CHAPTER 35: CH 35 DIDN’T SAY THAT

John listened in silence as Kevin finished, then gave a long, slow nod. His expression darkened—not with anger, but with intensity. Then he snapped upright, scowling at the hologram.

"You brat," he growled, his voice rising in a sharp, mock-angry tone. "What do you take me for? Some greedy old warlord hungry for power?"

Kevin raised his hands again, half-smiling. "Didn’t say that..."

"Hmph," John grunted. "I may love my warships—but even I know better than to play politics with a gift like this. Especially not from someone like him."

He leaned back again, but this time with steel in his gaze.

"And now that you’ve told me all this... more reason not to mess it up."

His eyes narrowed, then gleamed with something rarely seen in hardened veterans—hope.

"Tier-7 technology... You realize what this means, don’t you?" he said, voice low. "We’ve been stuck at the edge of that frontier for decades. No breakthroughs. No progress. Just walls we couldn’t punch through."

"But if he’s really giving us that tech—openly—if we get access to fully operational Tier-7 warships and their blueprints... then this isn’t just a power jump."

"This is a generational leap."

He stood now, slowly, as the room around him quieted in reverence to the words that followed.

"With this... we could finally reach the Magi-Tech Generation. A level of energy manipulation and weapon systems we’ve only theorized about."

He turned to Natasha, who nodded in agreement, eyes wide with the same dangerous excitement.

John clenched a fist, eyes shining.

"And when we reach that level... when our ships and systems run on principles those native alien races can’t even pronounce..."

He stared at the stars beyond the bridge’s forward panel.

"Then they’ll understand. Every single one of them."

His voice dropped, cold and cutting.

"They’ll understand what happens when you invade humanity."

"They’ll understand how we respond."

"And they will finally witness the wrath of our humanity."

"Okay, you brat," John finally said, eyes still gleaming with battle-fire and excitement at the endless possibilities ahead. But now, his focus snapped fully back to Kevin.

"Hold off on that report you’ve prepared for the Council."

Kevin frowned. He had expected approval, not delay. "Why?" he asked cautiously.

John caught the hesitation in his nephew’s voice and barked a half-laugh. "Hmph! What’s with that look? You act like Rachel’s been slapping the sense out of you all these years."

Kevin winced at the name—his mother, John’s sister. Legendary in her own right... and not shy with discipline.

"Don’t make that face," John said, waving him off. "I’m not insulting you. I know what you’re thinking. Let me be clear."

He stepped closer to the edge of the bridge, voice low but firm.

"Yes, I know this information should reach the Council as soon as possible. And yes, under normal circumstances, it would be your duty to submit it without delay."

"But I will do it."

Kevin’s brow furrowed again, still trying to understand the angle—until John leaned forward, eyes sharp with strategy.

"Because, Kevin, I am a Tier-1 officer—and not just that, I’m a sitting member of the Council’s inner chair. According to Federation protocol, any report or proposal issued directly by a Tier-1 must be processed immediately. No backlog. No queues. Even if the Council’s in the middle of a war vote or peace summit—they drop everything."

He jabbed a finger at the hologram. "You knew that. Or did you forget?"

Kevin opened his mouth—then paused. His expression admitted it before he spoke.

"...I might’ve forgotten."

Natasha leaned in, her arms crossed and a grin tugging at her lips. "I think in all his excitement over the Tier-7 warships and Federation evolution... he forgot the part where rules matter."

She chuckled. "Don’t worry. It happens."

John gave a firm nod. "If our guest—this William—values freedom and action as much as you say... if he’s the kind of person who doesn’t like waiting for bureaucrats to pass judgments... then the best move we can make is to show that we get things done. Fast. Personally."

He turned again, voice dropping into cold command.

"When I submit the proposal... it’ll go straight to High Council hands in minutes."

What Grand Admiral John Watcher didn’t know—yet—was that William himself valued rules and order. He respected structure, not because he was bound by it, but because he chose to be.

Whether the Federation’s approval took days or decades, William could wait. He had all the time in the galaxy—and beyond.

Still, he wouldn’t mind if John expedited the process. After all, that too would be within the Federation’s laws. And William appreciated systems that followed their own logic.

Just then, the AI of the Oblivion—John’s flagship—chimed through the command deck.

"[Re-entering the Nocal Star System in three minutes, Grand Admiral.]"

Natasha gave a smirk as she adjusted the display feed. "Looks like we’ll be meeting this mysterious Mr. William of yours very soon, Kevin. Let’s see if he’s as you described... or even more unfathomable."

There was amusement in her voice, but the kind of amusement that came with a subtle edge—not quite a smile.

John nodded, agreeing. "Right then. Kevin," he said, turning back to the flickering hologram of his nephew, "stand by. We’ll arrive shortly. I’m cutting the transmission now."

Kevin gave an awkward salute. "Aye, sir. I’ll be waiting for you—with flowers in hand. Made of metal, of course."

He grinned sheepishly and immediately cut the feed before John could respond. He knew better than to let his uncle get another word in—especially one that might lead to a long-winded lecture or a reminder of his past "disciplinary" moments.

John scoffed, staring at the blank holopad. "That brat—he cut the line."

He leaned back and muttered to himself, "If he wants a beating that badly, I’ll happily oblige once we land."

Natasha laughed, folding her arms. "He’s grown a bit of a spine, huh?"

"Indeed," John said with pride hidden behind his scowl. "And about damn time."

They kept talking in that low, casual rhythm—veterans at ease despite the magnitude of what they were walking into—when the ship’s AI spoke again.

"[Re-entry into realspace in 30 seconds.]"

A subtle tension fell over the bridge.

"[20 seconds.]"

"[10... 8... 6... 5... 4... 2... 1...]"

Reality folded.

In a synchronized roar of quantum engines, all 4,500 ships of the White Tiger Legion tore back into the Nocal Star System, leaving warp-space behind in one unified burst of gravitational energy.

To outside observers, it would’ve looked like a cosmic rupture—light bending, stars distorting, as ships large and small ripped through the void.

And then—silence.

A silence so heavy it crushed through radio chatter and data streams alike.

The 18th Fleet of the Human Federation, The White Tiger Legion, had arrived.

It was like watching a storm front descend across the sky. Rows upon rows of warships cut through the space in a spearhead formation. Ships twisted into place with cold precision. Ripples of warp distortion still lingered around their hulls, glowing faintly with residual gravitational bleed.

At the tip of the formation: The Oblivion.

A dreadnought unlike any other—9 kilometers of reinforced alloy, star-core fusion drives, and the most advanced weapons system ever fielded by the Federation. It moved like a sovereign in the sea of steel.

Flanking it were two more dreadnoughts of the command class, only slightly smaller. Behind them, battlecruisers, destroyers, and carriers fanned out like an enormous metal dragon, its wings stretching wide. The frigates and corvettes filled the space in between, flanked further back by hundreds of logistical and support ships.

In total: Tier-6 power at its apex. A semi-war fleet designed not just to fight—but to dominate.

And yet...

As their engines cooled and their weapons stood primed, a strange quiet fell across every ship’s bridge, every carrier’s hangar, every pilot’s comm channel.

Because there, drifting in stillness before them—unguarded, untouched, unbothered by the arrival of a fleet that could darken planets—was a single ship.

Not just any ship.

Across the formation of the White Tiger Legion, every single fleeter—from seasoned bridge officers to hardened mecha pilots—held their breath as their eyes locked onto the colossal vessel floating before them.

The Ragnarök

Even though the ship was simply floating in the void, doing nothing—silent, still, almost serene—the psychological pressure it exerted on the fleeter was immense. It was as if Ragnarok’s very presence multiplied gravity itself, pressing down on every soul despite the weightlessness of space. There was no reason for fear... and yet, fear consumed them.

Veterans who had fought through a hundred skirmishes, who had seen gods of war fall and alien empires burn—these men and women of the fleet—now felt something they hadn’t in years.

Fear.

Not the panic of battle, but the kind that grows cold in your chest. The kind that whispers: You are nothing in front of this.

And they all felt it for the same reason Kevin’s battlegroup had before them: it wasn’t the ship’s size.