Youri had moved away from the counter and settled at one of the tables near where Marvin had been sitting earlier, the bottle of gin Marella had handed him resting loosely in his grip. The Rusted Halo breathed with noise around him like some wounded mechanical beast refusing to die. Laughter mixed with arguments while cards slapped against tabletops and old speakers buried somewhere inside the frigate walls struggled to push out distorted music through layers of static. Lanterns hung from exposed wiring overhead, swaying gently whenever Antia's harsh winds battered against the outer hull. Their dim amber glow painted the salvaged interior in shifting shadows, reflecting against rusted steel and welded plating that had been patched together so many times the bar no longer resembled the ship it once belonged to. Yet despite the noise, despite the warmth and chaos around him, Youri felt separated from it all, like a ghost observing life from behind glass.
He poured another glass and drank slowly.
The gin burned going down.
It was rough and bitter, nothing refined about it, brewed for miners, scavengers, and drifters who cared more about forgetting than flavor. Somehow he appreciated that. There was honesty in harsh things.
Leaning back in his chair, he looked toward the ceiling where pipes and cable bundles crossed overhead like veins through metal flesh.
Talion returned to him.
And with Talion came Thirty Six.
The memory settled over him heavily.
He lowered the glass against the table harder than intended, the sound echoing across nearby seats. A few patrons glanced toward him before returning to their own conversations.
Oh Six, he thought bitterly. I don't know what to do.
The faintest smile touched his face.
I thought I had a clue. Thought maybe I finally understood where I was headed. But it seems that was wishful thinking.
He stared upward.
How I'd wish you'd be here sitting with me.
Not for answers.
Not for guidance.
Just company.
The thought lingered painfully.
He had crossed worlds, survived Tartarus, fought beside monsters and gods wearing the shape of calamities, and still this simple silence hurt more than all of it combined. Leonora's words remained buried somewhere inside him like rusted blades. She pitied you. She doesn't love you. The memory should have angered him. Instead it had hollowed him out.
Then the doors of the Rusted Halo burst open.
The violent hiss of hydraulics and the slam of metal silenced the room almost instantly.
Youri did not move.
Heavy boots struck the floor.
Marvin had returned.
And this time he had brought company.
Six men entered behind him, spreading through the doorway with the forced confidence of scavengers who mistook numbers for courage. They wore patched coats and scavenged armor pieces bolted crudely over cloth and leather. Pistols hung from their hips. One carried a steel pipe wrapped in wiring while another rested his hand near a shock baton. Marvin himself looked worse than before. His face remained swollen from Youri's earlier strike. Rage twisted his features.
He stepped forward and shouted across the bar.
"Where the fuck is that guy!?"
The Rusted Halo fell silent.
Conversations stopped.
Cards remained suspended in players' hands.
Nearly every eye in the room drifted toward Youri.
He still sat looking at the ceiling.
Marvin followed their gaze.
"There you are."
The sound of a shotgun pumping cut sharply through the tension.
Marella stood behind the counter.
Her mechanical eye glowed faintly red while the shotgun rested firmly in her hands.
"You motherfucker," she barked. "Didn't you learn your lesson!?"
Marvin swung his pistol toward her.
"Shut up, bitch! I'm not here for you this time. My business is with that motherfucker!"
Youri exhaled quietly and leaned forward.
Then he stood.
His chair scraped against the floor.
The room watched him.
He rolled his shoulders once and cracked his neck.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Marvin looked almost offended.
"Are you fucking with me!?"
Youri met his eyes.
His voice carried no challenge.
Only exhaustion.
"Speak your wish. If you want to shoot me, shoot me. If you want to beat me, beat me."
He slowly raised his arms.
"I give you my word."
His expression never changed.
"I won't even flinch."
Something uneasy moved through the room.
The words sounded wrong.
Not brave.
Not arrogant.
Just empty.
Marvin lowered his pistol and stepped closer, studying him with narrowed eyes.
"You think you're funny?"
Youri said nothing.
For a long moment Marvin stood there staring at him, waiting for fear, waiting for some reaction that would justify his anger.
Then he punched him.
The blow landed hard enough to snap Youri's head sideways.
But the rest of his body never moved.
Marvin blinked.
The lack of reaction irritated him instantly.
"You freak!"
His boot slammed into Youri's chest.
The impact finally sent him backward, tumbling over the table as bottles and glasses crashed across the floor. Before he could even settle against the ground Marvin jumped on top of him and started swinging.
Punch after punch crashed into Youri's face.
His fists hammered down wildly.
Blood sprayed across the floor.
Nearby patrons backed away.
Marvin shouted with every strike, years of frustration and wounded pride spilling out with each blow.
But Youri did not resist.
He simply lay there.
His lip split.
Blood ran from his nose.
One eye began swelling shut.
Yet he never raised a hand.
Never blocked.
Never cursed.
Never retaliated.
And that frightened Marvin.
Because violence was supposed to create something.
Fear.
Begging.
Pain.
This man beneath him gave him nothing.
Only silence.
Only those distant eyes staring somewhere far beyond the Rusted Halo itself.
Youri barely even registered the pain.
He felt the impacts, certainly.
But his mind wandered elsewhere.
Leonora.
Atlantis.
The deck of Tartarusios.
Her silver hair beneath the crimson sky.
Maybe Marvin was right to hit him.
Maybe all of it was deserved.
Maybe he had spent his entire life waiting for things to change without realizing he carried ruin with him wherever he went.
Marvin's punches slowed.
His breathing grew ragged.
Sweat rolled down his face.
The exhaustion hit him before satisfaction ever could.
Finally he climbed off and staggered backward.
Youri remained on the floor.
Blood covered his face.
But still he looked strangely calm.
Marvin stared at him.
Breathing heavily.
And for the first time genuine unease entered his eyes.
"Fucking freak," he muttered.
He stepped away.
His men followed immediately.
Before leaving he looked once toward Marella, then stormed out with the others.
The doors hissed shut behind them.
Silence lingered.
Then Marella rushed around the counter.
By the time she reached him, Youri was already sitting up.
She stopped short.
Shocked.
He slowly stood, blood dripping from his chin as he bent to retrieve the fallen bottle of gin.
"Hey man," Marella said. "Are you sure you're okay!?"
Youri looked toward her.
And smiled.
Despite the blood covering his face, the smile remained visible.
It was tired.
Broken.
But genuine.
"Thanks for the drink."
He turned toward the exit.
Marella stared.
"That's it?"
He shrugged.
"That's it."
And without another word he walked outside.
Yet amidst the chaos, one man had remained silent the entire time.
Near the far corner stood a lone figure watching from the shadows of his booth. He had witnessed everything from the moment Youri entered the Rusted Halo. Unlike the others, he never looked surprised.
He simply chuckled.
Then stood.
His coat hung long and weathered while a scar lined one side of his forehead. Calm eyes followed the closing doors.
He approached the counter and tossed a patch of Zells toward Marella.
She caught it and frowned.
"Don't tell me you're going after him."
The man smirked.
"I got other things to do."
Marella folded her arms.
"I'm telling you, Oscar, that guy is way out your league. You'd be asking for a lot of trouble if you crossed paths with him."
Oscar glanced once toward the exit.
The faint smirk never left his face.
Then he waved and headed for the door.
The Rusted Halo hissed shut behind him.
Two years after the Battle of Hell, in a distant corner of the galaxy, there existed a single planet. It orbited no star and received no light from any sun. It was nothing more than a frozen giant known as Khalil. The planet served no purpose to anyone except one faction—the Terrian Empire.
Deep beneath its endless fields of ice stood the one place no being in existence ever wished to see: Khalil Prison. It was the only prison in the known universe from which there was no escape. Unless you were serving a fixed sentence, once you entered its gates, you were never leaving again.
Far below the prison's countless levels, buried within its deepest sector, stood a single colossal door. Behind it lay the prison cell of none other than Duke Youri Kealthorn—or at least what remained of him.
For at that time, Youri was not a prisoner in the conventional sense. He lay suspended inside a containment tube, trapped in a deep coma while remaining under constant surveillance. Day and night, countless sensors monitored every aspect of his condition, ensuring that the man once feared across the galaxy remained exactly where he was—silent, motionless, and forgotten.