Rot City – Sector 9, Vokar-17, Darnak-9
The city lived up to its name.
Skies above were a constant bruise of ash and smog, veiling the once-crimson sun of Vokar-17. A toxic wind howled through the ruins of forgotten towers, carrying the stench of burnt minerals and iron blood. The Zypherian elite had carved their dominion here, shackling their own kin to the mines beneath. Every breath was pain. Every step was labor. The Rot Cities were not cities at all, but prisons—breeding grounds of despair.
And among them, Darnak-9 was the worst of all.
It was here that Mi'ken, a twenty-year-old Zypherian with skin the color of dying embers, stood watching the horizon from the jagged cliff that overlooked the sector. His four eyes burned with fire, and his six arms flexed unconsciously, twitching as if ready to strike. He had lived with rage for years, and in the ashes of Darnak-9, it finally found form.
Beside him was Kairax, older by only a year, though grief had carved decades into his face. His mother had been among those slaughtered at the decree of Kuaq'Sire, the Royal Overseer of Darnak-9. Her death was not an accident—it was a message. The overseer's cruelty was designed to silence rebellion, but in Kairax, it did the opposite. The fire Mi'ken carried as anger, Kairax bore as vengeance.
"You see it, don't you?" Mi'ken whispered, his voice low, vibrating with restrained fury. His four eyes narrowed at the sight of the massive spires in the distance, where Zypherian enforcers paraded like gods. "The city chokes, the people bow, and he—Kuaq'Sire—thrives off it."
Kairax's fists clenched until his claws dug into his palms. "He killed her in front of me, Mi'ken. Laughed as if her screams were a song. For years I've tasted nothing but ash in my throat. This isn't living. It's rotting. And if we let this continue… we're no better than the chains we wear."
Mi'ken turned to face him fully, his six arms folding across his broad chest. "Then we won't let it continue. The time of whispers is over. The slaves are ready. The miners, the children, the broken—every one of them bleeds for revenge. And together, we will give them a reason to rise."
A gust of poisoned wind shrieked through the cracks of the cliffside, rattling the chains of the slave camps below. Thousands worked like shadows, their bodies bent and broken, eyes dulled. Yet in the cracks of despair, sparks of rebellion had begun to flicker. Quiet exchanges in the tunnels. Stolen tools hidden beneath the earth. A glance here, a nod there.
A storm was building.
Kairax's voice hardened as he gazed upon the central spire—the lair of Kuaq'Sire himself. "The Overseer thinks his enforcers and his decree from the Laco Royal Court make him untouchable. But he underestimates what hatred can do when it spreads like fire."
Mi'ken's lips curled into a grim smile. "Then we burn him."
He extended two of his arms outward, gesturing to the broken streets below. "I've spoken with the others. The miners of Sector 12. The children from the pit camps. Even the elders who once swore never to fight again. They've seen too much, lost too much. They will rise when the time comes."
Kairax's eyes glistened—not with tears, but with the raw glimmer of purpose. "And when that moment comes, we strike not just at the enforcers. We strike at the heart. Kuaq'Sire will bleed in the same streets he ruled. His body will rot in the city he poisoned."
The two stood in silence for a moment, their breathing heavy with unspoken oaths. Far below, the groans of slaves echoed through the canyon. Every sound was a reminder of chains yet to be broken.
Finally, Mi'ken leaned close, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "We plan tonight. In the underground. Every slave leader, every smuggler, every broken soul who still dreams. The Overseer will not see it coming. We'll turn his own city against him."
Kairax nodded, his claws twitching as he envisioned the moment his mother's killer fell. "Let him choke on the ash he created. The Rot City belongs to its people—not to him, not to the royal decree, not to anyone who feeds on our suffering."
Above them, the sky rumbled faintly—not thunder, but the distant roar of Zypherian warcraft. To the Overseer, it was just another day of domination. To Mi'ken and Kairax, it was the beginning of the end.
For in the heart of Darnak-9, rebellion had taken root.
And soon, it would bloom in blood.
The flickering blue glow of the holograms lit up the cavern walls of the Ashen Mountains. Maps of enemy strongholds, supply routes, and coded messages shimmered in midair as the rebellion leaders finalized assignments. Each commander had received their task—some to cut off Vir supply lines, others to sabotage communication towers, and a few to rally tribes still undecided about joining the rebellion.
The room was tense, everyone focused. And then, the low, gravelly voice of Zor, the weathered elder of the mountains, broke through the silence.
"May I speak?" he asked.
Targan, former leader of the Eyvraks, looked at him steadily and gave a single nod.
"All of us will listen, old one."
The room stilled. Even the flickering holograms seemed to pause, as if they too awaited his words.
Zor leaned forward, his face lit by the pale blue light. His voice carried both weight and bitterness.
"We trusted once before. Trusted an alien—a man named Helius. He came to us as a savior. He promised that after the Universal War, he would liberate not just us, but the countless oppressed races. And for a time… we believed him."
Murmurs rippled through the circle. Younger rebels leaned in; the older ones exchanged grim glances.
"But thirty-seven years ago…" Zor's jaw tightened. "Helius was betrayed. Betrayed not by his enemies, but by his own left hand commander. His dream ended not with triumph, but with a dagger in his back. He died holding onto a foolish ideal—that a new era could be built without killing. That strength could rise without blood."
He spat on the stone floor.
"Strength without blood is weakness."
The silence thickened.
Zor's eyes burned as he continued.
"Do you Verdalians even understand what kind of man Helius was? Fifty-seven years ago, when the Death Alliance rose, it was led by a human—Jordan Watson. Six S+ class warriors at his back, their banners feared across the galaxies. No one could stop them. Not even the great Robinson Drewauge, who fell in his first attempt against Jordan."
Heads lifted at that name. Robinson was still spoken of like a storm.
"But then…" Zor's voice lowered, each word like a hammer strike. "Helius and Domain—two men, bound by nothing but impossible will—stood against the Alliance. Together they broke it. Together they brought down the strongest warriors in the universe. After that, Domain was made Director of the Space Cops, and Helius was crowned the Rebellion King. And Jordan? Jordan Watson… was caged. His fire snuffed out."
He paused, eyes narrowing, as though seeing it all again.
"But Jordan was no ordinary man. Eight years later, he returned. And in his second clash against Robinson Drewauge… he fell. Killed in battle. His death marked the end of a dream. For if Helius and Domain had not intervened in that first war, Jordan Watson would have risen as Manu—the Supreme Leader of the Universe. He would have started a new era. A stronger one than this."
Zor's fist clenched. His voice broke with scorn.
"But Helius chose mercy. He chose weakness. He spared too many. And because of that… he doomed us all."
The chamber was silent except for the crackle of old torches. Every leader's gaze flicked between the Verdalians and the old warrior.
"Fifty-seven years," Zor said bitterly. "Fifty-seven years of alien saviors who promised us freedom. And each one failed. So tell me—" his eyes locked on Max, Warren, and the Verdalian envoys—"why should we trust you? Why should we believe that your rebellion will succeed, when every other hand we held betrayed us or bled out in the dust?"The words lingered, heavy as chains.
The chamber fell silent as Jason Amberdenk stepped forward. The faint glow from the star maps reflected off his emerald-green skin, making him appear like a living beacon amidst the somber gathering. At forty-five years of age, Jason carried both the aura of a hardened warrior and the quiet humility of a man who had seen suffering far beyond his people.
He raised his head, eyes tracing the shimmering lights of the holographic constellations above. Then, his voice, firm yet weighed with honesty, echoed through the chamber.
"I, Jason Amberdenk," he began, "was never destined to stand here as a leader. I was not raised to carry the banner of war, nor to command armies. My duty was simpler, smaller even. I was assigned to deliver food, medicines, and recovery supplies to outposts across the border. To make your star systems better… to heal the wounds of famine and exhaustion. That was my life."
He paused, and the room leaned closer, sensing the gravity in his tone.
"But then I saw what your king—what your rulers—did to you. The endless chains, the false promises of peace, the cruelty masked behind power. And I could no longer stay idle. I could no longer just deliver food when the true poison was tyranny itself."
Jason's hands clenched into fists, his emerald skin catching the light like polished stone.
"I have decided to stand with you. I have promised myself, and now I promise all of you, that the Verdalians will not turn away. We will help you. Not as conquerors, not as overlords, but as allies—because I believe in your fight. And because I admire the dream your own heroes carried."
His eyes shifted, hard yet filled with reverence.
"Lord Helius. He was not just a warrior. He was a vision. He stood against the Adam Clan and their eternal grip, without letting his blade be stained by senseless slaughter. I… I admit, he met his end in the Universal War II. Betrayed by the hand he trusted most, slain not by the enemy, but by his own right-hand commander. But what he left behind—" Jason's voice caught, and then grew steady again, "—was not death. It was life. He created the Gen6, a generation of fighters, thinkers, dreamers, all who believe that the galaxy could belong to its people again."
The chamber's silence grew heavier, as though Jason's words had reached into the core of every leader present.
"This tyranny that has bound us for centuries will not last forever. It cannot. Either it ends with us, or it will be ended by those who come after. But I say this now—" Jason's eyes flashed as his voice thundered, "—it will end. It must end. And we will make it so."
His words echoed long after his lips fell silent. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Some leaders shifted uncomfortably, some found themselves inspired, and some fought back the weight of fear with the spark of courage his declaration had ignited.
Jason Amberdenk bowed his head lightly, stepping back, but his presence lingered, his oath carved into the very air of the hall.
Meanwhile, far from the meeting chamber, in a quiet corner of the vast citadel, Kairox sat by himself. The boy of ten, small yet brimming with curiosity and fire, leaned against the cold stone wall, staring at the faint stars that shimmered through the dome's glass. It was like he was actually listened to Jason's words from afar—words of defiance, of hope, of destiny.
His fists tightened at his sides.
"One day," Kairox whispered, his eyes burning, "I'll fight too. Not just as a boy watching from the shadows. But as someone who will carry this promise forward."
The camera of fate lingered on his face, a reflection of innocence intertwined with an unshakable will. Jason had spoken of a future where tyranny would end. Kairox, still a child, unknowingly bore the spark of that very future.
And so, the path of generations—past, present, and yet to come—wove itself tighter.
The part ends with the image of Jason's oath still hanging in the air and Kairox's silent vow echoing into tomorrow.