The sting of ozone and chemical wash bit the back of Makara's throat before his eyelids parted. Bright, artificial daylight streamed through a panoramic viewport, illuminating a sleek, minimalist medical bay. Bleached composite bulkheads and pressed sheets boxed him in, stripped of soot or iron. He had buried dynasties, outlived his peers, and now, bearing the quiet weight of his assembled sect within his pulse, he remained pinned to a narrow mattress. He shifted, grunting as a raw heat pulled across his ribs. The thermal blade wound, though not fatal thanks to his organ-shifting technique, had still carved a path of significant internal trauma. His meridians, usually a silent, humming river, now felt like a recently flooded canyon, vast and still settling. Yet, within that quiet, he felt them. Not a burning agony, not a tormented wail, but a gentle presence, like a thousand sleeping embers tucked deep inside his spiritual core. His sect. Finally at peace. A soft chime preceded the automatic door sliding open. Praetor Nysa entered, her usual pristine uniform replaced by a slightly rumpled, darker variant adorned with new, subtly elaborate shoulder epaulets. Her dark hair, usually pulled back with military precision, had a few stray wisps escaping, softening the sharp angles of her face. The knotting at the corners of her eyes had thinned to dry, dark hollows. She carried a datapad, but didn’t consult it, her gaze fixed on Makara. "You're awake," she stated, her cadence dropping its usual parade-ground edge. “Took you three cycles. The medics… they’re still trying to understand how your vitals stabilized. They’re calling it ‘spontaneous cellular regeneration’ due to ‘unidentified energy signatures’.” She gave a faint, sardonic twist to her lips. “I didn’t bother correcting them.” Makara pushed himself up, leaning against the headrest. “Another apocalypse, another miracle cure. The universe truly insists on keeping me on my feet.” He gestured to her new uniform. “Looks like the Aegis-Kraal Sector has a new tailor. And a new… Head Praetor?” Nysa nodded, stepping closer to the bed, her boots making no sound on the sterile floor. “Headmaster Vorlag’s corruption was undeniable. His network of complicity ran deep, but the evidence of his actions in Sector Gamma-9… it shattered public trust. The Council moved swiftly. I was the only high-ranking officer with direct knowledge of the core incident, and a clean enough record to assume command. It’s… temporary, they say. But there’s work to be done.” She stared down at him without blinking. “Makara, what you did… what Vorlag did with your disciples… it changed everything. The Council has convened. The reliance on mecha-warfare, the veneration of the Star Network… it’s been exposed as a fatal vulnerability. A human, *you*, rendered the apex of our tactical infrastructure useless with your bare hands. Then, an AI, your sect, turned our own technology against us.” She paused, her fingers curling against the edge of the datapad. "The Officer Academy curriculum is changing. Effective immediately, the 'Plasma Rain Protocol' takes effect. All cadets, regardless of tier, will undergo mandatory physical conditioning and unarmed combat training. We’re calling it… ‘Ancestral Combat’ classes. Based on… the techniques we’ve observed from you.” Makara blinked. Mandatory gutter-brawling for the galaxy’s elite. He almost smiled. Almost. “So my inability to use your fancy walking tanks has become a curriculum. The irony burns brighter than a plasma dreadnought.” Before Nysa could respond, the door hissed open again with a far less dignified *thump*. Jib burst in, a massive, steaming platter clutched in his hands, his face flushed with exertion and triumph. He was wearing an apron over his cadet uniform, stained with what looked suspiciously like soy glaze. The aroma hit Makara like a physical blow: rich, savory, unmistakably *real* food. Not synth-nutrient paste, not processed protein blocks, but something roasted and delicious. “Patriarch! You’re awake! I knew you would be!” Jib practically skidded to a halt beside the bed, nearly sloshing the contents of the platter. “Look! Real *glaze-roasted nura-shank*! Imported from the Vespyr Fringe! Ten thousand credits a plate, but for you? On the house! You gotta try this!” He set the platter down on a nearby table, revealing a glistening, succulent cut of meat surrounded by crisped tubers and vibrant, steamed verdants. Makara stared down at the crisp char of the meat. His stomach cramped with a sharp, hollow growl. "Jib, what is that, and where did you requisition it?" Nysa asked, her brow furrowing. Jib puffed out his chest. “Praetor Nysa! It’s the specialty of my new establishment! ‘The Barehanded Bistro’! We just opened, right in the old Tier-Zero mess hall! The lines are around the block! Everyone wants to taste the food that fuels the… the *Barehanded God*!” He leaned in conspiratorially to Makara. “Your legendary status, Patriarch, has made me a culinary magnate! We’re expanding to three other asteroid sectors by next cycle! I’m rich! So rich I can buy *real* food! For everyone!” Makara looked at the nura-shank, then at Jib’s beaming, unrepentant face, then at Nysa, who was trying, and failing, to suppress a small, weary smile. He had spent lifetimes trying to escape attachment, to avoid the inevitable pain of outliving everyone he cared for. He had become a ghost, a wanderer in the river of time, carrying the ashes of his past. But now, the ashes were within him, a silent, comforting presence. And around him, were these two. The uptight officer who had risked everything to save him, who now sought to rebuild a world. And the hyperactive cadet, who, despite all odds, had found a way to thrive, to bring joy, to serve him actual, non-synthetic food. They were his present. His future. His new family. A steady settling filled his chest, distinct from the cycling of qi. A slight, dry curl tugged at his mouth. He reached out, catching Jib's shoulder with a firm grip, before turning his gaze up to Nysa. "Perhaps," Makara muttered, "rest can wait five minutes. Then bring the bowl." Before the words settled, Jib grabbed his sleeve, rattling his arm against the mattress. “Patriarch! No time for resting! A challenger! A *Tier-Alpha Invictus* from the Solar Citadel just docked! He’s demanding to fight you! He says he’ll only face the ‘Barehanded God’ in the newly sanctioned ‘Plasma Pit’!”

Awakening the Galaxy