The wind howled through the narrow ridges of the Ashen Mountains, whispering through blackened pine, ash-covered stone, and jagged peaks like an ancient lament. Hidden deep within this scorched wilderness stood the Hidden Spire Base—the last known sanctuary of the Eyrvaks, carved into the bones of a forgotten temple by revolutionaries who had nothing but hope and fury left to hold onto.
As Krith, his six arms trembling under the weight of his injured leader, stepped into the shadowy corridors of the base, a hush fell upon the hundreds gathered there. Alongside him were a few fiercely loyal retainers, guiding Targan's unconscious body, wrapped in reinforced cloak-stretchers stained in blood and desert dust.
Dozens of Zypherian refugees—young, old, wounded—rushed to the hallway. Some cried out. Others fell to their knees. Mothers wept. Veterans clutched their chests. Children stared wide-eyed. Their leader—their hope—lay broken.
"Is that… is that Targan?" a whisper cracked from an elder.
"No… not him… not now…"
The red-skinned warrior, charred and cracked, was gently carried through ancient stone chambers lit only by plasma torches. The walls of the base trembled not with violence—but with grief.
They brought him to the medical chamber, where Dr. Sylk, a seasoned Zypherian healer with half of her face burned from past battles, quickly assessed his wounds. Her four eyes narrowed, scanning over readings and manually inspecting neural links with her remaining upper arms.
Two hours passed.
The lights in the chamber dimmed to stabilize Targan's vitals.
Finally, Dr. Sylk stepped into the great hall where many waited.
"He's alive," she said quietly. "But… barely. His internal system is on the verge of collapse. The left heart has ruptured. His sixth spinal vein is corroded. And... one more hit like that—"
"He won't survive," she finished.
A collective silence.
Then came a slow shuffling—a presence both revered and heart-wrenching.
An old Zypherian, half-covered in a black mantle, made his way through the crowd. He was a war relic. One eye remained, the other three sockets stitched shut. His six arms were long gone, only metallic plugs marking where they once stretched in strength and glory.
His name: Zor. Once the Commander of the Original Eyrvaks, now just an elder clinging to memory and cause.
As he heard the news, Zor lowered his head. His remaining eye gleamed with sorrow.
He collapsed to his knees, shoulders trembling.
"My boy… my son in spirit, not blood… the only one left who dared dream aloud…"
Tears streamed down his ash-lined face.
"You were the light in the dust, Targan. I handed you our future… and now… you lie broken, just like I did."
A young Zypherian girl handed him a cloth. He clutched it with his teeth, unable to lift it otherwise, and wiped his one eye.
"But listen, everyone…" he said, voice cracking.
"So long as his heart beats, this rebellion still breathes. We owe it to him now—not to mourn… but to fight harder."
And within the walls of the Hidden Spire, a vow spread like fire among the people:
Targan must survive. Or Vokar-17 dies.
The air was razor-thin in the Upper Eastern Zone, thick with pollutants and faint traces of radiation. Yet even as his lungs burned and his limbs screamed for rest, Jason Amberdenk pressed forward, his boots crunching across shattered stone tiles and fractured idols.
The old temple ruins loomed before him—half-buried in sand and swallowed by time. A massive, time-worn structure that twisted up from the ground like the ribcage of a sleeping beast. Even without knowing its origin, Jason could feel it—the hum of something ancient. Something sacred.
Behind him, Mek'lar limped through the narrow entrance, leaning heavily on a cracked pole. "Where are you going, Verdalian?"
Jason paused for a moment. The air inside was marginally clearer—less corrosive, somehow—and his breathing, though strained, felt just enough to continue. "There's something here. Verdalians… we're born close to nature. I can feel its pulse beneath all this ruin. There's life here, somewhere."
The corridor ahead was dim. The pillars were covered in carvings—some eroded beyond recognition, others etched with four-armed, four-eyed figures, twisting in postures that suggested movement, rhythm… almost a dance. Strange, but familiar. The entire architecture bore echoes of something primal—something that might've once resembled the sacred temples of Earth's destroyer, though Jason didn't recognize it.
He reached a sealed stone door. Runes ran along its edges, glowing faintly with buried energy. Placing his palm against it, Jason summoned a faint sliver of his Fantom Arts of Black, slicing through the stone not with brute force—but finesse. The ground cracked open silently.
Beyond the door, a staircase spiraled downward.
Jason descended.
What lay beneath was… impossible.
A chamber of green, glowing softly in hues of blue and silver. A secret grove, untouched by the dying world above. A stream of crystal-clear water ran through the middle, surrounded by thick, medicinal herbs glowing faintly with restorative energy. Jason collapsed at the edge of the stream, scooping the water into his mouth with trembling hands. He breathed easier—deeper. The colour slowly returned to his face.
Mek'lar stared, stunned. "I… I thought it was all gone. This… This can't be real."
Jason smiled faintly, strength slowly returning. "It is. Hidden beneath all this rot, there's still hope. Nature remembers."
He turned toward the far wall, where ancient inscriptions danced across the surface—etched in a long-lost Zypherian language, looping and elegant like flowing water. A great symbol carved into the wall resembled a being with multiple arms… dancing. Radiant. Centered in motion.
Jason pointed. "Can you read this?"
Mek'lar shook his head. "No, son. This script was lost long before my great-grandfather's time. Only fragments remain in modern texts. But… that symbol. That figure. He's one of the old gods. They say he brought both destruction and rebirth… through dance. His worshippers believed in motion—rituals that cleansed the land and awakened power from beneath the surface."
Jason took it in slowly. "And the missing idol? The heart of the temple?"
"Stolen, long ago," Mek'lar replied grimly. "During the first Zypherian civil war. But this room… this may be the last surviving grove of the planet."
Jason nodded, then gestured toward a specific passage where the ancient language was clearer. Mek'lar squinted, then blinked rapidly. "Wait… this part. I recognize this word. It mentions something…"
He paused, eyes widening.
"The Golden River of Vokar."
Jason's brow furrowed. "What's that?"
"Legend," Mek'lar said. "Said to be a life vein of the planet. Pure energy flowing deep beneath the crust… capable of healing, of growth. The kings lost it. Or buried it. No one believed it was real."
Jason looked at the water again. "Maybe this isn't just a hidden chamber. Maybe it's connected to the Golden River."
The lights flickered in his vision again—but now, it wasn't exhaustion. It was purpose.
Jason stood up, his voice low and firm.
"Then maybe that's our way forward. If there's still life under this dying planet, we're not too late."
Mek'lar stared at him—not just as a warrior, but as a symbol.
And for the first time, in years… hope entered his voice.
"Verdalian… you may truly be the storm we needed."
The wind howled through the jagged cliffs of Narlak's Maw, the deep ravines echoing with centuries of conflict and rebellion. This sacred stronghold of the Scorched Branch had long stood hidden, protected by treacherous terrain and generations of secrecy. Now, the air buzzed with tension once more—but not from enemy fire.
This time, it was hope.
In the command tower at the edge of the Maw, Ka'roth, clad in his traditional Eyrvak battle cloak, stood beside Rovin, the scarred and iron-willed leader of the Scorched Branch. Their eyes scanned the horizon as massive shadows blotted the sun—Verdalian ships.
One after another, eleven enormous ships, uniquely shaped with their organic Verdalian architecture, began descending from the sky. Their green-silver exteriors shimmered like emeralds in the air, reflecting the soft glow of the planet's polluted atmosphere.
Scorched Branch lookouts scrambled to battle positions.
"Sir!" a young Zypherian rebel called out, panic lacing his voice. "Unidentified ships inbound. War-class size. Supply-class bulk. Should we open fire?"
Rovin didn't answer immediately. His narrowed four eyes locked onto the descending fleet. Beside him, Ka'roth's gaze was steady, watching as the Verdalian crafts formed a perfect landing pattern—disciplined, precise.
Rovin grabbed the communicator, his voice booming through the external hailer system.
"This is Rovin of the Scorched Branch. Eleven Verdalian ships—identify yourselves."
There was a pause.
Then a chorus of voices came through in harmony, Verdalian-standard and Zypherian-accented:
"We are the fleet of Verdalia. We honor the alliance. Permission to land."
Rovin gave a half-smile, rare and fleeting. "So, the green winds have brought new allies."
He turned to Ka'roth. "It seems after all these years, we'll fight side-by-side again."
Ka'roth nodded. "The empire will regret pushing us this far."
Rovin leaned toward the mic once more.
"Verdalian fleet, this is Rovin. You're clear to land. Welcome to Narlak's Maw… and to war."
Later, in Ankrit's Garden…
Nestled deep within the Maw, Ankrit's Garden was an anomaly—a circular stretch of untouched greenery. Trees still bloomed here, wrapped in vines that glowed faintly. It was said the place was blessed by Ankrit, the ancient father of universe , long before the Vir Empire arrived.
Beneath the shelter of canopies and towering silverfruit trees, the meeting of giants took place.
Eleven Verdalian captains had gathered—each wearing the traditional silver and green of their people.Captain Lina, navigator of Ship 7, stood beside Captain Louis of Ship 14, both greeting their allies with firm handshakes.At the center, stood Captain Shin, tall and commanding, his presence steady as a mountain.
Facing them were:
Rovin, with a scar over one eye and the weight of revolution in his stance.Ka'roth, quiet but razor-sharp, the steel behind Targan's vision.
"We've bled for years," Rovin began, his voice loud enough for all. "Fought with stones while our enemies used machines. Watched our homes burn while kings drank wine. And now… Verdalia has come."
Captain Shin nodded. "We came to feed a starving world. But we see now—starvation is not only of food, but of justice. We will not be neutral while tyrants crush the innocent."
Ka'roth stepped forward. "Targan would've stood here if not for his wounds. So I speak for him—The Eyrvaks stand with you. This is not just a pact of war. This is a bond of survival."
There was silence for a moment. Then Captain Louis raised his voice:
"From this moment, the Verdalian Relief Fleet recognizes the Scorched Branch and Eyrvaks as official allies. Our weapons, our resources, and our warriors—are yours."
Shouts of agreement rippled through the gathered rebels and Verdalian crew.
The three banners—Verdalia, Scorched Branch, and Eyrvaks—were raised together in the garden, fluttering above the last breath of greenery left in the region.
A storm was coming—but for the first time in decades, they would face it as one.