THE ASCENT OF OLYMPUS
From Golden Thrones to Burning Worlds
2080 – Present
THE FOUNDING
By the year 2080, Olympus was already more than just a company — it was a sovereign empire, wrapped in platinum contracts and golden constitutions. Worth over 40 trillion credits, the Olympus Group had purchased and converted hundreds of landmasses into corporate states. These weren’t colonies. These were kingdoms — ruled by a dynasty.
In 2050, the Kingsley family did what no boardroom had ever dared: they declared sovereignty. Not in secret. Not in defiance. In full view of Super Earth. They appointed themselves rulers of the Olympus States and positioned Olympus Security as the official military arm of their territory. Private? Yes. Unaccountable? Absolutely. But their allegiance to liberty was ironclad.
And so, the first handshake between Super Earth’s Ministry of Defense and the Kingsley Crown was sealed in fire. Olympus Security became something new — Olympus Corp — a hyper-elite private warfare division. They would go where Helldivers couldn't. Or wouldn't. Olympus didn’t follow orders. They were invited to clean house.
They became the Ministry’s quiet blade. Their mission: wage war in shadows, burn out discord, and hold the line when truth was not enough.
THE FIRST GALACTIC WAR
As the galaxy erupted in the First Galactic War, Olympus Security became more than a side force — they were the hammer behind closed doors. They operated in the places Helldivers wouldn’t speak of. Entire sectors were cleared and sterilized without a single name appearing on broadcast.
It was during this war that a young prince — Titus Octavius Kingsley VIII — rose to fame. After winning 89 straight black ops incursions and surviving three nuclear ambushes, Titus vanished into cryosleep. His words, before stepping into the chamber: “Wake me when the flames return.”
A DYNASTY INTERRUPTED
Years passed. Titus slept. His cousin, Sovereign William Kingsley, ruled Olympus with grand vision. But when war returned — not in whispers but in a blaze — William fell to an assassin’s blade during a diplomatic summit. Super Earth reeled. Olympus screamed.
Titus was awakened.
At 170 years old, sustained by cryogenics and gene-stabilization tech, he stepped from the frost and into command. He traced the assassin's trail to a rogue micronation suspected of orchestrating dozens of attacks across Olympus space.
Titus answered not with diplomacy — but with absolute fire.
Fifteen thousand were vaporized in a sanctioned orbital cleansing. No trials. No votes. Just justice.
From that moment forward, the name Titus became synonymous with judgment.
THE SOVEREIGN DIVINE
After reclaiming the throne, Titus appointed his nephew as regent and boarded his flagship — the Sovereign Divine, a black adamantine dreadnought with runic reactors and a will of its own. Some say it’s more fortress than ship. Others say it’s a god’s tomb flying through space.
It would become Olympus’s true capital. A temple of wrath. A cathedral of war.
While the galaxy looked outward for the next threat, Titus descended into isolation — to a redacted planet — and began a new project. Hidden from even his bloodline, the Sovereign used fragments of bug hives, bot cores, and arcane squid relics to attempt the impossible:
Creating a super-aware clone — one that could fight, die, and rise again.
Thousands of prototypes failed. Until the last. A crater was all that remained. Three square miles of burned jungle. Titus was found at its epicenter — no respirator, lungs intact, eyes glowing faintly. A Deathwatch cleanup crew sealed the area. No records remain.
But something survived. And it wasn’t just the King.
THE SECOND GALACTIC WAR
When the Second Galactic War erupted, Olympus didn’t respond — it descended. Titus returned with a fury unseen since the Purge Days. Every Olympus Commander was given a Super Destroyer. Cadets deployed directly from the Sovereign Divine itself.
This time, Olympus wasn’t an auxiliary force.
They were a kingdom returning to war.
Titus brought fire and chaos. Whole mountain ranges were leveled. City shields were melted for sport. Cadets were sacrificed for strategic reloads. He was seen once — using a cadet as a doorstop to throw a pyro grenade down a corridor. The excuse? “The door needed to stay open.”
His commanders, cloned and battle-forged, led squads across hostile systems. Death was a reset button. Resurrection was protocol.
THE OBSESSION WITH MARKARTH
Titus’s mind never left one planet. Markarth.
He spoke of it in broken riddles. Rumors spoke of ruins beneath the surface. Structures that predated Helldivers. Some said the Illuminate had tampered with the planet. Others said something older lived beneath the crust.
By the time the first Malevelon Creek battle occurred, Olympus was fully embedded. Titus’s obsession deepened. Fire became his religion. Arc weapons. Flamers. Hellbombs. It wasn’t strategy. It was exorcism.
And the worst part?
It worked.
THE MODERN CAMPAIGN
Now, in the current campaign, Olympus stands apart.
Titus no longer walks the halls of Olympus freely. He appears when he must. When morale collapses. When a line is faltering. He drops without comms, without intro, and fights alongside the lowest Cadets.
He executes those who falter. Elevates those who endure.
Cadets call him The Silent Fire.
He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t praise. But when he salutes you — you know you're something more than meat.
You’re Olympus.
