."

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

"But," he added, gesturing toward Galaxbeam, "before the food disappears, I want you to hear from the golden brain responsible for bringing half this party back from the afterlife."

Applause surged. Galaxbeam lifted one hand in acknowledgment, waiting for the noise to recede.

"I will be brief," he said, because he understood that no one wanted a dissertation before dessert. "You have all witnessed something rare tonight. Not because resurrection is impossible, but because it is expensive—not in energy, but in meaning. We cannot undo every loss. We should not. Grief is part of the syllabus of being alive."

He let his gaze sweep across the crowd, taking in orange uniforms, civilian clothes, bandages, smiles.

"But we can choose," he went on, "to use our greatest miracles not for spectacle, but to remind ourselves what we are fighting for. The Darkened, Blackened, Shadow, and Death Regimes believe that fear, hate, and despair are the final truths of existence. They are not. They are midterm exams."

A wave of chuckles moved through the crowd at his deadpan tone.

"The final exam," Galaxbeam said, voice softening, "is whether, after everything, we still choose to stand together. Solar, Lunar, Star, Galaxy. Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, Galaxenchi... and yes, even the distant continents now feeling the first tremors of this war—Westonglappa, Eastoppola, Istantopola."

He glanced sideways at Sunbeam, who folded his arms and nodded, grin sharpened into a promise.

"Tonight," Galaxbeam concluded, "you have your General, your elites, your families, your food, your music. Enjoy them. Remember them. Because the aggressors will return. When they do, I intend that they find not a planet of isolated victims, but an Allied Evolution Salvation so coordinated, so stubbornly alive, that even death itself will require remedial classes."

The plaza erupted—cheers, laughter, someone starting a chant of "A-E-S! A-E-S!" that spread like wildfire.

Sunbeam clapped Galaxbeam on the back hard enough that a lesser being would have stumbled. "You heard the professor!" he shouted. "Eat like you're studying for the test of your lives!"

Music burst from the speakers. Lanterns flared brighter. The Field of Embers became a Field of Living Light, filled with dancing, shouting, crying, laughing people—orange, gold, and every shade of humanity between.

On the edge of the celebration, Galaxadye checked schedule overlays as messages poured in from Lunna and Starrup—Moonbeam and Starbeam requesting their own audiences, their own joint initiatives, their own appearances alongside the golden professor.

Galaxastorm watched the sky, where distant clouds flickered with silent storms only he could sense.

"The Darkened, Blackened, and Shadow Regimes will hate this," he remarked.

Galaxbeam, watching Sunbeam get tackled into a group hug by five revived elites at once, smiled.

"Good," he said. "Let them. Tonight, we rewrite the lesson plan. Tomorrow, we take it to Westonglappa."

The music swelled. The four lights of Titanumas—orange, blue, green, and gold—were not yet gathered in the same room, but their paths had begun to converge.

And somewhere far away, in a drifting citadel of bone and engines, more than one villain felt an inexplicable chill, as if the universe itself had just sharpened its pencil and turned to a fresh page.

The music never really stopped.

Even after Galaxbeam's speech, after the first wave of tears and laughter, the celebration in the Field of Embers shifted into a looser, warmer orbit. Food stations rotated stock, musicians swapped out, and clusters of elites formed and re-formed as stories began to flow like late-night radio.

Sunbeam moved through the garden with a drink in hand—something citrus and fizzy that matched his color palette more than his mood. Every few steps, another revived elite caught his attention and pulled him into a quick retelling of some absurd, terrifying, or triumphant moment from the battle against the Darkened Regime.

"...and then the Darkened tank literally tripped on the curb," Sunrift was saying, gesturing wildly. "I swear, General, it was like the continent itself wanted them gone. I just nudged the pavement with a little tectonic punch and—"

"Boom," Sunbeam supplied, grinning. "That explains the crater I saw on Solthaven Avenue."

"Sir, that was art," Sunrift insisted, hand over heart.

Nearby, Sunbrass and Sunplate were locked in a friendly argument over whose armor had taken the bigger hit for the General during the final push. Sunhug had three civilians hanging off them in a lopsided group embrace, laughing and wiping their eyes at the same time. Sunshine, Sunny, and Sunchi had commandeered a table and were sketching quick caricatures of fallen Darkened tanks on napkins, passing them around to peals of exhausted giggles.

Galaxbeam drifted at the edge of these circles like a patient satellite, listening more than commenting. Where someone stumbled on the memory of a particularly bad moment—an explosion, a scream, the sound of collapsing buildings—he would tilt his head just slightly, adjusting the way local light fell, softening the sharp edges of recall. Not erasing. Just... grading on a kinder curve.

Eventually, Sunbeam cleared his throat and clinked his glass lightly against a lantern pole.

"Alright, alright," he called out. "One more bit of official business before we fully surrender to carbs and chaos."

The crowd gave a collective, playful groan but turned toward him anyway. Old habits—when the Absolute Leader spoke, you listened.

Sunbeam hopped up onto the stage again, beckoning Galaxbeam to join him. The golden professor obliged, stepping up beside him as the murmurs died down.

"This part isn't just for Sollarisca," Sunbeam said, voice settling into something more formal without losing its warmth. "It's for the cameras, too. For the folks watching from Lunna, from Starrup, from Galaxenchi, maybe even from the outer continents that don't think this war will ever reach them."

He glanced at the hovering drones, letting them see the steel under the orange.

"The Darkened Regime made a mistake," he continued. "They treated our continent like a test firing range. They brought their tanks and their torture ships, their sadism and their slogans, and they thought they could carve their flag into our soil and call it permanent."

The field had gone quiet again. Only the soft flicker of lanterns and the hum of recorders filled the air.

"Lord Darkwing is dead," Sunbeam said, clear and steady. "His attempt to drown Sollarisca in despair ended with him erased—burned out under our sun and the united retaliation of our allies. Several of his Supreme Commanders fell with him. The Darkened Regime may still exist, but their spear is snapped."

A ripple of sound—half cheer, half hissed hatred—rolled through the crowd.

"Do not misunderstand," Sunbeam added. "We celebrate because we survived. But we do not forget what they did in Echumeta, in Paladimee, in Solvanairebolis. We will not forget the faces of those who ordered the massacres."

He stepped back half a pace and angled the mic toward Galaxbeam.

"And now," he said, "I'm going to let the professor be the responsible adult and tell you why this isn't over."

A few laughs broke the tension. Galaxbeam accepted the podium with a small, self-aware smile.

"The Darkened Regime," he said, "was one vector of a larger equation. They believed brute terror and industrial sadism would give them control. They still have factories. They still have officers like Darkenedye, Darkenedstream, Darkenedpuff, Darkenedstride, Darkenedale. They will try again—if not here, then somewhere they consider softer. Somewhere they think is too far from the front to take seriously."

He let the projection screens behind them shift. For a moment, the feeds showed not Sollarisca, but stylized maps of Westonglappa, Eastoppola, and Istantopola—continents rendered in thin lines and soft colors.

"In my professional opinion," Galaxbeam went on dryly, "the terrorists and their allies are incapable of letting peace lie. They will look to new theaters. Westonglappa, for example, seems very... vulnerable on their charts. Many innocent nations. Much coastline. Plenty of room to make a point."

Murmurs broke out among the Solar officers in the crowd. Some had fought overseas. Others had family there.

"So," Galaxbeam said, tone sharpening, "I encourage Sollarisca to rebuild and to arm. At the same time. Strength and kindness are not mutually exclusive. Continue training your Sun Soldiers, Sun Marines, Sun Rangers, Sun Guards. Continue modernizing your fleets. Upgrade your civil defenses. Assume the Darkened Regime—or their Blackened, Shadow, or Death allies—will return with more hatred in their cores and more desperation in their strategies."

He inclined his head slightly, gaze sweeping the cameras now.

"This is not fearmongering," he said. "It is syllabus planning."

Sunbeam huffed a small laugh beside him. "Spoken like a true professor."

The next morning, the celebration gave way to press conferences.

In a bright, high-ceilinged chamber overlooking the Radiant Plaza, Sunbeam sat at a long table flanked by his Solar Supreme Commanders—six figures in various shades of orange, each radiating battlefield authority. On his other side, in golden contrast, sat Galaxbeam, Galaxadye, and Galaxastorm.

Banners of the Solar and Galaxy Regimes hung behind them, interwoven with the nascent sigil of Allied Evolution Salvation.

Camera drones hovered at approved distances. Reporters filled the first rows with datapads and holo-scribes at the ready. The room hummed with controlled tension.

A Solar newscaster stood. "General Sunbeam, Professor Galaxbeam—what assurances can you give the people of Sollarisca that the Darkened Regime will not be able to mount another invasion of this scale?"

Sunbeam answered first, voice steady but edged.

"No one on Titanumas can honestly promise that evil will never try again," he said. "What I can promise is that if they do, they'll meet a Solar Regime that is better prepared than before." He gestured along the line of orange-clad Supreme Commanders. "We are updating doctrines, hardening coastal defenses, coordinating more closely than ever with our allies."

He glanced sideways at Galaxbeam. "And this time, we're not pretending this is just a local problem."

Galaxbeam folded his hands on the table.

"In Galaxenchi," he said, "we are embedding Darkened Regime behavioral patterns into our predictive engines. We are cross-training analysts with Lunar and Star tacticians. We are developing countermeasures for Darkened, Blackened, Shadow, and Death Regime methodologies. The Death Regime's recent offensive against Galaxenchi gave us plenty of data. They will not enjoy how we use it."

Another reporter, this one from an independent outlet, raised a hand. "Professor, there are rumors that the war may be shifting toward the less-militarized continents. Westonglappa, in particular. Can you comment?"

Galaxbeam's gaze flicked briefly toward the projection of Westonglappa hovering in one corner of the room.

"I cannot and will not disclose classified projections," he said. "I will say this: war loves complacency. The BRD factions look for cracks—places where people believe they are too far away to be targeted. If you are watching this from Westonglappa, Eastoppola, or Istantopola, take this as your advance warning. Begin defensive dialogues now, not after the first dreadnought appears on your horizon."

Galaxastorm leaned toward his mic, expression serious for once.

「ソラリスカの皆さん、本当にありがとう。」 People of Sollarisca, thank you, he said in Japanese, the translation band echoing his words a heartbeat later. "You welcomed us, fed us, trusted us in your skies. When the storms come again, know this: the Galaxy Regime remembers its friends. We won't leave you to face the next wave alone."

Galaxadye spoke next, Cantonese clipped and efficient.

"我哋已經同 Solar 軍部交換咗戰術數據。" We have already exchanged tactical data with Solar command. "From now on, any major anomaly on your borders pings our boards too. If the Darkened or their allies try to sneak in, they will be walking into a network, not a gap."

Sunbeam tapped the podium lightly, drawing attention back to himself for the closing statement.

"Here's the simple version," he said. "Sollarisca is not going to live in fear. We're going to live our lives louder and brighter than before. But we will do it with shields up and eyes open, knowing the villains who came once will eventually come again."

He turned, meeting Galaxbeam's gaze, then looked back into the cameras.

"And when they do," Sunbeam said, "we won't just have orange fury waiting. We'll have gold, blue, and green standing with us. Solar, Galaxy, Lunar, Star. Four lights, one front."

The room erupted in flashes and questions, but the essential message had already been delivered.

That afternoon, in a quieter hall lined with windows, Sunbeam and Galaxbeam recorded a more personal broadcast—one meant not just for soldiers and officers, but for civilians across both their worlds.

They sat side by side on a simple bench, city skyline blazing orange behind them.

"To the people of Sollarisca and Galaxenchi," Sunbeam began, his tone lighter but no less sincere, "this is not a goodbye. This is a 'see you on the next front.' Professor Galaxbeam has invited me to strengthen our ties—military, cultural, educational. I've accepted."

He smiled crookedly. "Turns out, I like this guy's lectures."

Galaxbeam's lips quirked. "General Sunbeam will be visiting Galaxenchi in an official capacity and... less official ones. We will exchange students, officers, engineers, and, knowing you, probably chefs."

"Damn right," Sunbeam said. "You're not getting rid of my street food that easily."

The humor faded into something fiercer.

"But here's the promise," Sunbeam said, voice tightening. "We will not let hatred and terror define this era. Not the Darkened, not the Blackened, not the Shadow, not even the Death Regime. They can launch all the invasions they like. We will answer. Together."

Galaxbeam nodded once.

"We will meet their doctrines of despair," he said, "with a doctrine of unity. The AES is no longer a loose idea. It is a living pact. Solar and Galaxy stand together. Lunar and Star will join us in due course. And when the time comes to defend Westonglappa and the others, we will not hesitate."

They ended the broadcast there, hands clasping briefly in a gesture that was half handshake, half silent agreement.

The departure was not grand.

At dawn two days later, a compact golden transport waited on a high platform, its hull reflecting the first rays of sunlight over Solvanairebolis. A small honor guard of Sun Soldiers and Sun Marines stood at attention. A crowd had gathered beyond the security cordon, many waving orange banners or handmade signs.

Sunbeam arrived in full uniform—solid orange, cloak flaring, eyes bright again. At his side walked a handful of handpicked Solar elites, chosen to represent Sollarisca in whatever came next. Galaxbeam waited by the ramp, flanked by Galaxadye, Galaxastorm, and a few Galaxy elites already strapped with travel gear.

"You sure your people will forgive you for leaving the party early?" Sunbeam joked, glancing back at the city he'd just spent days stitching together emotionally.

"If they do not," Galaxbeam replied mildly, "I will curve their evaluations. Besides, this is still for them."

Sunbeam sobered, then extended a hand.

"Let's go see the moon," he said. "Lady Moonbeam's been holding the blue front alone for too long."

Galaxbeam clasped his hand, gold and orange light mingling for a moment.

"Agreed."

They boarded. The ramp retracted. Engines hummed, shifting smoothly from local grav-plates to intercontinental transit mode.

As the shuttle rose, the crowd below erupted into cheers. Sunbeam appeared one last time in the open viewport, raising a fist in salute. Galaxbeam stood slightly behind him, offering a small, precise bow.

Then the transport tilted, carving a golden arc across the sky, and leapt into higher strata. Clouds swallowed it in moments.

Time passed.

The orange of Sollarisca fell away behind them, replaced by the deepest star-dusted blues and blacks of upper atmosphere. Galaxadye monitored trajectories. Galaxastorm watched cloud formations with an absent, professional eye. Sunbeam dozed briefly in his seat, head tipped back, expression unguarded for the first time in days.

Galaxbeam sat near the forward viewport, hands steepled, eyes half-closed—but his attention stretched far ahead, along the glowing line that connected this shuttle to their next destination.

Lunna.

The Lunar capital awaited under a different sky.

The shuttle broke through into a dome of deep sapphire atmosphere, where the light seemed softer, shadows more pronounced. The continent of Lunna spread below in swathes of dark ocean and silver-lit land, its cities glowing like pools of moonlight.

Their destination rose at the heart of it all: Lunartopia, seat of the Lunar Regime.

Scars still marked its outskirts—blackened craters where Blackened artillery had fallen, jagged gaps in the urban pattern where whole blocks had been consumed by propaganda-fed riots and war. But the city still stood. Bridges still arched over moonlit canals. Tower-spires still reflected the pale glow of an artificial orbital moon that hung enormous in the sky.

The shuttle descended toward a landing terrace carved into the side of the Celestial Tides Palace, Lunna's central fortress-government complex.

Waiting there, framed by banners of deep blue, stood Lady Moonbeam.

Her long blue hair fell in careful waves down her back, though a few strands had escaped their ties, hinting at how little she had slept. Her eyes, luminous and serene even when furious, now held shadows beneath them—signs of nights spent in war rooms and hospitals instead of gardens and dance halls. Her attire was full solid-blue ceremonial combat regalia, trimmed in silver, cape stirring in the high-altitude wind.

Behind her stood Lunar Supreme Commanders and elites—Moon Generals and Moon Elites in varying shades of azure, their faces composed but marked by fatigue.

The shuttle's ramp lowered with a hiss.

Sunbeam emerged first this time, cloak bright orange against the blue world. He offered Lady Moonbeam a formal bow, then straightened with a smile that carried both apology and relief.

"Lady Moonbeam," he said. "Sorry it took so long. The Darkened left a mess on my side of the sky."

Her lips curved, a small, tired smile that still managed to radiate grace.

"We heard," she replied, voice smooth but edged with exhaustion. "And we watched, General Sunbeam. You burned very brightly."

Galaxbeam stepped down beside him, the gold of Galaxenchi a bridge between orange and blue.

"Lady Moonbeam," he said, bowing with precise respect. "The Galaxy Regime formally thanks you for holding Lunna against the Blackened Regime while we dealt with Deathwing's little experiments."

She regarded him with calm, sharp eyes that seemed to see both his present form and the trails of starlight he left behind in the timestream.

"Professor Galaxbeam," she said. "Welcome to Lunna. I have a great many reports to show you. And more than a few nightmares to file."

For the first time since landing, something like wry sympathy flickered across Galaxbeam's features.

"In that case," he replied, "class is officially in session." He glanced between her and Sunbeam. "Shall we compare notes on terrorism and how best to uproot it?"

Lady Moonbeam turned, gesturing toward the palace doors, where corridors of blue light stretched inward toward strategy chambers, memorial halls, and balconies that overlooked a wounded but unbroken city.

"Come," she said. "There is much to discuss. The Blackened Regime has not yet learned its lesson. And if your warnings about Westonglappa are accurate..."

Her gaze rose briefly toward the distant curve of the world beyond Lunna's seas.

"...then this war's syllabus is about to expand again."

Sunbeam exchanged a look with Galaxbeam—orange fire and golden reason aligned. Together, they followed Lady Moonbeam into the heart of Lunartopia, where new plans, new alliances, and new tests awaited.

Outside, under the watchful glow of Lunna's great artificial moon, the winds shifted, carrying the faintest echo of distant drums from other continents preparing—knowingly or not—for their own first questions on the exam.

The doors of the Celestial Tides Palace closed behind them with a soft hydraulic sigh, muting the bustle of Lunartopia's upper terraces.

Inside, the light shifted.

Solar halls burned; Galaxenchi corridors glowed; Lunar corridors... flowed. The main strategy chamber was a vast, circular room of blue stone veined with silver, with a central holo-well that projected a slowly rotating map of Titanumas in translucent sapphire. Ridges of seating and consoles rose in gentle tiers around it, like an amphitheater built for stars and generals.

Lady Moonbeam led the way down to the central tier, her cape trailing a quiet wake of blue light. Sunbeam walked at her right, Galaxbeam at her left—orange, blue, and gold converging on the same focal point.

"Thank you for clearing the upper skies," Lady Moonbeam said, a wry note touching her voice. "The Blackened Regime has been... embarrassingly fond of bombing runs lately. It is difficult to hold a dignified council while BMAIL missiles are screaming overhead."

"Blackwing never did understand the concept of indoor voices," Sunbeam replied dryly. "Or international law."

Galaxbeam's fingers traced a lazy arc through the holo-projection. Galaxenchi brightened gold; Sollarisca flared orange; Lunna deepened to radiant blue; Starrup, off to one side, glowed emerald. Between them, long arcs of light represented trade, fleets, cultural exchanges, old treaties.

Then, slowly, four darker knots pulsed into view: the Death Regime, the Darkened Regime, the Blackened Regime, the Shadow Regime. Four malign centers like inkblots on the world.

"I did not ask you here only to trade war stories," Galaxbeam said quietly. "We have survived our midterms. Now we must prepare for the final exam."

Sunbeam folded his arms, expression sharpening. "You mentioned something on the way over. A... revamp meeting?" He squinted. "You're calling it a 'revamp'? That sounds like a patch update, not a war council."

Galaxbeam's mouth quirked. "Branding matters. 'Revamp' sounds less grim than 'proto-continental defensive compact against quad-core terrorism.'"

Lady Moonbeam's lips curved, the hint of a smile briefly softening the fatigue lines at the corners of her eyes. "And what, Professor, do you propose we... revamp?"

He flicked his hand and the map zoomed out, continents shrinking into a single, slowly turning globe.

A new point of light appeared—dead center between the four major regimes' home continents, out in the great ocean where no national border quite reached.

"I have chosen a location," Galaxbeam said. "A neutral convergence node—an island, artificially stabilized, anchored to tectonic quiet and wrapped in layered chronofields. It lies at the geometric pivot between Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, and Galaxenchi."

He tapped the hovering point. It expanded into a ghostly image of a rising structure—part observatory, part fortress, part conference hall, all etched with overlapping Solar, Lunar, Star, and Galaxy motifs.

"A sanctuary?" Lady Moonbeam asked, head tilting slightly.

"A crossroads," Galaxbeam corrected. "And a promise. A place where the four pillars of light are not merely allied, but architecturally intertwined. Solar orange, Lunar blue, Star green, Galaxy gold—each visible, each indispensable."

Sunbeam whistled under his breath. "You're building a clubhouse in the middle of the world."

"A clubhouse with orbital-grade shields and enough power rerouting to embarrass a small star," Galaxbeam said mildly. "Membership: limited. Security: extreme. Agenda: singular."

He turned, golden eyes catching theirs.

"To stand as one front against the four regimes of terror," he said. "Darkened. Blackened. Shadow. Death. No more partial responses. No more each continent carrying its own trauma in isolation."

Lady Moonbeam's gaze lingered on the projection—on the way the four light-colors converged in the ocean, casting a soft glow on the surrounding seas.

"And you invite us," she said, "not as subordinates, but as co-founders."

"Of course," Galaxbeam replied. "I will host. The structure is Galaxenchi's gift. But the soul of it must be shared, or it is meaningless."

Sunbeam planted his hands on his hips. "Alright, Professor. What do you need from us?"

"From both of you?" Galaxbeam asked. "Your presence. Your commitment. Your voices, speaking together—on record. General Sunbeam, you as Sollarisca's face. Lady Moonbeam, you as Lunna's. Later, we will bring in Starbeam from Starrup. But the first invitations must be personal."

He turned more fully to Lady Moonbeam, tone sobering.

"And I must give you the same advisory I gave him," he said. "The Blackened Regime and their siblings in terror are not finished with you. Blackwing's propaganda war against Lunna is wounded, not dead. His Black Soldiers, Black Marines, Black Rangers, and their media cadres may try subtler attacks next. Or... not."

Lady Moonbeam's eyes cooled, sapphire hardening into tempered glass. "He has already slaughtered more than enough of my people with his 'subtlety.' I do not need convincing."

"Then consider this reinforcement," Galaxbeam said gently. "The patterns in our data—Lunar, Solar, Galactic—all point outward. What happened in Echumeta, in Eastoppola, was a rehearsal. Darkened forces invaded suddenly, decapitated leadership, assassinated the President of Echumeta as if she were an ink mark to be erased. They will attempt similar acts again."

His fingers traced across the hologlobe, settling on the distant outline of Westonglappa.

"Here," he said quietly. "The innocent continent, they call it. Less militarized, less suspicious. Many nations who still believe this war is 'over there'." He looked between them. "The BRD will read that as invitation, not innocence."

"So Westonglappa becomes the next sacrificial lamb if we do nothing," Sunbeam summarized grimly.

"Unless," Galaxbeam said, "we show the world now that the four lights are no longer merely reacting. We are... anticipating."

Lady Moonbeam inhaled slowly, then nodded once.

"You wish me," she said, "to stand beside you and speak this aloud. To my people. To the cameras. To make the unseen war visible—before the next dreadnought parks itself off some unsuspecting coast."

"Yes," Galaxbeam replied. "With you in Lunar blue, Sunbeam in Solar orange, myself in Galaxy gold. Starbeam will join us soon enough in green. Terrorism thrives in shadows and silence. We will give it floodlights and microphones instead."

Sunbeam's expression softened into something fierce and approving.

"I'm in," he said. "You already knew that. As for the secret island... when you decide to unveil it, I'll bring half my kitchens along. If the universe is going to have a panic attack over four Absolutes sharing a stage, they might as well eat well while they watch."

Lady Moonbeam let out a quiet, weary chuckle.

"Very well," she said. "We'll speak together. Here in Lunna, first. Then, when your convergence node is ready, we'll stand there as one, and let every continent see what unity looks like."

Galaxbeam bowed his head slightly, relief hidden but present in the angle of his shoulders.

"Thank you," he said simply. "Then our next step is... public."

The Lunartopia Amphitheater had been built for concerts and festivals, not war briefings. Tonight, it became both.

Tiered seats rose in elegant curves above a crescent-shaped stage that overlooked one of the city's moonlit canals. Blue lanterns floated on the water below, casting ripples of soft light on the ceiling. Holo-projectors hung like stars overhead, ready to broadcast images to the farthest reaches of Lunna.

The venue was full.

Civilians in various shades of blue. Moon Soldiers and Moon Marines in crisp uniforms. Journalists with Lunar press badges, lenses and mics angled toward the stage. At the edges, a small delegation of Solar envoys and Galaxy staff watched quietly.

When Lady Moonbeam stepped onto the stage, the amphitheater fell utterly silent.

She stood tall despite the dark smudges beneath her eyes, blue hair glinting under the lights, cape flowing behind her like a living strip of night sky.

"People of Lunna," she began, voice carrying without strain. "You have survived months of lies and bombardment. The Blackened Regime tried to drown us in propaganda, to poison our rivers and our stories, to make you doubt your own eyes and hearts."

Her gaze swept the crowd, catching faces that had once crowded into shelters while Blackened warships shelled their coasts.

"They failed," she said simply. "You are still here. Lunartopia still stands. Lunargopa still sings. Lunartamarin still breathes. They battered us, but they did not break us."

A murmur of assent rolled through the audience.

"But tonight," she continued, "I will not speak only of survival. I will speak of what comes next. It is time you saw—visibly, undeniably—that we are not alone on this world."

She turned, gesturing to the wings.

"General Sunbeam of Sollarisca. Professor Galaxbeam of Galaxenchi. Please join me."

Sunbeam strode out, orange cutting a bold stripe across the blue stage. Galaxbeam followed in gold, the Galaxy sigil glinting on his chest. The contrast was almost surreal—three Absolute Leaders, three regimes, one shared platform.

A hush deeper than the first settled over the amphitheater.

"Lunna," Lady Moonbeam said, "this is the alliance you have heard rumors of but not seen collected in one frame. Solar. Lunar. Galaxy. Soon, Star. The four pillars of light that stand against the four malignancies that have tried to devour this age—Darkened, Blackened, Shadow, Death."

She stepped back half a pace. "Professor."

Galaxbeam moved to the central mic, eyes reflecting layered blues and golds.

"Citizens of Lunna," he said, "you know the sting of the Blackened Regime better than most. You have seen their fake broadcasts, their smear campaigns, their BMAIL warheads. You have watched them try to convince you that your own leaders were tyrants while they flattened your cities in the name of 'liberation'."

Soft, bitter laughter rippled through the crowd.

"In Galaxenchi," he went on, "we have traced their patterns. In Sollarisca, Darkwing's death and the Darkened Regime's retreat confirmed what we already suspected: the BRD factions—Darkened, Blackened, Shadow, Death—are not competing villains. They are... a curriculum of terror. Each specializes in a different subject—fear, lies, annihilation, decay—but they share a final exam."

He lifted a hand; the holo-stars above shifted, projecting a stylized map of Titanumas behind them. Eastoppola lit up in red, then zoomed in on Echumeta. An outline of the assassinated President's face flickered briefly beside the city's name.

"In Eastoppola," Galaxbeam said, "the Darkened Regime invaded without declaration, decapitated the government, and assassinated the President of Echumeta in her own capital. They did it to send a message: that distance does not guarantee safety."

The map shifted. Westonglappa glowed softly on the other side of the globe.

"In my calculations," he said, "Westonglappa is next on their list of temptations. It is not because the Westonglappans are weak. It is because the BRD believes they are unprepared."

A low, worried murmur spread through the amphitheater.

"So here is what we will do," Galaxbeam continued, voice steady. "We will not wait. We will not hide in our own continents and pretend the war is over. We will build a shared sanctuary—a neutral convergence of Solar, Lunar, Star, and Galaxy power at the center of our world. We will coordinate responses, share data, pool our Supreme Commanders' insights and our elites' experience."

He glanced at Sunbeam and Lady Moonbeam, then back at the crowd.

"The Darkened, Blackened, Shadow, and Death Regimes want to fracture us into separate victims," he said. "Instead, we will become one syllabus they cannot pass."

Applause surged—tentative at first, then stronger, then thunderous.

Sunbeam stepped up, adding his voice to the blue sea.

"Lunna," he called, grinning despite everything, "when the Darkened Regime hit us, we fought them in orange. Tonight I'm here to say we're ready to fight for you too. For blue. For green. For gold. For any color that the terrorists think they can turn into ash."

He pointed upward where the holographic Westonglappa hovered.

"You've heard the professor," he said. "Westonglappa is in danger. Eastoppola already knows how it feels to wake up to dreadnoughts. We are not going to let that happen again without warning, without coordination, without a packed room of stubborn idiots like us saying 'not this time'."

Laughter, louder now, pushed back the anxiety.

Lady Moonbeam returned to the mic for the closing.

"Tonight," she said, "you have seen three of the four lights together. The fourth—our emerald sibling in Starrup—will join us soon enough. Remember this image. Remember that when the Blackened Regime returns—and they will—their lies will not find us alone and afraid. They will find us connected."

Her eyes shone with a quiet, exhausted determination.

"And when the day comes that we fly to Westonglappa's aid," she finished, "know that it will be because of decisions we made... right now."

The amphitheater rose to its feet.

The press captured every frame.

Somewhere, in a bunker in the Blackened territories, a propaganda editor would later watch this broadcast with cold fury, realizing that a narrative they had hoped to control was slipping away.

The days that followed were not all councils and cameras.

Galaxbeam, Sunbeam, and Lady Moonbeam walked the streets of Lunartopia together—albeit with discreet security shadows trailing behind.

They visited a riverside district where Moon Rangers and Moon Guards still helped civilians rebuild homes shattered by Blackened artillery. Sunbeam rolled up his sleeves and helped lug stone; Lady Moonbeam listened quietly as an elderly shopkeeper described how she had kept a small tea stall open throughout the siege as "a tiny rebellion." Galaxbeam adjusted a cracked chronometer for a group of children, then spent thirty minutes answering their earnest questions about stars and Absolute powers.

In a flooded quarter near the sea, they stepped onto a half-restored bridge where Lunar engineers were reinforcing pylons with shimmerstone and time-treated alloys. Galaxbeam and Galaxastorm conferred briefly with the crews, tweaking shield geometries so that the next barrage—if it came—would break on the district like a wave on rock.

At a small memorial garden dedicated specifically to those lost in the Strategic War Escalation of Lunna, they stood in silence while Moonbeam lit a trio of blue lanterns. Sunbeam bowed his head. Galaxbeam traced a small, invisible sigil of respect in the air—one that did not tamper with time, but acknowledged it.

By the third day, the people of Lunna had grown used to the surreal sight of orange, blue, and gold walking side by side through their markets and alleys. Children pointed and whispered. Adults watched with a mixture of awe and relief that was hard to put into words.

At last, duty tugged at them again.

On the final evening, they gathered on a high terrace of the Celestial Tides Palace, overlooking Lunartopia's canals. The artificial moon hung enormous overhead, casting silver over blue rooftops. Below, city lights flickered to life in constellations of their own.

The Galaxy shuttle waited on its pad, engines humming at idle.

"Thank you," Lady Moonbeam said, standing with them at the terrace rail. "For coming, for speaking, for walking among my people instead of just appearing on their screens."

Sunbeam shrugged lightly, though his expression was serious. "We owe you and your folks more than words. If the Blackened come back, say the word. Orange will be in your sky before they can finish a smear campaign."

"And gold," Galaxbeam added softly. "You are not a footnote in this war, Lady Moonbeam. You are a pillar."

She inclined her head, blue eyes warm despite their weariness.

"Go, then," she said. "Find Starbeam. Bring him into this... revamp of yours. Lunna will hold as best it can until the four lights stand under the same sky."

Sunbeam turned toward the shuttle, cape snapping in the night breeze. Galaxadye and Galaxastorm moved to follow.

Galaxbeam lingered a moment longer, looking out over the blue city—the scars, the rivers, the lanterns bobbing on distant water.

"次は緑か," he murmured in Japanese. Next is green, then.

He glanced sideways at Lady Moonbeam, a faint smile touching his mouth.

"Do not let Blackwing rewrite your story," he said. "I will be very cross if I have to correct his footnotes again."

She actually laughed, a small, genuine sound.

"I will keep that in mind, Professor."

They parted there—orange and gold boarding the shuttle, blue watching from the palace edge.

As the craft lifted, banking away from Lunartopia, the three colors shone together one last time in the reflection of the artificial moon.

Then the shuttle climbed higher, engines bright against the dark, turning its nose toward a distant emerald continent where Starbeam waited, tired and embattled in his own way.

The four lights were not yet in the same room.

But the path between orange, blue, green, and gold was no longer theoretical. It was being walked.

And somewhere beyond the horizon, in Westonglappa's quiet streets and unscarred coasts, unsuspecting lives went on—unaware that forces of terror were eyeing them, and that far above, three Absolutes and a fourth in waiting were already reshaping the syllabus that would determine whether those streets stayed peaceful or became the next battlefield.

Solartide-class shuttle Aurora Concord hovered on a stabilizing cushion of light above Lunartopia's upper docks, its hull a tasteful blend of orange, blue, and gold—Solar exuberance, Lunar grace, Galaxy precision all braided into one sleek shape.

Inside the embarkation lounge, the three Absolutes waited while final clearances scrolled across side panels.

For the first time in days, no one was making a speech.

Sunbeam stood by the wide viewport, one arm loosely draped around Lady Moonbeam's waist as they both looked out over the canals. The blue city glowed beneath them in layered reflections: lantern light, water trails, starlight.

Galaxbeam stood a polite distance away, hands folded behind his back, eyes ostensibly on a floating checklist—but very obviously catching every soft look the pair exchanged.

"This view never gets old," Sunbeam murmured, voice low. "Even after war, it still looks like romance bottled into a city."

Lady Moonbeam leaned her shoulder into him slightly. "That is because we refused to let Blackwing define our skyline," she replied. "Some things are not negotiable."

"You two," Galaxbeam said mildly, "are going to give the historians whiplash."

They both glanced at him.

"Why?" Sunbeam asked, amused.

"Because somewhere," Galaxbeam went on, "an academic is trying to write a serious treatise on the Allied Evolution Salvation, and meanwhile their primary sources keep reading like 'Adam and Eve, co-starring Romeo and Juliet, but with orbital artillery.'"

Sunbeam laughed outright. Lady Moonbeam's lips curved despite herself.

"We are hardly that dramatic," she said.

"Moonbeam," Sunbeam said, turning to face her, orange eyes softening, "I literally pulled you out of a Blackened bombardment while the newsfeeds were calling you a tyrant, and you kicked a missile in half."

"And you," she countered, "stood on a burning block of Solvanairebolis shouting at a dreadnought on live broadcast. We might be slightly dramatic."

Galaxbeam raised a hand. "As the designated third wheel, I am qualified to certify that you are both extremely dramatic," he said. "On behalf of the author, the viewers, and the inevitable fan artists."

The overhead chime interrupted them. "All boarding protocols complete," intoned the shuttle AI. "Clear skies to Starrup. Departure in three minutes."

Sunbeam's arm tightened briefly around Moonbeam's waist. She looked up at him, blue eyes reflecting the gold countdown hovering near the ceiling.

"We have, perhaps, two minutes and fifty seconds," she murmured. "Make them count, General."

He obliged—bending to press his forehead to hers, then her nose, then a lingering kiss that tasted of exhaustion and stubborn hope rather than battlefield adrenaline. For a moment, the wars and councils fell away; it was just orange and blue, fire and tide, holding onto the fact that they were still here.

Galaxbeam very studiously turned half-away, raising his checklist to block his view.

"To the audience at home," he said under his breath, breaking the fourth wall without shame, "yes. This is the part where the author pads the word count with relationship development. You are welcome."

The AI coughed politely through the speakers. "Professor, if you are finished narrating to unseen observers..."

"Just warming them up," Galaxbeam replied. "We're about to hit the in-flight fanservice."

The interior of the Aurora Concord's VIP cabin looked less like a warship and more like a boutique spa with engines.

Soft panels of orange, blue, and gold shifted in gentle gradients along the walls. A wide window offered a view of the upper atmosphere; below, Lunna was already shrinking into a sapphire curve. At the center of the cabin, two massage tables sat side by side, draped in deep blue sheets edged in Solar orange thread.

Sunbeam raised an eyebrow. "You didn't have to go this far, Professor."

"I did," Galaxbeam said, unrepentant. "Because you are both catastrophically overworked, and because the narrative demanded at least one scene without artillery."

Moonbeam eyed the tables, then him. "You are sure this is not some elaborate data-gathering experiment on Absolute muscle fatigue?"

"That would require far more electrodes," Galaxbeam replied smoothly. "This is simply... morale management. And, yes, possibly fanservice. Academic fanservice."

Two Galaxy spa technicians—one in gold and white, the other in calming teal—waited beside the tables with trays of oils that glimmered faintly when they caught the light. The scents in the cabin were subtle: citrus, sea-salt, and something floral from Lunna's gardens.

A privacy screen shimmered into place while Sunbeam and Moonbeam changed into wrap-towels, then faded back to transparent as they settled face-down on the tables, backs and shoulders modestly covered but exposed enough for the massage to work properly.

Galaxbeam took a seat in a side chair, crossing one leg over the other, data-slate resting idle in his lap.

"To those reading this," he murmured aside, "no, we are not going to linger on exact oil viscosity or skin texture. This is a PG-13 universe. Relax."

The technicians began.

Smooth, practiced hands worked over Sunbeam's shoulders, loosening knots laid down by weeks of command and combat. Light caught along the line of his spine as the oil spread—more like a sheen of starlight than anything lurid. At the neighboring table, Lady Moonbeam exhaled slowly as fingertips traced firm, professional circles across her upper back, then down along her arms, forearms, and hands.

"How's the pressure?" the Solar-side technician asked gently.

"Perfect," Sunbeam replied, his voice muffled by the headrest. "I haven't felt this... untangled since before Darkwing started throwing tantrums."

On the Lunar side, the other technician adjusted her angle, thumbs finding the tense spots between Moonbeam's shoulder blades.

"We can focus more here," she offered. "The Blackened propaganda wars leave different scars."

Moonbeam made a quiet sound that could have been agreement or relief. "Yes," she said. "That would be... appreciated."

The work continued: shoulders, backs, the long lines of calves and feet, the worn tendons of commanders who had stood too long in bunkers and council halls. There was nothing hurried about it; time itself seemed to relax its grip for a while, the engines' hum and the technicians' quiet professionalism forming a cocoon around the three.

Galaxbeam watched, half-guardian, half-commentator.

"Somewhere," he told the unseen audience, "a Death Regime analyst is going to see this on a leaked feed and call it decadence. They will miss the point. Rest is not decadence; it is strategic maintenance."

Sunbeam cracked one eye open. "Professor," he mumbled, "are you lecturing the villains again in your head?"

"Out loud, apparently," Moonbeam added, amused.

"Old habits," Galaxbeam said. "Ignore me. You are the protagonists of this segment. I am merely the chaperone."

When the massage finally ended, the two Absolutes sat up slowly, wrapped in fresh, soft robes in their respective colors. Their faces looked different—not free of fatigue, but less crushed beneath it.

"Thank you," Moonbeam told the technicians sincerely.

"Any time, my Lady," the Lunar-leaning one replied.

"Just book ahead," the Solar one added to Sunbeam with a grin. "Even Absolutes need appointments."

Later, cleaned up and back in their formal attire, the three gathered at a small dining nook near the main window.

Platters of carefully arranged food floated at elbow height: light Lunar seafood dishes, Solar-spiced skewers, delicate Galaxenchi tea cakes. A bottle of crisp white wine from Galaxenchi's high-orbit vineyards stood in a chiller, condensation beading along the glass.

"To surviving midterms," Sunbeam said, raising his glass.

"To rewriting the syllabus," Galaxbeam replied.

"To making sure Westonglappa never has to feel what Echumeta did," Lady Moonbeam concluded.

They drank.

Conversation drifted between them as the Aurora Concord crossed from the blue arc of Lunna toward the emerald gleam of Starrup. They compared notes on reconstruction, on the morale of their troops, on the stubborn resilience of civilians who had learned how to live with the possibility of orbital fire.

Outside, the sky darkened, then lightened again as they crossed into different atmospheric bands. By the time the wine bottle was half-empty and the plates nearly cleared, the shuttle announced their descent.

"Approaching Starrup," the AI said. "Coordinates: Yoruhoshi State, Starflare Nexus City. Local time: late afternoon."

Sunbeam's eyes brightened. "Haven't been here since before..." He stopped, then grinned. "Since before everything exploded, basically."

Galaxbeam's mouth quirked. "You are going to enjoy the symmetry."

"Why?" Moonbeam asked.

"Because you are about to meet the green version of yourself," Galaxbeam said. "And he is expecting you."

Starflare Nexus City lived up to its name.

From above, it looked like a luminous circuit board laid across emerald hills—radiant green towers connected by glowing transit veins, solar arrays spread like wings along rooftops, floating platforms drifting between districts. Holographic constellations traced themselves in the air between skyscrapers, shifting into advertisements, weather reports, or simple art depending on the hour.

The Aurora Concord descended toward a landing platform atop the Starrup Central Synapse, a gleaming hub that functioned as both government center and data cathedral.

Waiting on the pad, surrounded by Star Soldiers and Star Rangers in sleek emerald uniforms, stood a figure in full solid green, hair and eyes the color of fresh leaves under midday sun.

Starbeam.

He was, as promised, Sunbeam's twin—facially identical, but where Sunbeam's presence burned like an orange supernova, Starbeam's aura had a sharper, more technological edge. Green light flickered subtly along his coat seams, as if he were constantly interfacing with the city under his feet.

The ramp lowered.

Sunbeam took a step forward, then stopped dead, staring.

Starbeam stared back.

Then both broke into matching grins.

"Nice dye job," Starbeam called, voice carrying easily over the pad. "Orange suits you, brother."

"Takes one color-coded twin to know another," Sunbeam shot back, striding down the ramp. They clasped forearms, then pulled into a brief, fierce embrace—the kind that compressed a lifetime of complicated emotions into a few seconds.

"You surviving?" Starbeam asked, pulling back, eyes flicking over Sunbeam as if checking for invisible fractures.

"Barely," Sunbeam replied. "But I brought help."

He stepped aside, gesturing.

"Lady Moonbeam of Lunna," he said. "Professor Galaxbeam of Galaxenchi."

Starbeam's gaze shifted to Lady Moonbeam, the green of his eyes deepening with respect.

"Lunna held against Blackwing's filth," he said. "That alone earns you every honor Starrup can offer."

Moonbeam inclined her head. "Your eco-grids kept some of our orbital routes open when we needed them most. The honor is mutual."

Then his attention settled on Galaxbeam.

"Professor," he said. "We've never met in person, but my engineers swear half their code is just them trying—and failing—to imitate your time-space algorithms."

Galaxbeam smiled faintly. "Imitation is the first step toward innovation," he said. "I look forward to stealing some of your solutions in return."

Starbeam laughed. "Fair trade."

Protocol tugged at them then—greetings from staff, security confirmations, a quick walk through the upper corridors of the Synapse. But the heart of the visit came swiftly.

They gathered in Starbeam's main council chamber—an oval room with transparent walls that looked out over green-lit streets. Holographic displays floated in rings: city status, global news, casualty reports, research breakthroughs.

Galaxbeam did not waste time.

He projected the same world map he had shown in Solvanairebolis and Lunartopia—continents glowing in their respective colors, four malignant knots pulsing where the terror regimes made their nests.

He spoke of Gallaxgonbei's liberation, of Suzutamashi's bruising invasions, of Kinchōhakkei's tenacious defense. He outlined how the Darkened Regime had smashed into Eastoppola, how the Blackened Regime had tried to choke Lunna with lies and shells, how the Death Regime continued to treat the world as a laboratory for extinction.

Then he turned to the future.

"The four lights must converge," he said. "Not just in spirit, but in infrastructure. I am building a convergence node—neutral, shielded, anchored—at the center point between our four homelands."

He showed Starbeam the same image: the rising structure out in the ocean between Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, and Galaxenchi.

"I propose," Galaxbeam continued, "a formal convocation there. The four pillars of light—Solar orange, Lunar blue, Star green, Galaxy gold—standing as co-equal founders of a new era of coordinated defense. We will use it to share intelligence, manage resources, and plan interventions—not only for our own continents, but for the vulnerable ones the BRD believes it can exploit."

His hand brushed the projection of Westonglappa, haloing it briefly in soft cautionary light.

"Westonglappa is high on that list," he said. "They still believe this war to be a distant broadcast. The Darkened, Blackened, Shadow, and Death Regimes see that as opportunity. We must ensure it becomes... their miscalculation instead."

Starbeam listened in silence, green eyes narrowed slightly as he weighed, cross-checked, ran his own mental simulations.

When Galaxbeam finished, Starbeam glanced at Sunbeam, then at Moonbeam, then back at the professor.

"You've already stood with him," he said to Moonbeam, nodding toward Sunbeam. "You've already spoken, publicly, about this alliance?"

"I have," she answered. "The people of Lunna have seen their blue leader standing beside orange and gold. They will expect to see green next."

Starbeam's gaze sharpened—and then softened.

"Starrup has always prided itself on independence," he said slowly. "We like to imagine we can out-think, out-engineer, and out-hack any threat. But the Nemesis Halo taught us that there are limits to what we can do alone. The Death Regime's satellite... was a rude teacher."

His mouth curved into a humorless smile.

"So yes," he said. "I will stand with you. On this island. In front of the world. I will say, on record, that Starrup is part of this... revamp, as you call it."

Sunbeam clapped him on the shoulder. "Knew I could count on you, applehead."

"Pumpkin," Starbeam replied automatically. "Get it right."

Lady Moonbeam shook her head, a tiny almost-smile touching her lips. "Brothers," she murmured.

Galaxbeam inclined his head. "Then we move quickly," he said. "We will hold a joint address here in Starflare Nexus—announce the intent, outline the stakes. After that, we depart together. Orange, blue, green, gold. To the center of the map."

Starbeam looked out through the transparent wall, over the humming emerald city, as if seeing all of Starrup at once.

"Starrup will listen," he said. "We're still rattled by the Death Regime's toys. They will be ready to hear that we are not facing this alone."

He turned back, expression set.

"Let's give them a new constellation to follow."

The plan was swift.

Within hours, Starflare Nexus's central plaza filled with citizens and reporters. Starbeam stood at the podium in solid green; Sunbeam flanked him in orange, Moonbeam in blue, Galaxbeam in gold. They spoke—of terror, of patterns, of unity, of Westonglappa's looming vulnerability, of the convergence node rising at the world's heart.

The broadcast went out across Starrup, across Titanumas, to any continent with receivers still functioning.

By the time the last question was asked and answered, the sky above Starflare Nexus had shifted toward evening. Emerald neon flickered to life across the city's towers; high-orbit arrays glinted like distant satellites.

On an elevated pad behind the Synapse, a new shuttle waited—this one bearing all four colors in its hull design, as if foreshadowing an emblem yet to be formally drawn.

Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam, and Galaxbeam stood together at the foot of the ramp, the air around them charged with something that wasn't quite lightning and wasn't quite destiny, but felt like both.

"Once we lift," Sunbeam said, "there's no putting this back in the box."

"Good," Starbeam replied. "Boxes are for relics. We're still very much alive."

Lady Moonbeam looked toward the horizon, where the distant curve of ocean met the dimming sky.

"Let's make sure Westonglappa stays that way," she said quietly.

Galaxbeam looked at them—orange, blue, green—then out toward the unseen central node where his island project waited in scaffolds of light and steel.

"To the center of the map, then," he said. "Where four lights become one."

They boarded.

Engines flared.

The shuttle rose from Starrup's emerald heart, climbing toward the thin, high air where continents blurred and only curves and connections remained. Somewhere beneath the clouds lay Westonglappa, still unaware. Somewhere ahead, in the empty ocean between homelands, a new structure waited to become the stage for a different kind of war.

Sunbeam and Starbeam stood side by side on the observation deck as the shuttle cut through high cloud, both framed by the wide window's arc of blue and green.

They really did look like brothers.

Same height. Same jawline. Same irrepressible aura. Only the colors differed—Sunbeam's blazing orange hair and eyes against Starbeam's bright apple-green.

"Just so we're clear," Starbeam said, tipping his head toward the reflection. "We are not actually related."

"Genetics had nothing to do with this," Sunbeam agreed. "The author just got carried away with copy–paste and changed the color layer."

Galaxbeam actually laughed, a short, honest sound as he leaned against a nearby console.

"Correction," he said. "According to the narrative files, Starbeam was deliberately designed to be the more professional, concise, and academically terrifying variant."

Sunbeam clutched his chest. "Betrayed by my own creator."

Starbeam smirked, folding his arms. "Don't worry, 'brother.' You can be the charismatic chaos. I will be the patch notes."

Lady Moonbeam watched the exchange with a small, fond smile. "The universe is safer when your rivalry is focused outward," she observed. "Save the real competition for the villains."

The shuttle chimed. "Approaching designated convergence landmass," the AI announced. "Central node between Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, and Galaxenchi. Altitude decrease commencing."

The four Absolutes turned toward the window.

Beneath them, where ocean currents once met in quiet anonymity, a vast new land had risen—half natural plateau, half engineered miracle. Galaxy Regime engineers had carved and anchored it into existence: sweeping sea-walls, layered terraced platforms, and a central elevated plain where the main complex stood.

Golden-yellow fortifications ringed the site. Bunkers, shield pylons, artillery nests, sensor towers. The outer perimeter bristled with defensive infrastructure—less as a threat, more as a statement: this is not a palace; this is a fortress of peace.

Inside that ring, long barracks and command hubs formed an orderly grid where mixed detachments of Galax Soldiers, Galax Marines, Galax Rangers, and support crews moved with crisp purpose. Supply shuttles came and went in controlled arcs, their hulls bearing accents of orange, blue, and green—Solar, Lunar, and Star contingents already embedding alongside the Galaxy backbone.

At the very heart of it all stood a single, striking building: a low, wide structure of pale stone and alloy, its roofline formed as a four-pointed star. Each arm pointed toward one of the four continents. A wide plaza spread in front of it, already crowded with camera towers, press platforms, and viewing tiers.

"The Convergence Citadel," Galaxbeam said quietly. "Phase one complete."

"Looks like a headquarters," Starbeam mused. "Feels like a promise."

Sunbeam gave a short nod. "Feels like a warning label, too. The BRD is going to hate this."

"Good," Lady Moonbeam said simply. "Let them."

The shuttle descended toward the central landing terrace.

Inside, the Citadel's grand hall was surprisingly minimal.

No ornamental thrones, no gilded indulgence. Just a long, slightly elevated platform with four podium positions and four high-backed chairs behind them, lit by clean white beams. Behind that line rose a wall of flags: solid orange of the Solar Regime, deep blue of the Lunar Regime, bright green of the Star Regime, golden-yellow of the Galaxy Regime. Above them, a single new emblem hovered in hard-light projection: four beams of light, intersecting at a single point, radiating outward in a balanced starburst.

Teams from all four homelands had already filled the hall's side tiers. Solar reporters in orange sashes checked their feeds. Lunar media units calibrated gentle blue holo-banners with Lunna script. Star Regime drones hovered in precise lattices, broadcasting back to eco-cities and tech hubs. Galaxy Regime archivists, elites, and officers stood in crisp ranks, data streams already logging every angle, word, and heartbeat.

Global networks carried the feed live.

Somewhere in Solvanairebolis, a family watched from a tavern with repaired walls. In Lunartopia, crowds gathered in riverside plazas, eyes fixed on big screens. In Starflare Nexus, café patrons paused in mid-keystroke. In Galaxengongshi, students leaned over academy tables, notebooks ready as if for lecture.

Backstage, aides made last adjustments to collars and cuffs.

Sunbeam had exchanged his travel attire for a formal Solar dress uniform—a full solid-orange ceremonial coat with high collar, subtly embroidered with miniature suns. Lady Moonbeam wore deep, star-sprinkled blue with silver trim, her hair pinned back with crescent motifs. Starbeam's ensemble was streamlined emerald, with thin lattice-lines that glowed whenever he interfaced with a feed. Galaxbeam had donned his most formal academic robes, golden-yellow layered over white, with faint constellations drifting across the hem.

"Last chance to back out," Sunbeam said lightly. "We could tell everyone the feed glitched and go get noodles instead."

"Tempting," Moonbeam murmured. "But history is unfortunately watching."

Starbeam flicked a fingertip; his green sleeve briefly displayed live viewer metrics in the millions. "Confirmed."

Galaxbeam closed his eyes for one breath, touching the Absolute band that connected their minds and their regimes.

He heard them: fear, hope, skepticism, hunger for something that felt like direction. He heard, too, the distant, sour echoes of the four villainous regimes—simmering resentments, snarling oaths, skull-flavored ambition. Retreat had not softened them; it had concentrated them.

"Then let us begin," he said softly.

They stepped onto the stage.

The hall quieted. Cameras tilted. Banners behind them pulsed gently.

Galaxbeam took the first podium.

He let a heartbeat of silence fall—long enough for every eye and lens to settle.

Then he spoke.

"People of Titanumas," he said, voice carrying with calm precision. "Solar, Lunar, Star, Galaxy. Citizens of Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, Galaxenchi. And those watching from the far continents who do not yet know whether they belong to any of us... I greet you."

The greeting landed. In distant taverns, plazas, cafés and classrooms, people leaned a little closer.

"I stand here," Galaxbeam continued, "not only as Professor of the Galaxy Regime, but as one witness to a long, looping story."

His gaze drifted upward, as if looking not at the Citadel ceiling but through it, into some older sky.

"In the year 5007," he said, "prolonged climate change and warfare had ravaged the universe, leaving behind a post-chaotic world. You know the tales—burned skies, drowned cities, fractured orbital belts. On Titanumas, the largest of the habitable planets, we clawed our way out of that wreckage."

He lifted a hand; the hall's central holo shifted to a faint image: storms, shattered land, slow regrowth.

"A new humanity emerged," he went on. "Not perfect, but stubborn. Our ancestors built, failed, rebuilt. They argued about what it meant to be human when so much of the old universe had been killed by our own hand. Out of that struggle, four allies rose—not as conquerors, but as guardians of human potential."

Behind him, the four flags brightened in sequence as he named them.

"The Solar Regime," he said, nodding toward the orange banner, "embraced life, warmth, and the courage to keep loving in a dangerous universe."

"The Lunar Regime," he said, gesturing slightly to the blue, "protected reflection and nuance, the tides of thought and feeling that keep us from becoming machines."

"The Star Regime," he continued, glancing toward green, "wove technology and ecology together, refusing to choose between progress and planet."

"And the Galaxy Regime," he finished, briefly touching his own chest, "committed to knowledge, to the patient, often frustrating work of education and understanding."

He spread his hands slightly.

"They called their partnership the Allied Evolution Salvation—AES. Not because they believed themselves divine, but because they understood that evolution without guidance leads back into chaos. Salvation was not a holy promise; it was a syllabus."

A low murmur rippled through the hall. The word "AES" flashed across multiple side-feeds in different scripts.

"For centuries," Galaxbeam said, "these four regimes governed their own continents, states, countries, vast lands—each with their own leaders, councils, armies, and schools. They disagreed often. Sometimes fiercely. But beneath those arguments was a shared conviction: that humanity deserved to thrive without the constant threat of annihilation."

His expression darkened.

"And then," he said, "four other forces decided that was unacceptable."

The flags behind him dimmed. Above them, four violet, black, and gray sigils appeared in hard-light: the Darkened, Blackened, Shadow, and Death Regimes.

"Darkened," Galaxbeam said, voice sharpening. "Blackened. Shadow. Death. The BRD: four factions who looked at the same wounded universe and chose to become its infection rather than its physicians."

He did not need to raise his voice; the contempt in it carried clearly.

"I will not pretend they are stupid," he went on. "They are not. They are brilliant in their own warped ways. They learn, adapt, improve their weapons. They retreat not to rest, but to re-arm. Even now, their leaders nurse wounds, replaying their defeats at Gallaxgonbei, at Kinchōhakkei, in Lunna, in Sollarisca, in Starrup. They do not sleep peacefully. They rage. They vow."

He leaned forward just enough for the cameras to catch the glint in his golden eyes.

"They will return," he said. "They will retaliate. They will roar in anguish and dress that roar as justice. They will promise a universe of pure, cruel silence—no dissent, no hope, no survivors who dare remember kindness. They will look at Westonglappa—young, vibrant, innocent—and see not a neighbor to protect, but a victim to terrorize."

On the holomap, Westonglappa's outline glowed softly, surrounded by tentative trade routes and cultural links—still more lines of curiosity than of war.

"We have seen this pattern already," Galaxbeam continued, voice grim. "The Darkened Regime slashed into Eastoppola. They violated Echumeta. They toppled its government and occupied its cities. They assassinated Emperor Puubuut Bazamaar, tore down people who trusted in dialogue and treaties, and left surrogates and civilians in streets that should have been safe."

A heavy, painful silence followed that name. In Echumeta's ruins, some watched with hollow eyes and tight fists.

"The four terror regimes will not rest," Galaxbeam said. "They will, if left unchecked, try to conquer not only Titanumas, but every world still drawing breath."

He let that hang, then straightened, the hard line of his mouth softening as he gestured to the banners behind him—orange, blue, green, gold.

"And yet," he said, "look where we stand."

His hand swept outward, taking in the hall, the walls, the feeds.

"Decades ago—even centuries, if you step far enough back—this was a theory," he said. "A speculative exercise in a dusty academy: What if the four pillars of light stood not merely as neighbors, but as one? What if the Solar, Lunar, Star, and Galaxy Regimes bound themselves together openly as a unified shield?"

He glanced sideways at Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam, then back at the crowd.

"Today," he said quietly, "it is no longer a hypothetical. Before you stand General Sunbeam of the Solar Regime. Lady Moonbeam of the Lunar Regime. Starbeam of the Star Regime. And myself, Professor Galaxbeam of the Galaxy Regime."

The camera feeds split into four panes, each Absolute framed in their color.

"We are not perfect beings," Galaxbeam said. "We have our flaws, our blind spots, our disagreements. Sunbeam and Starbeam are 'like' brothers without actually sharing blood, and I am quite sure the author deliberately made Starbeam more concise just to torment the orange one. Moonbeam and I both have been known to overwork ourselves until even time complains."

Soft laughter rolled through the hall; even the three Absolutes beside him smiled.

"But we are united," Galaxbeam continued, "in this: we refuse to let terrorism define the syllabus of this universe."

He placed both hands flat on the podium.

"Today," he said, "we formally renew and revamp the Allied Evolution Salvation—AES. Not as a vague ideal, but as a living coalition. The four pillars of light—Solar, Lunar, Star, Galaxy—standing together to defend humanity, uplift communities, maintain order, and confront the darkest sources of hate and violence."

The feed cut to different cities as cheers erupted: plazas in Solvanairebolis, riversides in Lunartopia, plazas in Starflare Nexus, academies in Galaxengongshi. Banners waved. People wept. Some simply stood very still, holding onto the moment.

"In the year 5007," Galaxbeam said softly, "our predecessors chose to build rather than burn. In the year we now share, we choose to do so again. Only this time, we stand not within our separate halls, but together—on land built for all four, facing threats that target all four."

He stepped back from the podium, letting his last words settle.

"In the name of the Galaxy Regime," he said, "I commit our knowledge, our research, our teaching, and our temporal arts to this alliance. We will read the patterns, forecast the dangers, and spread intelligence and education across Titanumas. We will remind this world what right and wrong look like when stripped of propaganda. We will not let the BRD regimes claim the language of destiny uncontested."

The hall answered with applause that shook the air. On distant continents, crowds mirrored it—some with clapping, some with raised hands, some with silent nods.

Galaxbeam inclined his head, then stepped back.

"General," he said softly. "Your turn."

Sunbeam took the podium, orange coat catching the light, revived elites and citizens of Sollarisca watching from half a world away.

He spoke—long, fiercely, sometimes with a grin, sometimes with raw cracks in his voice—about neighborhoods rebuilt, about resurrected comrades, about the promise that Solar warmth would be extended outward as protection and hospitality. He pledged Solar Regime security forces and community-building programs to AES operations: patrols, reconstruction teams, counselors, healers, volunteers ready to uplift any city hit by terror, not just their own.

After him, Lady Moonbeam stepped forward.

Her speech was quieter but no less powerful: a measured, poetic commitment to shielding the vulnerable, countering propaganda, and offering Lunna's vast experience with psychological warfare and information defense. She vowed that Lunar intelligence networks and healing infrastructures would brace not only Lunna, but any ally targeted by smear campaigns or stealth attacks.

Starbeam's turn followed, green eyes clear, tone sharp and precise.

He laid out Starrup's role with methodical clarity: environmental stabilization, emergency infrastructure, energy grids, and technological safeguards. If AES would need forward bases, he said, Starrup engineers would build them cleanly and sustainably. If worlds were poisoned or burned, Starrup would be first on the ground to cleanse and re-seed.

Each pledge wove into the next: security and community from Solar; protection, clarity, and mental resilience from Lunar; infrastructure, environment, and technology from Star; foresight, education, and temporal strategy from Galaxy.

By the time Starbeam finished and stepped back into line, the hall felt charged—not like a festival, but like a moment when an exhausted world had finally heard adults say, with one voice, We have a plan, and we will stand here with you when the sirens sound again.

The four Absolutes stood shoulder to shoulder as the new AES emblem brightened above them.

In Sollarisca, some shouted their names in one breath: "Sunbeam–Moonbeam–Starbeam–Galaxbeam!"
In Lunna, people lit blue candles and set them on windowsills in quiet affirmation.
In Starrup, engineers forwarded schematics to their leaders before the speeches fully ended.
In Galaxenchi, students began drafting new theses with titles that included "convocation," "coalition," and "four pillars."

Across the void—in hidden citadels of Darkened, Blackened, Shadow, and Death—the opposite reaction rippled: snarls, thrown goblets, furious oaths. Four villains felt four different kinds of rage watching four lights stand together on one stage.

The war was far from over.

But for the first time, the syllabus was clear.

Galaxbeam remained at the back of the stage while Starbeam finished his pledge, watching the waves of reaction move through the hall and across distant feeds. When the applause finally ebbed to something like quiet, he stepped forward again, one hand raised.

"Before we close," he said, "I would like to speak once more—not as strategist, but as witness."

The cameras refocused; the four flags behind him steadied in the lights.

"First," Galaxbeam continued, "to all who are watching from Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, Galaxenchi, Westonglappa, Eastoppola, Istantopola—everywhere our signals can reach... thank you. Thank you for surviving, for logging in, for standing in plazas and living rooms and barracks to listen. Thank you to those who fought, to those who rebuilt, to those who simply held on one more day so we might have this moment."

He bowed his head slightly, not to the press, but to the unseen millions beyond the lenses.

"And to those who are not watching," he said softly, "because they fell along the way... we remember you. The AES remembers you. This alliance is written in your names."

The hall quieted, even the drones humming softer.

"There is," Galaxbeam went on, "no limit to how far evil will go when it is allowed to believe it is clever. The Darkened, Blackened, Shadow, and Death Regimes have demonstrated that repeatedly. But there is also no limit to how far good can reach when it is stubborn, organized, and willing to learn. The universe is full of both. The balance is not automatic. It is chosen."

His eyes hardened.

"As long as we keep choosing, together," he said, "good will not merely 'exist.' It will prevail."

A murmur of agreement rolled through the crowd.

He turned then, facing the central holomap as it zoomed in on Eastoppola, its scarred coasts and fractured borders.

"To the people of Echumeta," he said, voice weighted with respect. "To the survivors of Paladimee, Ethenappa, the border towns that were turned into laboratories by the Darkened Regime... we have not forgotten you."

Images of shattered streets, flooded temples, and impromptu evacuation columns flickered briefly across the side-screens—carefully chosen clips, dignified rather than exploitative.

"History will remember the year 5007 and the years around it as a bitter rise," Galaxbeam said. "A time when climate and war conspired to break us. When Echumeta's emperor, Puubuut Bazamaar, was murdered in an act of theatrical cruelty. When Eastoppola burned in places that should have been gardens."

He paused, letting those memories breathe.

"But history will also record," he added, "that we did not stand by. That Solar, Lunar, Star, and Galaxy forces moved—not as conquerors, but as international police, as mediators, as diplomats. We negotiated evacuations, dismantled torture-labs, rebuilt ports, and stitched fragile agreements between states that had once barely acknowledged each other."

He looked back to the crowd, to the feeds.

"Every embassy opened. Every ceasefire brokered. Every joint patrol on foreign soil was a rehearsal for this moment. For this alliance. For this vow: that when terror strikes one, it does not face it alone."

He exhaled once, then allowed a small, wry smile.

"And now," he said, glancing toward the orange and blue beside him, "since the universe enjoys symbolism, perhaps it is appropriate that the Solar and Lunar lights speak together."

He stepped back from the podium, gesturing with an open hand.

"General Sunbeam. Lady Moonbeam. If you would."

Sunbeam took the podium first, Moonbeam standing just half a step behind his shoulder, close enough that the cameras could catch both their faces in one frame.

He laid both hands lightly on the lectern and looked out at the crowd—not just with a leader's gaze, but with the open, unguarded warmth that made people feel seen.

"Unity," Sunbeam began, voice rich and steady, "is not just a treaty on paper. It is waking up and deciding, every day, that your neighbor's safety matters as much as your own. It is saying: if you fall, I will help you stand; if you grieve, I will sit with you until you remember how to laugh again."

His words swelled in the hall; in distant squares, people leaned into each other.

"It is love," he continued. "Not the soft, easy kind that only exists in songs. The hard kind, the stubborn kind that keeps you in the rubble with your people until the last survivor is found. The kind that makes a Solar elite throw their body in front of a Darkened blast because the child behind them has never seen the stars yet."

He hesitated, then smiled, turning his head slightly.

"And love," he said, "is also—"

"—connection," Moonbeam finished smoothly, stepping into the verbal space as if they had rehearsed it a thousand times.

The switch was seamless. The cameras caught it; the crowd reacted with a small, delighted ripple.

"It is connection," Lady Moonbeam repeated, her voice cool and luminous, "between continents and cities, between nights of fear and mornings of relief. Between people who once thought they were strangers and now bleed and rebuild side by side."

She glanced at Sunbeam, eyes soft.

"Unity," she went on, picking up his thread, "is Sunbeam's hand reaching out to mine when Sollarisca is shaking... and my hand reaching out to his when Lunna is under siege. It is you, wherever you are, reaching out to another soul and saying: I see you. We are still here."

Sunbeam inhaled, then spoke again without missing the cadence.

"Every person watching this," he said, "is part of that chain. You—the workers, the students, the parents, the tired night-shift healers, the engineers fixing grids, the farmers coaxing food out of battered soil—you are why we fight. You are why we keep coming back from the brink."

Moonbeam flowed after him again, her words a cool counterpoint to his warmth.

"So join hands," she said. "With your family, your friends, your colleagues. With the stranger who stood next to you in the shelter when the sirens howled. Cheer—not because everything is perfect, but because you are alive today. Because you have freedom still in your lungs. Because you walk in nations—Solar, Lunar, Star, Galaxy—that were built not to control you, but to protect you."

She turned, facing Galaxbeam and Starbeam briefly.

"Thank you," she said, inclining her head. "To Galaxbeam, who bends time rather than letting it bend us. To Starbeam, who rebuilds faster than the enemy can break. And to you—" she looked back at Sunbeam, a faint smile curving her lips "—my reckless, radiant lover, who insists on loving this universe even when it has not earned it."

A pleased murmur ran through the crowd; the feeds lingered on their expressions.

Moonbeam reached for Sunbeam's hand and raised it high above the podium, fingers interlaced. Their auras—orange and blue—flared together, forming a band of soft, living light.

"Let it be clear," she said, voice firm. "Love is not weakness. It is the most dangerous weapon we possess. Hate consumes itself. Love multiplies. Hate can destroy a city; love can convince an entire planet to stand up again."

Sunbeam squeezed her hand, lifting both of theirs a little higher.

"We built these vibrant nations," he said, "we four, with countless hands beneath us. We are going to keep them bright. With you."

The hall erupted, applause and cheers crashing like a wave. In distant cities, people mirrored the gesture—hands joined, raised, lit by screens and lanterns.

Sunbeam and Moonbeam stepped back together, still hand in hand, taking their place beside Starbeam and Galaxbeam.

Galaxbeam leaned back toward his microphone, expression half amused, half contemplative.

"There was a time," he said dryly, "when some of my more dramatic students argued that Titanumas needed 'founding fathers'—larger-than-life figures to plant flags and be carved into mountains."

The hall chuckled; a graphic of four overdramatic stone statues briefly flashed on an entertainment overlay feed.

"I suspect," Galaxbeam continued, "that history will be kinder if we settle for something less rigid. We are not carved into rock. We are still learning. Still getting things wrong and correcting them."

He paused, then allowed himself a small, sideways grin.

"But if you insist," he admitted, "then yes. You will probably see us described, in your feeds and textbooks and extremely enthusiastic fan forums, as something like the 'Four Founding Fathers' or perhaps the 'Fantastic Four' of this era's resistance. Personally, I recommend you remember the work, not the branding."

Sunbeam made a theatrical show of flexing his free arm as if posing for a poster. Starbeam rolled his eyes. Moonbeam tried, and failed, not to smile. The hall laughed with them.

Galaxbeam's tone sobered again.

"Heroes are not statues," he said. "They are people who show up when it would be easier to stay home. Remember that. Remember that you—any of you—can join them."

He stepped aside.

"Starbeam," he said. "The floor is yours."

X–Vice Colonel Starbeam moved to the podium with his characteristic precision, green eyes bright, posture impeccable.

"Right," he said, voice crisp, carrying a trace of wry humor. "Time to talk about the unglamorous part of heroism: infrastructure."

Soft laughter rippled through the hall.

"Every promise you just heard," Starbeam continued, "is only as strong as the bridges, grids, and supply lines that support it. You cannot hold a defensive line if your railways collapse. You cannot host refugees if your water systems fail. You cannot broadcast speeches like this if your networks are held together with duct tape and optimism."

Behind him, the holomap zoomed into the new central landmass, overlaying it with faint green structural lines.

"In my capacity as X–Vice Colonel of the Star Regime," he said, "I commit Starrup's engineers, designers, and eco-technicians to building back better—not just in our own continent, but wherever AES plants a flag of protection."

Lines brightened: projected expansions of the Convergence Citadel, new corridors, teleport anchors, shield grids.

"We will expand this central expanse," Starbeam said. "Not as a palace, but as a functional, sustainable nerve center. Green corridors, energy-efficient shield walls, modular bunkers that can be reconfigured as schools or clinics when the front shifts. Transit hubs that link Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, and Galaxenchi in ways that let aid move faster than terror."

He shifted the map again, now zooming out beyond Titanumas.

"And we will look outward," he added. "To Westonglappa, Eastoppola, Istantopola, and the smaller worlds and stations that have watched this war from a fearful distance. We will offer partnerships, not occupations. Technology transfers that respect local cultures. Environmental support that heals, rather than exploits."

He met the cameras directly.

"To the weak and the vulnerable," Starbeam said, "I cannot promise you that you will never see war. I can promise that we will work so that when it comes, you are not alone—and your cities are not made of glass when the first shockwaves hit."

He gave a short, confident nod.

"In Starrup's name," he concluded, "I pledge to be there. With circuits, shields, and soil."

Applause rose again—steady, appreciative, grounded.

Starbeam stepped back into line with the others.

The formal portion of the convocation wound down in a flurry of closing remarks and official sign-offs. But the work did not end when the main feed cut to highlight reels.

For the next hour, the four Absolutes waded into a sea of reporters and holo-drones.

Solar journalists asked Sunbeam about security coordination and revived elites; he answered with warmth and hard facts, occasionally dragging Galaxbeam closer to clarify some time-bending detail. Lunar press questioned Moonbeam on information warfare and Blackened propaganda; she spoke calmly about truth, data, and the emotional armor citizens would need. Starregime analysts queried Starbeam about energy-sharing agreements; he pulled up schematics on a wrist-screen, outlining green corridors and shield synergies. Galaxy Regime outlets pressed Galaxbeam on AES governance structures; he responded with talk of councils, checks, and the importance of never letting Absolutes go unchallenged.

Cameras flashed. Banners waved. Clips and soundbites began circulating within minutes:

"We will not let Westonglappa be another Echumeta." – Galaxbeam
"Love is the most dangerous weapon we own." – Moonbeam
"Security doesn't end at our shoreline." – Sunbeam
"We will build the bridges before the storm reaches you." – Starbeam

Healthy propaganda, some called it later—messages crafted not to deceive, but to give a frightened universe something real to hold onto.

Between interviews, Starbeam and his technical staff slipped away to a side chamber where holo-tables were already alive with "blueprints" and "greenprints." He expanded models of the central landmass, adding layers—new defense rings, additional landing pads, subterranean logistics tunnels, vertical farms to sustain stationed forces without draining allies' supplies.

Moonbeam stepped in once, studying a projected garden that doubled as a shield node. "If you add reflective pools here," she suggested, "it will calm the civilians and give your sensors better sky reflections."

Starbeam integrated the suggestion without missing a beat.

Sunbeam wandered through another lab wing, chatting with Solar, Lunar, Star, and Galaxy engineers working side by side, leaving behind an extra charge of morale wherever he stopped. Galaxbeam quietly checked in with Galaxwis and other planners through the Absolute band, updating risk models even as cameras continued to request his presence.

Eventually, though, even the press had to settle for reruns and analysis panels.

The main hall emptied of outsiders. Technicians dimmed the lights. Security details took up discreet positions further back.

A small inner door at the rear of the stage opened.

"Honored leaders," a Galaxy adjutant said, bowing. "The private conference room is ready."

Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam, and Galaxbeam exchanged glances.

"Back to work," Sunbeam murmured.

"Did it ever stop?" Starbeam replied.

Moonbeam inhaled once, letting the quiet of the near-empty hall settle around her. "At least we have a door this time," she said. "Last time it was a crater."

Galaxbeam smiled faintly.

"Progress," he said. "One meeting room at a time."

They walked together toward the rear, past the now-silent podiums and the softly glowing flags of their four regimes. The door to the inner chamber slid open, revealing a circular room with a single table and no cameras—just four chairs, one in each color, waiting.

As they stepped through, the door closed behind them with a soft, final hiss, shutting out the world's noise.

Galaxbeam did not dismiss the projection right away.

Instead, with a small, amused flick of his fingers, he rewound the holographic map of Titanumas until it became a simple rotating sphere of light. Lines, numbers, and symbols appeared around it like an orbiting chalkboard.

"Now then," he said, tone shifting into the particular cadence that meant a lecture was coming, "before we adjourn, I would like to revisit something I tried to explain to you three back in what the author insists on calling 'Chapter Twenty.'"

Sunbeam groaned softly. "Here we go. The PSS talk."

Moonbeam folded her arms, lips quirking. "Power Scaling Spectrum. You mean when you called us all overpowered and then told us it still was not enough."

Starbeam only adjusted his glasses and watched, faintly amused.

Galaxbeam nodded. "Exactly. The PSS. Your universe's bad habit of converting awe into numbers."

Golden lines snapped into place in the air, forming a vertical scale. At the bottom, Galaxbeam wrote with a fingertip: T0L0. The light etched itself like ink.

"As a reminder," he said, glancing at them over his shoulder, "this is how the Spectrum sees you, if you know how to squint. Those with aura sight, spiritual awareness, call it what you like... can read these bands the same way you feel spiritual pressure in certain other franchises I am not legally naming."

Sunbeam muttered, "Bleach," under his breath. Galaxbeam ignored him, though his mouth twitched.

"At the very base is T0L0," Galaxbeam continued. "Negative values down to minus nine hundred ninety-nine. Ordinary mortals. No gifts beyond what biology and circumstance grant them. The Spectrum rather rudely labels them 'lesser humans.'"

Moonbeam's eyes softened. "Our civilians."

"Our responsibility," Starbeam added quietly.

Galaxbeam inclined his head in agreement. The scale brightened, a new band appearing.

"From 1,000 to 3,999 we have the enhanced—your supersoldiers. Galax Soldiers, Sun Soldiers, Moon Soldiers, Star Soldiers, Rangers, Guards, Marines, police, special forces. Their bones are stronger, their muscles denser, their reaction time compressed. They can sprint for hours, carry impossible weight, endure pain that would shatter a normal mind. Think of them as walking perk lists from your favorite war games—stamina boosts, awareness enhancements, damage resistance. But no real magic. No true domain over the laws of reality."

The next band flared into being, a rich, higher frequency.

"From 4,000 to 6,999," he said, "we enter the realm of your Elites. This is where the story starts to bend. Inherited bloodlines express, blessings crystallize, contracts with stars, moons, forests, and galaxies awaken. Fire, lightning, illusions, time fragments, spatial cuts... all the things readers came here to see."

Sunbeam laughed softly. "So that's the 'cool panels' tier."

"Indeed," Galaxbeam said dryly. "And above them—"

The band sharpened, numbers climbing.

"7,000 to 9,999. Your Supreme Commanders. Fewer in number, denser in power. They bend battlefields, not skirmishes. Their decisions move nations. A Supreme Commander's full deployment is, in itself, a message to the rest of the universe."

Galaxbeam's hand rose to the top of the scale. The last band appeared, a radiant corona that made the previous layers look dim by comparison.

"And then," he said quietly, "there is 10,000 and beyond. The Absolute band."

The room shifted. The air seemed to recognize the four of them.

"This is you," Galaxbeam continued. "Absolute Leaders. Individuals whose very existence redefines what the Spectrum thought was possible. You are not simply strong. You have crossed the threshold where probability starts rewriting itself around you. Some call it plot-armor. I prefer to call it responsibility with teeth."

He looked at each of them in turn.

"Sunbeam—T1L1, GodPower roughly seven thousand five hundred and ninety in its stable state, with a trajectory that touches the ten-thousand ceiling whenever you stop playing around. Moonbeam—T2L2, eight thousand three hundred forty-five, dense lunar harmonics, defensive matrices, tidal control, spiking much higher when your people are threatened. Starbeam—T3L3, nine thousand seven hundred, intelligence and precision dragging your raw output into near-Absolute efficiency. And myself—T4L4, ten thousand seven hundred fifty, though that number says less about me than my bad habit of grading history while it is still happening."

Sunbeam whistled. "So we really are walking natural disasters."

"You are walking options," Galaxbeam corrected. "The disasters are what happen when such numbers belong to someone who despises the living."

The scale flickered and split, mirroring itself. On the opposite side, a darker set of bands appeared—same structure, different names.

"T1L5 Darkwing, seven thousand five hundred eighty. T2L6 Blackwing, eight thousand fifteen. T3L7 Shadowwing, nine thousand five hundred sixty-seven. T4L8 Deathwing, ten thousand six hundred sixty-six. Four lights, four shadows. Eight points on the board the author refuses to admit are deliberately symmetrical."

He snapped his fingers; the dark bands and light bands slid together into a single, uneasy diagram.

"We eight," Galaxbeam said, "are the ones with enough force to erase continents with a mood swing. That technically makes us all... what was the word the students used...? Ah. Immortal dictators."

Sunbeam choked. "Hey—"

Moonbeam lifted a hand. "He is not wrong. We could rule by fear if we chose."

Starbeam's expression did not change, but his eyes cooled. "And if any one of us falls into that temptation, no Elite, no Supreme Commander, no army of supersoldiers could stop us."

"Exactly." Galaxbeam smiled without warmth. "We are backed by god-tier power bands and narrative structure itself. Our only true checks are one another, and the moral choices we make when no one is watching."

He let the chart fade until only a faint echo remained.

"That," he said, "is why I am so insufferable about lectures."

Sunbeam rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, but we did not just wake up one day as 'T1L1-GP-something-something.' There was... that night."

Moonbeam's gaze turned distant, silver-blue eyes reflecting memories. "The cliff," she murmured. "Westonglappa's coast. The comet."

Galaxbeam nodded slowly. "Precisely. Let us talk about how power chose you."

He conjured a new hologram—night sky above a jagged coastline, clouds painted in deep purple and indigo. A younger Sunbeam and Moonbeam appeared on the cliff edge, civilian clothes whipped by ocean wind, their faces still round with youth.

"In the years around 5002 to 5004," Galaxbeam said, "Titanumas was already a bruised jewel. Climate collapse, old wars, new wars. Humanity clawing its way toward some fragile utopia. In Westonglappa, astronomers forecast a rare meteor shower. A comet, anomalously massive, with a core reading like a red-orange rainbow, was predicted to pass nearer than anything of its class had in recorded history."

The hologram comet appeared on the horizon—a colossal arc of burning color, its tail dragging curtains of shimmering dust.

"Most people watched from safe distances," Galaxbeam continued. "A few of us," his smile twitched, "watched from laboratories, bunkers, observatories. And two reckless, stubborn souls..." The younger Sunbeam and Moonbeam stepped closer to the cliff's edge, fingers intertwined, eyes bright with wonder and stubborn hope. "...walked right under its path."

Moonbeam in the present exhaled. "I remember thinking... if something in the universe is listening, please let us have the power to change things."

Sunbeam scratched his cheek. "I just remember thinking, 'If there is any wish-granting star out there, I want us to survive and protect everyone we love.' And maybe fly. Flying sounded cool."

The hologram comet thickened, descending so close that its corona seemed to brush the top of their heads. The two youths were bathed in wild bands of red, orange, gold, and silver. Their shadows stretched impossible lengths across the sea.

"The comet," Galaxbeam said, "was not sentient in the way you and I are. But it was... responsive. A wandering reservoir of cosmic potential, tuned to desire. It does not judge. It does not discriminate. It simply amplifies what it touches."

He paused.

"It did not hand you powers in a gift box," he went on. "It infected you with possibility. It rewrote the variables around your names. The closer you were to its core, the more heavily your wishes weighed on the equation."

Young Sunbeam and Moonbeam in the projection looked up, mouths moving in silent, fervent wishes as the comet's light poured over them.

"You did not ask for titles, ranks, or regimes," Galaxbeam said. "You asked for strength enough to protect each other and, eventually, everyone else. So the comet gave you the tools—latent potential, a bias toward survival, a warp in probability that meant no matter how hard the world tried to crush you, you would keep standing... if you worked for it."

He snapped his fingers again. The hologram shifted forward through time—training, battles, first victories, first scars. Sunbeam and Moonbeam, older now, wearing their signature orange and blue, radiating power.

"The Power Scaling Spectrum did the rest," Galaxbeam said. "It measured what you became. You climbed from enhanced to Elite, Elite to near-immortal, and eventually into the Absolute band. The comet was a catalyst, not a shortcut."

Starbeam tilted his head. "And me?"

Galaxbeam's eyes glinted. "You took a different path. Less comet, more concision of design. The author clearly wanted a green-haired counterweight with better organizational skills." He shrugged. "I merely made sure your PSS matched the narrative."

Sunbeam snorted. Moonbeam covered a smile. Even Starbeam allowed a faint chuckle.

"In any case," Galaxbeam continued, "the comet was not biased. Had it passed over a cruel heart, it would have empowered cruelty. That is why I say: we are all one lucky twist away from becoming the tyrants we fight."

He folded his arms, expression turning solemn again.

"Which brings us back to the hierarchy," he said. "Because the comet's legacy—and the systems we built around it—did not stop with you four."

The Spectrum chart reappeared, this time overlaid with silhouettes of soldiers, elites, commanders.

"We grant power downward," Galaxbeam said. "Our regimes bestow enhancements, awakenements, saint-sparks, moon-blessings, star-augments, galaxy-seals. But those gifts are structured. Locked. A Sun Soldier cannot turn his rifle on Sunbeam and expect the PSS to support him. A Galax Elite cannot decide to overthrow Galaxenchi; the circuits will simply refuse to channel destructive intent toward the Absolute who authored them."

"So we built in... parental controls," Sunbeam summarized.

"Ethical firewalls," Starbeam amended.

Moonbeam's gaze darkened thoughtfully. "Yet even with safeguards, they can still hurt each other. They can still abuse civilians."

"Which is why," Galaxbeam said, "hierarchy is not just a ladder of power. It is a ladder of accountability. Supersoldiers protect their cities. Elites protect their states. Supreme Commanders protect their continents. We protect the entire world—from external threats and from ourselves."

He flicked his wrist; the tier codes rearranged into a neat list.

"T0L0," he said, "is the baseline—ordinary humans, powerless in the Spectrum's eyes, but infinitely valuable as the reason any of this exists."

"Supersoldiers—PSS one thousand to three thousand nine hundred ninety-nine—are the shield-wall. They run, they endure, they fight. They are what happens when a civilization refuses to be prey."

"Elites—four thousand to six thousand nine hundred ninety-nine—are the specialists. The miracle-workers. Time benders, weather-callers, forest-wardens, digital specters, cosmic archers."

"Supreme Commanders—seven thousand to nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine—are strategic anomalies. Their very presence on a battlefield is a declaration that the situation has left the realm of normal war."

"And the Absolute Leaders—ten thousand and beyond—are... frankly... glitches in the cosmic grading rubric. We are near-immortal, hard to injure, almost impossible to kill except by one another. We are living weapons and living laws."

He looked at them, golden gaze steady.

"If we wished, we could each become the kind of dictator history writes cautionary epics about. Your PSS scores and titles would justify it. You have the power to seize everything."

Sunbeam grimaced. "Not exactly the career path I signed up for."

Moonbeam's voice was quiet but firm. "I did not become Absolute to rule over ashes."

Starbeam met Galaxbeam's eyes. "Power that serves only itself collapses its own context. Without people, numbers mean nothing."

Galaxbeam smiled, truly pleased. "Exactly. That is the lesson. The Spectrum does not make you good or evil. It simply... magnifies what you already are."

He turned the chart one last time, revealing eight glowing sigils—four light, four dark. Between them, like a balancing equation, the letters AES floated.

"Tiers T1 through T4," he said, "are just the author's way of labeling which set of gods we are talking about—heroes or villains, light or shadow. Levels L1 through L8 simply count how many of us sit at the top of this mess. Four protectors. Four predators. Eight fulcrums on which Titanumas tilts."

He dismissed the hologram with a clap of his hands. The room returned to its simple, lamplit reality; only the echo of the lecture lingered.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Sunbeam leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, orange eyes bright with a mixture of mischief and resolve.

"So basically," he said, "we are the author's overpowered main cast, blessed by a rainbow comet, wrapped in plot-armor, with enough firepower to delete continents... and we chose to spend all that defending people, kissing our lovers, and giving inspirational speeches instead of conquering everything."

Moonbeam smacked his arm lightly, though her smile was soft. "I am quite satisfied with that usage of power."

Starbeam nodded. "As long as we remember that every number on that scale represents someone's trust."

Galaxbeam chuckled. "Precisely. You understand the assignment." He tapped his temple. "And as long as I am here, I will keep grading your choices, not your damage output."

He grew serious again, gaze moving between them.

"Remember this when the next warfront opens," he said. "When Westonglappa burns, when Eastoppola reels, when the Death Regime throws another apocalypse at our door. The enemy's PSS may rival yours. Their hatred may sharpen their numbers. But they lack what you three found on that cliff long ago—a wish not just for power, but for each other and for everyone who would one day stand under your banners."

Moonbeam reached across the table, lacing her fingers with Sunbeam's. Starbeam placed his hand over theirs, the three lights forming a small, stubborn knot.

Galaxbeam watched them, eyes warm, voice dropping to a murmur.

"Fourteen years ago," he said, "a cursed comet passed over a broken world and gave a handful of reckless mortals the chance to become gods. Tonight, those gods sit in a borrowed conference room, arguing about ethics and infrastructure instead of carving their faces into moons. I call that a successful experiment."

Sunbeam laughed. Moonbeam shook her head, smiling. Starbeam's lips curved in the smallest of grins.

"And the experiment is not over," Galaxbeam added. "Our next dataset awaits in Westonglappa. Darkwing's ashes have barely cooled. Blackwing, Shadowwing, and Deathwing are already sharpening their next exam papers. The PSS will spike again. The universe will watch. And we—four Absolute Leaders, four pillars of light—will decide, one battle at a time, whether godlike power becomes tyranny... or guardianship."

He rose from his chair, golden coat whispering against the polished floor.

"Rest while you can," he said. "Our numbers are high. Our odds, if we stay united, even higher. But the work of near-immortal dictators choosing not to dictate never ends."

He glanced at the invisible audience, just for a heartbeat, breaking the fourth wall with a conspiratorial gleam.

"And, of course," he added, "the author still has several continents left to set on fire before this volume is done."

Sunbeam groaned. Moonbeam laughed. Starbeam sighed, already thinking about supply lines.

Outside, the cameras were still packing up, the world still buzzing about the birth of the Allied Evolution Salvation. Inside the private chamber, four impossible beings sat with the weight of ten-thousand-point power scores on their shoulders and chose, once again, to carry it for everyone else.

They did not go far for their break—only to the adjoining lounge, where an aide had laid out more tea, some light snacks, and a platter of fruit. For a few minutes there was only the quiet clink of porcelain and the low hum of air filters. Outside the armored glass, the new fortress-city at the center of the four continents glowed like a ring of candles around a single table.

Then Professor Galaxbeam set his cup down, brushed a crumb from his sleeve, and the lesson resumed.

"Now," he said, as the four returned to their seats in the private chamber, "before the author cuts away to some other continent, we should finish the part that was rudely truncated back in... what was it? Chapter twenty?"

Sunbeam leaned back, orange eyes narrowing in amused resignation. "Yeah, you did kind of leave us on a cliffhanger with that Power Scaling Spectrum thing."

Moonbeam folded her arms, blue hair cascading over her shoulders, gaze intent. Starbeam rested his elbows on the table, hands clasped, the slight tilt of his head the only sign that he was very, very focused.

Galaxbeam smiled. "The PSS," he said, "is just a way of describing what everyone on Titanumas already feels in their bones. Call it spiritual pressure, aura, ki, mana density—pick your favorite anime term. With practice, anyone with sufficient sensitivity can squint metaphorically and read another being's bandwidth. To us, it is as obvious as color."

He lifted a finger and drew glowing numerals in the air.

"T0L0," he said. "Negative to nine-hundred-something. Ordinary mortals—no powers, no enhancements. They bleed, they break, they die. They are the ones we are meant to protect, not compete with.

"From one thousand to three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine: the supersoldiers. Sun Soldiers, Moon Marines, Galax Rangers, Star Guards. Stronger, faster, tougher. They can sprint for hours, shrug off what would kill a normal human, but they still obey gravity and biology. No flying, no time-bending, no city-killing beams.

"Four thousand to six thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine: the elites. Your Sun- and Moon- and Star- and Galax-elites. Inheritance-grade powers—flight, elemental control, magical arts, body reinforcement beyond common sense.

"Seven thousand to nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine: the Supreme Commanders. Six per regime, give or take the author's mood. They take everything the elites can do and add strategic-level reality deformation.

"And ten thousand and above..." His eyes went from Sunbeam to Moonbeam to Starbeam and back to himself. "Absolute Leaders."

The room seemed to tighten around those two words.

"Us," Sunbeam said quietly.

"Us," Galaxbeam agreed. "Near-immortal, god-tier, plot-armored—yes, I said it, no need to pretend otherwise. The universe bends around us because that is how the story has been written. Which," he added drily, "makes us terrifyingly close to benevolent dictators. We could rule the world by simple virtue of being unkillable and unstoppable."

Moonbeam's mouth quirked. "Not the most comforting way to describe our job."

"Precisely why it is a job and not a perk," Galaxbeam replied. "The title 'Absolute Leader' is not decorative. It means that in a planet full of chaos, you are the one in a million soul trusted with that much power—and you are expected, by fate, by your people, and by this annoyingly meta-aware narrative, to use it responsibly."

He let that hang a moment, then shifted.

"Do you remember," he asked Sunbeam, "the exact moment you killed Lord Darkwing?"

Sunbeam frowned, orange eyes unfocusing as he leaned back in his chair. The air around him shimmered faintly with remembered heat.

"I remember the bridge," he said slowly. "The Darkened fleet over Sollarisca. That ugly black flagship with the ridiculous spikes. He was there, screaming something about purging the world. I walked toward him... and everything around us just kind of... exploded."

Moonbeam watched him, brow furrowed as the same memory nudged at her. "You flew straight through three salvos," she said. "Dark cannons, cursed missiles, his elites firing their worst. I was yelling at you—of course you didn't hear me—and then you were suddenly there, in front of him. You didn't even raise a shield."

Starbeam's emerald eyes narrowed. "I reviewed the footage later," he added. "The blasts registered. Shockwaves, heat, curse saturation. Your body simply... did not care. You may as well have been walking through warm rain."

Sunbeam blinked. "I remember the noise," he admitted. "Bright flashes. But... I didn't feel anything. I was too busy thinking about how much I wanted to smash his face in for what he did to my cities."

Galaxbeam spread his hands.

"Exactly," he said. "To the Darkened elites, that was horror. To you, it was Tuesday. The author flavored it as drama, but underneath, the rule set is simple: ground units and elites cannot touch an Absolute Leader. Their attacks register visually, even tactically, but not lethally."

He ticked points off on his fingers.

"Ground forces can hurt ground forces. Elites can annihilate ground forces and fight other elites. Supreme Commanders can crush both and duel each other. But only an Absolute can truly kill another Absolute. Darkwing fell because you, Sunbeam, reached him. Not because Sun Soldiers shot straighter, not because some lucky elite landed a knife. The hierarchy is harsh but clean."

Moonbeam's gaze softened as she watched Sunbeam wrestle with that.

"So back then," she said, "when I was screaming at him to dodge... there was never a real chance he'd die from those hits."

"Correct," Galaxbeam said. "He could have been inconvenienced. Stunned. Teleported sideways. But killed? No. Darkwing was yours alone to finish."

He leaned back, eyes growing distant for a moment.

"And before any of you complain that this feels unfair," he went on, "remember that our enemies obey the same curve. Darkwing, Blackwing, Shadowwing, Deathwing—they enjoy the same obscene protection. That is why the war feels endless. The pawns bleed, the lieutenants shuffle, but the kings and queens rarely fall."

Starbeam exhaled through his nose. "Until they do," he said quietly.

"Until they do," Galaxbeam echoed.

He snapped his fingers; the holographic numerals faded, replaced by a brief ripple of imagery—ships, waves, a coastline lined with cranes.

"Which brings me," he said, "to a small piece of history the author never quite gave its own chapter."

The room dimmed slightly as the projection resolved into a bustling harbor under a slate-gray sky.

"Westonglappa," Starbeam murmured, recognizing the angular architecture. "Turreyatch... Highbarrow Port."

"A few years ago," Galaxbeam said, "before the current escalation, one of Darkwing's more... enthusiastic elites decided that the best way to impress his master was to stage a surprise strike on Westonglappa. A test invasion—naval and aerial—under the banners of Darkhitler and the Caust family flotilla."

The image zoomed: black-iron warships sliding through fog, deck guns bristling, Darkened flags snapping in the wind. Above them, wedge-winged bombers prowled, their hulls marked with the crimson Caust emblem.

"The plan," Galaxbeam continued, "was to bombard Highbarrow into rubble, seize the refineries, and use the state of Turreyatch as a forward base for terror across the western hemisphere."

Sunbeam's jaw clenched. Moonbeam's eyes darkened dangerously. Starbeam's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair.

"Why didn't we hear about this?" Moonbeam asked.

"You did," Galaxbeam said mildly. "You just did not realize how close it came to being catastrophic." He smiled faintly. "Because we made sure it looked boring."

The projection shifted.

One instant, the Darkened fleet was cutting toward Highbarrow. The next, streaks of golden light lanced down from the clouds.

Galaxadale's armored carriers materialized above the flotilla, hulls humming with folded gravity. Galaxastorm rode a spiral of condensed thunder, eyes half-lidded, rain coiling obediently around his hands. Galaxastream and Galaxastride flanked them, one rewriting the tides, the other stitching teleport corridors in unseen arcs.

"Four Supreme Commanders," Galaxbeam said. "Four Absolute mandates: no casualties, no headlines."

On the water below, time warped.

Shells that should have roared toward Highbarrow simply vanished mid-flight, their timelines snipped and spliced back into their own barrels as harmless smoke. Waves that should have carried the warships forward instead rose in slow, glassy walls, turning the fleet gently aside. Bombers dipping toward attack altitude found themselves climbing instead, instruments insisting they were still on approach even as Galaxastorm whispered sleep into their engines.

One by one, the Darkened ships turned in perfect, bewildered circles.

"Galaxadale bent their trajectories," Galaxbeam narrated. "Galaxastream reversed the currents beneath them. Galaxastride rewrote their navigational anchors. And Galaxastorm..."

The image zoomed to the storm-clad commander, lips barely moving.

"...sang them a lullaby."

On every deck, Darkened crews collapsed where they stood, bodies crumpling into deep, dream-heavy sleep. In the cockpits above, pilots slumped against harnesses as autopilots gently banked their craft.

"Once they were unconscious," Galaxbeam said, "we simply... rewound them."

The fleet slid backward across the sea as if someone held the universe's scrub bar and dragged it in reverse. Clouds re-formed; wakes unspooled; the shore of Westonglappa receded. Within minutes, the entire invasion force was back where it had started—moored in its own harbor, guns cold, crews snoring.

"We left them a hangover," Galaxbeam added. "Because even cosmic mercy has to entertain itself."

Starbeam shook his head, somewhere between impressed and exasperated. "You made an attempted invasion look like a bad night out."

"Better their pride suffer than Turreyatch," Galaxbeam replied.

The projection faded, returning the room to its warm, lamp-lit intimacy.

"I documented all of it," he said. "Along with the full PSS analysis, the Absolute hierarchy, and the projections for Westonglappa's future risk."

From an inner pocket, he produced three slim, crystalline sticks—each the size of a finger, each etched with a different emblem: orange sun, blue crescent, green star.

He slid them across the table.

"Encrypted data nodes," he said. "Plug them into your highest-security archives. They contain everything we discussed, and a little more that the narrator would complain about if I tried to monologue aloud."

Sunbeam picked his up, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it might burn. "So this is... what? The textbook for being an Absolute Leader?"

"Call it a syllabus," Galaxbeam said. "PSS theory, battle logs, Westonglappa prevention, recommendations for outreach. Consider it homework." His gaze softened. "And a warning."

Moonbeam turned her crescent-node over, watching inner light flicker. "We will make sure Lunna understands," she said.

Starbeam slipped his into an inner pocket, already planning how many servers he would mirror it to. "Starrup will treat this as top-tier classified," he promised. "And as a blueprint."

The meeting wound down after that—logistics, schedules, a few more fourth-wall jokes about the author's obsession with long dialogue scenes. Eventually, the four parted, each warping or flying back toward their respective nations, bearing both hope and heavy knowledge.

Far away, in the glowing heart of Sollarisca, the first of the data nodes slid into place.

Deep beneath Sunbeam's capital, in a secure complex branded SUNTRE MI7, Sunwise sat before a curved wall of holo-screens. The encrypted Solar version of Galaxbeam's lecture poured across them in golden script.

"PSS matrices, Absolute-tier invulnerability, Westonglappa incident," he murmured, eyes racing back and forth. "This... is bigger than any spy file I have ever touched."

He tapped a control.

"Sunwis, Sunbond, SunM, SunQ—conference room, now," he said into the comms. "Double-Oh classification. Bring your brains."

Minutes later, the four agents joined him around a sleek black table, each in tailored orange suits that nodded more to spy dramas than standard military uniforms. Sunwis flicked his wrist and brought up a smaller version of Galaxbeam's diagrams.

"So," Sunbond said slowly, watching the PSS tiers stack in the air, "we work for literal gods."

"We already knew that," SunQ replied dryly. "We just did not have the math."

SunM leaned back, lacing her fingers behind her head. "Question is," she said, "how do we build counter-intel protocols in a world where only eight people can kill each other and everyone else is stuck playing laser tag?"

Sunwise smiled thinly. "We become very, very good at making sure those eight people are always on our side," he said. "And we take Westonglappa very seriously."

The room settled into planning mode—routes, cover identities, possible cultural inroads—while the golden script continued to crawl down the walls, outlining a universe where power and responsibility were not metaphors, but measurable forces.

Across the sea, in Lunna, word of the convocation had already reached the malls.

On an upper floor balcony in a sprawling shopping complex in Lunartopia, a cluster of Lunar elites leaned against the railing, drinks in hand, watching a holo-screen replay the joint speech.

Moonwis nudged Moonwisdom with his elbow. "Look at that," he said, nodding at the image of the four Absolutes standing together. "Our Lady, center stage with the Fantastic Four."

Moonwisdom adjusted her glasses, eyes reflecting the scrolling subtitles about PSS tiers. "Fantastic Four is probably copyrighted," she said. "But yes. It is... reassuring."

A younger elite, Moonflare, practically vibrated beside them. "Did you hear the part about sensing power levels?" she asked. "We're actually rated in numbers! I want to know mine."

Moonwis chuckled. "Study first," he said. "Then you can worry about your grade on the cosmic exam."

Around them, shoppers flowed, bags swinging, laughter rising and falling. Even as the Blackened Regime's scars still marked parts of Lunna, life had returned enough that people could stand in a mall and argue about theoretical power scales.

Farther north, in a tech district of Starrup, a similar conversation played out in a café filled with green-lit holo-screens.

Starwis scrolled through a decrypted summary on his tablet, brow furrowed. "Ten thousand plus," he murmured. "No wonder nothing the Blackened elites threw at Starbeam even scratched him."

Starengine sipped her drink, gaze distant. "What intrigues me," she said, "is the way Galaxbeam framed it. Not as superiority, but as obligation. As if being above the curve means you exist purely to shield everyone below."

Starflux nodded slowly. "That is... a good way to think about it," he said. "Also a terrifying one."

Outside, Starrup's eco-towers gleamed, their green glass faces reflecting a sky that did not yet know how dark it might become.

Back in the central fortress, the lecture room had emptied. Only the faint echo of Galaxbeam's words lingered, stitched into the walls, into the devices that had recorded everything.

On Titanumas, data nodes lit up—Solar, Lunar, Star—each one quietly accepting the golden professor's syllabus.

In Westonglappa, the waves lapped gently at Highbarrow's docks, as if unaware of how close they had once come to hosting a war.

For now, the world spun on its axis, balanced precariously between invincible protectors and equally invincible threats—between mortals whose lives mattered and Absolutes who had just been reminded, very clearly, why they existed at all.

And somewhere in the unseen margins of the story, the author sharpened their pencil again, preparing the next page.

Back at SUNTRE HQ, the orange glow of the holoscreens dimmed as the last of Galaxbeam's lecture finished uploading into the system.

Sunwis exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "PSS, Absolute hierarchy, god-tier plot armor... this is going to give the analysts a headache."

SunM folded her arms, eyes fixed on the frozen image of Galaxbeam on the central screen. "Then we adapt. If the universe says our Absolute Leader is untouchable, our job is to make sure nothing below that level ever even reaches him."

SunQ—tie loosened, jacket draped over his chair like a detective between cases—offered a thin smirk. "And we make sure the rest of Sollarisca sleeps at night without needing a degree in cosmic math."

Sunwise tapped a glowing progress bar. "Upload complete. Copy's already flagged as 'Priority A' for S.O.L.A.R. HQ." He glanced back at the others. "The six Supreme Commanders are going to see this as soon as they log in."

A low chime rolled through the room. The SUNTRE emblem spun once, then shifted into the crest of the Solar High Command.

Sunwis straightened. "Speak of the sun..."

The hologram of an older, composed man in formal commander's attire appeared—short-cropped orange hair, crisp orange-white uniform, eyes that had memorized every battlefield chart ever rendered.

"MI7," he said. "This is Commander Solardye. We've received the professor's data package. The High Command requests your presence upstairs. Bring your notes."

SunM's posture snapped to professional attention. "On our way, sir."

SunQ grabbed his coat with a sigh. "Thirty-minute break between world-ending briefings. Luxurious."

"Welcome to season two," Sunwise muttered, shutting down the consoles as they moved.

S.O.L.A.R. HQ – Chamber of the Six

Above the intelligence floors, deeper into the armored heart of Solvanairebolis, a circular chamber waited—a tactical amphitheater with a sun-emblem floor and tiered stations.

All six Supreme Commanders were present.

At the head stood Solardye, the senior strategist—tidy hair, rectangular glasses, hands clasped behind his back like a general ready to grade an exam.

To his right leaned Solardale, broad-shouldered and scarred, the ground-war veteran whose presence felt like a fortified wall: unshakable, steady, quietly intense.

Next to him, Solarstream sat half-turned toward the massive holo-globe, fingers drumming on the table with pilot's impatience, coat stitched with miniature ribbons of naval and air campaigns.

Opposite them, Solarstride lounged with deceptively relaxed elegance, one leg crossed over the other, long orange coat draped like a cape. Her specialty was rapid-response and mobile warfare; every line of her body looked ready to move.

Beside her, Solarstorm paced like a caged thunderhead, sleeveless uniform showing corded arms and faint burn scars up his wrists—a walking explosion barely contained by discipline.

Last, in the smallest chair but radiating the most chaotic energy, sat Solarpuff—short, fluffy orange hair tied in twin puffs, a big bomber jacket zipped to her chin, boots kicked up on the console. Her expression hovered somewhere between mischief and razor-sharp calculation.

The doors hissed open. Sunwis, Sunwise, SunM, and SunQ entered and saluted.

"Reporting as requested," Sunwis said.

"Stand easy," Solardye replied. "We've all watched Galaxbeam's convocation speech and his... unique PSS lecture. Now we want it in plain Solar."

Solarstorm snorted. "And less of the 'you are fictional characters inside an angry author's notebook' commentary."

Solarpuff wiggled her fingers. "Speak for yourself, I like knowing I'm invincible because of plot-armor merch sales."

SunM cleared her throat, bringing up a simplified diagram—four concentric rings around a central sun.

"Very well," she said. "Here's the breakdown the professor gave our leaders, adapted for command use."

She pointed to the outermost ring. "Baseline humans, civilians, and regular foreign armies—T0L0, PSS negative up to zero. No superhuman traits."

Next ring. "Enhanced troops—our Sun Soldiers, Sun Marines, specialty police and militias imbued with minor Solar boons. PSS roughly 1000–3999. Strong, fast, tireless, but still bound by conventional physics."

She tapped the third ring. "Elites. The Sun-prefixed veterans we all fight beside. PSS 4000–6999. Flight, beam attacks, battlefield-warping abilities. They can delete armored divisions in minutes."

Solarstride nodded. "We've seen that number in motion. Half the Darkened spearheads died to our elites before they even saw us."

"Next ring," SunM continued, "is you—the Supreme Commanders. PSS starting in the high 7000s and climbing toward 9000s. Near-immortal, regenerative, capable of altering entire battle theaters alone."

Solarstorm's pacing slowed; he folded his arms. "And our bosses."

At the center of the sun, a glowing core manifested: four stylized silhouettes—Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam, Galaxbeam.

"The Absolute Leaders," SunM said quietly. "PSS effectively ten-thousand-plus in raw rating, with multipliers. Galaxbeam insisted the numbers themselves are symbolic. The important law: only an Absolute Leader can truly kill another Absolute Leader. Everything below can hurt, but not erase them."

Solarstream whistled low. "So when an elite unloads on General Sunbeam and he doesn't blink... that's not bravado. They literally can't reach him on the scale."

"Exactly," Sunwise added. "Galaxbeam even joked that the feeling you get when bullets pass through your aura like warm rain? That's the author scribbling 'plot armor' in the margins."

Solarpuff raised a hand. "Question. If they're walking cheat codes... what are we?"

Solardale answered before the analysts could. "We are the firewall between godlike ideals and the ugly details. We bleed so the Absolute Leaders don't have to—for as long as we can."

Solardye gave a small approving nod. "Well said. But the professor's warning goes deeper."

Sunwis flicked the display; footage from the Paladimee City battle bloomed above them—Darkened elites swarming Sunbeam, blades, spells, bullets. They struck him; he did not flinch. Explosions bloomed at his feet as he walked through them, expression faintly annoyed, coat ruffled but unmarred.

Solarstream frowned, leaning closer. "I was on a different front that day. I didn't realize it was this extreme."

Solarstride whistled. "Look at his eyes. He's not even registering half the hits."

Solardale scratched his chin. "He mentioned once he barely remembered some of that fight. Said it felt like walking through heavy rain with headphones on."

Solardye adjusted his glasses. "Because to him, that threat tier is heavy rain."

The image changed—Darkwing's final confrontation with Sunbeam. The Darkened Absolute Leader unleashed a tidal wave of maroon energy; Sunbeam's aura roared brighter, PSS signatures clashing like colliding suns.

"And yet," SunM said softly, "only there... does he react like something can actually kill him."

Solarstorm's fist tightened. "And he still went alone."

"Which brings us back," Solardye said, turning toward the MI7 team, "to Galaxbeam's lecture about responsibility. Absolute Leaders can destroy worlds. They are, in his words, 'immortal dictators who choose mercy.' Our job is to ensure they never have to rule alone—or lose themselves while doing it."

SunQ shoved his hands into his pockets. "And to keep smaller fires from reaching cosmic scale. That includes Westonglappa."

At that word, the chamber's lights dimmed. A new holo arose: the map of Titanumas, now highlighting the western continent in soft green—Westonglappa—with a few flickering red marks along its coasts.

Solarstream's expression sharpened. "Those are Darkened residual signatures."

"From the attempted incursion Galaxbeam reversed," Sunwise confirmed. "He and a small Galaxy contingent warped the invaders away before they could land at Turreyatch, Highbarrow. He recorded everything."

Solarpuff tilted her head. "So we get to watch the professor do a speed-run of 'Save the Continent'?"

Flashback – Westonglappa: Highbarrow Port

The holo shifted into recorded memory—grainy at the edges, crystal clear at the center.

Night over Highbarrow, a cliff-ringed port city in Turreyatch. Darkened warships, maroon and jagged, phased into existence offshore; aerial units descended in tight spear formations.

On the breakwater, three gold-clad figures floated side by side—Galaxbeam in the center, flanked by Galaxastride and Galaxastorm. Their cloaks rippled in the sea wind.

"Well," Galaxbeam's voice echoed through the recording, dry even in crisis, "this is rude. They're trying to speed-run Westonglappa's misery arc."

Galaxastorm frowned up at the incoming fleet. "Permission to skip diplomacy?"

"Granted." Galaxbeam raised his hand.

Time hiccupped.

The Darkened warships slowed to a crawl, waves freezing mid-splash. The aerial units hung like suspended insects. Lines of geometric script wrapped around each enemy vessel and fighter, tagging them with coordinates and timestamps.

Galaxastride snapped her fingers; tiny comets of gold light shot into the immobilized troops, blooming into soft halos around their heads.

"Soporific field seeded," she reported. "When they wake up, it'll feel like they lost a weekend to cheap vodka."

Galaxbeam snapped his fingers.

Reality rewound. The warships and aircraft blurred backward into the maroon tear in space they had arrived from. The rift sealed with a soft pop.

The sea resumed motion, waves crashing harmlessly against the docks. Highbarrow's lights flickered but held.

Past-Galaxbeam turned slightly, gaze flicking toward the unseen observer—toward the recording device, and by extension, toward every future viewer.

"To whichever analyst is watching this," he said, "yes, this is overpowered. Blame the author."

The feed cut.

The chamber lights brightened again. For a moment, no one spoke.

Solarpuff finally broke the silence. "So that's what a ten-thousand PSS plus narrative favoritism looks like."

Solarstream shook his head. "If he hadn't been there, those ships reach the docks. Turreyatch becomes Paladimee 2.0."

Solardye turned to the MI7 team. "He's given us the full file. We'll study it later. For now, our task is simpler: prepare Sollarisca so that when the next wave comes—for us or for Westonglappa—we respond as a coordinated machine."

He stepped toward the center of the chamber. "Supreme Commanders of the Solar Regime—this is your episode."

Solarstorm grinned, eyes hardening. "Finally."

An alarm trill sliced through the room, orange symbols flashing along the dome.

Solarstream's console lit up. "Contact. Not a drill." He expanded the feed—a live camera from Solfrictural City in Solltonna. A cluster of maroon-armored Darkened holdouts had hijacked a maglev freight line, barricading themselves inside a central station. Civilians were pinned down; crude Darkhitler banners hung from the rafters.

A distorted voice screamed over local broadcasts: "THIS IS A MESSAGE TO SOLLARISCA—YOUR FALSE SUN WILL SET IN BLOOD—"

Solarstorm cut the audio with a jab of his finger. "Terrorist leftovers. They picked the wrong day."

Solardale was already moving, buckling on armored gauntlets. "We deploy. Standard pattern?"

Solardye nodded. "Pattern Aurelia-Six. Solardale, Solarstride, Solarstorm on site. Solarpuff on civilian extraction and morale. Solarstream provides overwatch and transit. I'll coordinate from here with MI7."

Solarpuff hopped to her feet, jacket already half-zipped. "I call dibs on yelling at Darkhitler's fan club."

Solarstride smirked, stretching her neck. "Let's show the professor we paid attention in class."

The Supreme Commanders stepped onto a circular platform at the center of the chamber. Orange glyphs flared; in an instant, they vanished in a shower of sun-light.

Solfrictural City – Hijacked Station

The maglev station roared with panicked voices and the distant crack of gunfire. Darkened troops had chained the main doors, overturned ticket machines into barricades, and deployed portable turrets. Civilians huddled behind columns; a few sunsoldiers were pinned down at the far end, outgunned but refusing to retreat.

A maroon-armored elite strode across the platform, voice amplified through stolen speakers. "Your shining General cannot save you now. The Darkened Regime lives on in every corner of your—"

A vertical line of orange light sliced the air behind him.

The line snapped open.

Solardale stepped out first, boots ringing on the tiles, followed by Solarstride, Solarstorm, Solarpuff, and Solarstream descending from above on a cushion of heated air.

The entire station froze.

Solarpuff popped a bubble of gum she had conjured just for the aesthetic. "Newsflash," she called, voice echoing clear and amused. "Terror reruns are canceled. Welcome to Supreme Commander prime time."

The elite spun, launching a barrage of maroon energy spikes. They disintegrated against the four auric auras like sparks against shields.

Solarstorm grinned. "See? Heavy rain."

He slammed his palms together; a radial shockwave of solar force rippled outward, shattering the Darkened turrets like toys. Armed troops staggered, weapons flying from their hands.

Solarstride was already moving, a streak of orange across the platform. She disarmed three soldiers in a single blurred sweep, tagging their armor with luminous sigils that locked them in place.

"Stay down," she said, almost conversational. "You're not on the right tier to play with us."

The elite roared, charging Solardale with a conjured blade of corrupted sunlight. "You think your hierarchy protects you? We only need one lucky hit!"

Solardale met him halfway, expression bored. Their blades clashed—dark against bright. The maroon edge shattered on contact.

"Lesson one," Solardale said calmly, driving a fist into the elite's chest and pinning him against a pillar without breaking a sweat. "If your PSS is lower than mine, your 'lucky hits' are just fireworks."

Above, Solarstream hovered under the vaulted ceiling, twin halos spinning around his wrists. He snapped his fingers; precise beams of heat cut through the station's lighting rig, dropping fixtures between terrorists and civilians, creating instant cover.

"Civilians, move behind the fallen lights!" he bellowed. "Sunsoldiers, advance under my arcs. I'll cut you lanes."

Orange-clad troops surged forward, confidence surging as railgun-like beams from Solarstream surgically demolished Darkened positions without so much as scorching a civilian's sleeve.

Meanwhile, Solarpuff had already bounded over the barricades, appearing in front of a cluster of shaking hostages.

She knelt, eyes softening. "Hey. You're okay now. Supreme Commanders, remember?" She flicked a wrist; a dome of warm, translucent orange air wrapped around them. "I'm Solarpuff. This barrier is rated 'terrorist-proof' and 'kid-friendly.' Snacks later, but only if we evacuate in an orderly line, deal?"

One child sniffled, then nodded fiercely. "Deal."

Solardale pressed the defeated elite deeper into the cracked pillar, tightening energy cuffs around his wrists. "Broadcast line?" he asked.

Solarpuff jerked a thumb toward the stolen podium. "Still hot."

Solarstorm stomped over, grabbed the mic, and glared into the nearest surveillance drone.

"Darkened remnants," he growled, voice carrying across the station, and, by design, through several hijacked channels. "This is Commander Solarstorm of the Solar Regime. This station is secure. Your hijack is over. Surrender wherever you are, or stay underground and hope we're too busy dealing with your bosses to notice you."

Solarstride leaned into frame, smile sharp. "Spoiler alert: we're not."

The message went out across local networks, stamped with the Solar emblem. In a handful of seconds, countless citizens saw not panicked crowds, but six calm, overwhelming forces of nature clearing a station as if wiping chalk from a board.

Within minutes, the remaining terrorists dropped weapons and triggered emergency teleport failsafes—warping back to distant Darkened hideouts, their retreat already logged for later sweeps.

The battle ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Solarstream descended, boots touching the platform with barely a sound. "Status?"

"Hostages secure," Solarpuff reported, shepherding civilians toward the exits. "Some bruises, a lot of frayed nerves. No fatalities."

"Enemies?" Solardale asked.

Solarstride's eyes flashed; she checked the glowing marks in the air only she could see. "Two squads teleported out, one elite captured, half a tech cell knocked out. Plenty of data for MI7."

Solarstorm let out a breath, some of the storm leaving his shoulders. "Good. One less scar on Sollarisca."

A cheer rose from the sunsoldiers at the far end of the station. Phones were already out, recording, streaming, sending the images worldwide.

Solarpuff grinned, whispering aside to Solarstream, "Bet you five chromebytes the fan accounts edit this with that heroic anime opening song."

Solarstream smirked. "Only if they catch my good side."

Back at S.O.L.A.R. – After Action

Later, in a debrief room overlooking Solvanairebolis' sunset skyline, the six Supreme Commanders and the MI7 team gathered again. Casual uniforms now, jackets open, steam rising from cups of tea and coffee.

Solardye reviewed the footage on a smaller holoscreen. "Clean work. Minimal collateral, maximum message."

SunQ leaned back in his chair. "Public reaction is already trending. Hashtags praising the 'Six Suns' are flooding the feeds. That's good. People need to see there's structure between the Absolute Leader and the street."

Sunwise nodded. "Galaxbeam wanted the PSS lecture to remind us we're part of a chain, not extras in the background. Today you six headlined."

Solarstream glanced at his fellow commanders. "And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Solardye said, "we refine. The professor's USB does not just hold philosophy. It has algorithms for deployment, predictions for terrorist return patterns, early indicators for Westonglappa infiltration. We split tasks."

He tapped the table, assigning roles.

"Solarstream, you continue naval-air readiness and simulate a Westonglappa deployment. Study his Turreyatch intervention frame by frame. I want a Solar version ready if he's busy elsewhere."

Solarstream nodded, eyes already distant, imagining flight paths and carrier groups.

"Solarstride and Solardale," Solardye continued, "update our rapid-response doctrine for urban hostage scenarios. What happened today should become standard—fast, overwhelming, surgical."

Solarstride smiled. "We'll write you a playbook that even Darkwing's ghosts would be scared to read."

Solardale grunted in agreement. "And we'll drill it until the elites can do it in their sleep."

"Solarstorm," Solardye said, turning to the still-restless commander, "you coordinate with Sunhammaltondent on interior security. Terror cells, infrastructure hardening, public drills. We can't stop every strike, but we can make sure no one dies confused and unprepared."

Solarstorm's gaze hardened. "I'll turn every factory and school into a sanctuary if I have to."

"And Solarpuff," Solardye finished, "you liaise with MI7 on public morale operations. Outreach, media, showing the human side of the war. If our people only see blood and rubble, they'll burn out before the next campaign."

Solarpuff saluted with two fingers, grin softening into something earnest. "I'll make sure they see hope. And maybe a mascot or two."

SunM watched them all, then spoke quietly.

"Galaxbeam told our leaders that power is more than numbers," she said. "Today proved it. The PSS is a metric, but what scared those terrorists most wasn't your rating. It was the fact you showed up together."

Solardye closed the holoscreen, letting the room fall into warm orange twilight.

"That," he said, "is the lesson we carry from the Four Pillars' meeting. Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam, and Galaxbeam stand at the apex—but if their second line is fractured, the pyramid crumbles."

Solarstream looked toward the window, where the city lights were beginning to flicker on, one by one, like grounded stars.

"We won't let it crumble," he said.

Solarstorm smirked. "Besides, if we mess up, the professor will just break the fourth wall and yell at us from the sky."

Solarpuff laughed. "And the author will give us a filler episode about paperwork as punishment."

"Let's try to avoid that arc," SunQ muttered dryly.

Solardye stood, smoothing his coat. "Then we continue. From tonight forward, the people of Sollarisca must feel that between themselves and the darkness stand not just one blazing Absolute Leader, but six unwavering suns, each with their own way of burning."

He extended his hand into the center of the table.

One by one, the others joined—Solardale's scarred knuckles, Solarstream's calloused pilot grip, Solarstride's slender, precise fingers, Solarstorm's furnace-hot palm, Solarpuff's smaller hand warm and steady. Then the MI7 team added theirs, intelligence and command locking together.

Outside, the night rolled over the orange continent.

Somewhere distant, Darkened remnants, Blackened plotters, Shadow infiltrators, and Death-regime tacticians made their own plans.

But in Solvanairebolis, at the heart of S.O.L.A.R. HQ, the Supreme Commanders of the Solar Regime had claimed their episode—and they were just getting started.

The summons came just as the debrief broke up.

Solardye's tablet chimed with a priority alert stamped not with the S.O.L.A.R. crest this time, but with a stylized sunburst: SUNBEAM – DIRECT.

He glanced at the others. "The General wants us."

Solarstorm cracked his neck. "More terrorists?"

Solarstride leaned in, reading over his shoulder. "No ops codes. Just... coordinates for the Sun Range training complex."

Solarpuff grinned. "Oh. It's that kind of mission."

Solarstream lifted a brow. "Mandatory team-building with the boss."

Solardale simply adjusted his gauntlets. "Then we go."

Sun Range – Training Episode

The Sun Range lay on the outskirts of Solvanairebolis, a sprawling complex of rock spires, hardened bunkers, and sunsteel arenas. Tonight, the protective domes were open; twilight painted the clouds orange, and the city glowed faintly in the distance.

General Sunbeam waited at the center field, hands on his hips, full orange attire catching every last scrap of light. Around him, clusters of Sun- elites stretched, bantered, and checked gear—faces the Commanders recognized, some with an extra edge of wonder.

Sunazai, Sunbond, Sunbrass, Sunphoenix, Sunhug, Sunmerricka, Suncrystal... the ones Galaxbeam had pulled back from the Field of Embers.

Sunbeam looked up as the six Supreme Commanders touched down in streaks of orange.

"There you are," he called, voice bright. "Thought you might have dodged the fun part."

Solarstorm snorted. "Sir, with respect, your definition of 'fun' usually involves city-sized craters."

Sunbeam's grin widened. "Relax. Tonight is mostly targets, not craters. We've had lectures, councils, and press for days. I want one evening that actually feels like being Solar again."

He swept his gaze over the resurrected elites, then the Commanders.

"And," he added more softly, "I wanted all of you in the same place. Breathing. Moving. Remembering why we trained in the first place."

Sunazai stepped forward, saluting with a smile that still carried a hint of disbelief. "General. Supreme Commanders. It's... good to be back in orange, sir."

Sunbeam clapped him on the shoulder. "Damn right it is. All right, everyone—positions."

The range shifted at his command. Targets unfolded from the rock walls, some stationary, some darting like drones, others shaped like hulking armored silhouettes. Wooden training huts rose from the ground—mock street blocks, alleys, and rooftops.

Sunbeam rolled his shoulders, aura brightening. "Rules are simple. Supreme Commanders and elites, mixed squads. We clear every target and dummy in this field in under five minutes. No civilian sim casualties, no friendly fire. Extra style points for creativity. I'll... play referee."

Solarpuff arched a brow. "Referee, sir? Not participant?"

His smile turned sly. "Oh, I'll participate. I just don't want to scare the grading curve."

Solarstream chuckled. "We're being flexed on before we've even started."

Sunbeam raised his hand; a wash of warm, tingling light rolled out over the entire field.

"Solar Benediction – Full Spectrum." His voice echoed across the range. "For the next hour, all of you fight at your best. No fatigue, boosted output, clean focus. Consider it... professor-approved buffing."

Solardye checked his internal readouts and whistled under his breath. Power climbed in clean, exponential lines. "All metrics up thirty percent," he murmured. "He really did get lecture-inspired."

"On my mark," Sunbeam called. "Three... two... one—"

The world exploded into motion.

Solarstorm launched first, palms flaring white-hot. Meteoric fireballs arced overhead, curving precisely away from ally lanes to smash into heavy-duty targets. The impact shockwaves flattened whole clusters of dummies.

"Section Alpha clear!" he shouted.

Solarstream threaded between the blasts like a fighter jet given human form, leaving contrails of heated air. His fingers fired razor-thin lances of sunlight that punched through fast-moving drones, each one bursting into harmless sparks.

"Picking up your leftovers, Storm," he said into the comms. "Try not to leave any boring ones."

Solarstride blurred through the alley-block, each step a miniature sunburst. He vaulted over huts, ran along walls, and sliced through pop-up targets with compressed beams from his heel boosters.

"Beta sector clean," he chimed. "And yes, I'm counting style points."

Solardale took the central lane—a moving fortress. He marched through a hail of simulated gunfire, shrugging off impact alarms, fists wreathed in molten orange. Each punch collapsed a hut or shattered a heavy target with simple, brutal efficiency.

"Gamma lane secure," he reported. "Recommend adding more resistance next time."

Solarpuff bounced between squads, barriers and buffs blossoming wherever she went. She slapped glowing stickers onto elites' armor, each sigil amplifying their next attack.

"Sunhug, you're on crowd-control. Sunphoenix, go full dramatic," she directed, eyes bright. "I want to feel the budget of this episode."

Sunphoenix obliged. Wings of living flame unfurled from his back as he took to the sky, raining precise, petal-shaped fire on distant high-value targets. Sunhug grew his shimmering shield to cover an entire squad as a controlled explosion from Solarstorm vaporized a cluster of heavy dummies.

Through it all, Sunbeam watched, arms folded, eyes tracking trajectories.

Then he moved.

One moment he stood at the center; the next, afterimages of orange flickered across the range like strobe ghosts.

He zig-zagged through narrow corridors, each step leaving a scorch-mark silhouette. Flaming bolts snapped from his fingertips, punching neat holes through targets the others had deliberately left for him—aerial snipers, sleeved "boss" dummies, hidden mines.

"General, you're going to run out of things for us to shoot," Solarstream complained good-naturedly as another of his targets exploded half a second before he fired.

"Training's about pushing the limit," Sunbeam replied, suddenly at his shoulder, then gone again. "I'm just... relocating the limit."

He vanished into a row of wooden huts, and for a moment, the whole block lit from within. In rapid succession, internal explosions blew out the sides—fireworks of controlled solar combustion, each blast precisely calibrated to leave structural stumps instead of shrapnel.

The timer chimed loudly at four minutes, twenty seconds.

"Final wave!" Sunbeam called.

The ground shuddered as a giant armored dummy rose from beneath the range floor—a towering construct the size of a small building, painted in Darkened maroon for psychological effect.

"Commanders," Sunbeam said, voice calm, "shared finisher. I'll hold it."

He appeared at the giant's feet, one hand pressed against its leg. Golden-orange chains of light erupted from his palm, wrapping the construct in a glowing lattice. It froze mid-swing, half-kneeling.

"Your canvas," he said.

Solarstorm didn't hesitate. "Solarstorm: Sunburst Crush!"

A condensed sphere of nuclear-bright energy formed above his hands, then shot down into the dummy's back like a hammer.

Solarstream followed, firing a spiral of piercing rays into the weak points marked by Sunbeam's chains. Solardale charged in, fists slamming into the joints with bone-breaking force. Solarstride carved glowing sigils around its knees, each one detonating in time with the others' strikes. Solarpuff fed all of them with rapidly cycling buffs, every pulse stepping their power higher.

The giant dummy shattered in a cascade of sun-lit fragments.

The final target counter hit zero.

The field fell quiet, except for the crackle of dissipating energy and the elites' excited chatter.

Sunbeam let the chains dissolve and straightened, aura gently dimming back to normal.

"Four-twenty-seven," Solardye reported, checking his timer. "Personal record for this configuration—and with extra variables."

Sunbeam grinned. "Not bad for a bunch of near-immortal dictators playing with fireworks."

Solarpuff fanned herself theatrically. "Sir, if this is 'hanging out,' I am suddenly very curious what you consider a serious workout."

"Oh, that's when the author starts adding weather effects and tragic flashbacks," Sunbeam said cheerfully. "Tonight is just the upbeat training montage."

Laughter rippled around the range, tension bleeding out of shoulders and breath.

Spicy Interlude – Dinner with the Suns

Later that night, the group—Sunbeam, the six Supreme Commanders, and a rotating handful of elites—made their way into a tucked-away district of Solvanairebolis, where neon-orange signs glowed above narrow streets.

Their destination: The Scorching Ladle, a small but famous restaurant known for brutal spice levels and comforting soups.

Inside, the staff was in barely contained chaos.

Sunwise stood near the entrance, talking quietly with the manager, holo-badge of SUNTRE MI7 clipped to his belt.

"Yes, that's correct," he was saying. "General Sunbeam. Six Supreme Commanders. Several elites resurrected in a miracle televised worldwide. Please just... bring extra water and maybe reinforce the chairs."

The manager, a stocky woman with her hair tied in a sun-yellow scarf, nodded vigorously. "Of course. We've already cleared the back room. And—ah—thank you for the warning, Agent Sunwise."

Sunwise turned as the group entered, giving them a half-bow, half-relaxed wave.

"Welcome to The Scorching Ladle, sir," he said. "I've warned them you're coming. They've hidden the breakable dishes."

Sunbeam laughed. "We'll behave. Mostly. Join us if you're off duty."

"Still on the clock," Sunwise replied, eyes flicking to the others with professional fondness. "But I'll hover. Politely."

They were guided into a large private room where low tables were already set with bubbling pots, baskets of noodles, plates of marinated meats, vegetables, and an alarming array of chili pastes.

Solarstorm inhaled and smiled like a man seeing an old friend. "This is my battlefield."

Solarstream eyed the spiciest pot, labeled with three stylized skulls. "That seems... narratively suspicious."

Sitting at a nearby table, half-hidden behind a menu, Suno'reilly froze.

The Solar press elite had come in alone to decompress after a long day of coverage. Now, suddenly, every headline in the room walked past her.

She lowered the menu just enough to peek.

General Sunbeam, laughing as he waved a server over.

Solardye and SunM comparing notes even as they sat.

Solarstride teasing Solarpuff about how much chili she could handle.

Her journalist instincts screamed. Her ethics training whispered. She took a steadying breath, activated her recorder, and began taking quiet notes—this time, not of war, but of what it looked like when near-immortal leaders actually relaxed.

At the main table, Sunbeam had just lifted his glass.

"To Galaxbeam," he said. "For dragging us into speeches, lectures, and now a new tier system we'll all pretend to fully understand."

Glasses clinked, some with tea, some with something stronger.

"And to all of you," Sunbeam added, gaze sweeping the Commanders and elites. "For meeting me here, not as ranks or file codes, but as people who chose this insane job."

Solarpuff raised a chopstick. "To surviving today's filler episode."

Solarstream smirked. "If this is filler, it's the good kind—the one the fans quote more than the big battles."

Sunazai, still getting used to laughing again, leaned toward Sunbond. "I forgot what it felt like to just... sit in a noisy room with everyone."

Sunbond nodded, eyes soft. "Make a note of it. In case the professor needs more 'hope data.'"

Dishes arrived in waves. Bowls of fire-red broth, sizzling platters of stir-fry, mountains of noodles. The Commanders, who could shrug off artillery shells, discovered which spice levels made even them sweat.

Solarstorm attacked the triple-skull pot with fearless enthusiasm, then coughed once, eyes watering. "This... this is fine."

Solarpuff slid a glass of milk his way without a word.

Solardale ate steadily, unaffected, as if he were absorbing the heat as training.

Solarstride took measured bites, but his cheeks flushed sunset-red. "If the Darkened Regime had served this at their negotiations," he murmured, "we might have surrendered out of respect."

Sunbeam tried everything, laughing whenever a new level of spice hit him. "If I can survive Deathwing's tantrums," he declared, "I can survive chili."

From her corner, Suno'reilly watched him—how he threw his head back when he laughed, how he listened when Solardale spoke quietly about rebuilding efforts, how he nudged Solarpuff's plate closer when she got too caught up telling a story to notice her food cooling.

This, she realized, was the article she hadn't written yet.

Not "General Sunbeam: Invincible Dictator of Light."

But: "The Sun at the Table: An Evening with Sollarisca's Living Shields."

Hours passed in comfortable noise. Stories were traded—small anecdotes from campaigns, embarrassing academy memories, a surprisingly earnest debate about which street stall in Solvanairebolis had the best late-night skewers.

Eventually, Sunbeam pushed back from the table, satisfied and pleasantly warm.

"All right," he said, standing. "I promised this was hanging out, not kidnapping. You're all dismissed. Rest. Tomorrow the universe will try new ways to make our lives complicated. Tonight... we let this be enough."

One by one, the Supreme Commanders rose, offering informal salutes before heading out into the city night—sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, halos of orange aura dimmed to human levels.

Solardale paused at the door. "Sir," he said quietly, "thank you. For... the normalcy."

Sunbeam smiled at him, a little softer. "You've all carried me through more days than you know. Consider this a tiny down payment."

Solarstream clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. "Next time, I pick the restaurant."

Solarpuff waved. "Next time, I pick dessert."

When they were gone, Sunbeam lingered at the empty table for a minute, listening to the fading echoes of their laughter.

Sunwise approached, tablet under his arm. "I took the liberty of paying ahead," he said. "The owner insisted on comping half when she realized who was here."

Sunbeam chuckled. "Remind me to send them a crate of something nice from the palace stores."

He glanced toward the far table. Suno'reilly stood, bowing slightly.

"General," she said. "Off the record... thank you for letting the world see you like this."

He shrugged, a little embarrassed. "Heroes eat. Supreme Commanders complain about spice. We're not that special."

She smiled faintly. "You'd be surprised how much people need to see that."

He nodded once, then headed for the door.

Homeward

Outside, Solvanairebolis glowed in layered shades of orange and soft white. Hover-lines traced gentle arcs above the streets; distant music drifted from plazas where civilians enjoyed their own late meals and games.

Sunbeam walked alone for a while, no entourage, no cameras—just a tall man in an orange coat, hands in his pockets, breathing in the city he had nearly lost.

He passed a park where children chased glowing drones shaped like tiny suns. A pair of elders sat on a bench, arguing about sports. A street musician played a mellow tune on a solar-powered guitar.

No one screamed. No one ran. The sky held only stars, not dreadnoughts.

He tilted his head back, looking up toward where the central AES meeting ground lay, faintly visible as a distant, fortified gleam. Somewhere beyond that, Galaxbeam was likely still running simulations, Moonbeam was probably checking on Lunna's riverlines, and Starbeam was drafting yet another infrastructure plan.

"We'll keep it together," Sunbeam murmured to the night, to his allies, to the unseen author scribbling beyond the sky. "Four pillars, six commanders, countless elites... and a lot of very spicy soup."

He laughed softly at his own joke, then turned toward the direction of his home.

General Sunbeam, Absolute Leader of the Solar Regime, walked through his city as just another figure in orange, carrying the warmth of the evening with him.

Tomorrow would bring strategy, war councils, and perhaps the first ripples of Westonglappa's crisis.

Tonight, Sollarisca slept under the watch of suns who had eaten well, trained hard, and remembered—together—what they were fighting for.

The summons came just as the debrief broke up.

Solardye's tablet chimed with a priority alert stamped not with the S.O.L.A.R. crest this time, but with a stylized sunburst: SUNBEAM – DIRECT.

He glanced at the others. "The General wants us."

Solarstorm cracked his neck. "More terrorists?"

Solarstride leaned in, reading over his shoulder. "No ops codes. Just... coordinates for the Sun Range training complex."

Solarpuff grinned. "Oh. It's that kind of mission."

Solarstream lifted a brow. "Mandatory team-building with the boss."

Solardale simply adjusted his gauntlets. "Then we go."

Sun Range – Training Episode

The Sun Range lay on the outskirts of Solvanairebolis, a sprawling complex of rock spires, hardened bunkers, and sunsteel arenas. Tonight, the protective domes were open; twilight painted the clouds orange, and the city glowed faintly in the distance.

General Sunbeam waited at the center field, hands on his hips, full orange attire catching every last scrap of light. Around him, clusters of Sun- elites stretched, bantered, and checked gear—faces the Commanders recognized, some with an extra edge of wonder.

Sunazai, Sunbond, Sunbrass, Sunphoenix, Sunhug, Sunmerricka, Suncrystal... the ones Galaxbeam had pulled back from the Field of Embers.

Sunbeam looked up as the six Supreme Commanders touched down in streaks of orange.

"There you are," he called, voice bright. "Thought you might have dodged the fun part."

Solarstorm snorted. "Sir, with respect, your definition of 'fun' usually involves city-sized craters."

Sunbeam's grin widened. "Relax. Tonight is mostly targets, not craters. We've had lectures, councils, and press for days. I want one evening that actually feels like being Solar again."

He swept his gaze over the resurrected elites, then the Commanders.

"And," he added more softly, "I wanted all of you in the same place. Breathing. Moving. Remembering why we trained in the first place."

Sunazai stepped forward, saluting with a smile that still carried a hint of disbelief. "General. Supreme Commanders. It's... good to be back in orange, sir."

Sunbeam clapped him on the shoulder. "Damn right it is. All right, everyone—positions."

The range shifted at his command. Targets unfolded from the rock walls, some stationary, some darting like drones, others shaped like hulking armored silhouettes. Wooden training huts rose from the ground—mock street blocks, alleys, and rooftops.

Sunbeam rolled his shoulders, aura brightening. "Rules are simple. Supreme Commanders and elites, mixed squads. We clear every target and dummy in this field in under five minutes. No civilian sim casualties, no friendly fire. Extra style points for creativity. I'll... play referee."

Solarpuff arched a brow. "Referee, sir? Not participant?"

His smile turned sly. "Oh, I'll participate. I just don't want to scare the grading curve."

Solarstream chuckled. "We're being flexed on before we've even started."

Sunbeam raised his hand; a wash of warm, tingling light rolled out over the entire field.

"Solar Benediction – Full Spectrum." His voice echoed across the range. "For the next hour, all of you fight at your best. No fatigue, boosted output, clean focus. Consider it... professor-approved buffing."

Solardye checked his internal readouts and whistled under his breath. Power climbed in clean, exponential lines. "All metrics up thirty percent," he murmured. "He really did get lecture-inspired."

"On my mark," Sunbeam called. "Three... two... one—"

The world exploded into motion.

Solarstorm launched first, palms flaring white-hot. Meteoric fireballs arced overhead, curving precisely away from ally lanes to smash into heavy-duty targets. The impact shockwaves flattened whole clusters of dummies.

"Section Alpha clear!" he shouted.

Solarstream threaded between the blasts like a fighter jet given human form, leaving contrails of heated air. His fingers fired razor-thin lances of sunlight that punched through fast-moving drones, each one bursting into harmless sparks.

"Picking up your leftovers, Storm," he said into the comms. "Try not to leave any boring ones."

Solarstride blurred through the alley-block, each step a miniature sunburst. He vaulted over huts, ran along walls, and sliced through pop-up targets with compressed beams from his heel boosters.

"Beta sector clean," he chimed. "And yes, I'm counting style points."

Solardale took the central lane—a moving fortress. He marched through a hail of simulated gunfire, shrugging off impact alarms, fists wreathed in molten orange. Each punch collapsed a hut or shattered a heavy target with simple, brutal efficiency.

"Gamma lane secure," he reported. "Recommend adding more resistance next time."

Solarpuff bounced between squads, barriers and buffs blossoming wherever she went. She slapped glowing stickers onto elites' armor, each sigil amplifying their next attack.

"Sunhug, you're on crowd-control. Sunphoenix, go full dramatic," she directed, eyes bright. "I want to feel the budget of this episode."

Sunphoenix obliged. Wings of living flame unfurled from his back as he took to the sky, raining precise, petal-shaped fire on distant high-value targets. Sunhug grew his shimmering shield to cover an entire squad as a controlled explosion from Solarstorm vaporized a cluster of heavy dummies.

Through it all, Sunbeam watched, arms folded, eyes tracking trajectories.

Then he moved.

One moment he stood at the center; the next, afterimages of orange flickered across the range like strobe ghosts.

He zig-zagged through narrow corridors, each step leaving a scorch-mark silhouette. Flaming bolts snapped from his fingertips, punching neat holes through targets the others had deliberately left for him—aerial snipers, sleeved "boss" dummies, hidden mines.

"General, you're going to run out of things for us to shoot," Solarstream complained good-naturedly as another of his targets exploded half a second before he fired.

"Training's about pushing the limit," Sunbeam replied, suddenly at his shoulder, then gone again. "I'm just... relocating the limit."

He vanished into a row of wooden huts, and for a moment, the whole block lit from within. In rapid succession, internal explosions blew out the sides—fireworks of controlled solar combustion, each blast precisely calibrated to leave structural stumps instead of shrapnel.

The timer chimed loudly at four minutes, twenty seconds.

"Final wave!" Sunbeam called.

The ground shuddered as a giant armored dummy rose from beneath the range floor—a towering construct the size of a small building, painted in Darkened maroon for psychological effect.

"Commanders," Sunbeam said, voice calm, "shared finisher. I'll hold it."

He appeared at the giant's feet, one hand pressed against its leg. Golden-orange chains of light erupted from his palm, wrapping the construct in a glowing lattice. It froze mid-swing, half-kneeling.

"Your canvas," he said.

Solarstorm didn't hesitate. "Solarstorm: Sunburst Crush!"

A condensed sphere of nuclear-bright energy formed above his hands, then shot down into the dummy's back like a hammer.

Solarstream followed, firing a spiral of piercing rays into the weak points marked by Sunbeam's chains. Solardale charged in, fists slamming into the joints with bone-breaking force. Solarstride carved glowing sigils around its knees, each one detonating in time with the others' strikes. Solarpuff fed all of them with rapidly cycling buffs, every pulse stepping their power higher.

The giant dummy shattered in a cascade of sun-lit fragments.

The final target counter hit zero.

The field fell quiet, except for the crackle of dissipating energy and the elites' excited chatter.

Sunbeam let the chains dissolve and straightened, aura gently dimming back to normal.

"Four-twenty-seven," Solardye reported, checking his timer. "Personal record for this configuration—and with extra variables."

Sunbeam grinned. "Not bad for a bunch of near-immortal dictators playing with fireworks."

Solarpuff fanned herself theatrically. "Sir, if this is 'hanging out,' I am suddenly very curious what you consider a serious workout."

"Oh, that's when the author starts adding weather effects and tragic flashbacks," Sunbeam said cheerfully. "Tonight is just the upbeat training montage."

Laughter rippled around the range, tension bleeding out of shoulders and breath.

Spicy Interlude – Dinner with the Suns

Later that night, the group—Sunbeam, the six Supreme Commanders, and a rotating handful of elites—made their way into a tucked-away district of Solvanairebolis, where neon-orange signs glowed above narrow streets.

Their destination: The Scorching Ladle, a small but famous restaurant known for brutal spice levels and comforting soups.

Inside, the staff was in barely contained chaos.

Sunwise stood near the entrance, talking quietly with the manager, holo-badge of SUNTRE MI7 clipped to his belt.

"Yes, that's correct," he was saying. "General Sunbeam. Six Supreme Commanders. Several elites resurrected in a miracle televised worldwide. Please just... bring extra water and maybe reinforce the chairs."

The manager, a stocky woman with her hair tied in a sun-yellow scarf, nodded vigorously. "Of course. We've already cleared the back room. And—ah—thank you for the warning, Agent Sunwise."

Sunwise turned as the group entered, giving them a half-bow, half-relaxed wave.

"Welcome to The Scorching Ladle, sir," he said. "I've warned them you're coming. They've hidden the breakable dishes."

Sunbeam laughed. "We'll behave. Mostly. Join us if you're off duty."

"Still on the clock," Sunwise replied, eyes flicking to the others with professional fondness. "But I'll hover. Politely."

They were guided into a large private room where low tables were already set with bubbling pots, baskets of noodles, plates of marinated meats, vegetables, and an alarming array of chili pastes.

Solarstorm inhaled and smiled like a man seeing an old friend. "This is my battlefield."

Solarstream eyed the spiciest pot, labeled with three stylized skulls. "That seems... narratively suspicious."

Sitting at a nearby table, half-hidden behind a menu, Suno'reilly froze.

The Solar press elite had come in alone to decompress after a long day of coverage. Now, suddenly, every headline in the room walked past her.

She lowered the menu just enough to peek.

General Sunbeam, laughing as he waved a server over.

Solardye and SunM comparing notes even as they sat.

Solarstride teasing Solarpuff about how much chili she could handle.

Her journalist instincts screamed. Her ethics training whispered. She took a steadying breath, activated her recorder, and began taking quiet notes—this time, not of war, but of what it looked like when near-immortal leaders actually relaxed.

At the main table, Sunbeam had just lifted his glass.

"To Galaxbeam," he said. "For dragging us into speeches, lectures, and now a new tier system we'll all pretend to fully understand."

Glasses clinked, some with tea, some with something stronger.

"And to all of you," Sunbeam added, gaze sweeping the Commanders and elites. "For meeting me here, not as ranks or file codes, but as people who chose this insane job."

Solarpuff raised a chopstick. "To surviving today's filler episode."

Solarstream smirked. "If this is filler, it's the good kind—the one the fans quote more than the big battles."

Sunazai, still getting used to laughing again, leaned toward Sunbond. "I forgot what it felt like to just... sit in a noisy room with everyone."

Sunbond nodded, eyes soft. "Make a note of it. In case the professor needs more 'hope data.'"

Dishes arrived in waves. Bowls of fire-red broth, sizzling platters of stir-fry, mountains of noodles. The Commanders, who could shrug off artillery shells, discovered which spice levels made even them sweat.

Solarstorm attacked the triple-skull pot with fearless enthusiasm, then coughed once, eyes watering. "This... this is fine."

Solarpuff slid a glass of milk his way without a word.

Solardale ate steadily, unaffected, as if he were absorbing the heat as training.

Solarstride took measured bites, but his cheeks flushed sunset-red. "If the Darkened Regime had served this at their negotiations," he murmured, "we might have surrendered out of respect."

Sunbeam tried everything, laughing whenever a new level of spice hit him. "If I can survive Deathwing's tantrums," he declared, "I can survive chili."

From her corner, Suno'reilly watched him—how he threw his head back when he laughed, how he listened when Solardale spoke quietly about rebuilding efforts, how he nudged Solarpuff's plate closer when she got too caught up telling a story to notice her food cooling.

This, she realized, was the article she hadn't written yet.

Not "General Sunbeam: Invincible Dictator of Light."

But: "The Sun at the Table: An Evening with Sollarisca's Living Shields."

Hours passed in comfortable noise. Stories were traded—small anecdotes from campaigns, embarrassing academy memories, a surprisingly earnest debate about which street stall in Solvanairebolis had the best late-night skewers.

Eventually, Sunbeam pushed back from the table, satisfied and pleasantly warm.

"All right," he said, standing. "I promised this was hanging out, not kidnapping. You're all dismissed. Rest. Tomorrow the universe will try new ways to make our lives complicated. Tonight... we let this be enough."

One by one, the Supreme Commanders rose, offering informal salutes before heading out into the city night—sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, halos of orange aura dimmed to human levels.

Solardale paused at the door. "Sir," he said quietly, "thank you. For... the normalcy."

Sunbeam smiled at him, a little softer. "You've all carried me through more days than you know. Consider this a tiny down payment."

Solarstream clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. "Next time, I pick the restaurant."

Solarpuff waved. "Next time, I pick dessert."

When they were gone, Sunbeam lingered at the empty table for a minute, listening to the fading echoes of their laughter.

Sunwise approached, tablet under his arm. "I took the liberty of paying ahead," he said. "The owner insisted on comping half when she realized who was here."

Sunbeam chuckled. "Remind me to send them a crate of something nice from the palace stores."

He glanced toward the far table. Suno'reilly stood, bowing slightly.

"General," she said. "Off the record... thank you for letting the world see you like this."

He shrugged, a little embarrassed. "Heroes eat. Supreme Commanders complain about spice. We're not that special."

She smiled faintly. "You'd be surprised how much people need to see that."

He nodded once, then headed for the door.

Homeward

Outside, Solvanairebolis glowed in layered shades of orange and soft white. Hover-lines traced gentle arcs above the streets; distant music drifted from plazas where civilians enjoyed their own late meals and games.

Sunbeam walked alone for a while, no entourage, no cameras—just a tall man in an orange coat, hands in his pockets, breathing in the city he had nearly lost.

He passed a park where children chased glowing drones shaped like tiny suns. A pair of elders sat on a bench, arguing about sports. A street musician played a mellow tune on a solar-powered guitar.

No one screamed. No one ran. The sky held only stars, not dreadnoughts.

He tilted his head back, looking up toward where the central AES meeting ground lay, faintly visible as a distant, fortified gleam. Somewhere beyond that, Galaxbeam was likely still running simulations, Moonbeam was probably checking on Lunna's riverlines, and Starbeam was drafting yet another infrastructure plan.

"We'll keep it together," Sunbeam murmured to the night, to his allies, to the unseen author scribbling beyond the sky. "Four pillars, six commanders, countless elites... and a lot of very spicy soup."

He laughed softly at his own joke, then turned toward the direction of his home.

General Sunbeam, Absolute Leader of the Solar Regime, walked through his city as just another figure in orange, carrying the warmth of the evening with him.

Tomorrow would bring strategy, war councils, and perhaps the first ripples of Westonglappa's crisis.

Tonight, Sollarisca slept under the watch of suns who had eaten well, trained hard, and remembered—together—what they were fighting for.

Morning came to Sollarisca quietly, in layers of orange light.

High above Solvanairebolis, air lanes pulsed with orderly traffic: shuttles, patrol craft, transport carriers. Far below, the city was already in motion—construction drones, civilian trams, market fronts opening. General Sunbeam had disappeared into a stack of briefings and security reviews.

The work of the Solar Regime did not stop with Absolute Leaders.

It flowed outward through the Supreme Commanders.

And then through the elites.

On a westbound maglev cutting across the continent, a cluster of Sun- elites occupied a section of the observation car, uniforms neat, weapons stowed but within easy reach.

Sunazai sat by the window, orange eyes tracking the blur of terrain below—fields studded with solar pylons, rivers threaded with shimmering light-bridges, distant silhouettes of cities rising like geometric suns from the plains.

"Sunhorizon State looks different from here," Sunbond remarked, seated opposite him. "From the ground it always felt... heavier. Now it just looks like another part of home that needs its walls repainted."

Sunmerricka, long coat brushing the floor, tapped a holoscreen with practiced focus. "Sunhorizon City, Sunrange Town, Solcrater District," she recited. "All three took orbital shrapnel when the Darkened Regime pushed too far. Civilian casualties low, infrastructure damage high. We're there to oversee reconstruction and set up new defense corridors."

Suncrystal, across the aisle, glanced over her notes. "And community presence," she added. "The General made that very clear in his broadcast. People need to see orange in their streets for something other than sirens."

Sunhug leaned back, hands folded, listening more than speaking. "Reassurance is still a form of defense."

The intercom chimed softly.

"Next stop: Sunhorizon City Central. All elite detachments prepare for disembarkation."

Sunazai closed his eyes briefly, remembering the Field of Embers, Galaxbeam's spell, the first breath back in a world he thought he had left.

"Second life," he murmured.

Sunbond looked at him. "What was that?"

"Just... reminding myself I do not intend to waste it," Sunazai replied, standing and adjusting his uniform. "Let us demonstrate why the professor chose to turn our pages back."

The car slowed, skyline rising ahead—Sunhorizon's emblematic sun-shaped towers, some still ringed with scaffolding, others freshly repaired and gleaming.

They stepped off the train into a city that had learned to function under caution and was now relearning how to breathe.

The first day in Sunhorizon City moved quickly.

At the main transit plaza, Sunmerricka stood with local planners, projecting layered schematics over a damaged concourse. Her finger traced new evacuation routes, overlaying AES standards on Solar designs.

"If Darkened or any allied faction attempt another incursion," she said evenly, "we want civilians off these platforms in under four minutes. That means widening these corridors, relocating the market stalls to this arc, and adding shield gates here and here."

The local magistrate, a middle-aged man in a simpler orange sash, nodded. "We can push back structural replacements a week to prioritize this. The merchants will complain."

"Then I will speak with them," Sunmerricka said. "They survived the last attack. They understand the cost of shortcuts."

Not far away, Suncrystal coordinated with engineers on a shimmering defensive dome above the central tram hub.

"Layer three is still reacting sluggishly," one technician reported. "We can raise it, but response time to kinetic impacts is delayed by 0.8 seconds."

"Unacceptable," Suncrystal replied, but her tone remained calm. "Synchronize it with the same temporal lattice Galaxbeam shared in the PSS brief. The Galaxy Regime has already stress-tested that grid against necrotic artillery. We do not need to reinvent what has already been proven."

The technician hesitated. "Sharing that level of integration... that is a deep trust in AES protocols."

Suncrystal met his gaze. "Which is precisely the point of the alliance. We are no longer four separate egos defending our own borders. We are a unified light. Apply the lattice."

He did. The dome's reaction time dropped, readings smoothing.

In a nearby residential district, Sunhug moved through a small neighborhood that still wore scars—cracked walls, patched roofs, a few boarded windows. Children stared openly at his armor; parents watched more quietly from doorways.

He stopped where a building corner had crumbled during the bombardment and still sat roped off.

"A shield failure zone?" he asked a local Sun Guard officer.

"Old generator," the officer admitted. "We patched it with portable units after the fact. It held, barely."

Sunhug considered the fractured stone, then the cluster of children watching him. One of them clutched a battered toy shaped like a tiny sun.

"Mark this courtyard as a priority reinforcement zone," he said. "I will remain until a permanent shield pillar is installed."

The officer blinked. "Sir, that could be hours—"

"Then it will be hours," Sunhug replied. "They will sleep tonight knowing someone stands between them and the next alarm. That knowledge is worth more than any press announcement."

He took up a position at the courtyard's edge, armor humming as a personal shield dome extended just enough to encompass the building's front.

A little girl edged closer. "Are you... tired?" she asked.

He glanced down at her. "Not yet."

"Will you be here if the bad ones come back?"

"Yes," he said simply.

She nodded once and retreated, satisfied.

By dusk, the elite detachment had moved on—short hop flights and jump-gates carrying them to Sunrange Town's industrial belt and then to Solcrater District, where old mining pits had been turned into layered habitation zones.

In Solcrater, Sunazai and Sunbond walked along an elevated walkway overlooking the main crater-city, the sky painted deep orange and violet.

"For all the professor's talk about tiers and power scales," Sunbond remarked, "this still comes down to whether we show up where it matters."

Sunazai nodded. "Power levels measure capacity. Presence measures commitment."

Down below, construction swarms glowed like constellations, rebuilding a damaged hab-block. Among them moved new names—freshly assigned elites in crisp uniforms.

"Sunledger," Sunazai called, spotting a younger elite coordinating material drops. "Status?"

Sunledger—a lean figure with a data-band around one eye—looked up. "Crater-East shields restored to seventy percent, sir. Civilian housing to be habitable by the end of cycle. We will need additional funding for interior refurbishments."

"Document the needs," Sunbond said. "Attach the images, the voices, the details. Solvanairebolis will see more than numbers on a screen."

Sunledger nodded, visibly relieved that the upper echelon cared about the texture behind the statistics.

Farther along the ring, another new elite—Sunravel, cloak lined with sensor filaments—stood on the edge of the crater, eyes closed.

"Reading something?" Sunazai asked as they approached.

"Residual fear," Sunravel answered quietly. "Not in the ground. In the habits." He opened his eyes. "People still flinch when the sirens are tested. They still check the sky before they step out. It will take more than fixed walls to restore confidence."

"Then we will return," Sunazai said. "Not as alarms, but as regulars. Patrols, open forums, simple visits. Let them see orange on normal days."

Sunbond looked back toward the setting sun. "We can build that into the new schedules. Not only where Death or Darkened struck—but where they might if Westonglappa escalates and pressure spreads."

Elsewhere in Sollarisca, the day had carved different paths for other Solar elites.

Above the coastal state of Sunmaris, Sunphoenix cut a controlled arc across the sky, leaving a trail of light-shadow behind his wings. Patrol beacons blinked green along the shore—calm seas, clear skies, standard shipping.

"Control, this is Sunphoenix," he said into the comm. "Northwestern maritime corridor clear. No unauthorized warp signatures, no unregistered airframes."

"Copy, Phoenix," came the reply. "Maintain sweep for another ten minutes, then you are cleared to rotate inland. We're routing you toward Suncliff State; they requested visible elite presence after the last international broadcast."

"Understood," he answered. He banked, gaze lingering for a moment on the distant horizon, where the lines between Sollarisca and Westonglappa blurred into ocean.

He thought of Galaxbeam's warnings, of Westonglappa's near-miss when Darkened skirmishers had tried to slip through.

"If they try again," he said softly, more to himself than to the channel, "they will not find an unguarded shoreline."

He accelerated, a streak of orange against the dimming sky.

In Suncliff State, at a cliffside city literally carved into glowing rock, a pair of elites handled a more civilian-facing task.

Sunlass, scarf fluttering in the sea wind, stood on a stage in a community hall, addressing a mixed audience of citizens, local Sun Guards, and youth volunteers.

"We do not ask you to fight our battles," she said, voice clear, "but we do ask you to understand them. The Darkened Regime, the Blackened, the others—they thrive where there is confusion. Where rumors replace verified reports. Where people believe they have been abandoned."

She gestured to the large screen behind her, which displayed simple diagrams of evacuation routes, alert symbols, and AES channels.

"You are not abandoned," Sunlass continued. "You have protocols. You have contact lines. You have leaders who have already pledged, publicly and privately, that Sollarisca will not face the coming storms alone."

From the back of the room, Sunplate, another elite with a reputation for logistical precision, monitored questions feeding in from remote districts.

"Next one is from Sunridge Village," he said, passing her a datapad. "They ask what happens if communications are cut."

Sunlass nodded, addressing it directly. "If communications are cut," she said, "fall back on the drills. We have rehearsed them not to waste your time, but to make sure your body still remembers what to do if your devices do not. And remember: our enemies can disrupt systems. They cannot disrupt the bond between neighbors who have trained together."

After the session, she and Sunplate lingered, speaking quietly with local organizers, logging concerns, flagging areas where additional support might be needed.

By night's end, Sollarisca's skies and streets had been traced by the steady movement of orange uniforms, not as a desperate scramble, but as a rhythm: patrol, rebuild, teach, listen.

In a quiet moment back in Solvanairebolis, Sunazai, Sunbond, Sunmerricka, Suncrystal, Sunhug, Sunphoenix, Sunlass, and a handful of new elites found themselves briefly converging at a transit hub—a crossroads of missions.

"Sunmaris patrol complete," Sunphoenix reported, touching down. "Sea lanes are calm. For now."

"Sunhorizon and Solcrater progressing," Sunmerricka added. "We will need more materials, but morale is rising."

"Suncliff's civilians asked sharp questions," Sunlass said. "That is good. People who understand the threat are harder to terrify."

Suncrystal checked the time. "And the Professor's briefing has already reached our internal networks. PSS data, Absolute Leader hierarchy, Westonglappa projections. Galaxbeam does not waste hours."

"Neither should we," Sunazai replied. "We have been given clarity, power, and—some of us—a second chance. We will not squander them."

For a heartbeat, the elites stood together in a loose circle—no cameras, no speeches, just shared understanding.

Then the departure chimes sounded, and they moved again.

North to shield lines.

South to reconstruction.

East to community halls.

West to patrols that touched the edges of other continents.

The Solar Regime's elites went about their days across cities and states, each carrying a piece of Sunbeam's promise and Galaxbeam's warning: that the light of Sollarisca would not be a passive glow, but a living defense, stretched across every street where people dared to build normal lives under an orange sky.

While Sollarisca settled into its well-earned night, Lunna's tides refused to fully calm.

News of the AES summit, the PSS briefing, and Galaxbeam's quiet warning about future incursions had already crossed the seas. In the blue-lit cities of Lunnet State—from Lunartopia and Lunarbliss to the harbors of Lunargopa and Lunartamarin—screens replayed Sunbeam and Moonbeam standing alongside Galaxbeam and Starbeam, pledging to hold the line against the four regimes of terror.

Titanumas Cities and States

Inside Lunna's capital of Lunarpolisca, the Lunar Regime's own six Supreme Commanders convened to decide what that pledge meant for them.

Lunarpolisca – Briefing in the Tideglass Hall

The Tideglass Hall overlooked the moonlit canals of Lunarpolisca, its high windows stained with shifting shades of blue and silver. Outside, quiet ferries slipped between piers; inside, the room was all polished stone, holo-consoles, and the low hum of serious voices.

Lunarstride stood at the center of the circular table, hands resting lightly on its surface. Her posture was relaxed but alert, long pale-blue hair tied in a practical tail, combat coat open over formal Lunar whites. Of all the Commanders, she was the one most comfortable switching from battlefield to civic stage.

To her right, Lunarpuff skimmed through a stack of data slates with brisk focus. Short, soft-waved hair framed a face that could look disarmingly gentle, right up until she began discussing casualty ratios or supply logistics. She wore a light tactical mantle over her uniform, sigils of medical and support corps glowing on the sleeves.

Across from them, the three male Commanders formed a kind of storm front.

Lunardye—tall, spare, always in a neatly fastened coat—scrolled silently through a live feed of Lunnet's coastal surveillance nets. Numbers soothed him; so did clearly defined risk profiles.

Beside him, Lunardale sat with arms folded, broad shoulders filling his chair. Scars traced faint white lines across his knuckles; he was the kind of commander who preferred to discuss strategy after seeing a map, a battlefield, and an enemy's eyes in person.

Lunarstream, lean and sharper in feature, adjusted the hovering projection at the center of the table—pulling up cross-continent routes, shipping lanes, and potential Blackened Regime infiltration paths. He had the restless energy of a man who'd rather be in a patrol craft than in any room with walls.

Lastly, near the window, Lunarstorm leaned against the sill, gaze angled toward the distant sea. Of all six, he least enjoyed meetings, but Moonbeam trusted his intuition with weather, people, and threats alike.

A holo-image of Galaxbeam flickered above the table—paused mid-gesture from the earlier summit, golden lines of the PSS scale still visible behind him.

Lunarstride tapped the interface, replaying a short excerpt of his address.

"Supreme Commanders... you are the bridge between the near-immortal and the mortal. You bear powers that could turn continents, yet you are tasked with guarding markets, harbors, and homes. Your strength exists to keep ordinary lives ordinary."

The recording faded. The room was quiet for a beat.

Lunarstride broke the silence. "All right. We all heard the professor. We've all read his files. Thoughts?"

Lunardale exhaled. "Thought one: I never needed a chart to know that trying to punch Sunbeam would be stupid. Thought two: if Deathwing's people are already probing Westonglappa, we can assume Blackwing will test Lunna again."

"Agreed," Lunardye said. "Galaxbeam's dossier notes multiple small disruptions traced to Blackened operatives along Lunna's shipping lanes. Nothing decisive yet, but... patterns are forming."

Lunarpuff slid a slate toward the center. "Hospitals in Aquarblissmarinia and Blisslunnech reported treating more sailors with unexplained exhaustion and memory lapses over the last month. No obvious injuries. It may be natural—but it also matches early stages of some Blackened psychological agents."

Titanumas Cities and States

Lunarstream frowned. "So they're probing our sailors, not our ports. Softening the crews before the ships."

"Which is why Moonbeam wanted us here before the next public address," Lunarstride said. "She's about to reassure the continent that AES unity is strong. Our job is to ensure that statement remains true when the next wave hits."

From the far side of the room, the door opened with a soft chime.

Lady Moonbeam stepped in—long hair catching the light like liquid silver, uniform immaculate despite the faint shadows under her eyes. She carried no visible weapon; she did not need one.

"Commanders," she said, voice calm but edged with fatigue. "I see you started without me. Good. That means you're taking Galaxbeam's warnings as seriously as I hoped."

They rose to salute. Moonbeam waved them gently back to their seats and joined them at the table.

"I've just finished a joint broadcast with Galaxbeam in Lunartopia," she said. "The people needed to see that we are aligned with Sollarisca and Starrup. Now they need to see us act." 

Titanumas Cities and States

Lunarstorm pushed away from the window. "Orders, my Lady?"

Moonbeam's gaze moved around the circle. "I want each of you visible, decisive, and present. We're going to give Lunna one night of seeing its Supreme Commanders not only on battlefields, but in streets, harbors, and civic centers. You will move, observe, and prepare. When the next crisis comes—perhaps in Westonglappa, perhaps here—you will already have the trust of those you defend."

Lunarstride nodded. "Assignments?"

Moonbeam brought up a map of Lunna, luminous states and islands hovering over the table.

"Lunarstride, Lunarpuff—you start in Lunartopia and Lunarbliss. I want joint patrols and public forums; talk to merchants, port authorities, and families who lost loved ones to Blackened bombardments."

"Understood," Lunarstride said.

Lunarpuff added, "We should visit the refugee districts near Lunarby as well. They're still on edge. I'll coordinate with Moonwisdom and the data corps."

"Do it," Moonbeam agreed. She pointed to another cluster of lights. "Lunardye, you're in Aquarblissmarinia and Lunaverris Prime. Audit our naval readiness. If any crew so much as reports a strange dream, I want it logged."

"Yes, my Lady."

"Lunardale, you'll take Lunnargrepharia City and the inland training grounds near Lunnexberg. Work with the Moon Soldiers and Rangers; make sure their anti-boarding drills reflect Blackened tactics, not last decade's war." 

Titanumas Cities and States

Lunardale smiled faintly. "With pleasure."

"And Lunarstream," she finished, "you'll run the aerial corridor from here to Freezeluppelolis and down to Lunarkelappath. I want a clear picture of our skies and how easy it would be for an enemy strike group to slip through."

Lunarstream's eyes lit at the prospect. "Consider it done."

Moonbeam's expression softened. "You won't be alone. Our elites will move with you. But tonight, I want the term 'Supreme Commander' to mean something more than a name in a broadcast."

She let her gaze rest on each of them in turn. "Move carefully. Listen more than you speak. And if you sense anything resembling the patterns we saw before Westonglappa's fall, you contact me and Galaxbeam immediately."

The six bowed their heads in assent.

"Then go," Moonbeam said.

Field Assignments – Lunarstride and Lunarpuff

Night deepened over Lunartopia, the city's canals reflecting strings of white and blue lanterns. Lunarstride and Lunarpuff walked side by side along the waterfront boulevard, flanked by a small escort of Moon Rangers.

Vendors were closing their stalls, but many paused to stare, then bow or wave hesitantly as they recognized the two women.

"They still expect us to appear only in armor," Lunarpuff murmured, glancing at a group of teenagers trying unsuccessfully not to stare. "Or only on news feeds."

"That's why we're here," Lunarstride replied. "Let them see that the same people who stand on the front lines also walk their streets."

They stopped at a memorial overlooking the harbor—names etched into a curved stone wall, candles flickering at its base.

An older woman stood there, hands clasped around a chipped lantern. She noticed the Commanders, stiffened, then bowed deeply.

"Supreme Commanders," she said, voice unsteady. "My daughter fell when Blackwing's ships shelled our docks. She... she admired you all. I just wanted to say thank you for being here."

Lunarstride stepped closer, lowering her head in respect. "What was her name?"

"Moontera," the woman answered, eyes shining. "Marine detachment. She used to say the seas would listen to you, Commander Lunarstride."

"They listened to her first," Lunarstride replied quietly. "We remember her. And we will not let her sacrifice be wasted."

Lunarpuff stepped forward with gentle professionalism. "If you ever feel unsafe, or if anything unusual happens around your home—strange broadcasts, unexplained dreams—please report it directly." She handed the woman a small holo-card bearing her personal liaison code. "We mean it."

For the rest of the night, they moved from harbor watch posts to small community centers, answering questions, listening to grievances, and quietly noting any reference to odd behavior that might hint at Blackened psychological pressure.

By dawn, Lunarstride's boots were damp with salt spray, and Lunarpuff's slate was filled with notes.

"This," Lunarpuff said, stretching her shoulders, "is going to be a long report."

"Good," Lunarstride answered. "Long reports mean we're seeing the whole picture."

Coastal Vigil – Lunardye and Lunardale

Farther along Lunna's crescent coastline, Aquarblissmarinia glowed like a ring of sapphires against the dark sea. Warships of the Lunar Navy rose from their berths like patient beasts, their hulls etched with sigils of tide and moon. 

Titanumas Cities and States

Lunardye and Lunardale strode along the main dock, their capes stirring in the sharp ocean wind.

"Captain," Lunardye said to the nearest officer, "run the crew through the last forty-eight hours again. Any unexplained absences, gaps in memory, or anomalous sensor readings."

The captain swallowed, then nodded. "Yes, Commander. We'll pull the logs."

Lunardale paused beside a younger sailor who stared out at the open sea with a troubled expression.

"Problem?" Lunardale asked.

The sailor jumped. "N-no, Commander. Just... thought I saw lights last night. Far out. But the instruments didn't pick anything up."

Lunardale exchanged a brief look with Lunardye.

"What kind of lights?" Lunardale pressed.

"Like... greenish. Fading in and out. Almost... calling," the sailor admitted, embarrassed. "I didn't report it because I thought I was just tired."

"You report it now," Lunardye said, voice firm but not unkind. "And you let medical run a full scan. Blackened Regime likes to start wars inside people's heads."

By the time they left Aquarblissmarinia for Lunaverris Prime, they had compiled a list of irregular incidents—none damning alone, but together forming a constellation of concern.

"Moonbeam will want this," Lunardye said, eyes on his tablet.

"And Galaxbeam," Lunardale added. "Anything that smells like experimental terror weapons belongs on his desk."

The Skies Above – Lunarstream and Lunarstorm

Over the northern states, Lunarstream flew a sleek patrol craft through the thin blue clouds, the curvature of Lunna visible beneath him. He checked corridor beacons, radar nets, and the security of aerial transit paths linking Lunarpolisca to distant Freezeluppelolis and Lunarkelappath. 

Titanumas Cities and States

"This corridor is cleaner than my quarters," he muttered over the coms.

"Don't boast yet," Lunarstorm replied from a sister craft flying parallel at a higher altitude. "I'm picking up odd pressure fronts over Dusknightenpale. No enemy signatures... but the atmosphere feels like it remembers bombardment."

"You and your instincts," Lunarstream said, but there was respect in his tone. "Mark the anomalies. If we end up evacuating civilians along these routes, I want zero surprises."

They spent the night mapping not just the obvious paths, but the emergency alternatives—valleys, coastal arcs, airspaces that could serve as safe corridors if Westonglappa's crisis spilled outward.

By dawn, when their craft finally banked back toward Lunarpolisca, both men were exhausted but satisfied.

"Moonbeam wanted presence," Lunarstorm said, watching the city rise into view.

"She's getting more than that," Lunarstream replied. "She's getting a web."

Return to Lunarpolisca – Quiet Debrief

Back in the Tideglass Hall, the six Supreme Commanders reconvened as pale light seeped through the windows, painting the room in muted blue.

They shared their findings in concise reports.

Lunarstride and Lunarpuff detailed the emotional temperature of Lunartopia and Lunarbliss, the quiet resilience, and the small but worrying accounts of strange dreams and fatigue.

Lunardye and Lunardale presented their data on naval crews and unexplained lights at sea.

Lunarstream and Lunarstorm projected their anomaly-marked flight paths, mapping where the sky itself seemed unsettled.

When Moonbeam arrived, still in the same uniform as the previous night, she listened without interrupting.

When they finished, she nodded slowly.

"This," she said, "is what it means to be Supreme Commanders under the PSS scale and beyond. Not just power, but vigilance. Not just battles, but the spaces between them."

She looked around the table, pride and worry balanced in her gaze.

"Galaxbeam spoke of us as pillars. Tonight you acted like them—quiet, load-bearing, unseen by most, but holding up the sky. Keep these habits. When Westonglappa calls—and it will—we will already have the practice of moving as one."

The six straightened, the fatigue in their faces tempered by renewed purpose.

Outside, Lunna's seas glittered under the rising light.

The Lunar Regime had not yet faced the next storm, but its Supreme Commanders were already in motion—threads in a larger tapestry woven by four allied lights, stretching from Sollarisca's orange cities to Lunna's blue harbors, from Starrup's green eco-cores to Galaxenchi's golden universities.

And when the darkness stirred again, it would find a world that was not sleeping, but quietly, carefully, preparing.

Lunardye closed the holo-map with a flick of his wrist. The luminous lines of Lunnet's frontlines folded away, leaving only the reflection of six faces in the conference room glass.

"Orders are clear," he said, turning back toward Lady Moonbeam. "We will stabilize Lunnet and prepare the continent for full AES coordination."

Moonbeam nodded once, the silver of her eyes catching the room's soft light. "I trust you, all of you. The world has just watched the four pillars stand together. Now Lunna must prove that our pillar holds."

Lunarstorm folded his arms. "We will not allow Blackwing's people to think Lunnet is an easy target again."

Lunarstride, standing at Moonbeam's right, rested a gloved hand on the table. "Mistress, you should rest. Let us handle the follow-through." Her tone was respectful, but firm—the voice of a Supreme Commander who had carried troops through bombardment and refused to see her leader collapse under the strain.

Lunarpuff, seated beside her, offered a small, confident smile. "We will turn today's announcement into something the people can touch. Repaired bridges, open markets, patrols that arrive on time. After the speeches, they need proof."

Moonbeam allowed herself a quiet exhale. "Then go. Lunardye, Lunardale, Lunarstream, Lunarstorm—secure the arteries of Lunnet. Lunarstride, Lunarpuff—stay close to the people. Listen as much as you speak. I want to know what they hope and what they fear."

They saluted in unison, six crescents of light crossing over armored chests, then filed out into the corridor, boots ringing softly against polished stone.

Supreme Commanders in Motion

Outside the Lunar Citadel in Lunarpolisca, the sky had darkened into a velvet blue. Towering screens still replayed fragments of the AES summit: Galaxbeam's measured warnings, Sunbeam's bright confidence, Starbeam's precise pledges, and Moonbeam's calm vow to shield Lunna at any cost. Crowds had thinned, but the echo of their cheers lingered over the capital.

Titanumas Cities and States

Lunardye and Lunardale were the first to depart, boarding a sleek gunmetal dropship bound for Lunartopia and Lunarbliss. From the viewport, Lunardye watched the city-lights slide beneath them like scattered constellations.

"Supply lines first," he said, more to himself than to anyone else. "If the people see convoys moving again, they will believe the alliance is already working."

Lunardale checked his tactical slate. "We have Moonbrass and Moonbond on standby at Lunartopia's central depot. They were asking for clear guidance after the broadcasts."

"Then we will give it," Lunardye replied. "No more vague memos. The citizens saw Absolute Leaders today; they deserve commanders who are just as direct."

The dropship banked toward the coast, engines humming.

—

Back in the capital, Lunarstream and Lunarstorm stepped onto a high balcony overlooking the Lunavexis transit ring, where trains of pale blue light threaded between districts.

"Communications grid first," Lunarstream said, his eyes following the arc of a moving maglev carriage. "Galaxbeam gave us a warning. If the Blackened or Darkened Regimes move, we will see it in the data before we see it on the horizon."

Lunarstorm crossed his arms, gaze tracking the ongoing reconstruction below. "And if they come anyway, we meet them in the sky. I will double our ready wings over Lunartamarin and Lunarbliss. Blackwing will not repeat his naval tricks here."

Lunarstream's lips curved into a faint smile. "You and your skies. Very well. I will give you the air picture. You make sure nothing unwelcome stays in it."

They exchanged a firm nod and split—Lunarstream descending toward the Data Tidal Core, Lunarstorm striding toward the flight elevators.

—

Lunarstride and Lunarpuff did not take ships right away. Instead, they walked out through the citadel gates into the streets of Lunarpolisca in full ceremonial armor, cloaks trailing silver-blue behind them.

They drew attention immediately. Civilians paused, some nervously, others with visible relief, as the two Supreme Commanders moved through the main boulevard.

Lunarpuff glanced sideways. "We could have used a transport."

"We could," Lunarstride agreed. "But then only the cameras would see us. This way, the children on the balconies can say they saw the command staff walking their streets after war, not hiding in tunnels."

As if on cue, a small girl clutching a stuffed moon-creature leaned over a railing with wide eyes. "Commander Lunarstride!"

Lunarstride stopped, looking up. "Yes?"

"Are we... are we really friends with the Sun and Stars now?" the girl asked. "My father said we are part of something called A-E-S."

Lunarpuff's expression softened. "Allied Evolution Salvation," she said clearly. "It means we do not stand alone anymore."

Lunarstride raised two fingers in a crisp salute to the balcony. "Tell your father that the pillars of light are real. And that we intend to keep this sky clear for you."

The girl beamed. "Yes, Commander!"

They moved on, but the brief exchange had done its work. Murmurs of reassurance trickled through the watching crowd. The news of the AES summit had been grand; the sight of their own commanders walking among them made it tangible.

The Buzz of the Moon – Lunar Elites at Work

As the night stretched over Lunna, the focus of the tale slipped from the high balconies of Supreme Commanders to the streets, plazas, and corridors where the Moon- elites lived and worked.

These were not background figures. They were the hands that made Moonbeam's promises real.

1. Operations Tower – Moonwis, Moonwisdom, and Moonwise

In a crystalline tower overlooking Lunartopia, three elites stood before a ring of hovering displays.

Moonwis, a human male with sharp features and perpetually rolled-up sleeves, tapped through streams of data—news feeds, social media bursts, trade signals from across Lunnet.

Beside him, Moonwisdom, human female, wore her hair in a simple braid, eyes focused and calm as she curated incoming reports tagged with "AES," "Galaxbeam," and "Moonbeam." Her fingers moved in efficient arcs, sorting fact from rumor.

Behind them sat Moonwise, older and composed, hands folded around a cup of steaming tea as he watched the two work.

"Public sentiment?" he asked quietly.

Moonwis pulled up a heatmap of Lunnet. "Seventy-five percent positive or hopeful. Twenty percent cautious. Five percent hostile or confused. A spike of enthusiasm in Lunartamarin and Lunarbliss—ports love the idea of new alliance trade routes."

Moonwisdom nodded. "There is also a significant increase in people asking whether AES will send forces to Westonglappa. Galaxbeam's mention of the continent did not go unnoticed."

Moonwise sipped his tea, then set it down with gentle precision. "Then we frame the message clearly. Lady Moonbeam's office must emphasize that AES is a defensive alliance first—protecting what still stands—while acknowledging our responsibility to those beyond our shores."

Moonwis glanced over. "You want a briefing packet for the Mistress?"

"And for the press," Moonwise said. "Suno'reilly will do her part in Sollarisca, but Lunna must speak with its own voice."

Moonwisdom smiled faintly. "I will prepare a public digest. No panic, no false certainty. Just the truth: we are stronger today than we were yesterday, and we are still watching the horizon."

The three elites bent back over their displays, quiet and intent, turning distant speeches into practical communication that millions would read by morning.

2. Lunartopia's Commercial Ring – Moongirl, Moonflower, Moonlindsey, Moonsoft

In Lunartopia's commercial ring, the AES announcement had become background noise to the hum of everyday life. Holographic billboards replayed carefully edited segments from the central summit as pedestrians moved between shops, cafes, and transit platforms.

At a corner tea-house, four female elites had claimed a window booth: Moongirl, cheerful and lively; Moonflower, serene; Moonlindsey, stylish and quick-tongued; and Moonsoft, gentle and observant.

Moongirl leaned over the table, tapping her wrist-holo to project a frozen frame of Sunbeam and Moonbeam standing side by side at the podium.

"Look at the comments feed," she said, scrolling. "Half the continent is shipping them."

Moonlindsey sighed. "Of course they are. When an Absolute Leader of light vows alliance with another, people want to see love stories, not casualty tables."

Moonflower stirred her drink thoughtfully. "There is nothing wrong with people wanting symbols. Hope needs faces."

Moonsoft smiled faintly. "And it is easier for children to understand 'Moonbeam and Sunbeam are friends' than 'multi-continental strategic alliance.'"

Moongirl glanced out at the crowd beyond the window. "Do you think this changes how we work? I mean... we're used to guarding Lunna first. Now we are expected to think like a quadrant of a bigger picture."

Moonflower's expression firmed. "Our duty does not shrink; it extends. We are still Lunar elites first—protecting Lunnet, Coldrakkeren, Blizzfluth, all of it. But if a convoy from Sollarisca arrives in need, or a Star Regime envoy requests safe passage, our answer is clear."

Moonlindsey nodded. "We accommodate. We coordinate." She smirked. "And we absolutely make sure the out-of-towners understand our traffic system."

Moonsoft's gaze drifted up to a large screen where Galaxbeam's closing lines replayed in quiet loop. "He said there will be more war," she murmured. "But also that knowledge and unity can transcend brute force. I... would like to believe him."

Moongirl raised her cup. "To believing, then. And to working until belief has evidence."

The others lifted their cups as well. Around them, civilians passed by the windows, glancing up at the screens, talking, laughing, planning their own tomorrows in the shadow—but not under the choke—of coming conflict.

3. Coastal Patrol – Moonbrass, Moonbond, Moonblue

On the darkened waters near Lunarbliss, three male elites walked the deck of a patrol cutter slicing through calm waves.

Moonbrass leaned on the rail, scanning the horizon through augmented lenses. "AIS channels are clean. Merchant freighters, a Sollariscian relief convoy, and one Galaxenchi research vessel staying politely outside our security ring."

Moonbond checked the inbound logs. "Relief convoy is carrying construction materials for Lunardaysa's bridges. Their captain asked if they could address the local press upon docking—something about 'standing with Lunna after Blackened aggression.'"

Moonblue, quiet and thoughtful, listened to the low static of open channels. "Permission comes from Lunaropolis, but... I do not see a reason to reject symbolic gestures. The people need to see foreign hulls bringing aid, not weapons."

Moonbond nodded. "Lunardye will coordinate it. He wants Lunartopia and Lunarbliss to become proof that AES is not merely a speech."

Moonbrass lowered his lenses. "Then our job is simple. We make sure these waters stay quiet enough that alliance ships come and go without interruption."

The cutter's engines hummed steadily as they continued their patrol, the distant glow of Lunarbliss port flickering against the sea.

4. Night Markets and Neighborhoods – Moonray, Moonbreeze, Moonterra

In a restored night market in Lunarby, strings of lanterns swung gently over stalls selling steaming food, shimmering fabrics, and hand-crafted holo-charms.

Moonray strolled between stalls with Moonbreeze and Moonterra, all three in light-duty armor bearing the Lunar crest. Their presence was half patrol, half public reassurance.

"Listen to them," Moonbreeze said quietly. Threads of conversation drifted past—people discussing Galaxbeam's warnings, speculating about Westonglappa, comparing footage of Sunbeam's and Starbeam's speeches. "The whole continent is talking policy as if it were family gossip."

Moonterra smiled. "When war walks your streets, you either shut down or you start learning vocabulary. Our people chose the second option."

Moonray paused at a stall where a vendor had set up a small projector replaying Lady Moonbeam's segment of the summit. A group of teenagers watched, arguing about who had the highest PSS and whether it mattered.

One of them noticed the three elites and straightened. "Commander—sorry, Elite Moonray! Do you think AES can really stop the four villain regimes?"

Moonray considered them for a moment. "No alliance can promise perfection," he said honestly. "But I can tell you this: before today, Lunna was fighting Blackened incursions with only distant promises of help. Tonight, I have colleagues in Sollarisca, Starrup, and Galaxenchi who are planning alongside us. If Darkwing's remnants or Blackwing himself moves, we will not stand alone."

Moonbreeze added, "And as long as we keep walking these markets and patrols, we show that their terror has not emptied our streets."

The teenagers exchanged glances, visibly reassured. One of them bowed awkwardly. "Thank you, elites."

As the three moved on, Moonterra glanced at Moonray. "You answered more gently than usual."

"Children are not war rooms," Moonray replied. "They do not need casualty projections. They need to know that adults have a plan."

The Moon's Quiet Resolve

By the time midnight bled into the early hours over Lunna, the Supreme Commanders' orders had begun to ripple through the continent.

Lunardye and Lunardale coordinated convoys and port security from Lunartopia and Lunarbliss.

Lunarstream's data teams, guided by Moonwis, Moonwisdom, and Moonwise, refined threat-detection algorithms while also shaping the narrative of AES with clear, calm messaging.

Lunarstorm's pilots drilled new scramble patterns above Lunartamarin, their contrails tracing pale arcs across the night sky.

Lunarstride and Lunarpuff moved among hospitals, transit hubs, and community halls, listening to citizens' worries and hopes, ensuring policies did not drift away from the people they were meant to protect.

And throughout Lunnet and beyond—Lunarby's markets, Lunardaysa's neighborhoods, the coastal shields of Lunarbliss, the plazas of Lunaropolis—Moon-elites like Moongirl, Moonflower, Moonlindsey, Moonsoft, Moonbrass, Moonbond, Moonblue, Moonray, Moonbreeze, Moonterra, and countless others carried out their duties with renewed purpose.

They talked about Moonbeam and Sunbeam, about Starbeam and Galaxbeam.

They debated what AES meant for trade routes, education exchanges, and future evacuations.

They shared quiet stories of the battles already fought—and began to imagine, cautiously, a horizon where the four pillars of light could hold against the four regimes of terror.

Lunna did not sleep entirely that night. But for the first time in a long while, its wakefulness was not driven only by fear.

It was stirred by conversation, strategy, and the subtle, growing belief that the Moon was no longer shining alone.

Across the oceans from Lunna, the same AES bulletin rolled across every holo-screen, ticker, and wrist-terminal.

News of Galaxbeam's PSS lecture, of Sunbeam's training session with his Supreme Commanders, and of the quietly defused Darkened incursion near Westonglappa, all flowed into a different sky—one lit not by soft lunar reflections, but by a lattice of emerald constellations.

Starrup.

The continent of engineered forests, vertical skylines, and data-bright rivers.

Starrup – A Lattice of Green Light

In Starrenmid State, the sun rose over Starrlight City and the education towers of Starrcademia, turning their glass panels a washed jade. Further north, the financial spires of Starrengrade cut into the sky, while rail lines carried commuters out toward the residential belts of Starrhaven, Starrview, and Starrvista.

Titanumas Cities and States

Westward, Starrengrade State stretched in terraces of rivers and biotech farms, its hubs like Starrlume, Starrbrook, and Starrbayou linked by maglev and sky-tram. South, the eco-corridors of Greenclearr Star State flowed around arcologies like Starrrenverdenpolis, Starrlumina, and the capital Starencadentropolis, each city grown as much as it was built.

Titanumas Cities and States

And in the dense heart of Greenwealth State, greenways and sky-bridges braided through Starrgrove Nexus, Starrcanopy, and the capital Starrenbukweep, where foliage, fiber-optic lines, and monorails were all part of the same nervous system.

Titanumas Cities and States

Within that system moved five men whose names carried weight equal to hurricanes.

The Supreme Commanders of the Star Regime.

Starradye – Signals in Starrenmid

In a tower overlooking Starrlight City, Starradye stood before a curved wall of projections. The Star Regime's emblem—a stylized emerald star—glowed faintly above live feeds from Sollarisca, Lunna, and Galaxenchi.

Moonbeam's press conference replayed in one corner; Sunbeam's range exercise highlights ran in another. Galaxbeam's diagram of the Power Scaling Spectrum rotated slowly in the center, each tier labeled.

"Absolute Leader, Supreme Commander, Elite, ground forces," Starradye murmured, arms folded. "He has finally wrapped our reality in a neat axis."

A notification pulsed at his wrist. He accepted the encrypted call.

"Lunardye here," came a familiar voice, faintly distorted by quantumnet routing. "Just confirming you received the full PSS transcript."

"I did," Starradye replied. "We are updating simulation baselines and public briefing templates now. Thank you, counterpart."

"Likewise. Lunna will forward civilian-grade summaries once Moonwis finishes stripping the classified segments."

The link cut. Starradye exhaled, then opened a local channel.

"Starradale, Starrastream, you see the Westonglappa note?" he asked.

Two icons lit up immediately.

"Reading it on the train," Starradale answered.

"In front of a lecture hall," Starrastream added. "Students are already asking if it means we send relief fleets."

"Not yet," Starradye said. "For now, the directive is observation and readiness. Starbeam wants our house in order before the next wave hits."

He closed the channel and turned to the window. Beneath him, Starrcademia's plazas filled with students and staff. The AES crest flickered subtly on public boards.

"Order first," he repeated quietly. "Then outreach."

Starradale – Rails Through Greenwealth

In Greenwealth State, a maglev train whispered across an elevated track between Starrbrook and Starrgrove Nexus, its transparent sides giving an uninterrupted view of forest-covered arcologies and wind-harvest spires.

Titanumas Cities and States

Starradale sat in a forward cabin, tablet floating above his palm. Beside him, two eco-engineering elites—Starflora and Starrroot—scrolled through infrastructure reports.

"The PSS lecture is already trending in civilian channels," Starflora noted. "People are reassured, but they are also... cataloguing us. There is a lot of speculation about how close Supreme Commanders are to Absolute Leaders on that spectrum."

"Close enough that we are targets," Starradale said evenly. "Far enough that we cannot replace them. That is what matters operationally."

Outside, a child on a sky-garden balcony waved at the passing train, her toy drone pulsing in sympathetic emerald light. Starradale's gaze lingered on that small, ordinary motion.

"We keep the grid stable," he continued. "Water to Starrsprings, power to Starrcircuit, green corridors open between Starrlush and Starrbotanica. If the people see continuity, the labels will trouble them less."

Titanumas Cities and States

Starroot nodded. "And if Westonglappa becomes the next front?"

"Then our logistics will decide how fast we can stand beside them," Starradale replied. "So we complete today's inspections. No short cuts because the news cycle is dramatic."

The train slid into Starrsprings station. On the platform, a group of high-schoolers held up screens replaying clips of Starbeam standing with Sunbeam and Moonbeam at the AES table.

One boy spotted Starradale through the glass and stiffened in shock. Starradale met his eyes, lifted two fingers in a small, precise salute, then rose.

"Come," he said to the elites. "We will audit the vertical farms, then the transit cores. Westonglappa is tomorrow's problem. Today's responsibilities are right here."

Starrastream – Lecture in Starrenmid

Back in Starrenmid, inside a tiered auditorium at Starrcademia, Starrastream finished sketching a stylized network diagram in the air. Lines of hard light connected icons representing Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, and Galaxenchi.

"...and that," he concluded, "is the updated AES quantum-relay spine. Questions?"

Hands shot up.

A student near the front stood. "Commander, is it true that only Absolute Leaders can harm each other directly? The networks are saying bullets, spells, even orbital strikes bounce off them."

Starrastream considered his answer before speaking.

"It is accurate that our Absolute Leader operates on a tier beyond conventional threat models," he said. "General Sunbeam, Lady Moonbeam, Professor Galaxbeam and our own Starbeam Charmley can only be truly challenged by one another."

"So what is the role of Supreme Commanders then?" another student asked. "If they are untouchable, why are you necessary?"

Starrastream smiled faintly.

"Because invincibility does not manage traffic," he replied. "It does not route relief convoys, rebuild rails after sabotage, or negotiate spectrum rights for cross-continental coordination. Absolute Leaders are keystones. We are the bridgework. Remove the keystone, the arch collapses. Remove the bridgework..." He gestured to the glowing network. "The arch stands alone over empty ground."

A notification blinked at the corner of his vision: internal priority from Starradye, summarizing early projections on a potential Westonglappa theater.

He did not open it yet.

"One more question," he offered.

A girl in the back row raised her hand hesitantly. "Commander... the footage from Lunna shows Starbeam laughing with General Sunbeam and Lady Moonbeam. Do you truly trust the other regimes that much?"

"Yes," Starrastream said simply. "Because I trust the work they have done, the risks they have taken, and the data we share from those risks. The Darkened, Blackened, Shadow, and Death Regimes have no such transparency. That is our advantage."

He dismissed the class, then stepped out into the corridor, opening Starradye's summary at last.

Westonglappa. Ports. Possible repeat incursion.

"Understood," he murmured, and started walking toward the operations wing.

Starrastride – Patrol in Greenclearr Star State

In the canopy levels of Greenclearr Star State, a squadron of light walkers moved along a suspended forest trail between Starrsprout and Starrglade, their steps cushioned by energy-dampening fields.

Titanumas Cities and States

Starrastride ran at their head, armored boots almost silent on the living bridge. Around them, genetically-tuned trees shimmered with faint bioluminescence; drones hummed overhead, mapping canopy health.

"Border sensors picked up a transient distortion near Starrhavenswraith Enclave," reported an elite ranger, Starhunter, from the rear. "False alarm, but citizens are nervous. They saw the Westonglappa headline."

"They see 'Darkened incursion' and assume it could be here next," Starrastride replied. "We show them otherwise by being visible and measured."

As if on cue, a flock of engineered glider-birds burst from the branches, startled by a misfired survey drone. One bird veered close to Starrastride, its emerald wings brushing his shoulder.

He caught it gently, checked its telemetry tag, then released it.

"Apologies," called the drone operator over comms. "Calibration spike."

"Log it and correct," Starrastride said. "No panic over noise. Only patterns."

On a nearby ridge, a group of hikers paused to watch the patrol pass, whispering as they recognized the commander. One child waved an AES-branded flag with the four hero emblems. Starrastride gave a brief nod, then signaled the squad to continue.

His wristband vibrated—group link request from Starradye.

He accepted audio only.

"Report?" Starradye asked.

"Greenclearr corridors secure," Starrastride answered. "Local morale high, anxiety manageable. Recommend more public briefings from Starbeam's office tying the PSS explanation to concrete defensive measures."

"Noted," Starradye said. "We will script something before evening."

"Make it calm," Starrastride added. "Not triumphant. People want competence more than slogans right now."

"Agreed," came the reply.

The link closed. Starrastride looked out over the layered forests and cities of Greenclearr and quietly adjusted his patrol route to pass more civilian walkways than originally scheduled.

Visibility was part of defense.

Starrastorm – Skies Above Termmaddlina

In the high atmosphere above Termmaddlina State, where names like Galtidestarr and Ventihelm Leon City marked aerospace hubs, a formation of defense satellites reoriented in precise, incremental arcs.

Titanumas Cities and States

Inside a command deck aboard a sleek patrol carrier, Starrastorm watched stormfront models overlay the projected flight paths of potential enemy craft.

"Lightning grid aligned," reported an elite systems officer, Starvoltis. "If the Darkened attempt a high-altitude approach similar to the Westonglappa probe, we can scramble interceptors from Ventihelm within ninety seconds."

"Ninety is acceptable," Starrastorm said. "But we can reach seventy."

He keyed in adjustments, borrowing predictive algorithms from Galaxbeam's shared files. The storm mesh shifted, optimizing charge reservoirs closer to probable incursion vectors.

"Seventy-four seconds, projected," Starvoltis corrected. "You were nearly right, sir."

"Nearly is for simulation," Starrastorm replied. "We will refine again after live drills."

Another officer turned from her console. "Commander, there is a civilian flight from Starredommah City requesting a re-route around the exercise zone."

"Approve it," he said. "No drills that disrupt commerce. Our job is to shield, not show off."

He paused, then added, "And forward them the public AES bulletin about our cooperation with the Galaxy Regime over Westonglappa. People will relax if they know we are learning from real events."

He stepped to the viewing port. Below, the emerald-flecked curve of Starrup filled half the window; above, stars shimmered in cold clarity.

"Storms are inevitable," he murmured. "Our duty is to ensure they break against us, not through us."

Convergence – Evening in Starrengrade

By evening, lights kindled across Starrup: the soft glow of Starrfield's residential towers, the river reflections of Starrbrook, the commercial blaze of Starrtopia and Starrvesta. In Starrengrade, government complexes and data ministries shifted from day staff to night crews.

Titanumas Cities and States

In a secure conference chamber there, a holotable flared to life as five emerald silhouettes resolved into solid figures.

Starradye, fresh from operations in Starrlight.

Starradale, coat still dusted with pollen from inspection tours.

Starrastream, carrying the residual murmur of lecture halls.

Starrastride, armor damp with forest humidity.

Starrastorm, uniform faintly crackling with discharged charge.

Starbeam was absent—occupied with higher-tier diplomacy—but his presence hung in the emblem on the wall.

"Status round," Starradye said.

They reported in turn: infrastructure, morale, networks, patrols, sky-shields. The common thread: Starrup was calm; Starrup was watching; Starrup was readying quietly for whatever the Westonglappa situation might become.

When they finished, a brief silence settled over the table.

"Galaxbeam's PSS has given the people a vocabulary," Starrastream said at last. "They are talking about tiers they do not fully understand. That can harden into either trust or fear."

"Then we shape it," Starradale replied. "Through action first, words second."

"Action is already set," Starrastorm said. "Defenses are recalibrated, grids synced. If the Darkened push another probe, they will not find a gap here."

Starrastride folded his arms. "And on the ground, they will see us in their streets, their forests, their transit hubs. Not as myths, but as working men upholding a working system."

Starradye closed the session log.

"Then we proceed," he said. "Starbeam will call when he needs us at his side. Until then, we keep Starrup stable, efficient, and ready to move when Westonglappa's time comes."

They exchanged short, professional nods. One by one, their images faded, returning each Supreme Commander to his corner of the emerald continent.

Outside, Starrup's cities hummed on—Starrengrade, Starrlight City, Starencadentropolis, Starrenbukweep, Starredommah City—their people scrolling through newsfeeds that spoke of Absolute Leaders, PSS tiers, and a distant crisis brewing beyond their shores.

Titanumas Cities and States

Above it all, the Star Regime's Supreme Commanders went about their days: inspecting, teaching, patrolling, calibrating the skies.

Not invincible like their Absolute Leader.

But indispensable, in all the ways that kept the emerald world of Starrup turning.

When the Supreme Commanders' holoprojections faded from the Starrengrade operations chamber, the city's emerald night carried on without a pause. Transit lines hummed, rooftop gardens glowed, and, out in the districts and sister-states of Starrup, another crucial layer of the Star Regime moved into focus.

The elites.

They were the lattice-work beneath Starbeam and his commanders—hundreds of specialist men whose lives threaded through streets, laboratories, trading floors, patrol routes, and classrooms.

Tonight, the AES news reached all of them.

Across Starrenmid State, in the commercial spine of Starrtopia, an elevated walkway looked down on a river of shoppers and office workers. Neon-green signs flickered between ads and live news as a presenter replayed images of Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam, and Galaxbeam standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the new AES meeting ground.

"Replay that one more time," Starshop said, leaning against the railing with a takeaway cup in hand.

Beside him, Starcredit scrolled through financial feeds on his wrist. "If you keep staring, you will miss the market close."

"I am watching the market," Starshop replied. "Look at the indices—trade confidence jumped five points the moment the four of them announced a unified defense pledge. Even our local merchants are tagging 'AES-certified' on their products."

Starcredit allowed himself a small smile. "Starrengrade's finance ministry is pleased. The perception of stability matters."

Down below, a group of teenagers passed by, waving small holo-flags: Solar orange, Lunar white-blue, Star green, Galaxy violet.

"You think Westonglappa believes it?" Starshop asked quietly. "That we will be there when Darkwing's allies try again?"

"We are already adjusting aid packages and insurance lines toward potential reconstruction zones," Starcredit answered. "They will believe when the first stabilizing funds arrive ahead of the first shells."

He closed the financial feed and nodded toward the crowd. "And they will believe because men like us keep the economy running even when war is discussed in every headline. Go finish your vendor inspections. I will finalize the tariff recommendations before midnight."

Starshop straightened, set his empty cup into a recycling slot, and pushed off from the railing.

"Right. Supply first, slogans later."

They parted, each disappearing into different levels of the sprawling, luminous mall, their work a quieter complement to the speeches broadcast across Titanumas.

In a training forest on the outskirts of Starrfield, the air smelled of sap and ozone. Holographic Darkened Regime drones flickered between the trees, projecting simulated volleys of dark-red energy.

"Left flank, compress!" shouted Starpark, voice cutting over the sound of boots on loam.

A squad of younger Star elites shifted formation, shields overlapping as they pushed through an artificial choke point. Above them, Starhunter launched from a grapple-line, landing lightly on a branch, rifle set to stun-sim.

"Targets at twelve and three," Starhunter called. "Remember—Darkened skirmishers target your supply lines, not your pride. Protect the engineers first."

One trainee overextended, chasing a retreating hologram.

"Starrkid, fall back three steps," Starpark ordered sharply. "Do not chase a distraction. Darkwing's people will happily trade one elite for a ruptured pipeline."

The young elite skidded to a halt, cheeks flushed. "Yes, sir!"

When the last red icon blinked out and the forest returned to its calmer hues, Starpark tapped his wrist and ended the exercise.

"That is the third drill today using Westonglappa as a reference scenario," Starhunter observed as he dropped to the ground. "They are beginning to understand that our training is not abstract."

Starpark nodded. "They saw Lady Moonbeam's ruined riverlines and Echumeta's broadcasts. They know what is at stake."

A trainee approached, catching his breath. "Commander Starpark... is it true that only the Absolute Leaders can really fight Darkwing, Blackwing, Shadowwing, and Deathwing directly?"

"On the highest tier, yes," Starpark answered. "But remember what Galaxbeam said about the Power Scaling Spectrum. Lesser does not mean useless. Your role is to ensure that when Starbeam moves, he is not doing it alone on a broken foundation."

Starhunter clapped the young elite on the shoulder. "We clear the landing zones. We keep civilians out of the crossfire. We make sure the supply and evac corridors exist at all. That is what we train for here."

The trainee straightened, nodding with renewed focus.

"Reset the field," Starpark ordered. "Next run, we add simulated civilian clusters. The AES alliance means joint deployments. You may be escorting Lunar or Solar engineers tomorrow, not just our own."

In Greenwealth State, inside a glass-walled research center in Starrbrook, a wall of screens displayed PSS charts, cross-regime energy signatures, and casualty maps from past engagements.

Starintelligence sat at the central console, fingers moving with controlled speed as he compared Galaxbeam's shared data to existing Star Regime archives. A steaming cup of green tea cooled beside his keyboard, long forgotten.

"We have confirmation," he said into the room. "The field reports from Sollarisca match Galaxbeam's theoretical curves. Sunbeam's apparent invulnerability during small-arms bombardment aligns with a PSS reading in the ten-thousand range."

Near the window, Starwise leaned against a desk, arms folded.

"So the rumors were understated," Starwise noted. "The Absolute Leaders might be even more resilient than their public profiles suggest."

"Yes," Starintelligence replied. "But the more interesting data is lower on the scale. Look at the four-thousand to six-thousand band. Elite-level. When Solar, Lunar, and Star elites coordinate, the overall effectiveness increases exponentially, not linearly."

He expanded a simulation: Star elites securing a corridor while Moon elites controlled water flows and Sun elites provided direct fire support.

"With synchronized doctrines, three elites from different regimes can outmaneuver a single Supreme Commander-level opponent for a limited window," he explained. "That matters if we ever face a high-tier hostile without our own absolute present in the theater."

Starwise watched the simulation loop, gaze thoughtful.

"Then our work is to make sure those doctrines exist before the first joint deployment," he said. "Not during."

"Agreed," Starintelligence answered. "I will package this for Starbeam and the Supreme Commanders. In the meantime, inform our training centers in Starrwindhaven and Starrmarsh that we will be introducing new joint-scenario modules using Lunar and Solar AI stand-ins."

Starwise pushed off the desk. "Understood. I will also request liaison teams—Starfolk, Starbreak, Starcreed—to begin reviewing Lunar and Solar tactical archives so that when we write doctrine, it respects their strengths, not just ours."

He paused at the door.

"And, Intelligence," he added, "include one civilian digest in your report. People will handle the PSS better if they hear it explained clearly without numbers that feel like a foreign language."

Starintelligence smiled faintly. "I will draft something for public channels. It will not compromise anything sensitive."

"Good," Starwise said. "Our enemies thrive on confusion. Let us deny them that luxury."

Far to the south, in Idollolipolis State, the coastal city of Starrsea buzzed with ship horns and dockside chatter. Cargo cranes moved like slow, deliberate insects, lifting containers between solar-powered freighters and floating greenhouses.

On a pier overlooking the harbor, Starshop reappeared, tablet in hand, overseeing a line of supply crates being loaded onto a vessel bearing both Star Regime and AES markings.

"Manifest cross-checked?" he asked.

"Confirmed, sir," replied Starchandise, another elite, scanning the crate codes. "Relief equipment, water purifiers, modular shelters—destination: Parracacoz in Eastoppola for pre-positioning. No weapons shipments in this batch."

"Good," Starshop said. "When Westonglappa calls, we do not want anyone accusing us of dragging our feet. The world remembers Echumeta."

At the end of the pier, a holoscreen replayed images of Moonbeam walking the rivers of Lunna, inspecting repaired dams, while text crawls discussed the AES summit and Galaxbeam's lecture.

Seagull-drones circled overhead, cameras silently adding another layer of observation to the bustling port.

Starshop signed the final authorization and watched as the ship eased away from the dock, guided by tug drones.

"We are merchants of stability," Starchandise remarked quietly.

"Exactly," Starshop replied. "And stability is what our Absolute Leader promised when he stood next to Sunbeam and Moonbeam. We are here to ensure the promise is not empty."

Night drew deeper across Starrup.

In a rooftop garden in Starrview, a group of younger elites—Starhammer, Starquest, Starfolk, and Starbreak—sat on the edge of a low wall, legs dangling over a panorama of lights. They passed a portable projector between them, cycling through highlights from the AES meeting and Galaxbeam's lecture.

"So we are somewhere between four and six thousand on that scale, according to the rough estimates," Starhammer said. "That makes us elites, but not near-immortals."

Starquest shrugged. "Labels do not change the fact that if the Darkened Regime lands in Westonglappa tomorrow, we will be on the transports."

Starfolk tilted his head back, watching the faint line of a satellite cross the sky. "Do you ever think about how strange it is? That our lives are defined by numbers and tiers in someone else's system?"

Starbreak looked at the tower where Starbeam's office lights still glowed. "Maybe," he answered. "But I also think about the people in the apartments below us who do not have to learn those numbers at all. They get to argue about sports and music because we spend our nights with drills and data."

He stood, stretching.

"That is enough meaning for me."

A notification pinged on all their devices: a short message from Starbeam's office.

AES directive acknowledged. Maintain readiness, uphold civility, trust in coordination.
– Starbeam Charmley

Starhammer slipped his device back into his pocket.

"Orders are clear," he said.

Starquest rose beside him. "Then we rest while we can."

They looked out over Starrup's emerald cities—Starrlight, Starrengrade, Starrbrook, Starrcademia, Starrenbukweep, Starredommah City—a network of light tied now not only to itself but to Sollarisca, Lunna, Galaxenchi, and the distant, threatened coasts of Westonglappa.

The Supreme Commanders had set the tone.

Now, the elites carried it into streets, ports, patrols, classrooms, and homes—quietly embedding the AES pact into the rhythm of daily life, so that when the next storm rose from the dark corners of Titanumas, Starrup would not meet it as an abstract alliance on a screen, but as a living, practiced reality.

In the green night, the Star Regime breathed as one vast organism, its Absolute Leader a distant, steady star, its Supreme Commanders the great arteries, and its elites the countless, essential capillaries that kept every part of the continent alive.

Starrenmid's sky had the color of newly-forged steel when the workday finally tilted toward evening.

In the fortress complex above Termal City in Starrenmid State, the last reports of the day scrolled across translucent holo-panels. Beyond the windows, the state's cities—Starrentflight, Starrtopia, Starrenrad, Starrfield—glimmered like a patient constellation strung across the highlands, each one a node in Starbeam's green-powered grid.

Closing out the day with the Star Elites

Starbrass stood on an observation gantry overlooking Termal's recycling megaforge. Below him, conveyor lattices carried mountains of scrap—spent casings from the Darkened front, broken drones, shattered transport hulls. Monolithic presses re-smelted them into clean ingots bearing the Star Regime sigil. What had tried to kill his people in the morning would become solar-panel frames and mag-rail tracks by night. That was Starbeam's doctrine: no tragedy left without conversion, no battlefield without yield.

⚖️ Titanumas_ The Hierarchy of ...

He signed the last authorization with a flick of his wrist.
"Shipment S-19, rerouted to Lunna's tidal barrier project," he told the waiting clerk. "If the waves hit harder this winter, I want their sea walls smiling back at them in star-steel."

On the other side of the fortress, Starhunter stepped in from the landing bay, helmet tucked under his arm, suit still humming from orbit-reentry. His patrol logs showed clean skies above Starrup—no Darkened stealth wings, no Blackened raider flotillas. Only friendly transponders drifting along their assigned arcs.

"Another lap around the planet," Startoy teased, leaning against a rail with a pair of kids from a visiting eco-academy clinging to her sleeves. "Did you at least bring back pictures?"

Starhunter smirked and flicked a hologram into the air: a projection of Sollarisca's sunrise, Solar war-scar lines slowly healing under new AES-funded forests. The children gasped; Startoy's expression softened.

"We'll field-trip there when the cease-fire sticks," she promised them. "For now, homework: design a city that runs on zero waste. Best design gets a tour of Starbeam's war room."

Down in the media studio, Starshine faced a bank of cameras. She was still in tactical bodysuit, only half-changed from earlier drills, star-emblem catching the studio lights.

"...and thanks to the joint AES initiative," she told the audience across Titanumas, "Starrengrade's floodplain is now powered entirely by reclaimed-orbital solar platforms. Our engineers are sharing these schematics with Sollarisca, Lunna, and Galaxenchi—because survival is not a patent, it is a shared equation."

A ticker crawled beneath her broadcast:

HEADLINE: STAR REGIME ELITES TURN WAR SCRAP INTO GREEN INFRASTRUCTURE.
AES COUNCIL PRAISES 'STARRUP MODEL' FOR SUSTAINABLE REBUILD.

In the adjacent analytics bay, Starface finished correlating data bursts from all three allied regimes—Solar logistics, Lunar intelligence, Galaxy research. The lattice of information folded into a single rotating prism over his desk, each facet representing a crisis averted: intercepted Darkened arms shipments, rerouted famine relief, deflected propaganda.

He tagged the last file and exhaled.
"Package sent to Galaxastream," he murmured. "Let the galaxy's number-cruncher have fun with that one."

At the fortress balcony, Starbeam himself watched the lights over Termal City brighten one district at a time as renewable grids shifted into night mode. This was how he liked his wars: measured in kilowatt stability and economic resilience, not in body counts.

⚖️ Titanumas_ The Hierarchy of ...

He glanced up as a formation of courier craft streaked toward the upper atmosphere—sleek, golden-trimmed ships bearing the spiral insignia of the Galaxy Regime. Transition, he thought. The handoff.

"Starbrass. Starhunter. Everyone." His voice carried easily over the intercom net. "Stand down to green alert. AES focus moves to Galaxenchi next. We have done our part today. Let the professors have the spotlight for a while."

The elites acknowledged in unison. Systems dimmed from combat readiness to sustainable idle.
Starrup's stars glowed quietly over a regime that, for one evening, had earned the right to rest.

Arrival in Galaxenchi

A single hyperspace filament unraveled above Gallaxgonbei State, and the Galaxy courier formation slipped through. Below lay a different world: the yellow-golden sweep of Galaxenchi's plains, cut with rivers of light where cities like Galaxenportal City, Gallaxtetsubei, and Galaxenchi-Tenkūjō floated or climbed into the sky.

Titanumas Cities and States

In the capital citadel of Gallaxtetsubei, the Grand Prism Chamber's floor glowed softly as it brought up live feeds from across AES space. At the center of it all stood the six Supreme Commanders of the Galaxy Regime, their presence bending the room's atmosphere the way a planet bends light.

⚖️ Titanumas_ The Hierarchy of ...

Professor Galaxbeam presided from a raised dais, but this was their briefing.

Galaxadye – The Scale

Galaxadye occupied his usual station before a suspended ring of holo-slates, each one a different metric: atmospheric recovery over Lunnet, infrastructure resilience indices for Sollarisca, economic rebound curves for Starrup. His eyes, a calm obsidian, moved with patient precision.

"AES Initiative 31-GreenCorridor," he reported, voice level. "Projected to cut Darkened supply routes to Eastoppola by 18% when the rail nets through Paladimee and Yealbankokk are complete. Star Regime's recycling outputs exceed expectations; Solar's casualty ratios have stabilized since the last shipment of Galax-grade armor."

A fresh headline flickered on a side screen:

DATA FROM GALAXADYE SHOWS AES LOSSES DOWN 22% SINCE GALAXENCHI INTERVENTION.

Galaxbeam inclined his head, satisfied. Numbers were not glory, but they were reality; Galaxadye ruled that realm like a quiet emperor.

Galaxadale – The Bridge

In an adjoining terrace overlooking Galaxenchi-Kōryū, a city of streaming light-rivers and stacked gardens, Galaxadale chaired a summit of AES envoys.

Solar tacticians, Lunar diplomats, Star economists—each had arrived with agendas, grievances, and wishlists. Galaxadale listened to them all, fingers steepled.

"General Sunbeam wants more artillery positioned along East Sollarisca," one Solar colonel argued.

"Lady Moonbeam insists Lunarpolisca's orbital shield refresh must not be delayed," a Lunar minister countered.

"Starbeam's people demand guarantees that any new shipyards meet our carbon-neutral treaty," added a Star Regime planner.

Galaxadale smiled faintly. He liked puzzles.

"We will satisfy all three," he said at last. "The Death Regime will not exploit our disagreements because we will not have any. We will convert retired Darkened hulls into neutral-emission shipyard scaffolds. Solar gets artillery, Star gets clean industry, and Lunar's shield contracts receive priority with our surplus Galax-engineers. Signed under the AES Concord."

Another headline rolled out over the newsnets:

GALAXADALE BROKERS 'TRIPLE-WIN' DEAL – AES UNITY STOCK HITS RECORD HIGH.

Galaxastream – The Flow

Deep under Galaxenchi-Eienmachi, where servers hummed like captive suns, Galaxastream reclined in a chair surrounded by suspended streams of data.

He flicked his wrist and watched simulations of Darkened troop movements dissolve into new patterns. Propaganda flows from the Blackened Regime were mapped like venom in the bloodstream; he tagged each with counter-memes prepared by Lunar intelligence and Star media, then routed them through Solar civilian networks in non-traceable bursts.

"Redirect that rumor about 'Solar overreach' into a documentary about their evacuation protocols," he told a watching AI assistant. "If Blackwing wants to paint Sunbeam as a tyrant, we will bury him in footage of disaster zones the Solar Regime cleared at their own expense."

AESNet promptly pushed a trending segment:

'DAY IN THE LIFE OF A SUNMARINE MEDIC' – VIEWERSHIP TOPS 900 MILLION.

Galaxastream watched the curves spike, pleased. War in the Dominance Era was fought in bandwidth as much as in trenches.

Galaxastride – The Vanguard

On the outskirts of Galaxen-Gingaishi, where the land bristled with training fields and shield pylons, Galaxastride ran drills that made whole mountain ranges flinch.

He stood at the center of a vast exercise: Galax Soldiers in gleaming armor, Solar artillery on loan, Lunar drone-wings overhead, Star logistical walkers hauling mobile shield generators. It was a full AES joint maneuver, code-named "Prism Line."

"Again," Galaxastride commanded as simulated Darkened dropships streaked over the horizon. "This time you assume the Solar flank collapses. You do not panic; you reconfigure. Remember: an AES line bends—never breaks."

The battlefield lit with controlled detonations and coordinated redeployments. Observers from every hero regime filled the viewing towers, recording doctrines to export back home.

By the end of the drill, the mountain-valley hologram was a mosaic of successful adaptive formations. Starbeam's envoys were already muttering about adopting Prism Line as a standard defensive template.

Galaxastorm – The Shield

High above Galaxen-Tenshū, a floating bastion drifted in the upper atmosphere, wrapped in stormclouds harnessed by arc-reactors.

Titanumas Cities and States

There, Galaxastorm tested the newest anti-I.S.I.S. satellite shield arrays, designed to blunt any rebuilt super-weapon the BRD might launch. Each thunderclap outside the bastion corresponded to a simulated strike intercepted, each bolt of contained lightning a node charging the new barrier.

"Reality check," he muttered, calibrating a panel. "If Deathwing fires that thing again, I want the beam bending so hard it comes back to spank his own flagship."

Live coverage cut in from a safe orbiting platform:

GALAXASTORM DEMONSTRATES 'RETURN-TO-SENDER' DEFENSE GRID – BRD SUPERWEAPONS FACING NEW WALL.

Galaxapuff – The Quartermaster of Survival

Finally, at Tung-she City in Yealbankokk State, Galaxapuff walked the length of a gigantic logistics corridor humming with motion. Containers stamped with the emblems of Solar, Lunar, and Star regimes flowed along mag-tracks, each one destined for a front line or rebuilding zone.

Her datapad ticked off figures: medkits to Lunnet coastal towns, replacement armor to Sun Soldiers in East Sollarisca, eco-infrastructure components to Starrengrade's marshlands.

"Every AES victory starts here," she reminded a group of young Galax cadets touring the facility. "Guns that do not arrive on time might as well not exist. Food that spoils on the wrong dock is as deadly as enemy artillery. Our job is to make sure good intentions become real outcomes."

One of the cadets raised a hand timidly. "Commander... why do other regimes talk about battles and power levels while you talk about schedules and containers?"

Galaxapuff smiled.

"Because if we fail, their power levels never get the chance to matter."

The answer went viral on AESNet within minutes:

QUOTE OF THE CYCLE: 'IF LOGISTICS FAIL, POWER LEVELS NEVER MATTER' – GALAXAPUFF.

Brief Meta-Interruption: Professor Galaxbeam vs. The Narrator

In the Grand Prism Chamber, as the holo-feeds cycled, time seemed to go slightly... out of focus.

Galaxbeam's golden eyes lifted from the reports and stared, not at any person in the room, but somewhere beyond it—past the chamber, past Galaxenchi, past Titanumas itself.

"To whoever is transcribing this," he said dryly, addressing a presence only he could sense, "a few corrections."

The chamber lights dimmed, as though the universe itself were listening.

"First: Sun O'Reilly is male. Kindly ensure the pronouns match reality. Second: the Solar Supreme Commanders are 'Solardye, Solardale, Solarstream, Solarstride, Solarstorm, Solarpuff'—not random 'Sun-' improvisations. Third: in the Lunar Regime, the Supreme Commanders are 'Lunardye, Lunardale, Lunarstream, Lunarstride, Lunarstorm, Lunarpuff.' They are not named 'Moon-something'; that prefix is reserved for elites such as Moonwisdom and Moonscar. The Codex is clear."

He paused, then added with pointed patience:

"I appreciate creativity. I do not appreciate misclassification. Even in a war, details matter."

Somewhere, in an unseen writer's room populated by confused AIs and overworked narrators, a collective gulp was silently heard.

Galaxbeam blinked once. Reality snapped back into place. The Supreme Commanders in the chamber, unaware of the professor's brief cross-dimensional lecture, continued their duties.

Back to the Supreme Commanders

A chime sounded across the Grand Prism Chamber. A new AES bulletin scrolled down from orbit:

AES JOINT STATEMENT: 'GALAXENCHI CONFIRMS FULL SUPPORT TO FRONT-LINE REBUILDS; HERO REGIMES ENTER PHASE TWO OF DOMINANCE ERA COUNTER-OFFENSIVE.'

Galaxadye confirmed the math; Galaxadale sent diplomatic cables to all allied capitals. Galaxastream injected the statement into a thousand language streams. Galaxastride began planning the next set of cross-regime drills; Galaxastorm plotted shield coverage over each emerging hotspot. Galaxapuff signed off on yet another convoy bound for beleaguered Sollarisca coasts and Lunnet harbors.

Across Titanumas, the headlines multiplied:

"STAR REGIME CLOSES GREEN CYCLE ON WAR SCRAP; GALAXY REGIME TURNS DATA INTO SHIELDS."

"LUNAR INTELLIGENCE, SOLAR ARMIES, STAR ECONOMISTS, GALAXY STRATEGISTS – AES QUADRANT MOVES IN LOCKSTEP."

"BRD FORCES WARNED: 'THE STARS THEMSELVES ARE WATCHING.'"

In a quiet moment between reports, Galaxbeam looked around at his commanders—each a pillar of their regime, each now tied into a web of alliances that spanned seas, moons, and distant continents.

"We have given them numbers, treaties, logistics, drills, and shields," he said softly. "The next moves belong to Sunbeam, Moonbeam, and Starbeam. But when history writes this chapter, it will remember that the Galaxy Supreme Commanders held the line between chaos and coordination."

Galaxadye inclined his head.
Galaxadale smiled, already drafting the communiqués.
Galaxastream's fingers danced through new streams of incoming intel.
Galaxastride tightened his gloves, eager for the next exercise.
Galaxastorm turned back to the storm walls.
Galaxapuff checked her departure schedules one last time.

Far beyond Galaxenchi, supply convoys ignited their drives, arcing toward Solar, Lunar, and Star space like deliberate shooting stars.

The Dominance Era was just beginning—but under the quiet, relentless stewardship of the Galaxy Regime's Supreme Commanders, AES had never looked more prepared.

The Grand Prism Chamber dimmed to its evening setting, lines of light narrowing to a calm, steady glow. The last AES bulletins faded from the central holo.

Galaxbeam closed his hands over the railing of the dais.

"You have your vectors," he said to the six Supreme Commanders. "Tonight the data settles. Tomorrow we interpret the next storm."

One by one, they acknowledged.

Galaxadye bowed and let his panels collapse into a single, quietly spinning glyph before his chest. Galaxadale gathered his envoys and strode toward the diplomatic wings. Galaxastream vanished into the depths of the information vaults, already triangulating new disinformation to dismantle. Galaxastride took a trans-spatial lift directly to the training ranges, Galaxastorm to the upper atmosphere bastions, Galaxapuff down into the humming arteries of logistics.

When they were gone, the chamber was left to the soft murmur of machines and Galaxbeam's thoughts.

"The strategy is sound," he murmured. "Now it passes to the ones who touch the streets."

He turned, cape whispering against the floor, and with that simple motion the focus of Galaxenchi's vast apparatus shifted—from Supreme Commanders to the elites who carried their directives into the living world.

Galaxenchi Elites – The Hands of the Regime1. Galaxenportal City – The Gate

Night over Galaxenportal City was never truly dark. Massive ring-gates floated above the urban sprawl, each a luminous hoop bending space into shimmering corridors. Incoming and outgoing craft traced orderly streamlines through them, their paths choreographed by thousands of calculations a second.

On a balcony overlooking Gate Six, Elite Galaxmurasaki stood with her coat unbuttoned, the wind tugging at violet hair. Her codename among the people was Radiant Envoy—the elite who could talk to anyone, in any language, and make them feel that Galaxenchi listened.

Her wrist-console chimed. A small hologram of Galaxadale appeared, crisp and formal.

"The AES reconstruction envoy from Starrengrade will arrive in five minutes," he said. "Remember: they have never set foot in Galaxenchi. To them, this place is myth."

Murasaki smiled faintly. "Then we will give them a first impression they can carry home."

She cut the line and turned to her escort squad—Galaxelite officers in light armor, faces open, weapons holstered but accessible.

"Protocol 'Open Constellation'," she said. "No intimidation. No posturing. This is not an inspection; it is an invitation."

The gate flared. A sleek Star Regime shuttle emerged from the warped light, bearing green insignias from Grassgroww State. As it descended, the city's music swelled—traditional strings woven with electronic chords, a subtle welcoming motif broadcast over public channels.

When the hatch opened, the Star delegates stepped into a world of tiered gardens, aerial walkways, and polite, but unmistakably superhuman, guardians.

Galaxmurasaki stepped forward, bowing with practiced grace.

"On behalf of the Galaxy Regime and Professor Galaxbeam," she said in smooth, accented Starren, "welcome to Galaxenportal City. You are not guests of a fortress today. You are partners stepping into a shared lab."

One of the Star delegates, a systems architect still visibly nervous around elites, relaxed a fraction.

"If this is a lab," he managed, trying for humor, "what are we here to experiment on?"

"On trust," she answered. "And on how quickly we can turn it into working infrastructure."

Behind her, the skyline flashed with news: AES JOINT GREEN CORRIDOR – STAR AND GALAXY SIGN TECHNICAL EXCHANGE. The headline featured her name as liaison. She did not turn to look; she already knew.

2. Galaxenchi-Tenkūjō – The Sky City

Far above the plains of Galaxenshu State, the sky fortress Galaxenchi-Tenkūjō floated on rings of captive thunder and gravity-tuned pillars. Its decks were a blend of shrine, research platform, and fortress.

Elite Galaxryūsei ran along the exterior track in light gravity, each step pushing her into bounding arcs over dizzying drops. Her role—Orbital Vanguard—was to intercept anything that tried to come at Galaxenchi from space. To her, the sky was not a backdrop. It was a contested domain.

As she jogged, a tactical overlay hovered at the edge of her vision: simulations from Galaxastorm's new return-to-sender shield grid, data from Starhunter's patrols, Lunar orbital watch posts, Solar early-warning satellites.

A call request blinked from Galaxastream.

She accepted, breath steady. "Ryūsei here."

"Just pushed a new pattern to your board," his voice said, surrounded by the whisper of data-lines. "If the Death Regime reconfigures their Nemesis-style arrays, their beams might come in braided rather than linear. I need a live operator's opinion: do you prefer intersecting shields or an adaptive mirror?"

She considered as she reached the corner of the track, pivoting with a twist that sent her sailing along the next stretch.

"Adaptive mirror," she decided. "If they think they understand our pattern, they will commit harder. I would rather punish that overconfidence than give them a stable wall to study."

On his end, Galaxastream chuckled. "You sound like Galaxbeam when he is grading my equations."

"Then take it as a compliment," she replied. "And tag the configuration as 'Ryūsei Variant'. If it saves cities, I want our cadets to know their seniors expect them to innovate."

The sky fortress rotated gently beneath her, one more AES safeguard locked into place by an elite who spent her days running along the edge of the world.

3. Galaxenchi-Yūseikan – The Infinite Arcade

In Galaxenchi-Yūseikan, nominally an "amusement district," the streets were lined with arcades, VR theaters, and combat simulators disguised as games. Tourists came for entertainment; cadets came to learn. On any given day, the two groups blended.

Elite Galaxshinji sat at the center of one such arcade, surrounded by cheering teenagers and off-duty Galax Soldiers. Before him floated a complex holographic battlefield, AES colors on one side, mock Darkened-Blackened forces on the other.

The title of the game was Prism Tactics. Its designer? Galaxshinji himself.

"You coded in the new Lunar stealth drones, right?" a cadet asked, fingers twitching over their console.

Shinji nodded, eyes never leaving the field. "They behave based on Moonwisdom's latest engagement reports. If you cannot find them here, you will not find them on a real rooftop either."

He flicked two fingers. On the board, a simulated Solar regiment seemed to overextend—only for hidden Lunar units to emerge and catch the enemy in a cross-fire. Star logistics units swooped in to establish forward depots. Galaxy artillery adjusted fire using real telemetry from recent drills.

The crowd roared as the "enemy" collapsed.

"You make war look fun," a civilian youth murmured, half in awe, half unsettled.

Shinji finally looked away from the hologram. "The fun part is understanding it before it happens," he said calmly. "So that when it is real, fewer people have to scream."

He tapped a control; the simulation froze and rewound, turning into a lesson overlay. Key maneuvers highlighted with annotations referencing Galaxastride's Prism Line drills and Galaxadye's casualty-reduction curves.

Half the arcade switched from cheering to attentive silence. In Galaxenchi, even playtime was layered with training.

4. Galaxen-Yuehua – The Night Market of Minds

In Yennbogold State, the riverside city of Galaxen-Yuehua glittered with lanterns and coded glyphs floating over the water. Here, information flowed more freely than in most places, by Galaxbeam's deliberate design. The city served as a "soft" frontline in the war of narratives.

Elite Galaxen Suyin, codenamed Whisper Archivist, walked the night market with a simple tablet in hand. To casual observers, she looked like a scholar on holiday, pausing to buy sweet buns and tea. In truth, every stall she passed was a listening post: vendors quietly patched into Lunar media safe-lines, Solar SUNTRE trackers, Star polling networks.

At one stall, an elderly woman handed her a folded paper fan.

"Rumors from Westonglappa," the vendor murmured. "Talk of 'BRD angels' punishing disloyal towns. Fear is up."

Suyin opened the fan. Projected text scrolled across the inner surface—anonymous reports, snippets of intercepted Blackened broadcasts, miscaptioned images.

She frowned. "They are testing a new myth structure," she said. "Poorly, but fear grows even from crude seeds."

Her tablet pinged. A secure channel to Galaxastream.

"Stream," she said. "Flag this pattern. It uses religious overtones targeted at rural populations with low net exposure. We will need counter-stories that respect their culture while dismantling the lie."

His response came at once. "Can you source local storytellers willing to record testimonies? AES propaganda is less effective if it sounds like us instead of them."

"Already in motion," she replied. She looked to the old woman. "Grandmother, how would you tell a tale about false angels with broken wings?"

The woman laughed dryly. "I would not tell of angels at all," she said. "I would tell of farmers who realized the 'angels' bled ink when cut—just words, not gods."

Suyin smiled, already sketching outlines. The next wave of counter-myths would feature humble farmers outwitting lies, broadcast across Titanumas in local dialects. The Death Regime's borrowed holiness would not go unchallenged.

5. Galaxen-Tianshui – The Healing Towers

In Yealbankokk State, the city of Galaxen-Tianshui rose around a series of high towers encircling a central cascade. The towers housed advanced med-labs and rehabilitation centers, many of them now filled with patients from Solar, Lunar, and Star fronts.

Elite Galaxen Hoshina, a healer-chemist, walked briskly along a skybridge connecting two towers. Her coat smelled faintly of antiseptic and herbal steam.

Inside the ward she entered, beds were occupied by Sun Soldiers with scorched armor, Moon Rangers bearing scars of shadow-wounds, Star Marines recovering from orbital decompression. Over each bed, diagnostic glyphs floated—fusions of Galax biotech and each regime's own symbols.

A Solar medic straightened as Hoshina approached. "Commander Galaxen," he said formally. "Your serum H-13 reduced necrotic spread in our last batch of patients by half. On behalf of Sollarisca..."

She cut him off gently. "No titles in the ward," she said. "Here we are only practitioners and survivors."

She moved from bed to bed, adjusting an IV drip here, re-coding a med-glyph there. At a Lunar patient's bedside, she paused longest; the woman bore markings of Death Regime toxin, a rarer and more insidious wound.

"Will I keep my connection to the tide-songs?" the Moon elite asked quietly. "Or will... this... cut it?" She gestured weakly at her bandaged side.

Hoshina considered, then answered truthfully. "Your body will change. But if you wish, we can integrate new sensory pathways. You might not hear the tide the same way afterward—but you may hear it in other frequencies. We will not let the Death Regime decide what you lose."

The Lunar woman blinked away tears. "You speak like Moonwisdom," she whispered.

"I read her reports," Hoshina replied with a faint smile. "We all learn from one another now."

She scribbled a note into the patient's chart: Coordinate with Star neural-interface specialists; consult Solar rehabilitation frameworks; design hybrid therapy. Another small, quiet war won, one patient at a time.

6. Gallaxosmeinyu – The Think Tank City

In Gallduchaisan State, the think-tank capital Gallaxosmeinyu buzzed long into the artificial night. Tower after tower housed labs, workshops, strategy cells.

On a terrace overlooking the city lights, a small cluster of Galaxy elites had gathered informally—Murasaki back from the gates, Ryūsei still in part of her flight rig, Shinji with a projection of his game minimized on his wrist, Suyin holding a cup of tea, Hoshina smelling of medbay herbs.

Above them, the sky was clear, punctured by the faint glimmer of Galaxastorm's shield lattice. Somewhere beneath their feet, convoys planned by Galaxapuff prepared to depart. In the data streams, Galaxadye's updates ticked along; in diplomacy suites, Galaxadale's deals settled into law.

"We see their names in every headline," Shinji said, meaning the Supreme Commanders. "But it is our signatures on half the implementation reports."

Murasaki shrugged. "They carry the responsibility of direction. We carry the responsibility of contact. Both are necessary."

Ryūsei leaned on the railing. "I watched a replay of Solar's recent training with their Supreme Commanders. They look... lighter, now that Galaxbeam has put language to their power tiers."

Suyin sipped her tea. "People fear what they cannot categorize," she said. "PSS gave structure to the chaos. That is why our AES broadcasts about it spread so quickly. Even Westonglappa gossip is starting to reference 'Absolute Leaders' as if it were an old myth finally named."

Hoshina looked toward the horizon, where distant ring-gates flickered. "And when the next real crisis comes?"

"Then," Murasaki said calmly, "our job will be the same. To ensure that when Professor Galaxbeam moves a piece on the cosmic board, a real family in a real city ends up safer, not more frightened."

A notification chimed on all their devices at once—an AES intel flash, priority but not yet urgent. Somewhere on another continent, a new BRD probing action had begun. Solar scouts, Lunar analysts, Star economists, and Galaxy planners would all act within minutes.

The group exchanged glances. The quiet interlude was over.

"Back to work," Shinji said, already expanding a tactical overlay.
"Back to the gates," Murasaki agreed.
"To the sky," Ryūsei added.
"To the market," Suyin said.
"To the ward," Hoshina finished.

They departed in different directions, each trailing a faint echo of light.

In the Grand Prism Chamber, Galaxbeam felt their motions ripple through his internal map of Galaxenchi. Supreme Commanders defined the strategy; elites translated it into living action—from gates and fortresses to arcades, markets, hospitals, and think tanks.

"Implementation stage confirmed," he murmured.

Far across Titanumas, citizens checking their devices saw new AES alerts, new construction schedules, new rehabilitation programs, new stories undermining BRD lies. Many of those messages bore small, unobtrusive credit tags:

Prepared by Elite Galaxmurasaki, Radiant Envoy.

Simulated and verified by Elite Galaxshinji.

Compiled by Elite Galaxen Suyin.

Endorsed by Elite Galaxen Hoshina.

Cleared by Elite Galaxryūsei.

Few outside military or policy circles knew those names well. Yet in the shadow of Absolute Leaders and Supreme Commanders, it was the elites of the Galaxy Regime who kept the AES machine humming—one gate, one drill, one story, one life at a time.

Above Galaxenchi, stars wheeled in their patient courses.

The war for the Dominance Era was far from over.

But with Supreme Commanders guiding from the heights and elites moving through streets, skies, and networks, the Galaxy Regime had already ensured one thing:

When history wrote of how Titanumas survived, it would find Galaxy fingerprints on every turning page.

Rumors always traveled faster than ships.

By the time the last of the think-tank elites drifted out of Gallaxosmeinyu's terrace, recordings of the AES press conference had already been cut, remixed, subtitled, and blasted across half of Titanumas.

Galaxbeam's calm explanation of the Power Scaling Spectrum.
His statement that only Absolute Leaders could truly end one another.
His aside about "plot-armor constants" and "metaphysical ceilings" that most citizens took as metaphor, but which every regime insider heard as something more serious.

The words echoed through Galaxenchi—and the elites caught the echoes first.

Gatefront Gossip – Galaxenportal City

The next morning in Galaxenportal City, the ring-gates cycled steadily, but the conversations at the terminal cafés were anything but calm.

Elite Galaxmurasaki sipped strong tea at a corner table while reviewing transit approvals. Two younger Galaxy elites—Galaxkaito and Galaxmei, both transport security specialists—argued quietly nearby, half-watching a news replay floating over the bar.

"...he really said it," Galaxkaito insisted, gesturing at the projection where Galaxbeam stood beside Sunbeam, Moonbeam, and Starbeam. "Listen—'In practical terms, only an Absolute Leader can truly end another Absolute.' That means the rest of us, Commanders included, are effectively invincible below that threshold if the match-up is wrong."

Mei shook her head. "That is not what he meant. You heard the second part—'Power outside its proper lane causes collateral damage and strategic failure.' He was warning the BRD, not giving us a license to be reckless."

Kaito lowered his voice. "Still. People are already speculating. The Sollariscans are saying Sunbeam walked through point-blank artillery without noticing. The Lunnans are calling Moonbeam a living tide-goddess. Starrup talk shows are asking whether Starbeam counts as a 'civilian-friendly tyrant'."

Murasaki let the chatter wash over her for a moment before joining in.

"Speculation is natural after a new framework," she said. "Our job is to channel it. The more people understand that hierarchy, the less they will panic when Absolutes act—and the less the BRD can twist the narrative."

Mei nodded, settling. "You saw the inbound from Westonglappa? Their parliament is already referencing PSS tiers in their debates. 'Do we have anyone above Elite? Can AES spare a Supreme Commander?'"

"Which is exactly why we must be precise," Murasaki replied. "When Galaxbeam speaks in broad metaphysics, we answer with clear policy. Absolutes end Absolutes. The rest of us protect the living terrain between them."

Her tablet pinged—an urgent request from Turreyatch's Highbarrow port, confirming new joint drills after Galaxbeam's quiet intervention there. She rose, cloak flicking behind her.

"Gate Six is yours," she told Kaito and Mei. "And if any civilian asks whether they can become an Absolute Leader one day..."

Kaito smirked. "We tell them to master their current lane first."

"Good," she said, and walked toward the gate with the calm of someone who had chosen her lane long ago.

Sky Fortress Speculation – Galaxenchi-Tenkūjō

Up in Galaxenchi-Tenkūjō, the sky fortress rode a calm jetstream. Elite Galaxryūsei stood in the briefing circle with two fellow defenders—Galaxhikari, a sensor savant, and Galaxjin, a rail-lance specialist.

A recording of the press conference hovered above the table in translucent blue, paused on Galaxbeam's remark about "layers of survivability."

"So according to the Spectrum," Jin said, tapping through the holo, "an Elite can annihilate ground forces, a Supreme Commander can check or break other Supremes and Elites, but only an Absolute can end another Absolute. Where does that put this?"

He gestured out the window at the colossal hull of Tenkūjō.

Ryūsei folded her arms. "This fortress is an amplifier. With enough time and alignment, it can hurt many things. But if an Absolute Leader truly commits, the classification is simple: either we buy time for evacuation, or we anchor their attention so that another Absolute can reach them. That is our lane."

Hikari zoomed in on the stored energy grid. "There are rumors," she said quietly, "that Galaxbeam himself sits outside the Spectrum he created. That he is something... earlier. People are calling him 'Pre-Absolute' on some channels."

"People like to mythologize what they cannot measure," Ryūsei replied. "He chose to stand with the others on that stage. That is enough for us."

Jin smirked. "Still. If the Deathenagruppenzeithgrantz ever comes back, I would not mind being the test case."

Hikari shot him a look. "Try surviving your next calibrations first."

Their banter ended as an alert lit the room—new BRD reconnaissance patterns near distant orbital corridors. The press conference faded; the targeting grids came up.

Speculation would have to wait. Duty did not.

Arcade Talk – Yūseikan and Beyond

At Galaxenchi-Yūseikan, Elite Galaxshinji watched a crowd of players debate PSS over a cooperative round of Prism Tactics.

"If only Absolutes can end Absolutes," one cadet argued, "why do we even simulate Supreme Commander vs. Supreme Commander death scenarios?"

"Because stakes below the endpoint still matter," Shinji answered, bringing up a layered map. "Infrastructure lost. Cities burned. Regimes weakened. An Absolute might survive—but the world around them may not."

Another pointed at the scoreboard where an AI-driven Sunbeam avatar had just shielded a cluster of elites from a theoretical Deathwing strike.

"I heard," the cadet said, "that in reality he just walked through Darkwing's strongest blast and did not even flinch. Is that true?"

Shinji paused. "You are asking the wrong question," he said at last. "Instead ask: how many civilians were standing behind him? How many streets did not have to be rebuilt afterward? The Spectrum is not about ego. It is about engineering minimal damage when literal gods move."

The room quieted. Some still whispered, trading wild rumors about Sunbeam's "absent-minded invulnerability" and Moonbeam's river-scale miracles, but the core lesson landed. In the quiet after the match, more than a few signed up for extra logistics modules.

Across Galaxenchi, similar scenes unfolded:

In Galaxen-Yuehua, Elite Galaxen Suyin filtered rumor streams, tagging dangerous distortions—claims that PSS made Absolutes "above law," or that Westonglappa's leaders were secretly cultivating their own hidden Absolute. Her counter-narratives emphasized responsibility and mutual checks within AES.

In Galaxen-Tianshui, Elite Galaxen Hoshina found patients debating whether being healed by an Absolute's aura might push them up the Spectrum. She gently corrected them while adjusting their treatments. "What you truly gain here," she told a recovering Star Marine, "is function—not rank. Your worth is not a tier."

In Gallaxreixuanbeodong, a university town, Elite Galaxorion guest-lectured to overflowing halls about "Ethics of Hierarchical Power." Students pressed him with questions: If Absolutes cannot be killed by us, who judges them? What if an Absolute defects? He answered carefully, invoking AES councils, inter-regime veto structures, and the critical role of collective will. "The Spectrum measures destructive capacity," he said. "It does not excuse moral failure."

In each place, Galaxbeam's few sentences at the press conference had become a hundred conversations—some hopeful, some fearful, all woven into the daily fabric of cities and states.

Closing the Constellation

As evening settled over Galaxenchi, the constellation of elites moved through their circuits—gates, fortresses, arcades, markets, hospitals, universities—each handling their own fragment of the wake left by Absolute Leaders speaking openly about what they were.

From the vantage of the Grand Prism Spire, Galaxbeam watched data-streams trace those movements: Murasaki's diplomatic approvals, Ryūsei's updated defense protocols, Shinji's revised training modules, Suyin's stabilized sentiment graphs, Hoshina's cross-regime medical breakthroughs, Orion's lecture recordings trending across student networks.

He could also see the fuzzier lines—the rumor currents, half-true tales of Sunbeam's nonchalance under fire, whispered stories of Moonbeam standing against shadow tides, debates about whether Starbeam's infrastructure obsession was a form of pacifist power.

For a moment, he let the noise play out untouched.

"The Spectrum was meant to clarify," he said softly to the empty chamber. "Predictably, it also invites myth. Fortunately..."

He expanded a view highlighting his elites—hundreds of points of light pulsing across Gallaxgonbei, Galaxenshu, Gallaxenweii, Yennbogold, Yealbankokk, Gallduchaisan, Gallaxenfutchiss and beyond.

"...we have people who live in the spaces between myths."

He sent out a simple encrypted directive to elite channels:

Maintain calm.
Educate, do not condescend.
Anchor hope in structure, not in idols.
Remember: AES stands because all pillars hold, not because one shines.

Confirmations pinged back—short acknowledgments from elites who had just finished a shift, or were about to begin another.

Outside, the ring-gates cycled, ready to move allies and supplies. Above, Tenkūjō turned its armored face toward the darker horizons. In countless screens and plazas, replayed footage of the AES press conference slowly gave way to more ordinary programming: weather, traffic, sports, small human stories that existed precisely because titans were keeping the sky quiet.

Across Titanumas, four great regimes and their coalitions settled into a restless evening.

In Sollarisca, Supreme Commanders and elites digested spicy food, training data, and the unsettling comfort of knowing their General really could walk through explosions.

In Lunna, river-lights reflected off discussion circles where Lunar elites debated their Mistress's role in the new doctrine.

In Starrup, planners, bankers, and rangers of the Star Regime modeled entire economic futures around the presence of named Absolutes.

In Galaxenchi, Supreme Commanders refined macro-strategy while elites managed the very human interpretations of cosmic power.

Above them all, the BRD's shadow moved in the far distance, pressure slowly building.

The chapter closed not on a battle, but on a fragile equilibrium: rumors humming through markets, newsfeeds pulsing with AES terminology, children re-enacting "Absolute duels" with wooden swords, and quiet professionals—Supreme Commanders and elites alike—ensuring those children would grow to see another dawn.

For now, the pillars held.

And somewhere between stars and spreadsheets, Professor Galaxbeam turned another page in his endless ledger, preparing for whatever the next chapter in the Dominance Era would demand.