The void burned.
Where the Veyran Star had been moments before, there now loomed a vessel of impossible grandeur. Its prow was carved into the likeness of a grinning skull, its eyes burning with ghostly fire. Its silhouette dwarfed anything the Arcadian fleet had ever fielded — a ship born not of dockyards, but of grief, the Warp, and a machine older than empires.
The Arcadia.
On her bridge, Francis Harlock rose from the command throne. His ship was alive in ways no mortal could name. Every beat of his heart resonated with the vessel's core. The whispers of Arcadia's dead filled the air, steady now, no longer pleading but resolute, their voices joined into a single will that moved with his own.
He walked to the helm.
The wheel was ancient, wrought of ironwood and brass, carved with runes no lexmechanic had ever deciphered. Its spokes gleamed in the half-light of the bridge. It had stood silent for generations, a ceremonial relic — until now.
Harlock gripped it. The ship answered.
Engines thundered to life like the roars of chained leviathans. The prow tilted, skull-grin turning toward the enemy fleet with a predator's hunger. The Arcadia moved not as a void-ship of steel, but as though it were a living beast obeying its master's hand.
"By the Throne…" the helmsman whispered, staring as his console went dark. "She answers only to him."
The raiders hesitated. They had expected one crippled corvette, not the birth of a monster. Even their flagship — vast, brutal, scarred by a thousand campaigns — faltered in its advance.
Then the vox snarled with a single order: destroy it.
A squadron of frigates broke formation and surged to encircle.
"Multiple contacts, bearing six-two!"
Francis Harlock's hands tightened on the wheel. "Broadside."
The Arcadia obeyed.
No mortal hands moved at the gunnery stations. Yet the ship's flanks roared to life. Macro-cannons swiveled with impossible speed, faster than flesh could react, and fired in a thunderous volley. The shells burned with black fire, tearing through enemy hulls as though they were paper.
Two frigates exploded outright. A third spun, split open along its keel. The last broke and ran — only to be cut down by dorsal batteries that spoke before the crew even realized they were armed.
The bridge fell silent.
"My Emperor…" the first officer murmured. "It follows your will."
Harlock did not look away from the viewport. His voice was iron. "It follows Arcadia's will. As do we all."
But the true test had yet to come.
The enemy flagship turned, its skull-shaped prow yawning open as vast lance arrays charged. Power built to ruinous levels, enough to cleave a cruiser in half.
"They're targeting us!"
Harlock's gaze hardened. His hands moved on the wheel, steady as stone. "Cover us."
The Arcadia responded.
From her flanks poured a rolling tide of shadow, a Black Dark Matter Mist that bled into the void. It swallowed the ship whole, blotting her from auspex returns, cloaking her in formless night.
The lance fired.
Light met darkness — and vanished. The beam unraveled, devoured by the mist until nothing remained. At the same time, the ship's scorched hull began to heal: plates sliding back into place, rivets bursting like seeds from molten metal, seams glowing and sealing shut as though time itself rewound.
"Captain!" the auspex officer gasped. "They've lost us — the entire fleet! We're invisible."
"Good," Harlock said. He turned the wheel, and the Arcadia moved like a blade through smoke. "Let them fear the dark."
The Arcadia surged forward, prow splitting the mist like a beast breaking free from the depths. Her guns spoke in furious rhythm, every strike guided by Harlock's hand at the wheel. Each salvo tore chunks from the flagship's hull before the ship vanished back into the black.
On the bridge, Francis stood tall, cloak snapping in the recycled air. He could feel the fury of the ship, the wrath of every Arcadian soul bound within it. It was not madness. It was not desperation. It was vengeance.
"For Arcadia," he said.
The crew, shaken but unbroken, found their voices. "For Arcadia!"
The final salvo struck. The enemy flagship split apart, its skull-prow shattering into shards that burned in silence. The explosion lit the void like a funeral pyre.
Silence fell.
The remnants of the raider fleet scattered, fleeing into the Warp like carrion birds. The skies of Arcadia were clear once more — but the world below was already ash.
On the bridge of the Arcadia, the surviving crew stood in awe. Some wept. Others prayed. All looked to Francis Harlock.
He did not speak at first. His gaze was fixed on the planet beneath them — his world, his home. Nothing remained but ruins and oceans of fire.
Finally, he spoke, voice quiet but heavy with unyielding resolve.
"Arcadia is gone. But we are not. This ship carries her name. Her spirit. Her vengeance."
He turned the helm, and the skull prow of the Arcadia swung toward the stars.
"We are the ghosts of Arcadia. And the galaxy will learn to fear us."
And thus began the legend.