Building Interstellar Empire With Universal Synthesis

Sol-III.

​Patriarch Olegen Rothschild was quietly sipping tea in the garden, enjoying the serene peace that the early morning brought.

​His grandson, Julian, was once again accompanying him. But he was not playing this time. He was consuming low-grade pure mana stones by breathing in their cosmic essence, a routine that every Beyonder had to perform daily.

​His absorption speed was incredibly fast.

​"Excellent, my boy! Keep up the hard work. You will become a Type 7 Beyonder in no time." Olegen praised, laughing heartily.

​"Thanks, Grandpa. I will absorb them even faster next time," Julian replied, looking thoroughly content.

​Julian was only twelve years old and already a Type 8 Beyonder. This achievement made Olegen immensely proud.

If he only knew there’s a monster who devours them like chocolates, he might die by a heart attack.

​Just then, his assistant rushed over to his seat, tightly holding an augmented screen. The man’s face was completely filled with anxiety, the fact Olegen did not fail to notice.

Olegen gently set his exquisite porcelain teacup down on the glass table, and the warm grandfatherly smile instantly vanished from his wrinkled face.

He deeply despised having his private family time interrupted, especially during Julian’s crucial morning training.

​"What is the meaning of this panic, Barnard? You are trembling like a frightened child. Compose yourself."

​The assistant, Barnard, was shaking so intensely he could barely keep his grip on the augmented screen.

Stammering, Barnard said:

​"F-forgive me, Patriarch. But... we just received a Class-Zero emergency transmission from the Supreme Council’s intelligence division. It... it is regarding the Zenith Expedition."

​Olegen narrowed his eyes. The Zenith Expedition was supposed to be a straightforward, overwhelming retrieval mission.

Twelve fleets. Ninety dreadnoughts. Three Titan-class warships. Over 300,000 elite Federation soldiers. It was a military force capable of conquering am entire star system.

There should be zero margin for error.

​"Did Commander Musa secure the Dominator Core before Vesper?" Olegen asked as extended his heavily ringed hand to take the device.

​Barnard swallowed hard, looking as if he were about to be physically sick.

"There is no news from Vesper, lord Patriarch. But the armada... the entire armada has been annihilated."

"WHAT!!!"

​Olegen looked dumbfounded. His fingers tightened around the augmented screen as the highly classified military footage automatically began to play.

​The serene, peaceful silence of the lavish Earth garden was abruptly broken by the muffled, recorded screams of Federation officers.

Olegen watched in paralyzing horror as a terrifying sphere of dark energy effortlessly erased twenty dreadnoughts from existence in the blink of an eye.

He watched as the stolen Titan-class ship, the Ghost, tear its way out of the void.

​And finally, he saw the terrifying god-like figure of Neo Godson standing at the bow of the ship, mercilessly dictating the slaughter of Earth’s finest military force.

​CRACK.

​The expensive porcelain teacup on the table suddenly shattered into fine dust, crushed by the unintentional release of Olegen’s own immense aura.

​Julian immediately stopped absorbing the mana stones, looking alarmed.

"Grandpa? What’s wrong? Why is your aura leaking?"

​Olegen did not answer his grandson. He couldn’t. His ever calculating mind was completely short-circuiting as it tried to process the apocalyptic scale of the disaster unfolding on the small screen.

​Three Titan-class ships. 90 dreadnoughts. 300,000 men. Obliterated not by an alien empire, but by a newly awakened rogue Dominator and a mere handful of his subordinates.

The Earth Federation had suffered a catastrophic and humiliating slaughter that would shake the very foundations of their rule.

​And Olegen had sent an assassin after that terrifying person.

​Remembering that, a cold sweat ran down his back.

​"Barnard, quick! Contact Vesper and tell her to abort the mission immediately! We cannot afford to invite this devil to our doorstep!"

​"But, Patriarch, according to her last report, she already began the mission on Zenith. She stated she would strike Neo Godson tonight, which 3 hours ago in our global time."

​Olegen’s face lit up with hope.

​"Only 3 hours? That’s Great! The time difference should be the same right?" he asked hopefully.

Barnard crushed his hope by shaking his head.

​"No, patriarch. Time runs very slow there. It should be two days if I’m correct," Barnard answered, striking a blade straight at Olegen’s heart.

​Rumble!

​It was like thunder striking Olegen’s heart. His face turned paler.

​As a man who had lived sixty-five years, he knew what that meant.

​No news from Vesper even after two days was an obvious sign of failure. She might be dead or caught, maybe even spilling the beans about the Rothschild family.

​He grasped both of Barnard’s shoulders with a look of despair in his eyes.

​"Barnard, prepare an immediate intergalactic evacuation for our family. As we are now, we stand on the brink of destruction."

​Barnard felt uneasy too. A monster who could slaughter twelve Federation Fleets was no laughing matter.

​And with Vesper likely spilling the beans, this monster might as well be coming for the Rothschild family next.

​If they needed to survive, they needed to flee as far as they could.

​"I understand, Patriarch. I will gather all the family members immediately!"

Within the hour, the grand subterranean assembly hall of the Rothschild estate was completely packed.

​It was like a immensely powerful dynasty.

Olegen’s seven sons and three daughters had all answered the Class-Zero emergency summons, bringing along their spouses and dozens of offspring.

From young prodigies like twelve-year-old Julian to arrogant, politically entrenched adults who held massive influence across the Earth Federation, the room was filled with the elite of Sol-III.

​Usually, family gatherings of this magnitude were reserved for the distribution of planetary assets or grand cosmic banquets. Today, however, the atmosphere was thick with confusion and irritation.

​"What is the meaning of this, Father?" demanded Lucius, the eldest son and a high-ranking senator in the Supreme Council.

He adjusted his pristine tailored suit, looking thoroughly annoyed.

"I had to cancel a vital trade negotiation with the Martian delegates. This had better be important."

​"Yeah. I was in the middle of a high-tier mana bath. Barnard practically dragged my family out of our estate." Complained one of the daughters, crossing her arms.

​The murmurs of complaints and arrogant entitlement reverberated throughout the grand hall. They were the Rothschilds; untouchable, incredibly wealthy, and fundamentally safe from the horrors of the wider universe.

​Or so they thought.

​