The gilded dreadnoughts, a hundred strong, descended with the glacial majesty of migrating mountains. Their golden hulls, polished to a mirror sheen, reflected the dimming sky, turning the heavens into a chaotic mosaic of crimson and bronze. Each vessel was a monstrous contraption of alchemically hardened wood and enchanted metal, bristling with ballistae that glowed with captured solar fire. Their collective bulk was so immense that the air around Durosh’s hut grew still and heavy, the faint breeze that usually rustled his newly planted belladonna blossoms completely snuffed out. Then, with a shuddering groan that vibrated through the very mud walls of the hut, the lead flagship, a leviathan of etched gold dubbed the *Dawn-Bringer*, halted its descent. It hung motionless over Durosh’s front door, its keel casting a shadow that swallowed the entire hut and a good portion of his meticulously tilled garden. The flagship alone was larger than a dozen of the Tribunal’s minor citadels, an unwelcome awning over his pristine yard. Durosh, still shielding his eyes, lowered his hand. The grand vessel hung so close he could discern the intricate filigree along its underbelly, the tiny, scurrying figures on its decks like disturbed ants. This wasn't a passing crusade. This wasn't a warning. This was an invasion of his personal space, a violation of his peace, anchored straight over his petunias. He turned his head toward Vankar, who was still face-down in the dirt, muttering fervent prayers to the mud hut’s humble porch. “Vankar,” Durosh said, his voice quiet, almost thoughtful. “When you said ‘continental obliteration,’ I assumed they’d at least keep their distance. You know, a respectful distance from my newly tilled earth.” Vankar’s head lifted a fraction, his voice still muffled. “My Lord, they believe this nexus of divine power to be the very heart of the Void’s malice! They would anchor directly atop the Infernal Maw itself if it meant purifying its taint!” “Right,” Durosh said, his gaze drifting from the ship to a small patch of weeds near his basil. “But that monstrosity is casting too much shade. My sun-berries won’t ripen.” A flicker of genuine annoyance crossed his face. He’d worked hard on those sun-berries. Before Vankar could offer another explanation for the Tribunal’s egregious disregard for optimal agricultural conditions, a new sound boomed across the Shard-Plains. It was not the rumble of the engines, nor the distant thrum of the purging sigil. It was a voice, amplified by powerful aetheric enchants, resonating from the command bridge. The herald's tone rang out cold and sharp across the yard. “CREATURE OF THE VOID!” the amplified proclamation cracked through the still air, making the mud hut tremble slightly. “WE, THE SUN-SPIRE TRIBUNAL, HAVE COME TO PURGE YOUR BLIGHT UPON YALUT! YOUR FORTRESS OF DARK MIRACLES, YOUR SO-CALLED ‘MUD HUT,’ SHALL BECOME ASH! THE CONTINENTAL OBLITERATION IS INITIATED! SURRENDER, ‘VOID EMPEROR,’ AND FACE THE JUDGMENT OF THE CELESTIAL CONCLAVE!” The words hung in the air, echoing across the vast, silent landscape. Vankar, still prostrate, gasped audibly. Durosh, however, simply blinked. His brow furrowed in a moment of quiet contemplation. *Void Emperor?* He looked down at his simple mud hut, then at the vast, ominous fleet, then back at his mud hut, which was now officially dubbed a “Fortress of Dark Miracles.” He remembered the bounty poster, the ‘Continental Obliteration’ warning. He remembered Vankar’s terrified reverence, Bumbash’s apocalyptic nature, and the sheer, unbridled chaos that seemed to follow his every attempt at quiet domesticity. The pieces, scattered like pebbles across a vast, barren desert, clicked into place with an almost audible thunk. The weary soul from a modern world, the man who just wanted a quiet life, the accidental god-like being in a harsh magical realm… *he* was the prophesied dark lord. *He* was the Void Emperor. Durosh exhaled, a long, dry breath that stirred the dust at his feet. “Well,” he muttered, more to himself than to Vankar. “That’s just… inconvenient.” As if on cue, a low, guttural rumble emanated from the side of the mud hut. Bumbash stirred from his nap. The colossal beast, disturbed by the booming voice and the oppressive shadow of the armada, uncurled his massive tail. His immense head, craggy as a mountain range, lifted lazily. One enormous, slitted eye, the color of molten magma, blinked open, fixing on the flagship directly overhead. A snort, like a distant volcanic eruption, escaped Bumbash’s nostrils, sending a plume of acrid, dark smoke curling into the air. He stretched, his vast, shadowy form rippling, scales scraping against the mud hut’s walls with a sound like grinding tectonic plates. A low growl vibrated in his chest, growing in intensity, a sound that promised primordial destruction. His mouth began to part, the darkness within deepening, coiling, coalescing into a sphere of pure, unmaking energy. “Bumbash,” Durosh said, his voice calm, clear, cutting through the beast’s nascent rage. “Sit.” The great serpent froze. The swirling vortex of cosmic ruin in his gaping maw flickered, then hesitated. His molten eye swiveled, meeting Durosh’s gaze. “*Sit*,” Durosh repeated, a gentle firmness in his tone. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Reluctantly, the titanic wyrm lowered his head. The orb of destructive magic in his mouth, deprived of intent, diffused. It didn’t dissipate, however. Instead, it stretched, thinned, and began to unfurl from his maw like a silken ribbon. The dark, chaotic energies transformed, twisting into shimmering threads of impossible color: violets, indigos, emeralds, and golds, all swirling together. It expanded, blooming into a vast, ethereal curtain that danced across the underside of the flagship, a silent, harmless ribbon of cosmic light. It was breathtakingly beautiful, an accidental display of profound cosmic energy rendered utterly benign by a simple command. Durosh watched the shimmering lights for a moment, then let out another sigh. The airship fleet remained anchored, the Sun-Core Annihilator Sigil still glowed red in the sky, and now he was apparently the Void Emperor. This was all far too much trouble for a man who just wanted to grow some decent tomatoes. He walked over to his gardening shed, retrieved his small, well-worn trowel, and wiped a speck of mud from its gleaming surface. He looked up at the golden fleet, then at the softly glowing aurora that now painted its underside. “I guess,” Durosh muttered, his voice barely audible, “I have to go weed the sky.”

The Void Emperor Realizes He's the Void Emperor