Lord of the Truth

"Hedrick? THE Hedrick?!"

Elinor's voice cracked as disbelief overwhelmed her senses. Her already wide eyes seemed on the verge of bursting from their sockets. "I thought he vanished after that war!"

The War of the Destra Bloodline—just hearing the name of that conflict was enough to twist the heart and still the breath. It wasn't merely taboo… it was a curse etched in the silence of history. Those who tried to research it found themselves recoiling in fear, as if some ancient instinct warned them to look away. Not because it was forbidden by law, but because truth itself was too dangerous to talk about.

That war did not erupt over lands or resources. No. It began with a single declaration.

The second son of Helmor the Destroyer, a man born with a supremely high affinity to the Major Law of Destruction, stood before his father and declared, "I owe nothing more. My debt is paid. I renounce the Creed of Debt, and I walk my own path."

He severed his ties with the House of Destra's sacred legacy—a legacy built upon the ideology that children are eternally indebted to their father. And not just with words. Several of his siblings, inspired by his defiance or bitter from their own chains, rose with him.

What followed was no trial. No discussion.

Helmor did not negotiate.

He did not reason.

He decreed.

"Then let all who share my blood pay the price."

And so he proclaimed the Tithe of Life—a draconian punishment mandating that ten percent of the savings of every child, everyone on their allies, and soldier under their banner would be siphoned, eternally, in penance.

Even those who hadn't rebelled from among his children were not spared.

The response was as expected.

Revolt.

The Destra household, once a symbol of cosmic power, dissolved into civil war. What began as a punishment spiraled into a family genocide.

Helmor personally led the extermination.

The number of his chosen children—those born with affinity to the Major Law of Destruction—had reached twenty-nine. In mere decades of war, that number was slashed nearly in half, down to fifteen. The survivors? Scattered, broken, and hunted.

It was eradication. The children ran, but their father and his armies never stopped chasing.

And all the while, across the vast Middle Belt, other factions watched with morbid fascination. Laughing.

"The mighty House Destra is tearing itself apart."

What they didn't understand—what few could comprehend—was that Helmor alone was more terrifying than his entire bloodline combined.

He was not a king. He was a force of nature—one who had built the galactic empire from scratch. His 29 "divine" children were meant to be the decoration to his magnificence... but when they cracked, he didn't try to repair them.

He choose to shatter them.

Worse yet, Helmor's destruction affinity was inherited only by the 29. The hundreds of his other children did not possess the same resonance with the law of Destruction. They were soldiers, commanders, and tools—but not heirs.

Even his greatest generals could only wield minor forms of that path.

And so came the maddening question:

Why destroy your most powerful successors? Why burn the future of your own bloodline?

The answer never came. Only fire and silence.

But while the House of Destra imploded, the scavengers of the stars emerged. Jealous powers, long overshadowed by Destra's might, sought to "offer support" to Helmor—under the thin veil of friendship.

Their goal was simple: hunt the heirs, and earn Helmor's gratitude... or at least prevent those children from ever rebuilding.

One such power succeeded. They intercepted and assassinated one of Destra's surviving heirs.

That empire was of Zavros the Savage.

Helmor's response?

Apocalyptic.

He gathered his elite legion and personally marched upon one of Zavros's artificial galaxy. Within days, entire star systems were scorched. Armies were turned to dust. Cities disintegrated in the void. Among the dead were some of Zavros's grandsons, generals, and even his own second son—the very man behind the assassination.

The galaxy trembled.

That single retaliation reminded every being in the known universe about who Helmor the Destroyer was.

When Zavros the Savage emerged from his seclusion and learned of the insult and massacre, he launched himself toward Helmor who was still ravishing his galaxy, burning with vengeance. He was ready to declare war on a primordial monster.

But before the two titans could collide, the other Behemoths awakened. Among them was Morfius the Dreamer.

They stood between Zavros and Helmor.

Their verdict was final:

"The destruction is justice for the blood spilled in treachery. The death of a Destra heir cannot go unanswered. Let there be no more escalation. If one of you moved again, we move."

With those words, the would-be apocalyptic war was extinguished before it could begin.

And yet, even now, after millennia have passed, the galaxy shudders at the memory.

...As for Helmor, he did not return to Home.

There was no need.

And so, as though the war had merely been an unpleasant interruption, he simply resumed the hunt—calmly, ruthlessly, without a whisper of fatigue.

Like a storm unspent, like a predator that did not feed out of hunger but instinct, he once again stalked what remained of his bloodline.

The fourteen surviving heirs understood one truth with searing clarity:

Solitude was death.

And expectedly, two of the fourteen were hunted down and executed—not by their father's hand, but by assassins wielding no banners, speaking no names.

Only one organization in the known multiverse could execute such a feat.

A guild older than most empires, built in shadow and ruled by contracts alone. They did not ask why. They only asked: how much?

Helmor looked into it.

Briefly.

And then turned away to the rest of the survivors.

Now twelve remained.

Twelve fractured siblings—once rivals, now wary allies.

The need to survive overrode their pride.

And when all paths seemed closed, they looked to him.

To Hedrick.

The Firstborn.

The one who had walked away thousands of years before it all began.

And thankfully, the big brother didn't turn them away.

And so the twelve entered the bastion he had built, And they fortified it.

And in the shadow of Hedrick's cold fire, they trained. They armed.

Waiting for the inevitable:

Helmor is coming.

And he did.

Like thunder rolling across time, Helmor's fleet crossed atmosphere with no regard.

Thus began The Second Sundering.

A war without diplomacy.

A war without hope.

A war between a father and his children—again.

But this time... things were different.

For they did not fight as heirs.

They fought as survivors.

As wolves no longer afraid of the alpha.

But even though...

Nine fell.

Nine of the universe proudest sons and daughters died just like that.

But four remained.

Broken. Bleeding.

But alive.

For the first time ever, Helmor was wounded.

His generals—once thought to be immortal shadows—bled.

And then came the whisper:

"The Firstborn has wounded the Destroyer."

Some claimed Hedrick shattered Helmor's chest with a strike of pure will.

But one truth spread wider than all:

Helmor did not retaliate. He withdrew.

Some said that his withdrawal was not in defeat. But in recognition.

They say being wounded at his hands made him happy, and decided to keep the rest alive.

And so after he left, he sent them back a message.

"Return. Kneel once more beneath my name. Let us end the bloodshed. Let blood honor blood."

Three of his four remaining kids accepted.

Not out of loyalty. But out of necessity.

They were renamed the day they returned .

The new Second Son, Hudson.

The new Third Daughter, Hilary.

The new Fourth Son, Harry.

This was only for one reason, to let their fallen brothers and sister go forgotten.

And they resumed the Tithe of Life, each year surrendering a portion of their wealth to the father they once defied.

But not Hedrick.

He stood his ground and didn't return.

And Somehow... His Father, Helmor, did not do anything about it.

No, he did... He kept the First Son position open for him.