The image of Khalid Ghazzawi stepping off his ship became an overnight contagion. The shot—captured in high-definition—showed his emotionless, stone-carved face framed by wind-swept hair, his posture exuding a lethal confidence, and his crimson eyes burning with a light that seemed to pierce through the camera lenses.
In a universe where uncountable languages are spoken, communication is seamless; advanced neural-link translation ensures that every word is understood instantly, without error. Because of this, the "Khalid Phenomenon" bypassed all cultural barriers. While the media is technically free, it remains under the heavy influence of Human interests. On Eremos and Oros, the debate reached a fever pitch. In every digital forum and on every mainstream news broadcast, pundits screamed over one another, fueled by anchors who knew that controversy meant ratings. The question was singular: Could this "Miracle Child" handle the crushing weight of a dying legacy, or would the House of Mallick finish what they started?
For the citizens of the Ghazzawi planets, this wasn't mere entertainment; it was a matter of survival. Six months before Lee’s soul arrived, the House of Mallick had launched a brutal occupation of Oros. The people of Oros, fiercely loyal to the Ghazzawi line, had formed a resistance that was met with systematic slaughter. Millions of men, women, and children were butchered to secure the Oros mines.
The hatred between the two houses had become a physical rot. Recently, a Mallick citizen visiting Eremos for commerce was murdered in broad daylight; rather than expressing shame, the people of Eremos hailed the killer as a patriot, demanding his immediate release. The air was thick with the scent of impending blood.
The highest government officials of Eremos and the exiled leaders of Oros gathered in the Grand Court. The hall was a staggering expanse of ancient stone, its ceiling so high that the shadows swallowed the light, leaving the upper reaches in a permanent, brooding darkness where small birds chirped and flitted between the rafters. Balconies lined the walls, packed with officials in stiff, formal attire.
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High above the throne, behind a sheer white curtain, two crimson lights glowed in the dark. It was Amirah, watching in silence as her son prepared to take his place in history.
Khalid entered. He moved with a heavy, deliberate stride, clad in a pristine white thobe and a dark, flowing robe. His black turban sat low on his brow, and the rings on his fingers caught the dim light as he ascended the dais. He sat upon the throne, his red eyes scanning the room like a predator marking its territory.
The entire hall fell to its knees in a singular, thunderous crash. "Long live Your Highness!"
Khalid gestured with a sharp, impatient wave of his hand for them to rise. He leaned forward, his voice starting as a low, gravelly rasp that somehow filled every corner of the massive hall.
"My people... workers... brothers in shadow," he began, his voice gaining a rhythmic, hypnotic pull. "I was once one of you. I walked your streets. I felt the dry heat of your thirst and the weight of your struggles. I have lived the life of a man who believed in the peace of the Saints."
Suddenly, his voice exploded, turning into a roar that vibrated the very stones of the court.
"But while we preached peace, they practiced butchery! They slaughtered our families on Oros like cattle! They murdered my father in the deep! And then..." He stood up, the veins on his neck bulging, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. "Then they crept into the dark like the cowards they are and took my brother’s life while he slept!"
He slammed his fist into the arm of the throne, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
"They believe we are weak because we are kind! They think they can dictate our survival because they hold our water! But they are wrong!" Khalid’s shout reached a terrifying crescendo. "On the day my brother died, I buried my mercy in his grave! From this moment forward, the House of Ghazzawi does not seek peace—it seeks a reckoning! We will not negotiate! We will not beg! We will find them, we will hunt them, and we will rip their world apart with our bare hands!"
The hall went silent for a heartbeat, stunned by the sheer violence of his rhetoric. Then, a roar erupted that shook the palace foundations. Thousands of voices joined in a frenzied, fanatical chant that drowned out the chirping birds and the distant hum of the city.
"LONG LIVE GHAZZAWI!
Lee sat back down, the echoes of the crowd's bloodlust washing over him.
