Across the unfathomable void, a consciousness, ancient and
minuscule, hurtled through the cosmic tapestry. It was a being of pure thought
and energy, a traveler of the star-winds, and it was dying. For eons, it had
drifted, a silent observer of galaxies birthing and suns extinguishing. It had
witnessed the rise and fall of countless civilizations, each a unique and
vibrant thread in the grand, chaotic embroidery of existence. But never had it
encountered a darkness like the one that now chased it.
The Chommi. The name was a venomous whisper in the silent
language of the cosmos. They were a plague, a relentless tide of conquest that
swept through star systems, leaving behind only subjugated worlds and broken
species. They were architects of despair, masters of a cruel and calculated
enslavement. This tiny being of light, a mote of cosmic dust named Xylar, had
seen their work firsthand. It had watched as they descended upon a world of
crystalline beings, their harmonious songs silenced and their shimmering forms
shattered. It had witnessed the enslavement of a race of sentient flora, their
vibrant, interconnected consciousness twisted into a tool of war.
Xylar had tried to warn them. It had screamed its silent,
telepathic warnings into the void, a desperate beacon in the encroaching night.
But the Chommi were too fast, their methods too insidious. They were a virus
that infected civilizations from within, turning their own strengths against
them.
Now, they had set their sights on a small, blue-green world
in a quiet spiral arm of a galaxy they deemed ripe for the harvest. Earth.
Xylar had gathered all its remaining energy for this final,
desperate gambit. It had propelled itself across light-years, its very essence
fraying with the strain. It had to reach them. It had to warn them. The
Chommi's methods were always the same. They would send a vanguard, a display of
overwhelming and terrifying power to shatter the planet's morale, to make them
believe resistance was futile. Then, the true invasion, the enslavement, would
begin.
As Xylar approached the vibrant blue marble, it could feel
the life teeming on its surface, a symphony of thoughts, emotions, and dreams.
It was a chaotic and beautiful melody, one it was desperate to preserve. But it
was too late. From the dark side of the planet's moon, a colossal vessel of
obsidian and jagged angles emerged, a harbinger of the doom to come. It was a
Chommi world-breaker, and from its belly, a projectile was launched, a seed of
destruction aimed at the heart of the unsuspecting world.
Xylar poured the last of its strength into a final,
desperate burst of speed, a silent scream of warning that it hoped, against all
odds, someone might hear. It aimed for the point of impact, for the epicenter
of the coming storm. It couldn't stop the cataclysm, but perhaps, just perhaps,
it could find a vessel, a host, a partner in the fight to come. As the
meteorite, a Trojan horse of unimaginable horrors, blazed through the
atmosphere, Xylar, a whisper of hope in a universe on the brink of despair, followed
in its fiery wake.