The once-silent canyons of the Ashen Mountains now pulsed with life.
Inside the Hidden Spire, thousands of Eyrvaks warriors—scarred, tired, but resilient—stood vigil, awaiting news from the surgical chamber where their leader Targan fought for life. The tension was thick. All eyes turned to the central dais where an old legend sat.
Zor, the revered elder, once a feared warrior of the old rebellions, sat quietly with what remained of his war-torn body—only one eye, all six arms lost in battles of the past. His breaths were slow but steady. His presence alone kept morale alive.
The doors to the base suddenly opened. A pulse scanner confirmed five massive Verdalian ships approaching from above. The mountain's defense grid flared, but before the trigger could be pulled—
"I am Ka'roth, right hand of Targan. Stand down!"
From the skies, the five Verdalian stealth ships revealed themselves, shimmering into visibility like ghosts returning home. They descended slowly and landed across the five pads carved into the mountainside.
Tension turned to awe as the Verdalian captains exited—commanders of futuristic tech-clad warriors, each bearing the silver-haired, green-skinned insignia of Verdalia.
Ka'roth stepped forward and saluted.
"Old Zor, brothers of Eyrvaks… we have returned not just with allies, but with hope."
From a reinforced Verdalian case, Ka'roth brought out five sleek, Verdalian Medical Capsules—cylindrical pods glowing faint green, wrapped with auto-scan bands and neural sync nodes.
"These are Type-7 Verdalian Regenerative Capsules. Designed to fully restore critical injuries within hours using bio-stim tech and quantum cell-sequencing."
Doctor Sylk, already battling to keep Targan stable, stepped forward and gasped.
"With these… I can save him. No doubt."
The Eyrvaks roared in celebration. As the capsules were carefully activated, one of them slowly opened—revealing a hollow, gel-lined core.
"Prepare Targan," Sylk ordered.
Within minutes, the unconscious rebel leader was carefully transferred into the capsule. The pod sealed, and the internal healing protocol engaged.
A soft hum echoed through the base.
The capsule glowed softly, displaying vitals.
Stable.
Regeneration: 78%... 79%...
Zor's one eye glistened. He looked at Ka'roth.
"You brought salvation."
Ka'roth knelt and gently placed a hand on Zor's shoulder.
"We brought unity. Verdalia has joined us."
Zor turned slowly, his voice low:
"Verdalians don't involve themselves in foreign wars… unless someone extraordinary moved them."
Ka'roth replied with a smile.
"One man did. Jason Amberdenk. The commander of Verdalian forces. He defeated 2000 royal Zypherian elite, destroyed 30 Grade-2 androids, and rescued Mek'lar—Rovin's father."
Zor sat back, stunned.
"What… class is he?"
"We don't know," Ka'roth said. "But I no longer care. A man who fights for people he's never known… that's the class of a legend."
Zor chuckled, his breath rough but proud.
"Then tell this Jason… I want to see his eyes. Because the last time I looked into such a warrior's eyes was when I fought beside Helius."
Ka'roth stood.
"You will. But first, tomorrow—we host a Grand Alliance Hologram Meet. Liberation Army. Scorched Branch. Eyrvaks. Verdalia. The four factions must move as one."
The massive royal cruiser bearing the crest of the House of Laco roared through the sky. Below, Segment 1, the central capital of both Vokar-17 and the entire Lilliput Star System, stretched across the land like a jewel embedded in decay.
As Prince Varel stared out from the tinted glass windows of the cruiser, the contrast became strikingly clear.
Beyond the outer walls, Rot Cities simmered in dust and suffering. But here, within the towering barriers of Segment 1, was a different world altogether—a false paradise carved out of suffering.
The entry gate, guarded by gold-armored Elite Enforcers, slid open with hydraulic precision, and the cruiser passed through.
The City Inside Segment 1: A Delicate Lie
The city was pristine, geometrically perfect in its layout—10 km radius of rich Zypherian opulence.
Floating transport rails glided silently above the polished crystal roads.
Artificial lakes and hanging gardens replicated a nature long extinct on this world.
Glittering towers, some shaped like vines, others like blooming obsidian flowers, pierced the sky, their surfaces alive with data lights and energy fields.
Servant bots walked between marble villas, spraying scent-mist and cooling air.
Civilians—all Zypherians of noble birth or high political standing—walked in flowing white and blue robes, their skin radiant, their expressions empty, yet proud.
Everything was synthetic, simulated, soulless.
Despite its grandeur, the air, though fresh, was artificially pressurized and laced with chemical perfumes. The skies above were blue only because of atmospheric refractors that bent dying starlight into beauty.
The Palace of Crownlight
Near the center stood the Palace of Crownlight—a colossal hexagonal structure 900 meters wide and 300 meters tall, forged from black crystal and glowing gold alloy.
The King's Tower, at its heart, rose like a spear toward the dome-shaped forcefield above the city.
When Prince Varel stepped out of the cruiser, he walked past rows of statues—each one a past king of Vokar, all carved from petrified starbone. He passed a liquid-gold fountain, flowing around living vines that moved unnaturally slow, animated by the empire's ancient biotechnology.
Inside, court guards—faceless, cloaked figures in armor of living metal—opened the golden gates, revealing the Inner Courtroom.
The Hall of Judgement
Even though it was morning, the Hall was dim, bathed only in a dull, rusted light that trickled through artificial skylights. On both sides, Zypherian ministers murmured in velvet-lined rows. Their eyes flicked nervously toward the throne.
The air was crisp, cold, and metallic. Nature, though present in appearance, reeked of manipulation.
And then, at the far end—the Throne of the Abyss.
There, behind a translucent obsidian veil, sat King Laco.
No one could truly see him—his body was engulfed in darkness so absolute that light bent away from it. His voice, when it came, rumbled like thunder through water:
"So… finally, Prince Varel arrives."
Varel knelt immediately, placing one fist to his chest in salute.
"Your Majesty."
The room fell silent.
"I asked you here," King Laco continued, "because Segment 1 may appear bright… but rot creeps in through cracks. The Verdalian commander… the traitor Mek'lar… the rebellion grows."
Laco's voice dropped.
"The sun of our world fades, but my grip must not. This city is the last bastion of order in a crumbling empire, and I will not allow it to fall. Now… speak. What do you know of the traitors?"
Varel hesitated for a moment, then raised his head.
"My lord… I believe the time for pretense has ended. The rebels are uniting. The Scorched Branch, Eyrvaks, Liberation Army—and now Verdalia. If we wait two more weeks, they will be at our gates."
A sharp hiss passed through the chamber.
"Then we will not wait," Luco snarled. "We will summon the ten kings of Lilliput. A Council of Thrones. We will show these insects the true wrath of the royal bloodline."
The ministers whispered among themselves.
Varel clenched his fists.
"And what of the rot outside these walls? The enslaved? The tortured? They too may rise."
For a long moment, the king said nothing.
Then, his voice came again, colder.
"Let them. We will burn the world before we give it back."
The sun never truly rose in Darnak-9.
A city where the skies were blanketed by ash clouds and the winds carried the choking breath of a dying world. Here, the cries of thousands were muffled under the weight of chains and sorrow. The Rot Cities, they were called—places where dreams went to rot, where the zypherian elite mined the life out of the planet and its people for the greed of power. Among them, Darnak-9 was the worst.
Kuaq'Sire, the royal-appointed overseer of Darnak-9, stood atop his steel tower every morning, gazing down at the enslaved zypherian masses. His crimson armor gleamed in the dull glow of artificial lights, and the black banner of the Vir Empire flapped beside the royal Zypherian emblem, casting long shadows on the broken homes below.
The stones mined here weren't ordinary. They pulsed with raw energy—extracted with brutal labor from beneath Darnak's crust, capable of powering the rich segments in Vokar-17's capital. But their cost wasn't only measured in sweat and blood. A terminal illness had begun to spread, one that decayed the body from the inside out. It wasn't communicable to zypherians, but those exposed to the polluted air and mining toxins—especially the children—stood little chance.
Among the thousands condemned to this life was Kairox, a ten-year-old zypherian boy with bright, innocent eyes dulled by suffering. His mother, once strong and spirited, now lay on a ragged cloth mat in their shack. Her breathing was shallow. Her skin had lost its natural hue, now gray and cracked, her limbs trembling from weakness. The disease was draining her life slowly—painfully.
Every morning, Kairox kissed her forehead and whispered, "I'll be back with food, Mama," before stepping out with tools twice his size, ready to dig into the earth that was killing her.
Watching him from afar was Mi'ken—a young man of twenty who once had hope, who once believed the universe could be more than endless suffering. Mi'ken often told the children stories of Domain, the legendary slave-turned-rebel who fought beside Lord Helius in Universal War II. He saw in Kairox the same fire—the same spark—that once burned in him.
But today, Mi'ken felt that fire waning.
He knelt by Kairox's shack that evening. "How is she today?"
Kairox didn't speak. He just shook his head, lips trembling, clutching a small piece of stale bread he'd saved for her.
"I tried to get more," he said, voice cracking, "but they cut our rations again."
Mi'ken placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'll find something."
But hope was hard to keep alive when tyranny ruled.
Later that night, the nightmare unfolded. From atop the steel tower, Kuaq'Sire declared his new decree.
"Anyone afflicted with the terminal illness is to be considered a liability to the crown and the Vir Empire. Effective immediately, all such individuals will be terminated."
There was silence.
Then screaming.
Kairox heard the boots before he saw them. He ran. He ran harder than he ever had, tearing through the alleys, back to his mother. But it was too late.
She was already on her knees, hands bound.
A soldier raised his rifle.
"NO!" Kairox screamed, throwing himself over her.
The rifle cracked.
But the bullet didn't land. Mi'ken had tackled the soldier just in time, knocking the weapon aside.
There was chaos. Shouts. Blood. Mi'ken fought savagely, but the soldiers were many. He was beaten, dragged through the dirt, and tossed aside. Kairox was held down, forced to watch as they shot his mother in the chest.
She didn't cry.
She smiled at him, mouthed, "Be strong."
Then she was gone.
The guards left them there, broken and beaten. Kairox lay still, not crying. Just breathing. Deep, slow breaths. Mi'ken crawled beside him, wiping blood from his face.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should've done more."
Kairox turned to him, his voice calm. "I want to kill him."
Mi'ken stared at the boy, a chill running through his spine. The fire was back.
That night, in the back alleys of Darnak-9, surrounded by others who had lost mothers, fathers, children—Mi'ken stood beside Kairox.
"We'll call it the Fire Rebellion," he said, bandaging his wounds. "We'll burn down the rot, brick by brick."
And in that cursed city of smoke and silence, a rebellion was born.
Somewhere beyond the rot, in the clean cities behind the walls, they still lived in comfort.
But the fire had been lit in the shadows.
And it would spread.