Ten days later.
Z829 Star.
Xarion piloted the warship to the coordinates Yuel had given him. The moment he stepped off the vessel, the scene before him made his eyes darken.
The land was scorched black.
The air reeked—thick with the nauseating stench of insectoid fluids mixed with the metallic tang of fresh and dried blood. It was so heavy it felt almost tangible, pressing against his lungs with every breath.
The ground had turned a dull, muddy brown.
Everywhere, there were craters—some shallow, some deep—left behind by weapons fire and unleashed abilities. Burn marks spread like scars across the terrain.
Fragments of shattered mechs and wrecked warships lay strewn about.
Broken weapons jutted from the earth like gravestones.
And beyond were mountains of insectoid corpses.
Their armored shells were split open, jagged cracks running across their bodies. Thick, dark green ichor still seeped from the wounds, pooling beneath them and releasing a sickening odor.
