The sky bled crimson. Shattered moons drifted above like broken teeth, their fragments burning trails across the atmosphere. Below, the ground groaned under the weight of forgotten machines of war — starship husks half-buried in ash, towers that once reached the heavens now lying in skeletal ruin.
Among the wreckage stood a figure.
The armor he wore bore no crest of empire, no banner of allegiance. Its plates were scarred and reforged countless times, fused with fragments of technologies long extinct. His cloak, torn but unyielding, trailed behind him like a shadow of eternity.
They whispered his name in fear across galaxies — The General Ancient.
His eyes, a piercing glacial blue, surveyed the horizon. The whispers of the past echoed in his mind: voices of comrades long dead, empires he had both defended and destroyed. Time had eroded kingdoms, but not him.
"Immortality is not a gift," he thought, gripping the hilt of his blade. "It is a burden… one I must carry until the last star fades."
From the sky, thunder answered. Dropships burned through the atmosphere, spewing flame and iron. An armada had arrived — young soldiers, armed with weapons that thought themselves new, but to him, they were imitations of forgotten designs.
The General Ancient stepped forward, boots sinking into the ash of wars past.
For centuries, he had wandered the ruins of civilizations, avoiding conflict, avoiding memory. But destiny had stirred again. The galaxy's children had come, blind to the nightmare they were awakening.
He tightened his grip on the blade. The weapon sang — not with steel, but with ancient power, humming with a resonance older than their suns.
The war was coming.
And once again, he would lead it.