Building Interstellar Empire With Universal Synthesis

The inside of the venue was breathtakingly grand. Towering gold chandeliers cast a warm glow over the hall, comfortable seating arrangements were perfectly set around elegant round tables, and upon a high podium, several nearly naked women performed a synchronized dance to the pulsing music.

​The guests, consisting mainly of prominent businessmen, minor celebrities, and corrupt politicians, watched the performance while toasting with fine wine and enjoying exotic alien steak alongside their companions. Altogether, there were about 200 to 300 people present in the luxurious hall.

​Neo and his companions took an empty table in a quiet corner, waiting patiently for their target to appear. A few nearby guests noticed their unusual presence, but swiftly turned their focus back to the onstage entertainment, unaware of the wolves sitting in their midst.

​Soon, a man with neatly combed brown hair and an expensive blue suit stepped onto the high podium. The crowd erupted into applause as the announcer introduced the host of the evening: Marcus Hutchin.

​Clap. Clap. Clap.

​The guests clapped their hands, creating a loud chorus of applause that echoed through the grand room.

Marcus, being the primary face of the Byzon Company, was a prominent media personality as well. He flashed a brilliant, practiced smile across the hovering camera drones, truly becoming the main star of the show.

Marcus raised both of his hands, gesturing for the crowd to settle down.

He adjusted the lapels of his expensive blue suit and stepped closer to the microphone.

​"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, esteemed colleagues, and the true pillars of our great federation.

Tonight, we are not merely gathered here to celebrate the unparalleled quarterly market expansions of the Byzon Company. We are here for a far more noble, profound purpose. We are here to cast our eyes toward the horizon, toward the less fortunate planets in the outer rims that are currently struggling under the harsh, unforgiving realities of cosmic industrial development."

​He paused, and hehind him, the holographic screens displayed carefully curated, heartbreaking images of impoverished families and ragged children on distant mining colonies.

The visuals were created perfectly to evoke just enough artificial sympathy from the wealthy elite.

​"True leadership requires compassion. And It requires us, the visionaries of Chronopolis, to extend our hands across the stars. Therefore, the Byzon Company is immensely proud to host tonight’s annual Galactic Hope Charity Auction. Every single credit raised during this event will be funneled directly into the Outer Rim Humanitarian Fund, building infrastructure, medical centers, and schools for those who need them most."

​Sitting at the quiet corner table, Zestia let out a scoff. "Tsk, humanitarian fund they say? More like his private offshore account in the Cayman Solar Sector. Half the politicians in this room use this exact event to dump their illegal bribes and black funds into Byzon’s clean corporate sheet."

​"Haha, It is a classic play, Zestia," Leon murmured after taking a sip of his wine while.

"They buy a worthless piece of garbage for tens billions of dollars, claim a massive charitable tax write-off from the government, and the Byzon Company quietly kicks back ninety percent of that money into their political campaigns through untraceable shell corporations. Everyone wins, except the poor bastards on those mining colonies."

​On the high podium, the dancers bowed and exited the stage as the central velvet curtains parted.

They brought a random painting of a old wrinkly woman from nowhere.

​"And now, for our crown jewel of the evening... This masterpiece was created by the tragic, visionary artist Jean-Luc Vane just before his untimely passing in the deep space. Titled ’The Silent Echo of the Cosmos,’ this painting perfectly captures the pain of the outer worlds. The starting bid for this priceless artifact of human emotion is a mere 500 million dollars."

​Immediately, a corrupt senator sitting in the front row raised his glass with a smug grin.

"550 million!"

​"550 million from Senator Willson! Do I hear 600?"

​"700 million!" a prominent shipping magnate called out from across the room, waving his hand nonchalantly as if he were tossing pocket change.

​"900!" another politician countered, barely looking up from his plate of alien steak.

​The bidding war escalated with frantic, superficial enthusiasm.

The wealthy guests laughed, clinked their crystal glasses, and threw around astronomical figures that could purchase entire city blocks, all with a practiced, casual indifference.

To them, this was not a charity event; it was a high-society ritual of mutual corruption and money laundering, played out under the bright lights of the media.

​Neo sat legs crossed, eyes completely focused on Marcus Hutchin, looking completely disconnected from the joyous chatter of the gala.

Feeling it was enough for a show, Neo stood up.

"Remember, boy, if you’re doing this, be ready to be in the headlines tomorrow," Leon warned.

​"I can handle a little attention," Neo replied before taking long strides toward the high podium.

​As the bright lights fell on his sculpted, godly frame, many people gasped.

​"Hot! So hot! Who is he? A superstar?" a few celebrities in the front seats muttered, completely entranced.

​"God, I have never seen a man like that. He is too handsome."

​"He looks so domineering. Is he in a relationship?"

​Some paparazzi reporters recognized him.

​"Oh damn, it’s that scary man from the entrance. He is really about to do something. I had a feeling. Junior, focus your camera."

​"Yes, sir."

​Meanwhile, the security guards became alert as soon as he came within 50 feet of the podium. A burly cop in a black uniform blocked his path, a highly advanced electric baton in his hand.

​"Hold your horses, sir. This is a restricted area," he said with an authoritative smirk.

​Neo raised his fist, clenched it, and threw a casual punch.

​The cop grinned maniacally and struck the seemingly vulnerable punch with his baton.

​But...

​Crack!

​The punch broke through the metallic baton like plastic, and without stopping there, it slammed against the cop’s chest.

​Bang!

​Crack!

​The burly cop’s chest caved in as if struck by a heavy hammer, his eyes bulging in disbelief.

​"Blurgh!"

​Blood spilled from his damaged internal organs, and he slumped against the marble floor, holding his fractured ribs in agony.

"....."

​The entire venue instantly fell into a pin-drop silence.