The wind howled like a grieving mother across the desolate slopes of Ashen Mountains, whipping dust and ash into the air with every gust. Amid the rolling clouds of grey, a lone figure slowly ascended a steep, muddy path, one trembling foot after another sinking into the wet soil.
Zor—once a warrior of legends, now a broken shell of his former self—climbed without complaint.
His six arms, once mighty and battle-hardened, were now stumps or scars. His once-bright four eyes had dimmed—only one remained, flickering weakly with what little light age had not stolen. But none of that mattered now.
Not his pain.
Not his missing limbs.
Not the bitter cold or aching bones.
Only one thing mattered: the prayer.
At the summit, a flat outcrop jutted toward the sky, surrounded by ancient stone ruins—remnants of a temple ,built millennia ago by the first Zypherian tribes. This sacred place was called "The Summit of the Breath", once believed to be a direct channel to the divine.
Zor fell to his knees, mud soaking through the cloth wrapped around his frail legs.
He lifted his only remaining hand to the darkened sky, and with a voice that cracked with age and sorrow, he called out to the heavens:
"O Lord of Light...
O flame that danced across the void before time was born...
Have we not suffered enough?"
His breath caught in his throat, and tears welled in his single eye.
"This star system, Lilliput, was once a haven.
This planet, Vokar-17, once bloomed with wisdom and truth.
Was this not the land where You walked with Ankrit, the Father of the Universe?
Was this not the place where knowledge was gifted—where nature and spirit lived as one?"
He paused. His body trembled from exhaustion, but his voice grew firmer with each word.
"They call you God, but I call you Teacher.
A guide. A flame in the dark.
And in this darkness now, I beg of you—return."
"Not for me.
Not for glory.
But for him—Targan."
The name echoed across the wind like a plea lost in time.
"My lord...
That boy has carried the burden of our people.
He is our last hope.
Please, save him. Breathe life into his shattered body.
Let him rise not just for us, but for the liberation of the planet."
Lightning crackled in the sky. The clouds rumbled above, as if listening.
Zor bowed his head low, pressing his forehead into the cold, muddy stone.
"You gave this world your fire once.
We beg you… give it again."
The wind died down. The sky fell into a deep silence.
And Zor wept—not for himself, but for all those still fighting.
For the children who had never known peace.
For the rebels who clung to hope.
And for Targan, the boy who once promised a dying girl he would bring back the light.
The sky above Upper Eastern Vokar-17 began to dim as the sun dipped low on the smog-choked horizon, casting a hazy crimson over the land. The ruins of the old temple, half-buried in sand and forgotten by time, stood silent witness to two unlikely allies resting in its sacred depths.
Inside the hidden underground chamber—alive with greenery, medicinal herbs, and soft, pure water—Jason Amberdenk sat cross-legged near a natural spring, eyes half-closed, his silver hair glinting under faint bioluminescence emanating from the ancient Zypherian plants.
Beside him sat Mek'lar, the weathered Zypherian rebel elder. He leaned against the stone wall, wrapped in his patched cloak, his breathing steadier now, though his body still bore the scars of battle and years of resistance.
Jason broke the silence.
"This place… it's vast. Beautiful, even in decay. Almost like it was designed by something... bigger than us."
He glanced at Mek'lar.
"We have three such temples on Verdalia—built for Ankrit. Some say he was a god, but I don't buy into that. Honestly, very few Verdalians do anymore."
Mek'lar smiled faintly, a slow nod of agreement.
"Same here, son. Most Zypherians stopped praying long ago. We saw too many of our people die, watched too much of our world fall. We stopped looking up. Started looking ahead."
Jason stood, stretching his limbs and adjusting the worn straps of his armor.
"Still, this place radiates something. Maybe not divinity… but purpose."
Mek'lar let out a soft grunt. "Wisdom leaves echoes."
Jason turned toward the entrance of the underground chamber, where the twilight filtered down like liquid gold.
"It's been a full day since we landed on this planet. Twenty-nine Verdalian ships scattered across ten zones… all sent for one mission: to provide relief. Food, medicine, technology, and hope."
He paused, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"But I've made my choice. This system doesn't need just relief. It needs freedom. You Zypherians... you need someone to stand with you. So I'm staying. I'll fight."
Mek'lar looked up at him, surprised by the clarity and resolve in the young commander's voice.
"You've got your own people to protect."
Jason looked back at him with a smirk.
"Exactly. And right now, that includes you."
A deep silence followed, filled only by the soft hum of the chamber's air.
Jason then asked, "So, how do we reach your hideout?"
Mek'lar stood slowly, wincing from his wounds.
"Our main base is in Narlak's Maw. That's where Rovin is. My people. It's a long way from here. If we walk, it'll take three days through dangerous terrain. With a land vehicle—about a day and a half and if you can fly then you can reach it in two to three hours from here also it depends on your speed!!"
Jason looked up at the darkening sky.
"We leave at first light?"
Mek'lar nodded.
"Too dangerous to move at night. Patrols. Androids. The terrain itself. And I'm too old to outrun anything anymore."
Jason chuckled softly and sat back down beside the spring.
"Alright. One night of rest, then. Tomorrow, we move."
The two sat in peaceful silence, warriors from different worlds bound by a shared mission, as the stars began to peek through the polluted clouds—silent witnesses to the birth of a rebellion.
Planet: Zelkaris – Western Zone
Lilliput Star System
The ash-filled wind screamed across the cityscape of Zelkaris, a planet slowly rotting under decades of pollution, greed, and silent tyranny. The skyline—jagged towers of steel, glass, and crumbling concrete—stood like broken bones of a forgotten civilization. Above it all, the crimson haze of the sky churned with thick smog.
The people of Zelkaris were Zypherians, their red skin dulled by generations of decay, their four eyes often veiled with despair. But not all.
Today, fire rose from the streets.
Today, hope fought back.
In the shadow of Central Communications Tower Theta-9, a strategic Vir Empire structure used to relay orders across multiple planets in the Lilliput Star System, a dozen Liberation Army soldiers waited in silence. Their red skin was marked with deep resistance tattoos, and each of their six arms held either a weapon or a mission tool.
At their front, cloaked in a battle-scarred tactical shawl, stood Arco, the Leader of the Liberation Army. His face was lined with age and wisdom, his four eyes always alert, his frame still stood tall and commanding—each of his movements carrying the experience of a thousand guerrilla battles.
"Theta-9 goes down first," Arco whispered to his lieutenant, Vaarn, a upper C-class warrior with an electrified spear strapped to his back.
"We disable their uplink, then move to Tower Epsilon and Zeta in coordinated strikes. No comms, no control. They'll panic."
Another soldier stepped forward—Leera, a stealth specialist and demolitionist. "Planted the charges below the uplink generator. Ten-minute timer. We're clear to fight."
Arco nodded.
"Then let's start the war."
The signal went off.
Explosions tore through the underbase of Theta-9, shaking the tower's foundation and drawing the attention of every royal Zypherian guard in the area.
Sirens blared. Red lights flashed. And the Liberation Army charged in.
Vaarn leapt high with his six arms spinning his dual spears, cleaving into the first wave of guards like a windstorm. Behind him, Karjax, a muscular upper C-class warrior with cybernetic legs, fired twin plasma cannons from both upper arms, shredding defensive barricades in seconds.
Arco entered last, walking through the smoke. Calm. Calculated.
Three elite guards charged him. With a single circular spin, Arco used his Phantom Arts of Flame—twin blazing arcs emerging from his palms and slicing through their armor like paper.
Meanwhile, Leera and Gavrin—her younger brother and a tech-hacker—entered the inner control room. Sparks flew as Gavrin bypassed the console's encryption.
"Give me two minutes!" Gavrin shouted. "I'll bring down every uplink they've got!"
Leera nodded and guarded the door, two plasma knives humming in her lower arms, her upper arms holding shock grenades.
Outside, the battlefield was chaos.
Zypherian royal mechs emerged—androids the size of trucks. From the Liberation Army's flank, Dorn—a giant of a Zypherian—charged them with a stolen Vir Empire hammer. His B-class frame withstood the full force of mech blasts as he smashed through their joints, sparks and limbs flying in every direction.
"Arco!" Vaarn shouted mid-fight. "We've got incoming from the sky!"
Two Vir Empire drone carriers appeared, releasing swarms of flying bots toward the tower.
Arco raised his hand, his voice booming:
"Get Gavrin out now!"
Leera leapt back inside.
Gavrin pulled the final wire.
"Done! Communications are fried. Whole planet's in blackout!"
But before they could celebrate, the building shook violently. Tower Theta-9 groaned under the structural damage and multiple plasma hits.
"It's collapsing!" Karjax bellowed.
Arco gave the signal. "Retreat west—now! To Safehouse Delta-4. We regroup for Phase Two!"
As the tower fell in a cascade of fire and steel behind them, the Liberation Army vanished into the smoke-filled alleys and ruined sewers of Zelkaris.
Their victory was costly.
Their path forward uncertain.
But for the first time in decades—Zelkaris burned with revolution.