The sky above Planet KQ-03 was a bruised, oxidized red—the color of dried blood and old machinery. As Vance walked through the industrial corridors of the living sector, the iron-scented air filled his lungs, a sharp, metallic tang that tasted like home. Or at least, the only home he had left.
"Follow the H-22 pedestrian belt for three blocks, then switch at the junction."
Vance moved with an instinctive grace, his feet finding the rhythm of the colony without a single missed step.
"Ah, right. This is the one. Transfer to the S-19 belt."
He caught himself smiling a bitter, self-deprecating smile. It had been over a decade since he had walked these paths in his previous life, yet his body remembered every rust-stained corner and flickering neon sign. This piece of his history—this quiet, grueling period on KQ-03—had carved a deeper mark on his soul than he had ever realized.
In the grand, violent tapestry of his past life, the years following this moment had been a blur of noble conspiracies, desperate dogfights, and a relentless flight from the shadow of the Bauhinia Kingdom. Compared to the blood-soaked deck of a destroyer, this dust-choked mining colony felt like a sanctuary of peace.
He had been a star-miner here, a man who had earned respect through calloused hands and steady nerves. He had been building his "first pot of gold," oblivious to the storm that was about to swallow him whole.
The shame of the transmigrator, Vance thought, shaking his head as he cleared the identity check at his front door. He had arrived in this world as a soul from another time, inhabiting an infant's body in a colony orphanage. He should have been conquering the stars from day one, yet here he was, feeling nostalgic for a copper-scented hellhole.
He stepped into his apartment. It was a space defined by minimalist utility—the home of a man who spent more time in a cockpit than in a bed.
Planet KQ-03 was a young colony, its history barely spanning a few centuries. With a population of ten million tethered to the mining industry, its technological base was lopsided. It had the heavy-duty metallurgy needed to refine starship hulls, but the average citizen lived with tech that wouldn't have looked out of place in a pre-FTL era.
In the interstellar age, the greatest barrier wasn't technology; it was distance. Between star systems measured in lightyears, progress was a luxury that didn't always trickle down. In a feudal society like the Bauhinia Kingdom, the noble lords who ruled the sectors had no incentive to modernize the lives of their subjects. They monopolized the "Transcendent Power"—the warships—and that was enough to keep the foundation of their reign rock-solid.
Vance sat at his desk, staring at his schedule. His routine was a ritual: mining runs on the 1st, 10th, and 20th of every month. Each run netted him roughly 300,000 credits—a fortune for a commoner, but a pittance in the world of high-tier warship upgrades.
In his first life, he had planned to save enough to leave this sector, buy a commission on a merchant vessel, and eventually trigger his "Gold Finger" system with a ship of his own. But fate hadn't allowed him that luxury. Life, he realized now, wasn't a series of open choices; it was a narrow path of reactions to the choices made by those more powerful than you.
"But this time," Vance whispered, his eyes narrowing as he checked the calendar, "I've cleared a little more space to breathe."
He spent the next few days in a state of high-alert preparation. He moved quietly, purchasing supplies in small batches to avoid drawing attention. He didn't just plan for the "event"; he planned for the escape.
Time, as it always does when a deadline looms, accelerated.
June 10th. The date was etched into his mind in fire.
Vance arrived at the mining company's shipyard. The air was thick with the roar of heavy thrusters and the smell of ozone.
"Last run's payout was 822,600 credits. It's already been deposited into your account. Check the breakdown," a scruffy administrator grunted without looking up from his console.
The man was known as "Zhou the Third." He was the heart of the shipyard—handling security, warehousing, and payroll with the efficiency of a machine. Vance nodded. The high payout was thanks to the Ghost Titanium he had hauled in. It was a solid nest egg, the last bit of "normal" capital he would ever have.
Vance chose the same Ore-Tyrant MK-II he had used before. Its hull was scarred, but those eight attitude thrusters were more valuable to him now than a new engine. In the chaos to come, maneuverability wouldn't just be an advantage; it would be his only prayer for survival.
He boarded the ship, the familiar hum of the particle reactor vibrating through his seat. He set the coordinates for Entrance 3.
Sixteen hours later, the Ore-Tyrant exited warp at the staging area. Entrance 3 was further from the colony than his usual haunts, a jagged rift in the asteroid belt that saw less traffic and more danger.
Vance checked the sensors. Luck was on his side—the Turbulence Layer was thinning. The Window was open.
"Take a deep breath," he told himself. "Exhale."
Now, the "Acting" began.
Vance dived into the belt, pushing into a depth that would satisfy the profile of a "talented, ambitious rookie." He began the tedious work of scanning, but his mind was elsewhere. He was a predator playing the part of a sheep, keeping his eyes on the chronometer while his hands performed the mechanical motions of a miner.
"33 seconds... junk ore. Move on."
"68 seconds... low-grade Aluminum. Not worth the fuel."
He spoke the words aloud, maintaining the ritual he had established for years. Any observer watching the logs would see nothing but a diligent, slightly eccentric miner.
He finally locked onto a large, irregular asteroid rich in Austenite Copper. He moved in, engaged the magnetic lassos, and started the drills. The ship shuddered as the diamond bits tore into the rock. It was a perfect performance.
But every nerve in Vance's body was screaming. He was waiting for the rift.
Just as he was finishing the extraction, preparing to move to the next sector, the universe seemed to shudder.
The space-time fabric above the Ore-Tyrant suddenly buckled, looking like a piece of crumpled black paper. A violent ripple of gravitational energy slammed into Vance's ship, sending alarms screaming across his console.
Then, the void tore open.
A colossal shadow eclipsed the light of the distant sun. A metallic leviathan, over three hundred meters long and sixty meters wide, surged out of the spatial distortion. Its hull was a jagged, obsidian nightmare of armor plates and massive railgun turrets.
The ship was scarred, its shields flickering with the ghostly blue light of a failing warp-drive, but its presence was absolute. It hung over Vance's tiny mining rig like a god descending into a tomb.
Vance gripped the flight yoke, his heart hammering against his ribs.
It's here, he thought. The Tomahawk.
The mutation had begun.