Olympus Diver Justice Pt.3

Part III: The Pursuit

The Sovereign Divine roared through warp corridors like a star-bound predator, hunger carved into every plate of her blackened hull. From the command throne, Titus VIII stared into the void, not at stars, but at coordinates. He didn’t need a battlefield. He needed a direction.

Trigger stood beside him, visor down, mouth tight. Around them, the bridge pulsed with red-alert telemetry. Hundreds of Olympus Divers were being briefed in drop bays, their armor glistening in the firelight of vengeance. No jokes now. No banter. Just purpose.

"We have a trace," the AI intoned from the throne spire. Aetherion’s voice cut through silence like scripture. "Nine deserter drop pods exited Tarsh's orbit six hours before the collapse. Based on trajectory, they rendezvoused with an unregistered cruiser in the Darnex Drift. The ship now hides under civilian registry in the Brackett Belt."

Titus said nothing. He stood.

Trigger broke the silence. "They didn’t even run far."

"Cowards never do," Titus replied.

He gestured to the central display. The nine pods were clustered in formation. Whoever gave the order to flee didn’t just run. They organized. They coordinated. They planned.

Which meant they thought they were right.

That made it worse.

The Sovereign Divine dropped from warp at the Brackett Belt’s edge with the fury of Olympus in her wake. Cloaked in reflective silence, she stalked the civilian cruiser—a repurposed ore hauler painted in neutral greens, flying no flag. Inside: forty-nine former Helldivers, twelve of them Olympus-trained.

They were laughing.

Olympus intercepts confirmed light chatter. They thought they’d gotten away with it. They were heading to Mazar—a neutral station known for illegal arms swaps and mercenary recruitment. They were planning to sell their stratagems, Olympus uniforms, even AI codes, in exchange for citizenship off-world.

Titus did not speak.

He simply descended.

Trigger dropped with him. So did four elite squads: Pyre Lance, Ember Fangs, Ash Guard, and the Ghosts of 27. No formation. No fanfare. Just orbital flame.

They breached the hull of the cruiser in five seconds.

The traitors never had a chance.

Trigger moved like a scythe through grain, rotary flamer roaring in enclosed halls. Titus walked in fire’s wake, weaponless, his voice a whisper amplified through every deck:

"You were sons. You were brothers. And you fled."

One diver tried to surrender. Titus burned him to ash.

Another begged for exile. Trigger executed him mid-sentence.

Every level of the ship became a graveyard. The Olympus Divers did not shout. They did not curse. They simply removed. By the end, only one remained: the officer who gave the retreat order at Tarsh.

He was found in the captain's quarters, attempting to override the auto-destruct. When Titus entered, he stood and saluted.

"I made a call. We would've all died."

Titus stepped forward. "You all did die. The moment you ran."

The officer reached for his sidearm—not in defiance, but guilt.

Titus stopped him. He didn’t deserve to choose.

The Sovereign Flame ignited.

The Olympus banners were draped over the broken cruiser. Every body was burned. Every helmet was salvaged. Forty-nine helmets mounted on spikes, welded to the dorsal battery array of the Sovereign Divine.

Titus stood atop the command spire as the dead vessel was jettisoned into a gas giant’s gravity well. The cruiser broke apart in the upper atmosphere, a flaming comet of betrayal.

"Let them see what loyalty costs when it's abandoned."

Trigger nodded. "Now what?"

Titus stared at the stars. "We dive."

And the war resumed.