Was that even a question? Bane had effortlessly killed several Aetherian Apprentices and Experts, and it didn't even seem like he was trying.
None of them were foolish enough to test him further.
They had always accepted orders from the Void Bastion—they issued commands that none of them dared defy.
Yet some, like Lorik and his group, had thought they could break away from its control.
Rebellion wasn't a new idea.
Over time, each faction had toyed with the thought of rebellion or even simply forming an alliance with each other.
The problem, however, was the very design put in place by the Void Bastion.
When their powers had been created as branches of the Transcendent Faction, strict rules had been imposed—contact between themselves was forbidden.
Whenever they did communicate, they used code names as well as a secured comm provided by the Void Bastion.
They had inklings of who the others were, but never enough certainty to form real trust.
And trust was crucial.
History had shown what happened to those who tried to unite or defy the Void Bastion.
Some factions, like Lorik's, were destroyed outright.
Others were attacked by rivals funded by Void Bastion, only for the victorious faction to be given a choice: join the Void Bastion or share the same fate.
Some factions grew stronger by betraying others, while others were wiped out entirely.
One such event was the Void Bastion Purge, where an entire faction was exposed for trying to betray Void Bastion by selling information to enemies, they were hunted down, and slaughtered, every single one of them from their family to their friends to people they barely even knew from the leader to the slaves.
Now, watching Bane's display of power, the remaining leaders knew that history could easily repeat itself.
They might be powerful in their own right, but none had forgotten the fate of those before them—nor the iron grip of the Void Bastion.
Bane paused at the throne, placing a hand on its armrest as he regarded the holograms once more.
"Think carefully before you act. Some of you have changed over time—But no matter how strong you think you are, the result is always the same."
The silence stretched. No one dared to speak, and Bane's smile widened slightly, satisfied by their fear.
"Good," he said softly. "Stay in line, and perhaps you'll live long enough to see how this game ends."
"Lord Bane, what are your orders?" They all said in unison.
The room remained silent for a few minutes, Bane let the tension build as his eyes flicked across each of their forms, and then he spoke—low, but crystal clear.
"I want a full breakdown of your forces," he said. "Every ship. Every soldier. Every star system under your control. No omissions."
No one responded immediately, but they didn't need to. The command wasn't optional.
Bane leaned forward, placing both hands on the throne's armrests.
"And gather your attack fleets," he continued. "All of them. Bring them to the Void Bastion."
"We're going to teach the traitors a lesson."
He let the words hang in the air, heavy and sharp.
None of the faction leaders were fools. They knew exactly what this was.
The request for a full military inventory? The Void Bastion probably already knew everything about them and this was just a test Bane, he probably had spies everywhere.
The demand to mobilize their forces? That was intimidation—plain and simple. A power move, not just against the rebels, but against them.
And Bane wasn't even pretending otherwise.
He wanted them to know.
He wanted them to feel it—that every dream of independence they might have secretly harbored, every whispered thought of rebellion, was now a liability.
A death sentence.
One of the holograms flickered slightly, the figure within adjusting his posture.
"Of course, Lord Bane," he said.
"You will have everything you asked for."
The others followed quickly. "Yes, my Lord."
"It will be done."
"Our fleets are yours."
Bane smiled again before he turned away from the holograms and sat back in the throne, one leg crossing over the other.
"And remember… if any of you think you can hide something from me—don't. Dismissed"
The holograms blinked out one by one, each leader bowing before the feed cut.
Bane remained in silence, fingers tapping the armrest slowly, rhythmically.
He wasn't worried about the traitors.
He was making sure none of the others ever became one.
As for the ones currently in his palace...
"It is time to clean this house." Bane said to no one in particular as he made his way out of the throne room's door.
He saw it.
The hallway ahead was chaos.
Laser blasts echoed—searing streaks of blue laser - bolts slicing through the air.
The walls trembled with distant detonations.
Screams.
Static.
Then—a body slammed into the corridor wall ahead, leaving a smear of blood and scorch marks.
Bane stepped forward into it, unhurried.
His eyes locked onto a squad of soldiers rushing toward him—Void Bastion loyalists, cornered and fighting for their lives.
Behind them came the traitors—clearly marked by their arrogance.
Painted Xs defaced the Void Bastion emblem on their chests and shoulder plates.
"Pitiful," Bane muttered.
With a flick of his fingers, the air screamed. Five of the traitor soldiers were ripped from their feet, slammed into the ceiling hard enough to shatter bone and steel.
He twisted his hand sharply—snap, snap, snap—their necks broke like twigs, and their bodies dropped in a heap.
The loyalist soldiers stared in stunned silence.
"Get back into battle," Bane said simply. "That is your order."
He stepped past them, his cape dragging across the blood-streaked floor. More traitors appeared, weapons raised, shouting battle cries.
Bane didn't slow down.
He raised his hand—and the entire hallway bent.
Their weapons tore from their grips, crushed mid-air like paper, and launched backward with enough force to embed them into their owners' chests.
One screamed as his own rifle drove straight through his armor and into the wall behind him.
A lone Aetherian among them surged forward, brandishing a curved glaive glowing with aether. He leapt.
Mid-air, Bane caught him with a gesture. Time seemed to freeze for the attacker as he floated helplessly in the air.
"Wrong move."
Bane closed his fist—and the Aetherian's body twisted, bones shattering from within.
His cry cut off into a wet crunch as he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.
Another group tried flanking him.
With a growl, Bane drew one of his twin Aether swords.
He blurred forward—one stroke, two, three—and each slash cut through armor, flesh, and weapon alike.
A traitor lieutenant lunged from the shadows, shouting a warcry as he hurled a heavy grenade.
Bane stopped it mid-air with a flick.
It hovered. The traitors' faces changed from rage to dread.
Then it reversed—hurtled back into them, detonating in a brilliant white flash that lit the entire corridor.
When the smoke cleared, only ashes remained.
Loyalist squads rallied behind him now, emboldened by his presence.
Wounded soldiers were carried to safety as Bane moved through the battlefield like a walking storm, tossing rubble aside with waves of force, crushing necks inward with a wave of his hand, deflecting aether bolts with casual flicks.
One group of loyalists was pinned behind a blast door, unable to escape as three enemy mechs advanced.
Bane raised both arms.
The mechs froze mid-step—then were crushed inward, folded like origami in reverse, their cockpits imploding before they even fired a shot.
"Back on your feet," he said to the soldiers inside, waving a hand as the door tore open for them. "You still have work to do."
They followed him now, a growing tide of vengeance.
Down corridor after corridor, Bane moved like a god of war, his telekinetic grip throttling the life from hundreds, his blade an executioner's final word.
Even other Aetherians began to flee when they realized what they were facing.
A wave of traitors regrouped near a central junction, heavy reinforcements, dozens of elites—
Bane stopped. Raised both hands.
The floor beneath them cracked. Then rose—lifted, tearing upward in a massive slab. He twisted it—and dropped it on them.
A single, massive thud. Then silence.
By the time he reached the barracks, the rebellion was broken.
Those who hadn't died had fled or begged for mercy. Some knelt. Some groveled.
He looked down at them with disgust.
"There is no forgiveness," he said.
With a gesture, the corridor folded inward—metal twisting and crashing until not a single traitor remained.
Behind him, a soldier whispered in awe, "This is power."
Bane said nothing else. He didn't need to.
The halls of the fortress echoed not with screams anymore—but silence.
The purge was over. And Bane had not even tried hard.