Location: Upper Eastern Sector, Planet Vokar-17
Time: Dawn, Day 2 of Verdalian Arrival
The first rays of dawn sliced through the gray smog that cloaked the eastern skies of Vokar-17. The sun, barely visible, struggled to pierce the thick layers of pollution, casting a haunting glow over the dead, cracked earth.
Jason Amberdenk stood silently on a dusty ridge, his green Verdalian skin glistening faintly under the weak sunlight. His silver hair flowed in the breeze as he adjusted the straps of his breathing mask. Behind him, Mek'lar, the old Zypherian rebel, limped forward and looked across the wasteland where the battle had taken place the day before.
The field below was eerily silent.
A graveyard of broken bodies, scorched armor, and fragments of shattered weapons stretched across the barren terrain. The symbols of the Scorched Branch and the Royal Zypherian Army were scattered everywhere—burned into uniforms, weapons, and flags. The ground still held echoes of war.
"This is where you fought them all?" Mek'lar asked, his voice heavy with both awe and pain.
Jason didn't look back.
"All 2,000. It wasn't glory—it was necessary."
His fingers curled into fists.
Then, he turned and pointed toward a metallic glint amidst the debris. They walked briskly toward it.
Tucked between two wrecked troop transports was an intact Ultra-Speed Vokar Class Recon Vehicle—a sleek, low-profile hovercraft capable of gliding over rough terrain at breakneck speeds. Despite signs of battle around it, it seemed untouched—perhaps parked and left abandoned in the chaos.
Jason inspected the interface.
"Royal issue. High-level encryption. But nothing I can't break."
He pulled a portable toolset from his belt—Verdalian tech, designed for adaptability. Using his lower left arm's neural port connector, Jason linked his system with the vehicle's core.
Mek'lar raised an eyebrow.
"Are you sure that's safe?"
Jason smirked.
"Nothing is safe on this planet, old man."
Fingers flying across the interface, Jason disabled the Royal Beacon ID, wiped the Vehicle Tracking Module, and reset the internal registry. He reprogrammed it under a Verdalian ghost ID, known to fool most basic royal scanners.
"Done. They won't be able to trace us."
Jason hopped into the driver's seat. Mek'lar climbed into the rear stabilizer bay, securing their remaining supplies. The engine roared to life, a low, powerful hum vibrating through the cracked earth.
"We'll reach Narlak's Maw in a day and a half if this thing holds," Jason said, scanning the horizon.
"And if it doesn't?" Mek'lar asked.
Jason glanced at him, half-smiling.
"Then I walk again."
With a push on the throttle, the vehicle soared forward, gliding over sand, stone, and ash. The wind screamed past them. The world blurred into streaks of gray and rust.
As they sped west toward the heart of rebellion, toward alliance, and perhaps toward destiny—Jason's mind stayed focused.
"Narlak's Maw," he muttered. "Time to rejoin the war."
The morning air in the Ashen Mountains was cold and dry, filled with the scent of stone, old fire, and the faint sterile aroma of medical chemicals. Deep within the mountain—hidden behind layers of stone tunnels and false passages—was the Hidden Spire, the secret base of the Eyrvaks Rebellion.
Inside its dimly lit medical wing, Targan, leader of the Eyrvaks and symbol of resistance for countless Zypherians, lay unconscious on a reinforced bio-slab. His breathing was faint. His crimson skin pale. Tubes ran across his chest and arms, and a glowing vitals monitor pulsed weakly nearby.
Beside him stood Dr. Sylk, a weathered Zypherian medic whose six arms worked in calculated harmony. His four eyes—two behind surgical lenses—moved between data tablets and scanned readings from the vitals display. His expression was grave.
Across the room stood Krith, the trusted rebel warrior who had helped bring Targan to safety, and Old Zor, the one-eyed, limb-lost veteran of wars long past. Several other rebel medics and supporters lingered near the chamber entrance, anxious and silent.
Krith broke the silence.
"Doctor, just tell us straight. Can you save him?"
Sylk turned slowly, his voice heavy.
"I've completed a full analysis. Targan's condition is worse than we thought. Internal bleeding, multiple organ ruptures, and severe nerve damage across three of his limbs. If he were , self-heal capsules might've saved him instantly."
He paused.
"But we don't have that luxury."
Zor's one good eye blinked with sorrow.
"Then… what's the chance, Doctor?"
Sylk breathed deeply.
"There is a way. A full internal augmentation surgery. Risky. Painful. Two days minimum. I'll need to remove and regenerate tissue, synthesize bio-stabilizers from what we have. I can keep him alive… maybe even bring him back fully."
He looked down.
"But it won't be easy. And it won't be painless."
Krith stepped forward, his fists clenched.
"Do it. We'll protect this mountain with our lives. Just bring our commander back."
Zor moved to the bed, placing his hand gently over Targan's forehead.
"I've seen war tear down mountains, and I've seen this man lift people from ashes. You save him, Dr. Sylk… you save hope."
Sylk nodded slowly, his four eyes hardening with determination.
"Prep the operation room. Get me every unit of preserved blood. And keep the generators running—no interruptions."
Rebels moved into action. Krith turned to Zor.
"I'll double the guards. If Roouch's scouts or Vir androids sniff even a trace of this base, we won't have a second chance."
The Hidden Spire echoed with urgency—one man's life at its center, and the weight of a rebellion resting on the edge of a scalpel.
The volcanic winds howled across the shattered plains of Vokar-17, painting the battlefield in crimson and ash. The soil, cracked and barren, ran slick with the blood of fallen rebels.
The Eyrvaks, leaderless and weary, stood firm despite overwhelming odds. Their commander Targan was gravely injured, and Ka'roth was far from the frontlines, trying to forge alliances. Still, the fighters pressed on, desperate to hold the line against the Zypherian Royal Guard.
At their head: Bill, one of Targan's oldest companions, led a band of rebels through the flames. His armor was shattered. His body barely moved. But his resolve burned brighter than ever.
"We fight… not because we can win…" Bill shouted over the roar of artillery, "…but because we must not die on our knees!"
Then came Roouch, the Lower B-Class Zypherian Commander, his six arms wielding twin plasma glaives and kinetic blades, slashing through rebel after rebel. His four eyes scanned the battlefield like a predator, never missing a weakness. His soldiers, emboldened, roared in unity.
He lunged at Bill.
One strike—Bill dropped to his knees, coughing blood.
"You're finished, old man," Roouch sneered.
Bill looked up with a broken smile.
"At least… I die a warrior."
Suddenly, a shockwave split the air.
A figure streaked through the smog with the force of a meteor, colliding with Roouch and sending the commander crashing into a jagged cliff wall. Dust and debris flew everywhere.
When the dust settled, a crimson-armored warrior stood tall.
Six muscular arms crackled with red energy. His silver-and-black Zypherian cloak flared in the wind. His four eyes radiated raw power.
"You called for help…" he said in a deep, commanding voice. "I answered."
Gasps rippled through the rebel lines.
"That's… that's Jodu!" someone whispered.
"The Upper B-Class General of the Scorched Branch!"
Jodu turned to the fallen Bill.
"You've done your part. Now it's my turn."
Roouch staggered to his feet, snarling.
"Jodu? What are you doing here?"
"Your war is no longer one-sided," Jodu growled. "This is the first spark of the fire that will burn the royal bloodline clean."
He raised both his fists, red energy flaring.
"I didn't come to talk. I came to finish you."
Roouch smirked.
"Let's see if the title of Upper B-Class still means anything."
They launched toward each other, fantom arts clashing—red versus red, pure fury versus honed technique.
Explosions erupted around them as the battlefield became their arena. The ground cracked beneath their feet. Energy flares lit up the skies.
And as the battle raged on, the rebels behind them rose with renewed hope.
Vokar-17 was not lost. Not yet.