Conquest sits alone in the Viltrumite ship’s cold, metallic cafeteria. The atmosphere is sterile, hollow—echoing with the hum of machinery and silence. The long rows of empty seats stretch endlessly, a quiet reminder of his solitude.

He prepares a small, simple meal. Nothing extravagant—just enough to mark the day. Today is his 9,320th birthday.

He doesn’t expect company. He never has. No one dares celebrate with him. His reputation as unstable, brutal, and ruthless has long severed any ties to camaraderie or affection.

Still, he hums a tune—a warped, ancient melody from a time before the violence took over. His voice is low, rough... there's an eerie chill to it, but beneath the grating tones, there’s a sliver of something else—loneliness.

Conquest, the conqueror of worlds, the executioner of empires... sings quietly for himself.

Conquest (softly, to himself):
"Another year, another war... another sun I’ll never see..."

He eats in silence, eyes distant. The stars outside the viewport twinkle—but they feel just as far as everyone else ever has.