Mercury's shadow-side orbit. Battle station Aspida.
The holographic map of the cosmos burns with flashes—
the battle has begun.
The command hall trembles.
The crackle of systems, the groan of energy fields, and a pressure in the air—like the skin of a storm pulling tight.
Operators and tacticians work at the edge of overload, channeling torrents of data through systems already bleeding red.
Combat indicators flare crimson, pulsing like open wounds.
Each signal carries the scent of collapse.
At the center stands Vicar.
Unmoving.
His eyes never blink.
He only watches.
But inside—
the storm has already begun.
Here it is. The threshold. Us or them. Power or erasure.
His voice emerges low, heavy—like thunder cracking over a frozen abyss:
"Call it."
It's not an order.
It's a bell tolling war.
General Jamal steps forward.
Each movement deliberate—like a metronome carved from iron.
There's no haste in his stride, only weight.
His face is a samurai's mask.
His eyes burn away anything unnecessary.
He raises one hand.
His voice echoes across the station:
"Battle alert! All crews to position!"
Aspida awakens.
Corridors flood with movement.
Dozens of eyes, hands, footsteps—an organism stirred to war.
Panels flare red.
Weapons systems hum to life.
The station breathes—
like a beast awakening to the pulse of violence.
At the comms console, Yulia feels the trembling of space pass into her skin.
Everything is unfolding exactly as Kairus foretold.
Now it's my turn.
She turns to the general.
"Establish contact with Admiral Ragnar," Jamal commands.
His fingers tap the console—sharp, deliberate, like claws on stone.
"Yes, General."
Yulia's hands move swiftly across the panel.
Her face is calm, serene even—like sacred frost.
"Admiral Ragnar on the line."
The hologram flickers to life.
There he is:
a soldier lit by the red haze of emergency.
Still.
Composed.
Focused.
Behind him—pure chaos, the raging silence of battle.
"Report, Ragnar," Jamal says, tension undercutting the flatness of his tone.
"The first line has engaged.
Enemy's bleeding. Drone shields are breaking apart.
We're keeping pressure steady.
The rest of the platforms want in.
They're itching to finish the job."
He grins—only slightly.
"You'd better join us soon, General. Hate for you to miss all the fun."
Jamal's mouth twitches. Just once.
But the flicker dies before it can become a smile.
"We will, Admiral. But Aspida isn't just a station.
It's a sledgehammer.
And we strike only when the enemy is soft."
Vicar says nothing.
He doesn't need to.
His stare is a vacuum—
a pull that devours hesitation.
Jamal feels the weight at his back.
It's not intimidation.
It's judgment.
He lowers his voice.
No unnecessary sound may escape now.
"Listen carefully.
As soon as I signal—pull your platforms back.
We'll hit with everything Aspida has.
No warnings.
No repeats.
One salvo.
One point."
His finger glides across the screen—smooth as a knife across a throat.
Encrypted channel.
Coordinates.
Final push.
"Confirmed. Channel received. Feed is clean."
Ragnar smiles again—
this time like a gladiator before the sword rises.
"Good to know a giant's standing behind us.
When you strike, we'll already be waiting—like shadows overhead."
Jamal doesn't respond with a phrase.
He answers with a vow.
"We will protect our freedom."
And cuts the connection.
The words linger in the air.
Not speech.
Not rhetoric.
They're molecular orders.
And everyone nearby feels it.
This is no slogan.
It's either a death sentence—
or a sacred promise.
Yulia sits frozen.
The hologram is gone—
but its burn still lingers in her retinas.
So that's what destiny looks like.
They don't know what Kairus has prepared for them.
Not yet.
Her gaze sweeps across the hall.
Fighters clench their fists.
Hands tremble.
Lips whisper.
Waiting.
An electric prayer.
In the corner, curled like a question mark, the cat—Charmer—sleeps.
Even he, it seems, can feel that something irreversible has begun.
I hope Charmer completed the mission.
Yulia gently lays her palm on his back.
And at that same instant—
somewhere beyond the orbit—
rage is unfolding.
Aspida is ready.
The sting is primed.
Now all that's left—
is to strike.