The outside world was chaos—Rot City burned under rebel assault. But within the royal palace, it was different. The entire citadel was sealed beneath an artificial bubble of clean, fresh air, a cruel reminder that while the outer lands suffocated, the rulers lived in comfort.
Inside the towering black hall, the shadows stretched long and deep. Upon the throne stood only a silhouette—a figure whose features no one dared describe. His name was whispered with fear.
Laco.
None had ever seen his true face. The glow of the palace's crystal lights never touched him directly, leaving him wrapped in shifting shadow. But even unseen, his presence pressed down like a crushing weight. His voice, low and deliberate, carried more power than a thousand armies.
"Begin the plan," he ordered.
A Zypherian soldier in battle-worn armor marched forward, kneeling low. His six arms trembled slightly as he bowed, not daring to meet the figure's hidden gaze.
"The… the abduction is complete, my lord," the soldier reported. "The children have been secured. They will be transported to the Vir Empire."
The silhouette leaned forward slightly. A cold nod was enough to seal their fate.
Another Zypherian soldier rushed into the hall, his breath ragged from urgency.
"My lord… the rebels—they move even now. They struck at Darnak-9 this morning. The city burns."
For a moment, silence. The commanders exchanged uneasy glances. The air itself felt heavy, as if the shadows deepened around them.
Finally, the silhouette moved—just a faint shift of his head, but it carried the weight of judgment.
"Then let it be so," Laco's voice whispered, dark and commanding.
"Send all commanders. Let them face the rebels head-on. Let the war truly begin."
The shadows swallowed his figure once more. None dared to breathe too loudly.
Outside, the drums of war thundered. Inside, the mys
terious master smiled unseen.
The Zypherian Empire burned across a thousand skies.
Far beyond Vokar-17, the sparks of rebellion had ignited into flames.
Orvus—a planet drowned in volcanic ash. The skies rained soot, and the ground trembled with constant eruptions. Here, rebels wearing charred armor moved like shadows through ash-storms, ambushing Zypherian patrols near lava rivers. The Royal soldiers fought with gas-masks and flame-lances, but every eruption turned the battlefield into chaos, and chaos favored the rebels.
Myra—once an oceanic paradise. Now, a militarized supply depot where the Vir banners floated on oil-stained waves. Floating docks carried warships, and amphibian creatures—forced into labor—dragged cargo from the sea. The rebels struck by night, using the deep trenches to surface and tear apart supply lines before vanishing into the abyss. The Zypherian admirals roared, but the ocean itself shielded Myra's insurgents.
Shadrax—home of the infamous biological labs. A place of horror where children and beasts alike were fused into weapons. The clash here was not of soldier versus soldier but monstrosities against desperate rebels. Flames spread through glass towers as rebels released captives and burned the laboratories. Yet from the smoke emerged creations twisted by the Zypherian scientists—screaming, mindless engines of war. The battlefield of Shadrax became a nightmare painted in blood and fire.
Eldrion—the refinery capital. The screams of children echoed in its iron caverns, where they worked until their fragile bodies collapsed under the weight of Zypherian greed. The rebels came with fury, detonating fuel lines and smelting yards. Royal soldiers, clad in steel exosuits, tried to contain the chaos, but every collapsing refinery meant fewer chains for the enslaved. Eldrion shook with the cries of vengeance.
Drest—once a forest kingdom, now stripped bare by drone-harvesters. The trees were gone, leaving skeletal remains of roots clawing at the dirt. The rebels used what little remained—camouflaging in ruins, planting traps in the old roots, striking with bows, plasma-arrows, and desperation. Royal flametroopers marched through, but the land itself, once alive, now turned against them with dust storms and poisoned winds.
Volturna—the logistics nexus. Here ruled the infamous twins who spoke only in riddles, their words soaked in blood. Supply lines were the Empire's veins, and the rebels knew severing them would choke the beast. The twins unleashed mercenary fleets with eerie precision, their voices echoing on all channels like chants. Volturna was not a battlefield, but a chessboard where every ship destroyed was a piece toppled.
Hythrax—the bastion of assassins. Here, the Vir Empire trained killers whose names were never spoken aloud. The rebels did not fight armies on Hythrax—they fought whispers, shadows, and blades that struck in silence. Yet even assassins could bleed, and rebel infiltrators turned the hunters into prey, their deaths echoing like a warning: the Vir Empire was no longer untouchable.
Noxera—the frozen prison-world. Endless ice stretched across its horizon, but beneath the surface, war-prisons were carved like tombs. Generations of captives rotted in its frozen belly. When the rebellion struck, they shattered the ice prisons open. Emaciated warriors—once broken—took up arms again. The Zypherian wardens unleashed mechs with frost-breath weapons, but the freed prisoners fought with a fire born not of warmth, but of vengeance.
And lastly, Zelkaris. Once the envy of systems, the jewel of the sector. Now a cracked gem under pressure. Its glassy cities glittered under siege. Royal troops marched in perfect formation while rebel banners rose defiantly from shattered spires. Each street was a war, each plaza a grave. The jewel of Zelkaris was no longer polished—it was bleeding.
But all of this—the burning, the bleeding, the cries of vengeance—was only the prelude. For the true strike was yet to come.
Back on Vokar-17, high above the ash clouds, the outer ring of orbital outposts scanned the void with long beams of light, monitoring everything that dared to enter.
But tonight, those lights were going dark.
The Eyrvak fleet, led by Targan and Krith, descended like hunters. Ten Verdalian ships of the Liberation Army roared through the void, their wings carved with tribal sigils. Out of twenty-nine, only ten had reached this far, but their fury was enough.
Outposts crumbled one by one as plasma-fire rained. Zypherian gunners scrambled, firing blindly into the void, but the rebels struck with surgical precision. Metal skeletons broke apart, flaming wreckage falling toward the planet below.
Every destroyed outpost meant one thing: the gates of Vokar-17 were opening.
And beyond them waited Arco, leader of the Liberation Army, ready to descend.
The war for Vokar-17 had begun.
The red-skinned beast moved.
Roouch, the Zypherian warlord, his six colossal arms rippling with muscle and scars of ancient battles, had been informed of the Eyrvak strike. He did not hesitate. With a roar that shook the command halls, he summoned his army—legions of Zypherian enforcers clad in obsidian armor, their plasma pikes glowing like burning suns. The ground trembled as they mobilized, marching toward the void where Targan's fleet had cut through the outposts.
The hunt for the rebels had begun.
But far from the battlefield, in the depths of a station hidden beyond Vokar-17, the true tragedy unfolded.
The halls of this place echoed not with the footsteps of soldiers but with the sobs of children.
It was here that the Zypherians gathered their stolen harvest—the children of the Liliput star system.
From Darnak-9, the rot cities bled of their youngest.
From Orvus, children covered in ash and burns, dragged from their volcanic homes.
From Myra, ocean-born youth, still dripping with saltwater, their fins shackled in iron.
From Shadrax, pale-eyed captives raised as experiments, trembling in cages.
From Eldrion, refinery slaves with blistered hands, their bodies shaking with exhaustion.
From Drest, the last forest-born, torn from the roots of their dead kingdom.
From Volturna, the children of riddled speech, silenced by chains.
From Hythrax, would-be assassins, stripped of choice before their training began.
From Noxera, frostbitten souls, ripped from their prison families.
And from Zelkaris, jewel of the stars, once shining—now its children dimmed in fear.
All were here. Thousands.
All between the ages of five and fifteen.
And among them sat Kairox.
The boy's emerald eyes, once bright, were dull now. His six small arms hugged his knees as the advanced cell walls glowed faintly, designed to sap energy, to weaken the will. He had lost too much already—his mother, Mi'ken, and now every face he cared about.
"Why am I still alive?" Kairox thought. "Why did I survive when the others fell? Even the Verdalians… they came across fifty-five light years to help us. They brought food, supplies, even hope… and yet here I am. Alone. Powerless. A child."
He pressed his forehead against the cold wall, his small fists trembling. Outside, Zypherian enforcers herded the other children onto transport ships. The air was filled with cries and screams, but the Zypherians were deaf to them. To the Empire, these children were not lives. They were cargo.
The ships rumbled as their engines ignited. Row after row of silver hulls lifted, glowing against the darkness. The abduction was complete.
The children of an entire star system were being taken away.
And elsewhere, far above the battlefield, within the flagship of the Vir Empire, a different voice stirred.
Inside the metallic heart of the ship sat Commander Two-Bells.
Bells was not Zypherian, nor human. He was Veylrian—a species feared across the sectors for their strange, haunting physiology. His elongated arms flexed, shimmering ridges vibrating with every movement. The sound they produced was not mere noise but power. Frequencies that could crack steel walls, fracture minds, or bend reality into hallucination.
It was said the Veylrians never spoke with tongues, only with song. Vibrations. A language of harmonics. Yet Bells had trained himself in the common tongue. When he spoke, his words trembled with layered echoes, as if an unseen choir whispered behind each syllable.
His golden eyes opened as the report came.
"The abduction of the children is complete."
The ridges on his arms pulsed, a low hum filling the chamber. Bells rose, his towering silhouette framed by the war banners of the Vir Empire. His voice rolled like thunder wrapped in song.
"I am Commander Two—of Thirty. By decree of the Vir Empire, the Liliput Star System will burn."
His hum deepened, vibrating through the walls, rattling weapons on racks. Officers bowed their heads in fear as he continued.
"The rebellion festers. But festers only until the knife cuts it clean."
He raised his arms, the ridges shimmering, vibrating with an otherworldly tone.
"Commander Twenty. Commander Twenty-Five. You will join me. Together we will crush this rebellion, grind their ashes into the soil of Vokar-17, and claim the Liliput System as the new stronghold of the Vir Empire."
The hum became a roar. The steel bulkheads trembled. And in that sound, there was no doubt.
The children had been stolen.
The rebellion had begun.
And the Vir Empire was preparing to end it.