Jagged rocks rose like broken teeth across the battlefield, and wind howled through the narrow canyons of Agarth Hills. The earth was dry, scattered with ash and the scorched remains of battle—yet it was here that Bill, one of Eyrvaks' trusted lieutenants, made his stand.
Roouch—the Lower B-Class Zypherian commander—had set his sights on capturing Targan, the wounded leader of Eyrvaks. With his elite troops behind him, it was only a matter of time before the narrow valley pass would be overrun.
But Kirth had no intention of letting that happen.
"We hold this ground, not for victory… but for legacy," Kirth whispered to his fighters, six-eyed and red-skinned like all Zypherians—but their hearts burned differently.
The Strategy of Delay
Bill and his rebel warriors used every terrain advantage Agarth had to offer:
Collapsing the Narrow Pass: Explosive traps lined the upper ridges. As Roouch's forces advanced, entire cliff walls were detonated, creating rockslides that slowed their movement and broke formation.Smoke Bombs with Acid Spores: Special spores, gathered from Verdalian bio-vaults, filled the air with choking red mist, irritating Zypherian senses and disorienting their six eyes. Roouch's frontline staggered, unable to track precise movement.Decoy Tunnels: Underground tunnels, carved by Eyrvaks years ago, allowed rebel fighters to move like ghosts. Snipers popped up from unseen angles, retreating before retaliation could land.Booby-Trapped Droid Remains: Old android parts, salvaged and repurposed, were used to create false targets—drawing Roouch's attention, wasting his energy and leading units into traps.
Despite their tactics, the losses were heavy.
Each wave pushed back cost more lives. Roouch's command was ruthless—his own black-and-red Fantom Art slicing through the air like death incarnate. Dozens of rebels fell before they could scream.
Still, Bill stood, bloodied but defiant.
He shouted over the thunder of war:
"This is our line! For every second we buy, Targan breathes. For every drop we shed, Eyrvaks lives!"
A runner emerged from the rear tunnel.
"Bill! Targan is being moved. They've cleared the third ridge!"
Bill nodded.
"Good. Then we make our stand here... even if it's our last."
Suddenly, a crackling blast of energy soared overhead—Roouch himself, storming through with a spear in each hand, landing hard enough to shake the earth.
His voice boomed:
"You think delaying me will change anything? I'll burn your hope to ash."
BIll stood his ground.
His sword drawn, his chest rising, pain in every breath—but his voice steady.
"Then try."
As the mists swirled and the sun dimmed behind storm clouds, Agarth Hills became a graveyard of rebellion—but every minute earned was another step Targan took toward survival.
A convoy of three matte-black sand gliders streaked across the barren plains, their treads kicking up gusts of ash and dust. The sky above Vokar-17 darkened with storm haze. Each glider bore the Eyrvaks emblem—a crimson flame curled into a claw.
Inside the lead vehicle, Kirth sat beside the unconscious body of Targan, who lay strapped onto a medic slab. Dried blood smeared his six-armed frame, and a dull whir of healing nanobots hummed faintly around him.
Kirth glanced at him.
"You better wake up soon, commander… We're buying you time with our lives."
The other eight Eyrvaks behind followed silently. None of them spoke. Not after what happened in Agarth. Bill had stayed behind with over a hundred fighters to hold the line.
But Targan's mind was far from the dust and death.
Flashback – 3 Years Ago
A quiet garden in Zarnis District, one of the rare clean air sectors of Vokar-17.
Targan, younger, laughing in a sleeveless coat, walked side by side with a girl—a Zypherian like him, her four eyes wide with curiosity, her red skin vibrant under the bioluminescent trees. Her name: Yenna.
"If we ever get out of this," she said, playfully poking his arm, "let's start a farm. You'll handle the six-armed lifting."
Targan grinned. "And you'll handle the talking to annoying nobles?"
She rolled her eyes. "You're the rebel leader. I'm just someone dumb enough to love you."
They sat on a bench, watching synthetic birds fly past the dome.
Suddenly—a crack of plasma fire.
Yenna fell.
Blood. Smoke. Screams.
Targan caught her, cradling her broken body, eyes wide in disbelief.
"No—Yenna—No—!"
She coughed, her voice shaky.
"Promise me… promise me you'll stop them… the Vir Empire… protect Vokar-17. Bring the light back… to Lilliput..."
Targan screamed as soldiers closed in.
A single tear escaped the side of Targan's eye as he stirred briefly on the medic slab. Kirth leaned in.
"He's dreaming."
"Of what?" asked one of the rear guards.
Kirth glanced ahead, to the silhouette of Ashen Mountains, rising like blades out of scorched earth.
"Of what he lost. Of what we're fighting to bring back."
A signal blinked on the dashboard—stealth mode active.
"ETA to Ashen base: 2 hours."
But none of them knew—Commander Kroouch's aerial scouts were already tracking them from above, just waiting for the storm to clear.
Smoke choked the blood-soaked sands.
Torn banners, crushed helmets, and shattered weapons littered the battlefield. A crimson storm swirled above, as if the skies themselves bore witness to the carnage below.
And in the center of it all—Jason Amberdenk, hunched but unyielding, stood tall, his sword crackling with faint energy, blood dripping from a thousand small wounds.
Around him, two thousand Zypherian royal soldiers lay defeated.
Only one still breathed—Sergeant Vakk, clutching his thigh, bleeding profusely, groaning as he attempted to crawl away.
Jason, struggling to stay on his feet, removed the tattered oxygen mask torn by Vakk moments ago.
His Verdalian green skin shimmered, damp with sweat, his silver hair streaked with soot and dust. His chest rose and fell rapidly—lungs burning, body screaming—but his spirit shone like tempered steel.
Mek'lar, hiding behind shattered debris, watched in stunned silence.
"He did it…" he whispered, voice cracking. "By the stars… he actually did it."
30 Minutes Earlier
Jason moved like a phantom.
He had already summoned his Fantom Arts of Black, a shadowy arc that sliced rows of soldiers in half, then Fantom Arts of Healing, barely enough to keep his body mended as he bled in real-time.
But it was when his back was against the wall that his eyes turned silver—a rare gleam known only to the greatest of Verdalian warriors.
With a whisper, his voice cracked into the wind:
"Fantom Arts of Silver…"
The battlefield shifted.
His blade lit up like a streak of lightning forged from moonlight, cutting with precision that transcended sight. Ten soldiers dropped in one blink, their weapons melting into the sand.
But Vakk—cunning and battle-hardened—targeted his oxygen line, slashing it during a fierce lock.
Jason gasped. The poison air of Vokar-17 seared his throat.
Still, he fought.
Each strike cost him. But each second was earned.
Now
Jason stepped toward the barely-conscious Vakk and dropped to one knee, sword to the ground, panting.
"I am… Jason Amberdenk, warrior of Verdalia…"
He coughed, holding his throat, but he smiled.
In his mind, memories of young Jason training under Old Tom, the war-scarred general who now led Alag Country, surged.
Tom's voice echoed:
"Victory is not when you defeat your enemy, Jason. It's when you rise for something greater."
Jason slowly pulled a spare oxygen mask from one of the fallen soldiers. He fixed it over his mouth, breathing hard—but alive.
Mek'lar walked forward, still limping, and laughed as he looked at the defeated Zypherian army.
"You… you're insane. But by the stars, you're Verdalia's madness incarnate."
Jason stood tall once more, sword on his back, gaze turned toward the Ashen Horizon.
"I've made up my mind," he said. "I'm going to liberate the entire Lilliput Star System."
With that, they both turned—heading toward Narlak's Maw, where allies waited, and war still brewed.