ch-7 the black robed man

As the sphere of white light expanded, the immediate vicinity—spanning several hundred kilometers—was vaporized into a maelstrom of charged particles and electromagnetic radiation. But the true spectacle lay not in the initial burst, but in the exponential spatial blast wave triggered by the Phantom's star core.

The spherical wave of chaotic energy kept expanding—fast. Near-relativistic fast.

There was no sound, of course—space had no air to carry it—but light, heat, and electromagnetic fury rippled outward in every direction. Within seconds of the black-robed man's escape, the sphere had swelled to nearly 5,000 kilometers in diameter, with a further 1,000 kilometers of unstable, glowing electromagnetic fringe dancing violently at its edges.

The surface of the sphere shimmered, writhing with spatial distortions and energetic instabilities.

And then—

It began to collapse inward.

Instantly.

And then came the real explosion.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.

A titanic burst of pure heat and energy tore through space, shredding reality at its epicenter. In the aftermath, the vacuum itself seemed scarred—subtle gravitational and magnetic distortions lingered, warping sensors and confusing navigational systems.

The black-robed man and his flagship had been unspeakably lucky. Had they delayed by even a single second, they would have been caught in the collapse.

The blast's gravitational pull had become so strong that it could have torn them from the hyper lane, dragging them back into the inferno.

Not too far away—in the same star system, about a light-year from the blast—a thunderclap echoed through hyperspace as the black-robed man's heavy carrier exited FTL with a shudder.

He let out a sharp breath of relief.

Then, a thought hit him like a curse: Never underestimate a madman with a martyr complex and a self-destruct trigger the size of a grav-bike. He was, of course, thinking of Duke William.

From the bridge, a crewman spoke—nervously, carefully. "Sir… are you okay?"

The black-robed man turned slowly to face him. He took one deep breath—then snapped.

"Okay? You piece of garbage, we were one second away from being vaporized! You think now's the time to ask that?"

The crewman shrank back.

"Damn it," the commander muttered, pacing. "Even in a situation like that, you're worried about calculations. If we hadn't taken such heavy losses, I'd have you shot right here."

He spat on the floor and slammed a fist against the console.

"Damn that chief of the Terran Navy—Duke William. That lunatic blew up his own ship to take us down. Took the whole fleet we spent months assembling—gone."

The bridge went quiet. Static hummed on the comms.

Then, his second-in-command spoke. "Sir... the Emperor and the Crown Prince won't be happy."

The black-robed man's face darkened.

"Unhappy? They knew exactly who William was. If they're unhappy, let them be. We did our job. We lived. That's more than I can say for most."

He straightened his robes and growled, "Send the report to the Imperial family. Every detail."

The younger officer at the comm station, nervously glancing between them, hesitated.

"Sir… are you sure I should send the full report to the imperial family?"

Ryke(second in command of black robed man) raised an eyebrow. The black-robed man frowned and muttered,

"Why? Something wrong with it?"

The comm officer scratched his head.

"Well… um… about the other ships from Duke William's fleet—the ones that escaped at the start... Should we, uh, also mention that?"

There was a long pause.

The black-robed man blinked.

Ah."

Another pause.

"Ahh… That just… slipped out of my mind, you know? All these sudden near-death events, the fleet-wide destruction caused by William's act of mutual destruction—it's all very distracting... and, uh… disturbing."

He coughed awkwardly, tugging his robe back into place like it could somehow restore his dignity.

"We did escape death, after all. That should count for something, right?"

He turned to his second-in-command, who had been suspiciously quiet the whole time. The younger man shrugged, sipping from a cracked protein pouch.

At least we didn't explode."

Ryke groaned.

"Put that in the report. Make it the title."

The comms officer hesitated one last time, datapad in hand.

"So... to be clear, sir—"

Commander Ryke raised a hand, cutting him off with a sharp wave.

"Just attach the footage of us narrowly escaping death by madman detonation. That should be enough to convince the Emperor that Duke William is space dust now. Hell, we even got the explosion from three angles."

The black-robed man nodded solemnly.

The black-robed man nodded solemnly.

"Add some dramatic music. Make it look like a noble sacrifice. Maybe throw in a slow-motion shot of my robe catching fire..."

The comms officer blinked. "Uh… sir?"

The black-robed man coughed, clearly getting carried away, until his second-in-command cleared his throat, snapping him back to reality.

"Ahem... scratch the part about my robe catching fire. Uh, include that scene where we barely escaped instead. It'll add authenticity... show how serious the situation was, how we barely made it out alive..."

Ryke leaned forward while rolling his eyes at the black robed man, before his eyes narrowed.

"As for the rest of William's fleet—say they were eliminated earlier. Completely neutralized. We just don't have the data anymore because the tracking ship got turned into space mist."

"Technically not a lie," added Ryke with a shrug. "Just... aggressively curated truth."

The black-robed man gave a sagely nod, as if defeating William Vanshi was nothing more than a trivial task, and twisting the facts of the entire incident—something that would soon become the talk of the galaxy—was just part of his daily meditation.

And this twisted report of his would soon bring the Emperor of Terra exactly what he feared most—and cost him dearly.

"Exactly. It's not deception—it's narrative control."

Ryke exhaled, rubbing his temple.

"Get it sent. Add a note at the end: 'Final confirmed status: Duke William – eliminated. Remaining threat – none. Mission status – successfully concluded, barely survived.' And then send in our hazard pay forms."

The officer tapped away quickly, loading the shaky footage—explosions, emergency jump, Ryke screaming something incoherent about his eyebrows—and added the final report.

He paused, then looked up.

"What should I label the footage file?"

The black-robed man smirked.

"'Proof of Victory.'"