Dirk Marshall hailed from the humble abode of a lower realm. This young, expansive world was home to your run-of-the-mill folks, with the exception of strravity pared to the average p.

  Then the Alliarolled in, heralding an era of apocalypse. His people had no choice but to wave the white fg of surrender.

  That little episode unfolded a tury ago.

  Dirk was birthed into nobility—or, to be more accurate, a wealthy that had essentially purchased a VIP pass to the aristocracy.

  He'd had 'huge potential' stamped across his forehead from a young age, with the career path of an Alliance offiot appearing too far-fetched.

  Except he flunked.

  After years of meandering through the vastness of space, Dirk sed his failed dreams for the gig of a merary. Every mission sharpened his skills and bolstered his strength.

  Being a native of a p with Herculean-like gravity, he boasted a physical density that gave him a leg up in the space-brawl department.

  Then, a week ago, some high-and-mighty from the Alliance summoned him and his motley crew. They threw a White Dwarf at him, with the catch being, he had to kill someone.

  Apex Two.

  The nitty-gritty of the mission wasn't crucial. He simply had to obliterate his target with this ludicrously overpowered on—hang on a sed.

  "Seriously? We're using the White Dwarf? In this lower, her-whatchamacallit realm? Just to off one guy? I mean, sure, this realm's got some hocus-pocus magid shit, but really?"

  And it was at this moment Dirk realized why they'd handed him the celestial equivalent of a sledgehammer to crack a nut.

  There they were, Dirk and his band, shackled in an irksome blend of teologically advanced cuffs and irritable magic. They traipsed through a grand pace corridor, the name of which they didn’t know.

  The pace itself was an architectural wonder, shiftiween medieval grandeur and futuristic improvement with an ease that was unnerving.

  The pace folks, a bevy of busy bees, buzzed about in a serene frenzy, their eyes ignited with a determination that would put a marathon ruo shame.

  Dirk's group had pegged this as a lower realm, but their vis crumbled faster than a cookie in hot tea.

  “Your Majesty, here arrive the ones you requested,” an aide announced, ushering them into a room.

  Upoering the room, their eyes feasted on a bahat could make a gluttohis wasn't a sophisticated alien soirée with a side of quantum physio, sir. This was a blowout of epic proportions.

  Mountains of roasted meats, rivers of det sauces, and a rai of colorful veggies sprawled across the table.

  At the heart of this ary circus was Emperor Burn, alias Apex Two—the man they were supposed to send to the afterlife.

  He gnawed on a mb thigh with a nont menace, grumbling at a boy nearby who was busy decimating a pile of potato fries.

  "When's she ing back? You sure she hasn't done a runner?" Burn asked.

  The boy retorted, "My master won’t abandon me!"

  "Your Majesty," Gahad chimed in, hoping to jog Burn's memory about the guests currently enjoying the pace's 'handcuff hospitality'. Burn swiveled around, bestowed a fleeting gnce upon them, and promptly refocused on demolishing his meal aing at Yvain.

  "She's been missing since yesterday m, hasn't she? That's more than 24 hours alr—"

  "Aw, e on!" Yvain cut in. "All you've done since your return is to stuff your face! This is the third feast you've single-handedly devoured, and it's not as if you've instructed your people to search for her. If you're i on waiting, then just wait!"

  His son?

  His little brother?

  They didn’t look alike, but they were… simir.

  “But you’re helping me, don’t you?” Burn sneered.

  “I’m—I’m not gonna give them back!” Yvain protected his starchy treasures as if they were the jewels.

  Then, they resumed their feasting with the casual air of two blokes downing pints at a pub.

  The st time Dirk and his crew saw Burn, he resembled a skeleton that had been given a nasty sunburn, courtesy of the White Dwarf.

  They had figured him for a lone wolf, kig ba an opulent, but deserted, pace after a successful war. Little did they know that even stripped to his bare bones, Burn still mao toss them around like ragdolls in a hurrie.

  Post the brawl, Burn summoned his people, and Dirk and his crew were patched up, limbs reattached, and promptly shackled.

  Burn, meanwhile, draped his charred frame in a fresh, plush house robe, a twin to the one he had donned before the fight.

  They had expected the man to be id up for a lifetime, nursing his wounds. But, there he was, tug into his meal like a man possessed, looking almost...normal.

  Well, as normal as a man who had just been on the business end of a ic smackdown could look.

  Burn's short white hair was a bit unruly. His golden eyes were a captivating blend of brilliand madness. His physique, while ly a bodybuilder's dream, was solid and athletic. He was thinner now, but there was no doubt that underh that robe, his muscles were coiled like springs, ready for a.

  It was clear, his magic was no joke, and the title Apex Two wasn't some random moniker plucked out of a hat. And then, it clicked.

  Wasn't this the same lunati the backwater realm of hermere who had fought off the Alliance's first wave single-handedly and emerged victorious? If rumors were to be believed, then yes, yes, it was.

  "We don’t know anything," Dirk finally said, breaking the silence like a rock through a gss window.

  Catg wind of Dirk's decration, Burn pushed his half-devoured pte away. A servant swooped in, hastily reassembling the food like a jigsaw puzzle, while Burn shifted his gaze to them.

  "Of course, you wouldn't know. You're not card-carrying members of the Alliance, are you?" Burn drawled, dabbing at his mouth with the nonce of a man without a care in the world. "That's precisely why you were handpicked."

  "And now," Burn sneered, "You're more valuable to them dead."

  Because they failed.