Kass stood stiffly on the steel dais, the cold surface gleaming under Aetheris Prime's pale lights. Heavy metallic cuffs dug into his wrists, their glowing runes pulsing softly. Murmurs drifted up from the crowd, a quiet hum that grated on his nerves.
Above, the dome of the Iron Spire towered, its intricate glass panes casting colored patterns across the ceremonial hall. It was supposed to feel grand, but all Kass felt was trapped.
Across from him stood his father, Lord Darius Rho. His father's gaze was sharp, filled with disdain Kass had long grown used to. Still, hearing his judgment spoken aloud cut deeper than he'd expected.
"Kassian Rho, you stand accused and guilty of disgracing House Rho's sacred traditions," Darius announced in a cold voice that echoed clearly. "Your reckless ideas and disregard for protocol have jeopardized our legacy. You're exiled, stripped of your titles and privileges. May you find wisdom in the rust."
Without another glance, his father turned sharply and signaled the guards. The whispers grew louder, filling Kass's ears as the guards guided him off the dais. Anger and disbelief churned inside him. Innovation had always been praised in House Rho…until it threatened the status quo.
Kass stumbled slightly as the massive doors slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing like the end of everything he knew. The guards walked him silently through corridors that had once felt warm and familiar but now seemed cold and alien.
They led him to an isolated hangar. A battered shuttle sat waiting, clearly meant for prisoners and castoffs. Kass felt a bitter sting of humiliation as the guards roughly shoved him inside, causing him to stumble onto the deck.
The hatch closed with a mocking hiss, leaving him in dim silence as the shuttle lifted away. All he had ever known was rapidly shrinking behind him.
The transition from the brilliance of Aetheris Prime to the gritty darkness of Forsaken Outpost was disorienting. Kass woke up sprawled on a heap of twisted metal, the air thick with the smell of oil and burnt circuits. The cuffs were gone, replaced by the jagged edges of scrap metal beneath his fingers. His fine robes were torn and filthy, no longer symbols of status but reminders of everything he'd lost.
He slowly stood, wincing as pain shot through his body, a harsh reminder of his new reality. Around him stretched an endless landscape of twisted debris: remnants of mech battles, failed prototypes, and shattered ambitions.
Towering scrap heaps jutted like broken teeth against a sky stained red by Drosk-3's sulfuric atmosphere. In the distance, the Rustfalls loomed deep, jagged ravines carved into the moon's crust by centuries of acid rain and tectonic tremors. Corrosive runoff pooled in the crevices, staining everything in hues of orange and ochre.
Few dared venture far into them without gear and backup; fewer returned with anything but scars or stories. But the brave—or desperate—knew that the biggest mech cores and rarest modules often lay buried beneath the rust.
Survival, Kass quickly realized, meant swallowing pride and embracing harsh truths. This wasn't just exile. It was rebirth in reverse: stripped of title, tools, and trust. He had nothing now but his mind, grit, and whatever he could pry from the bones of forgotten machines.
Kass wandered the scrapyard like a ghost, boots crunching over twisted metal and scorched circuitry. The place stretched out endlessly in every direction, a graveyard of forgotten wars and failed ideas. Jagged mech limbs jutted from the dirt like broken monuments. Every step he took echoed with hollow purpose until something caught his eye.
Half-buried beneath a collapsed chassis, a glint of glass peeked through the rust and grime. He knelt, prying away layers of shattered armor and fused wires until the shape of a cockpit revealed itself. Not intact, but not beyond hope either. Its canopy was cracked, the frame warped, but it still held the skeletal guts of a control module.
His breath hitched. This was no scout-class relic. The pilot harness was reinforced. The auxiliary ports suggested dual-feed architecture. "Vanguard series?" he muttered, running his fingers across a faded sigil. Maybe even a prototype.
Memories surged up of his days in Rho's research bays, sneaking access to off-limits schematics, tracing circuit lines with trembling excitement. His tutors had said he was a prodigy. His father called him reckless. Here, in the dirt, both could be true.
He climbed into the cockpit's husk. The seat gave a metallic groan, but didn't collapse. Dust rose around him as he brushed the control interface, not expecting anything except silence.
Instead, the cracked screens flickered.
At first, just static. Then a low hum buzzed to life under his fingers. Lines of code raced across the glass, erratic at first, then stabilizing. The glass brightened to a cool blue as a logo pulsed in the center of the main display.
INITIALIZING...
CORE MODULE DETECTED...
BLUEPRINT NEXUS ONLINE.
Welcome, Scrap King?
Kass stared, heart thundering. "No way," he whispered.
The Blueprint Nexus. It was supposed to be a myth. A relic lost when the first generation of mech architects splintered across the Federated Star Systems. The thing his mentors used to joke about when talking shop over synth-coffee. "Design magic," they'd call it. A living archive that learned and evolved based on a pilot's performance. Self-iterating, self-optimizing. Impossible.
And yet here it was.
As the screens lit up with data, a small panel on the side of the cockpit clicked open. Inside was a sleek, wrist-mounted device—metallic, matte-black, with glowing blue seams that pulsed in sync with the interface. Kass pulled it out slowly, recognizing it instantly.
An Aetherlink Node.
He'd seen a prototype once back in the Iron Spire, under lock and biometric seal. This one was older, scratched, but intact. He slid it onto his wrist. The clasp sealed tight with a soft hum, and a thin HUD projection flickered to life just above his forearm.
A mobile link to the Nexus. Fully synced.
The interface flared again, now streaming readouts across every screen: module slots, salvage inputs, mech silhouettes outlined in ghostly blue. One screen showed a hollow 3D frame waiting to be filled, a chassis begging to be born.
BL: 0 | Design Slots: 0 | SV: 0000
A UI prompt blinked slowly, almost teasing.
Ready to scrap?
Kass exhaled slowly. The cockpit's glow lit his face in pale blue hues. For the first time since exile, something clicked into place. Not fear. Not grief.
Potential.
He wasn't just a castoff anymore. Not just some discarded heir. If this thing really worked—and his instincts said it did—he had a chance. Not just to survive. But to build. To rise.
He let out a dry laugh. "Scrap King, huh?" he muttered. "Guess I've been called worse."
And then he smiled. Not a bitter smile. A dangerous one. Because scrap wasn't just junk in the right hands.
It was power waiting to be reshaped.
He explored the interface, heart racing. It felt intuitive, powerful, unlike anything he'd seen before. This wasn't just survival; it was a second chance. A chance to show everyone who'd doubted him just how wrong they were.
Night fell quickly, shadows deepening across the junkyard. Rustfalls loomed menacingly nearby, echoing with distant, ominous sounds. Danger was everywhere, but Kass was used to danger pushing him toward innovation.
Determined, he began stripping useful parts from the cockpit, carefully choosing each piece. Hours passed unnoticed as he worked, driven by a new sense of purpose and defiance.
Exhaustion finally forced him to rest. Leaning back, he stared at the glowing Nexus interface. The title "Scrap King" mocked him gently, a challenge as much as a joke. But he wouldn't let scraps define him, no, he'd take these pieces and build something incredible.
A sudden sound snapped Kass out of his contemplation. Footsteps crunched nearby, cautious and slow. He quickly slipped into the cockpit's shadow, his heart pounding.
"Easy, friend," a rough voice called out. "Saw the shuttle dump you here. Figured you'd need some help."
Kass hesitated, then stepped cautiously into the dim moonlight. An older man with grizzled features and a friendly grin stood before him, holding a dimly glowing lamp. "Name's Corvin," the stranger said, extending a hand. "Been out here long enough to know a fresh exile when I see one."
"Kass," he replied warily, taking Corvin's offered hand.
"House Rho, huh?" Corvin chuckled, eyeing Kass's torn robes. "Didn't know they tossed their own like this. Might just be their loss, though."
Corvin motioned toward a nearby settlement. "Come on, let's get you patched up. You've got the look of someone who could use a meal and a friend."
Kass followed quietly, thankful for the unexpected kindness. The small settlement emerged from the gloom, ramshackle buildings clustered together under flickering lights. People moved about slowly, their eyes holding the familiar weariness of those who had long accepted hardship.
"Welcome to Forsaken Outpost," Corvin said with a wry smile. "Doesn't look like much, but you'll find we make do."
They entered a modest hut filled with salvaged furniture and buzzing lights. Corvin gestured for Kass to sit and handed him a bowl of steaming stew. The warmth spread through Kass, easing tension he hadn't even realized he was holding.
As he ate, Kass started going over the Nexus interface again in his head. The possibilities felt endless, and for the first time since his exile, he felt a genuine sense of hope.
"Scrap King," he murmured thoughtfully. A faint smile appeared as he met Corvin's curious gaze. "It's just a title, but maybe, just maybe, I'll make it mean something."
Corvin nodded approvingly. "That's the spirit, kid. Out here, scraps are the start of something bigger."