Timeless Assassin

(Meanwhile, across all Cult territories)

A few days after Veyr was named Dragon, recruitment offices enrolling soldiers for the Dragon's private army opened up across all Cult-controlled planets.

There was no grand announcement.

There were no fliers posted to inform the citizens that the recruitment process had begun, yet even without any announcement, everyone had already been expecting it.

The tradition of the Dragon's army being raised once a new Dragon was named was as old as the Cult itself.

It was a tradition that passed through the bloodstream of every citizen born under the Cult's banners.

A tradition that signified that a new chapter had begun, and with it, the call to arms had returned.

Crimson flags bearing the sigil of the Cult were hoisted above public squares and City halls, and beneath them, lines began to form.

Long, winding, feverish lines, stretching through dusty marketplaces, dark-lit alleys, and even the front steps of police stations.

The dream was alive again.

For nearly three decades, the Cult Of Ascension had quietly prepared for the day they would stop defending their fractured territories and begin reclaiming what was once theirs.

Regardless of the time period, every generation of children within the Cult were raised on tales of conquest. Of the glory of joining the Dragon's army. Of their divine right to expand.

As after generations of that dream being passed down from father to son, from lineage to lineage, it was now less a dream and more a birthright, etched into the minds of the faithful before they could even walk.

And now, with the ascension of a new Dragon, that dream felt within reach once more.

"I'm telling you," a young man whispered to the one beside him as they inched forward in the queue, "once we break the frontline planets, we'll be inside the Valtros Solar System by winter. The righteous faction won't even know what hit them."

"They've grown soft," the other replied, eyes gleaming. "Their fleets are bloated with bureaucracy. Their captains trained in academies, not war. We'll gut them."

The words carried the edge of confidence, but beneath them was something far more dangerous…. righteous conviction.

They had no idea about the consequences of the actions they so casually discussed.

As while to them war seemed like a glorious prospect, in truth it was anything but.

The planets they hoped to capture from the grips of the righteous faction were planets inhabited by tens of millions of inhabitants…. Sometimes even billions.

And capturing one meant displacing many, and killing many more.

"Vorthas fell in just six days, and Juxta barely lasted nine. That was under Dragon Noah," one muttered, tapping the metal end of his staff against the ground.

He was an old veteran from the Juxta raid, his uniform faded but his eyes still bright.

"You should've seen the sky when Juxta's defense grid collapsed. It turned red. Redder than blood. I'll never forget it."

The younger ones listened in awe, their imaginations already aflame. They weren't thinking about the bodies. The screams. The orphans left behind on planets scorched by orbital fire.

No, they were thinking about the loot.

The glory.

The pride of returning home with medals and scars and stories to tell.

Because here, killing was not murder. Not if it was for the Cult.

Here, conquest wasn't seen as aggression. It was justice. It was destiny. It was payback for the centuries of betrayal, exile, and humiliation suffered at the hands of the so-called righteous.

"They call us the Evil Cult," a woman scoffed, arms crossed as she waited. "But they don't know what true Evil is…. They haven't come face to face with it yet.

No worries though, they'll know Evil when I show it to them."

And just like that, hatred turned holy.

Across every outpost, every moonbase, every capital city under the Cult's domain, the lines continued to grow. Some came for revenge, some for glory, some for a sense of purpose they could not find anywhere else. But regardless of their reasons, they all shared the same oath, the same fire in their veins.

To march beneath the Dragon's banner.

To turn the dream of counteroffensive into reality.

To expand the Cult's reach not through diplomacy or dialogue, but through ash, fire, and blood.

—----------

(Meanwhile within the Forge District of Tithia)

Far away from the cheers and enlistment lines, buried deep within the molten heart of the Forge District on Planet Tithia, the hammers had already begun to ring.

Massive furnaces lined the district in rows that stretched beyond sight, each belching smoke and sparks into the morning sky as roaring fires cast the whole sector in a hellish glow.

*CLANG*

Within the command hall of Forge Sector Alpha, Chief Blacksmith Tharn struck a heavy blow across the worktable with his iron scepter, the clang echoing through the walls as dozens of apprentices froze mid-action.

"No more idling. No more excuses. The Dragon has been named, which means the next war has already begun. Whether it starts tomorrow or next year, our duty starts now."

All around him, the senior blacksmiths nodded in solemn agreement, their soot-covered faces lit by the firelight, eyes reflecting only purpose.

"The supply division has already sent us the list," another smith growled, holding up a scroll with itemized quantities that read like a declaration of madness. "Blades. Space Cannons. Railguns. Power armor. Mana conduits. They want everything. And they want it mass-produced."

"We don't rest until the first million weapons are done," Tharn barked, slamming the scroll down. "Every sword we forge is a life spared. Every plate of armor, a future protected. The Dragon's army will not march into battle with scraps. They will march with fire in their hands and steel at their backs."

Sparks flew as hammers returned to rhythm, dozens of anvils ringing like war drums in unison. Molten ore poured into molds. Mana-infused alloys cooled in water tanks laced with arcane sigils. Chain-link armor clattered from conveyor hooks, still steaming as workers passed them down the lines.

The forges had awakened.

And though no blood had yet been spilled, and no borders had yet shifted, everyone in Tithia understood what this meant.

The weapons of war were rising.

The Cult was preparing.

And the Dragon's army would need them soon.