The sun above Vokar-17 was dimmed behind a wall of red dust and toxic haze, casting a perpetual rust-colored gloom across the Upper Eastern Sector. The wind carried with it the acrid scent of melted circuitry and scorched metal, swirling around the scattered remains of androids—limbs twisted, cores sparking, oil bleeding into the cracked earth.
In the center of the silent wreckage stood Jason Amberdenk, breathing heavily, his green skin stained with ash and blood. His sword—chipped and humming faintly with residual Verdalian energy—hung low in his hand. The remains of 15 Vir Empire combat androids lay around him, mangled beyond recognition.
Jason coughed violently, doubling over. The air was no longer just heavy—it was poisonous. With each breath, it felt like he was inhaling smoke and needles. His lungs screamed, his vision blurred, but his stance remained unyielding.
He reached to the side of his armour, fingers fumbling for his communicator.
Broken.
The small device sparked weakly before going dark. The impact from earlier had shattered the internal circuits. No connection. No signal. No way to reach Captain Shin, Lina, Louis, or the others spread across the 10 zones of Vokar-17.
He was alone.
Jason lifted his head, scanning the desert. Miles of jagged terrain and scorched rock stretched endlessly. There was no sign of his team. No beacon. No ship in sight. Only a flickering Verdalian emblem half-buried in the dust.
He muttered under his breath, voice hoarse, "They said this was a relief mission…"
He sat down beside a crumbling boulder, sheathing his blade. The hum of damaged android cores slowly faded into silence, and all that remained was the distant roar of wind and his own labored breathing.
His thoughts drifted—to Verdalia, to the Great Tree, to Warren and Max, to the day they left home thinking they were bringing life to a dying star system.
But Vokar-17 didn't feel like a place that wanted saving.
It felt cursed.
Still… his flame hadn't gone out.
Jason stared at the horizon, blinking through the grit in his eyes. Somewhere out there, the other 29 Verdalian ships had landed. Somewhere, his people were completing the mission, saving lives, resisting the Vir Empire's grip on the Liliput System.
He just had to survive long enough to rejoin them.
Jason clenched his fists and stood again, his silhouette outlined against the burning sky like a lone ember in a dying world.
Far across the star-choked void from Vokar-17, another world churned beneath a blood-coloured sky—Zelkaris, second planet in the Lilliput Star System, was a dying sphere cloaked in smoke and acid rain.
Ash fell like snow. The air was thick with poison. Factories coughed black plumes into the heavens, and the once-blue oceans now bubbled with toxins. The ground cracked under the weight of industry and war.
Through this decaying world marched the Zypherians—tall, imposing beings native to Zelkaris and Vokar-17. Their red skin shimmered faintly, tough as scaled leather. Each had six muscular arms, four of them equipped for weaponry, two adapted for precision. Four sharp eyes scanned independently in all directions, and their torsos bore ceremonial markings etched with heat, passed down from warrior to warrior.
Thousands of these soldiers marched along the rusted streets of Dran'Veka, capital city of Zelkaris, their heavy boots echoing over the metal-cracked roads. Hover drones circled above, scanning every shadow. Androids stood like statues at intersections, their heads swiveling with eerie precision.
They were hunting someone.
Inside the once-grand palace, now a fortress smothered by anti-air cannons and holographic shields, the local king of Zelkaris, King Makar Drothex, sat on a throne built from scrap steel and shattered banners.
A Zypherian of old age, his six arms were thin but scarred, his eyes sharper than ever. His breath rattled as he spoke, but his voice carried weight.
"Commander Arthur has abandoned us," Makar said, voice sharp with contempt. "The human claims he went on a crusade beyond our borders. Took his entire vanguard—every elite guard, every Juggernaut-class android."
He leaned forward, his breath steaming in the cold air. "And now Commander Two—what's his name again?"
A thin Zypherian aide stepped forward. "Commander Silus Drex, my king. A different race, but loyal to the Vir Empire."
Makar grunted. "Drex said he'd return within a week to deal with the rebels personally. Yet I see only androids marching like ghosts. No strategy. No order. Just… brute enforcement."
He turned to the tall window beside him—blackened by smoke. Far in the distance, explosions flickered along the horizon. Another protest crushed. Another rebel executed.
"But this revolution…" Makar muttered. "It's different. The people no longer fear death. That's when empires fall."
He tapped a clawed finger against his throne.
"Drex's absence weakens us. Commander Arthur's disappearance emboldens them. The androids cannot think. And now… rumors of alien ships falling from the sky? Ten worlds disturbed?"
The aide hesitated. "Shall I deploy more Zypherian troops?"
"No," Makar growled. "Hold them back. Let the rebels believe we are weakened. Let Drex return to a broken capital. Then we see who truly holds the leash in this system."
Beneath Zelkaris' rotting skies, rebellion stirred.
And the Zypherians were watching.
Deep within the obsidian heart of Vokar-17, beneath the blackened spires of the imperial palace, shadows whispered across the chamber walls. A lone figure sat upon a throne of jagged onyx — King Laco, the elusive and iron-fisted ruler of the Liliput Star System. Shrouded entirely in silhouette, only the crimson glow of his four eyes pierced the darkness. He was never seen, only obeyed.
Before him stood Commander Kroouch, a towering Zypherian warrior, marked by blood-red armor and the ceremonial tattoos of a Lower B-Class. His six arms remained respectfully by his side, though each hand twitched with anticipation. His eyes flickered—two locked on the throne, two scanning the darkness beyond.
"My king," Kroouch began, his voice deep and commanding, "as per the data received from orbital scans and ground recon, all 29 Verdalian ships have landed across the 10 zones of Vokar-17. We estimate that over one lakh Verdalians are now present, operating in scattered but fortified patterns."
The king leaned slightly forward. His voice, when it came, was smooth, almost serpentine.
"Do you believe you can confront them directly, Kroouch?"
Kroouch inhaled sharply. "If permitted, yes. My troops are seasoned. Our androids, despite some losses, are active across all sectors. We can strike before they stabilize."
There was a pause.
"And what of the rebel leaders—Targan and Rovin?" King Laco's voice was laced with subtle menace.
Kroouch's jaw tensed. "My brother, Roouch, shot Targan in the agath hills during a skirmish. We've secured minor victories there. Targan was injured but still alive—he fled. Rovin's forces, however, remain elusive. His father is our best lead."
He glanced sideways as if measuring the weight of his next words.
"Our priority now is to secure the Verdalians' food supplies. Based on intercepted transmission logs, their 29 ships are equipped with resources capable of feeding the entire Liliput Star System. If we seize them, we cripple their humanitarian efforts and shift public opinion."
Suddenly, the chamber door creaked open.
A Zypherian soldier entered, panting and trembling. He stepped close to Kroouch, whispering rapidly into his upper-right ear.
Kroouch's eyes widened. He turned swiftly to the throne.
"My lord, we've just received a field report. We lost another 15 androids in the Eastern Wastes. They were destroyed not by a battalion—but by one single Verdalian male. Green skin. Silver hair. Unregistered. Highly trained."
King Laco's breath paused. "Where exactly?"
"Upper Eastern Sector," Kroouch replied. "Close to the abandoned dig sites. We believe this to be a key Verdalian strike operative."
"Capture him." The king's voice held a cold finality. "And while you're at it... bring me Rovin's father. Alive."
At the very same moment, far away within the ruined district known as Narlak's Maw, Rovin—leader of the Scorched Branch—stood watching the noxious winds swirl above the canyons. His eyes narrowed as reports came in of the Verdalians' presence.
"These aliens…" he murmured. "They bring food. Aid. Hope. But they don't understand the war they've landed in."
He turned to his aide. "Send our scouts to each Verdalian landing zone. Learn everything. Find weaknesses."
Then, his voice hardened. "And dispatch Jodu. Now. I want him by my father's side. I want him here."
"Understood, sir," the aide saluted. "Jodu is Upper B-Class, one of our strongest."
Rovin turned to the skyline, red clouds boiling above. "Then may the stars watch over him. The storm's only beginning."