The Khasano had traveled for days through folded space and regulated hyperspace corridors before it finally reached its destination. Now, drifting at the edge of Terrian-controlled orbit, it slowed to a measured crawl, engines humming with restrained power.
Ahead of them lay Terria.
Youri stood in the control room beside Barnaby, his eyes fixed on the planet suspended against the velvet black of space. Terria was smaller than many of the worlds he had seen in star charts and archives, but its size meant nothing when compared to its presence. The planet glowed with life—vast oceans reflecting the nearby star in shimmering blues, continents spread like deliberate brushstrokes of green, gold, and stone.
Four landmasses were clearly visible from orbit.
The Visin Continent, lush and heavily forested, where ancient Terrian traditions still shaped rural life.
The Paken Continent, scarred with mountains and mineral veins, its cities carved into stone and steel.
The Batuzane Continent, dense with infrastructure and transit hubs, glowing faintly even from orbit.
And finally, Carcas—the political and cultural heart of the empire.
Though divided by seas and geography, all four continents bent to the will of a single ruler: Emperor Johan Adrin, sovereign of the Terrian Empire.
Youri's gaze lingered on Carcas.
At its center stood Fansilia.
Even from orbit, the capital was unmistakable.
Fansilia rose in elegant spires of glass and alloy, each tower shaped by centuries of Terrian engineering philosophy—an ideology rooted not in dominance, but in balance and vertical harmony. No building dwarfed the others. Instead, they seemed to converse with one another, trading light and reflection, catching the planet's sunset and passing it along like a whispered secret.
The tallest structures were not monuments to ego or conquest. They housed planetary councils, climate regulation cores, orbital traffic nexuses—systems designed to keep the world alive, stable, and connected. Power here was not displayed through intimidation, but coordination.
Below, the city flowed.
Curved avenues swept through Fansilia like living ribbons, designed to mirror Terria's natural wind patterns. Traffic moved in near silence—vehicles gliding in choreographed streams, never colliding, never stalling. Palm-like xenoflora lined the roads, their bioluminescent veins pulsing softly as dusk crept across the capital. These plants existed nowhere else in the empire, native only to Fansilia's basin, engineered long ago to cleanse the air and stabilize the city's microclimate.
At the heart of the capital lay the Civic Confluence, a vast open district where governance, culture, and commerce merged seamlessly. Holographic façades rippled across plazas, displaying Terrian art, planetary news, and live star-maps of distant systems. Music floated through the air—not loud, not intrusive, but layered and precise, mathematical yet warm, broadcast subtly through the ground itself.
Fansilia was not merely the capital of Terria.
It was its interface.
The Khasano hovered in Terrian orbit, awaiting clearance to descend. From the viewport, Youri could see other ships holding position nearby—cargo haulers, diplomatic vessels, military cruisers—all waiting patiently in regulated lanes.
Youri finally turned to Barnaby. "How come you can't just land whenever you want?"
Barnaby smiled faintly, his eyes still on the planet. "That's a simple question with three answers."
He raised one finger. "First—atmospheric protection. Terria is considered a living heritage world. Ships can only enter and exit through a designated corridor over the Batuzane Continent. Batuzane is the transport hub of the empire. Every vessel, civilian or military, goes through that corridor. No exceptions."
He raised a second finger. "Second—security."
Barnaby gestured toward the navigation display, where faint, dimly shining points encircled the planet in a wide, uneven halo.
"You see those?"
Youri squinted. "Yeah. What are they?"
Barnaby slipped his hands into his pockets. "It's not them. It's what they're part of."
Youri looked at him, confused.
"The Catacomb," Barnaby continued. "A singular planetary defense system. Every ship entering Terrian orbit is legally required to transmit a landing permit. If a ship fails to do that—or attempts an unauthorized descent—the Catacomb activates."
He tapped the screen, and the points brightened slightly.
"When a hostile signal approaches the stratosphere, the Catacomb links those nodes into a plasma lattice. A net. That net disintegrates any known material in the galaxy. Ships. Meteors. Weapons. Doesn't matter."
Youri's brow furrowed. "So it's perfect."
Barnaby nodded. "It maintains order. It protects the planet from celestial threats and enemy forces alike."
"But you could shoot the nodes," Youri said slowly. "Create an opening."
Barnaby smiled. "You'd need at least three hundred ships firing on all Catacomb nodes simultaneously just to attempt entry. And if even one node stays operational, the system can still encircle the planet. The output would be weaker—but still more than enough to stop any modern ship."
Youri let out a breath. "Then why do you need a third reason?"
Barnaby turned toward the viewport.
"You're about to find out."
From the distance, another ship approached—bulkier, heavier, its hull marked with reinforced plating. A brawler-class military transport. It slowed and aligned itself parallel to the Khasano, then connected via a gravitational bridge.
Moments later, the control room doors hissed open.
Three figures entered.
At the center was a man in his mid to late forties, silver-and-black hair tied neatly behind his head. He wore a Terrian military uniform, his rank insignia marking him as a captain. His posture was relaxed, confident—the kind earned through decades of command.
Two Terrian foot soldiers flanked him, clad in black-and-green combat uniforms, caps pulled low, eyes alert.
The older man stepped forward first.
Barnaby's face broke into a genuine smile. "Gordon," he said warmly. "My lovely friend. How've you been?"
Gordon laughed, closing the distance and pulling Barnaby into a firm embrace. "I've been good."
Then his gaze shifted to Youri.
"So this is the kid," Gordon said, stepping closer.
He studied Youri openly—his stance, his injuries, the way he held himself even while exhausted. After a moment, Gordon chuckled.
He turned to the soldiers. "Bring the package."
One of them handed a sealed container to Gordon, who passed it to Barnaby.
"You managed to do it," Barnaby said.
Gordon smirked. "Who do you think you're talking to?"
Barnaby opened the container and pulled out a slim Terrian ID link. Its surface shimmered faintly with encrypted data.
He turned to Youri.
"And this," Barnaby said, "is the third reason."
Youri stared at the ID.
"Your new identity," Barnaby continued. "Youri Kronos. Registered Terrian citizen. Military enrollment verified."
Youri exhaled slowly.
The Khasano drifted forward as clearance lights blinked green.
Terria awaited.