The first week passed in a blur of introductions and revolutionary planning.
Corax brought you to meet the inner circle, the command structure that would coordinate the uprising. First came Comrade Aloni, the forging supervisor whose official codename was 'Rook.' His hands were perpetually stained black from metalwork, fingers scarred from countless burns and cuts. He greeted you with a firm grip and assessing eyes that measured your worth in practical terms.
Then the Nev brothers, commanders of the Shadow Warden. The elder was codenamed 'Knight,' a taciturn man whose movements carried the precision of someone who'd survived by being faster and quieter than his enemies. The younger brother, 'Bishop,' was more animated but no less deadly, his eyes constantly scanning for threats even in supposedly safe spaces.
Finally, you met Comrade Arendi, codenamed 'Pawn.'
Your jaw tightened with recognition. This was the burly man you'd kicked in the stomach on your first day, the one who'd tried to brain you with a pickaxe. His expression mirrored your own surprise.
Corax watched the exchange with calm interest, that small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
You stepped forward, swallowing your pride. "Comrade, I apologize for my actions when I arrived. I was disoriented and reacted without thinking."
Arendi's weathered face flushed with embarrassment. He waved one massive hand dismissively. "No, comrade, the fault was mine. As communications liaison between the workers' resistance cells, I should have handled the situation better." He met your eyes directly. "Failing to resolve conflicts peacefully is a dereliction of duty. I'm the one who should apologize."
The tension dissolved. You clasped forearms, the matter settled.
The group debated your codename at length. Various suggestions were thrown out and rejected until someone proposed 'Foreman.' It fit. Leadership without hierarchy, authority earned through action rather than birth. You accepted it with a nod.
Then Corax laid out the plan, his voice carrying the weight of months of preparation.
You would lead three Shadow Warden teams to the Black Spire, twenty-seven elite fighters total. Your mission was to seize control and activate it, broadcasting the signal that would ignite revolution across the entire moon.
Corax himself would take the elder Nev brother and fifteen Shadow Wardens to capture the ten gravity wells scattered across Lycaeus. These heavily fortified positions were the only points where the protective force field could be penetrated, the choke points through which enemy reinforcements would pour. Holding them was critical.
The younger Nev brother would command the bulk of trained workers, moving to seize strategic locations: supply depots, armories, communication hubs. Cutting the enemy's logistics would cripple their response.
Arendi's role was perhaps the most dangerous. He would coordinate with scattered resistance cells across the surface, attempting to trigger simultaneous uprisings that would stretch enemy forces thin and buy precious time.
Nia and Aloni would orchestrate the logistics, directing the thousands of ordinary workers, women, and children who would provide food, ammunition, medical supplies, and shelter for the fighting forces.
Corax stood before the assembled command group, his three-meter frame radiating solemn purpose. "Comrades, the revolution's success or failure rests on what we do in the coming days. We must never forget the suffering we've endured, the chains that have bound us and our families for generations." His voice dropped lower, more intense. "We must remember that we fight not just for ourselves, but for every worker on this moon who dreams of freedom. Remember this: a single spark can start a prairie fire!"
"A single spark can start a prairie fire!" You and the others roared in unison, fists raised, voices echoing off the metal walls.
The second week transformed you from a lone warrior into a guerrilla commander.
The three Shadow Warden teams assigned to you consisted of elite workers, nine fighters per team, twenty-seven total. These weren't ordinary laborers. Each had been hand-selected by Corax and trained in secret over months of preparation.
They moved like ghosts despite their bulk, skilled in firearms and close combat alike. Even wearing heavy protective armor, they could execute silent ambushes and stealth kills with ruthless efficiency. You watched them train and felt a surge of confidence. These were soldiers who happened to be workers, not workers playing at being soldiers.
Corax personally instructed you in guerrilla warfare doctrine, drilling the principles into your mind until they became instinct. The entire philosophy condensed into sixteen words that he made you repeat until you could recite them in your sleep:
"When the enemy advances, we retreat. When the enemy camps, we harass. When the enemy tires, we attack. When the enemy retreats, we pursue."
Simple. Elegant. Brutal in its effectiveness.
Aloni presented you with your armor in a small ceremony witnessed by your teams. The protective suit was crude compared to what you'd seen Space Marines wear, lacking any propulsion systems or advanced targeting arrays. It was heavy metal plates riveted onto a canvas backing, designed to stop scattered bullets and shrapnel but utterly inadequate against focused laser fire or heavy weapons.
Yet as Aloni explained, this armor represented something far more valuable than its defensive capabilities. It had been designed through collective effort, forged through the wisdom and experience of countless workers pooling their knowledge. Its creation had cost lives, workers who'd died stealing materials or sabotaging production to divert resources.
Only the Shadow Wardens wore such armor. Regular revolutionary fighters would go into battle with nothing but cumbersome firearms and improvised melee weapons.
You also received a homemade shotgun, its barrel filed smooth from a repurposed industrial pipe. The stock was rough wood wrapped in cloth for grip. It wouldn't win any beauty contests, but it would put holes in people at close range.
Finally, two double-edged axes crafted from mining cart wheel hubs. The metal was dense and heavy, the edges honed to wicked sharpness. They felt right in your hands, balanced despite their improvised origin.
The training began in earnest.
Corax led you and your teams into the abandoned sections of the forge, spaces cleared of workers to serve as your battlefield. Your objective was simple: engage Corax in guerrilla warfare, using hit-and-run tactics while your teams tried to land a meaningful blow.
The first attempt lasted eleven seconds. Corax moved through your formations like wind through grass, his scythes dancing. All twenty-seven of you were down before you could coordinate a response.
The second attempt lasted twenty-three seconds. Marginal improvement.
By the tenth attempt, you were lasting minutes. Your teams learned to move in coordinated strikes, to use the environment, to create crossfire zones and fallback positions. You began anticipating Corax's movements, not through matching his speed but by predicting where he'd strike next.
The twenty-second simulated battle was your best. You made a desperate gamble, throwing yourself directly at Corax in a frontal assault that screamed suicide. He took the bait, both weapons coming around to end you.
In that moment, your remaining Shadow Wardens struck from three directions simultaneously. The distraction cost you dearly, Corax's scythe opening a gash across your armored chest that would've been fatal without protection, but in that split second of commitment, you managed to hook one of your axes around his right scythe and wrench it from his grip.
The weapon clattered across the floor.
Victory, of a sort.
Then his left hand brought the heavy hammer around in a casual backswing that caught you in the ribs and sent you flying. You hit the ground hard, armor dented, ribs screaming, but conscious. Barely.
After the final session, Corax sat eating noodles again, seemingly none the worse for wear despite the intense combat. You slumped nearby, every muscle aching, sweat cooling uncomfortably under your armor.
"Brother," Corax said between bites, "I've been watching you carefully. Your fighting instincts are exceptional, far better than your tactical awareness." He paused, slurping noodles thoughtfully. "Sometimes your body knows what to do before your mind finishes planning. Trust that. Let your instincts guide you when the moment demands it."
You sat in silence, gripping your two double-edged axes, turning his words over in your mind. Instinct versus planning. Action versus thought. There was wisdom there, hard-won through Corax's own experience.
The third week arrived with suffocating tension.
The day of redemption had come. The revolutionary spark that would ignite across Lycaeus and spread to Kiavahr itself was about to burst into flame.
You sat with your twenty-seven Shadow Wardens in a cleared section of the smelting factory, each fighter methodically consuming the noodles delivered by logistics personnel. No one spoke. The only sounds were chewing and the quiet scrape of spoons against bowls.
When the last bowl was empty, you stood as one and began donning your armor.
The ritual was practiced, efficient. Canvas backing first, then the heavy metal plates strapped and buckled into place. Helmets last, cutting off peripheral vision but offering precious protection for the skull. You helped check each other's fittings, ensuring nothing would come loose in combat.
You used your superior size and strength to carry triple the normal ammunition load for your shotgun, canvas bandoliers crossing your chest and hanging from your belt. The weight was considerable but manageable.
One of your Shadow Wardens hefted an industrial laser cutter, modified for combat use. It was bulky, temperamental, and had maybe twenty seconds of continuous operation before its power cell died. But those twenty seconds could cut through reinforced doors or enemy vehicles.
You gripped your two double-edged axes, feeling their familiar weight settle into your palms. The metal was cold, the leather-wrapped handles slightly tacky from sweat.
Time to move.
You led the Shadow Wardens out of their hiding place, emerging into the factory floor. Rows upon rows of workers stood in formation, each one armed with captured or improvised firearms. They didn't cheer or shout. They simply watched, faces grim, offering silent prayers for your success.
Ahead, Corax stood like a monument. His armor was jet black, each plate perfectly fitted to his massive frame. Twin lightning claws extended from his gauntlets, power fields crackling faintly around the blades. His signature scythe and hammer hung from his waist, ready for use.
Behind him, fifteen Shadow Wardens waited in perfect formation, their armor polished, their weapons checked and ready. They cast long shadows across the concrete floor in the harsh industrial lighting.
You and Corax locked eyes across the distance. No words were necessary. Everything that needed saying had been said over the past three weeks.
You nodded once, firmly.
He returned the gesture.
Then your two forces moved past each other, heading in opposite directions toward their respective battlefields. Brothers in purpose if not blood, each trusting the other to succeed or die trying.
You led your teams through the industrial complex at a swift pace, taking back routes and maintenance corridors that kept you away from overseer patrols. Your Shadow Wardens moved in perfect silence despite their armor, trained steps making no unnecessary sound.
The Black Spire loomed ahead, a dark needle piercing the artificial sky. Its base was surrounded by guard posts and patrolling sentries, overseers armed with shock mauls and autopistols.
You found positions in the shadows of nearby buildings, using rubble and abandoned equipment as concealment. Then you waited, counting heartbeats, watching patrol patterns, memorizing the terrain.
The sharp buzzing sound echoed from within the spire, mechanical and precise. The day-night cycle shifting again. The artificial sky dimmed, revealing the star-studded void beyond the force field. The temperature dropped immediately, cold seeping through your armor.
Below, the overseers relaxed. Shift change. They moved in small groups toward their mess hall, laughing and talking, weapons slung casually over shoulders. Their guard was down.
Perfect.
You raised one hand, gesturing the infiltration signal.
Nine elite workers from your first Shadow Warden team melted from concealment, flowing like liquid darkness across open ground. They reached the outer perimeter without raising alarm, black-painted weapons rising as they closed on isolated sentries.
The kills were silent. Knives to throats, hands over mouths, bodies lowered gently to the ground. No shots fired. No alarms raised.
The first team's objective was to eliminate exposed firing positions and secure the heavy weapons emplacements that covered the spire's approaches.
You moved with the second and third teams, advancing in a crouch, axes in hand. The cold metal felt right, solid and real. Your breathing was steady, controlled.
A sentry turned a corner ahead, directly in your path. His eyes widened. His mouth opened to shout.
You were already moving. Three steps and your axe buried itself in his chest with a meaty thunk. His scream died as a gurgle. You wrenched the weapon free and lowered him to the ground, hot blood steaming in the cold night air.
You stared at the cooling corpse, feeling nothing. No satisfaction, no revulsion. Just grim acceptance. This was war. This was revolution. People would die, many of them, before freedom was won.
You took a deep breath, fingers tightening on the blood-slicked handle of your axe. The rough texture grounded you, kept you focused.
Around you, your Shadow Wardens waited for orders, their faces hidden behind helmets but their postures radiating readiness.
This was it. The point of no return.
"Comrades," you growled, voice low but carrying. "For the victory of the revolution... charge with me!"
You, revolutionary codename 'Foreman,' prepared to ignite the first spark of freedom.