Her words took time to sink in, but it was inevitable. This was no coincidence — fate itself had a hand in it, and there was nothing anyone could do.
Then, suddenly, the surroundings began to crack. Lightning tore through the fog, searing the clouds of color that had once lit their path. The ship shuddered violently, its metal bones groaning under invisible pressure. Sirens wailed. Loose tools and panels clattered to the ground. Every man and woman on board clung to their stations, breath held, hearts pounding—
And then, just like that, it stopped.
The tremors faded. The hum of the engines leveled out. For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
But through that silence, something vast began to take shape.
From the fog, a ship emerged — wide and heavy, its triangular frame cutting through the corridor like the edge of a broken blade. It was long — several hundred meters from its pointed nose to its broad, armored thrusters — and built for endurance rather than grace.
Its hull was forged from dark, battered steel, the surface pitted and scarred by time. Armor plates overlapped in crude symmetry, held together by the stubborn craftsmanship of a people who valued strength over beauty. Faded runes and worn insignias ran along its sides, relics of an empire that had not seen the light of a new age in centuries.
Clusters of old engines lined its flanks, pulsing faintly with dull blue light — like the slow, uneven breath of a sleeping giant. Below, broken docking arms jutted outward from open bays, skeletal and hollow. And at its heart stood a raised bridge, walled by thick glass and iron ribs, windows clouded with dust and time. The interior lay in shadow — silent, forgotten, a graveyard of voices long gone.
There was nothing sleek about it.It was ancient, rugged — a vessel that had survived the impossible.
The Tartarusios drifted closer, its crew frozen in disbelief.
Zoma's voice broke the silence, calm but edged with tension.
"Get ready," she said. "We're about to exit the gate."
No one spoke. The sight of that ancient craft beside them filled the bridge with an unspoken dread. Then, once again, the fog cracked — lightning flashed, reality split open — and through the rift, they saw it: the end of the corridor.
The ship lurched violently. Metal screamed. Lights flickered. And then — stars.The endless black of space returned. They had emerged.
But so had the other ship.
It hung just ahead of them, its colossal silhouette framed against the dying light of a black hole. Systems flickered back to life — radar, communications, navigation. The crew scrambled to their stations, their motions quick but uncertain.
Then — a sound. A faint, unfamiliar signal.
Bjorn leaned over his console, eyes wide.
"Captain," he said, voice trembling with disbelief. "The signal's from another wavelength... it's almost ancient. But if I invert it, I might be able to relay it through our comms."
Oscar nodded.
"Do it."
Moments later, a voice filled the bridge — crackling, distorted — followed by a transmission request.
"They're asking for a visual link," Bjorn said.
Oscar hesitated for half a second, then gave the order.
"Accept it."
The screen flickered to life.
A man appeared. His presence was calm yet commanding — His blonde hair, swept neatly back, gleamed faintly in the ship's light. His blue eyes — sharp as ice — studied them with unshaken composure. The uniform he wore was immaculate, pressed and tailored perfectly across his broad frame.
He spoke — firm, deliberate — but the words were unintelligible.
Bjorn suddenly stood, stunned.
"He's speaking... Barakian," he said, voice cracking.
A ripple of confusion spread across the room.
Then Zoma stepped forward. Slowly, deliberately. Her expression unreadable.And when she spoke — it was in the same tongue.
Her voice, clear and ancient, matched his perfectly.The two spoke with ease, as though the centuries between them had never passed.
Oscar turned toward her, his voice low and edged with alarm.
"Zoma... what is happening? Explain. Now."
Zoma turned to face the crew. Her expression softened — but her eyes, deep and knowing, carried the weight of revelation.
"My dear Wanderers," she said, her tone echoing through the control deck like a verdict. "We have arrived at a place you may find... difficult to accept."
The room fell silent. Every gaze locked onto her.
"Do you remember," she continued, "the second instance I mentioned earlier — the one that changed everything?"
Her lips curved into a somber smile.
"It has just unfolded."
The screens behind her flickered — data streams shifting, recalibrating, as though the universe itself had adjusted to her words.
She turned back toward the image of the man — that solemn figure in a military uniform, his blue eyes unblinking.
And then she spoke, voice low but steady, each word sinking like a stone into still water:
"This... is the 4,832nd year of Imperial Rule."