Dust rose into the faded sky as all 29 Verdalian ships touched down across the capital plains of Vokar-17, just as planned. Though scattered across kilometers of dry terrain, they had landed—alive, operational, and ready. But the world they stepped into was already a firestorm.
To the west of their landing zones, gunfire echoed, not from imperial guards—but from the people.
From the cracked rooftops, alleys, and torn marketplaces surged the Eyrvaks, a towering red-skinned race—muscular, primal in strength, and indigenous to the dry kingdoms of Vokar-17. Among them marched their leader, Targan Vro, a fierce-eyed youth no older than twenty-two, but already a symbol of resistance.
He was shirtless, his crimson skin dusted with ash and cuts. He held a large auto-cannon ripped straight from the capital's weapons storage, and beside him were hundreds of his kind, all wielding stolen rifles, spears tipped with local plasma, and their raw, monstrous strength.
Above their march, massive banners fluttered—torn cloths scrawled with blood:
"Down with King Laco."
"Water for the people, not the throne."
"We are Vokar!"
Their boots thundered across scorched ground as they stormed toward the outer wall of the royal district. They didn't march as soldiers—they marched as survivors turned warriors, betrayed by their king and driven by famine, watching their children fall one by one to the dust.
Targan's voice cut through the chaos.
"We asked for food! You gave us bullets! We asked for answers! You gave us silence! Where is your king now? Hiding behind his gold and pillars? We are done kneeling!"
The crowd roared, fists to the air. From the east, other protestors—Eyrvaks—all joined. Gunfire sparked as palace guards responded from atop towers.
The streets became a battlefield.
Far within the massive Onyx Citadel, the heart of the royal district, nestled in the dry capital city of Uzen-Ryl, the throne room stood like a tomb. A chamber carved of dark stone, rimmed with silver roots from dead desert trees, and lit by hollow sunlight pouring through fractured glass.
On the high throne sat a silhouette—King Laco himself. His massive crown tilted slightly, casting shadows down his face. But he didn't move. He hadn't for hours.
Kneeling before him, a lone soldier, armored in royal silver and red, bowed with tension in his voice.
"Your Majesty... they have reached the first barricade. Sector 7 is burning. The Eyrvaks and the southern slaves have united. Targan Vro leads them. It is... growing, sire. Even the outer military refuses to fire directly into the crowd."
The king didn't speak.
Instead, a gloved hand reached from the side of the throne—an advisor, tall, cloaked, face wrapped in shimmering gold cloth. The advisor leaned in, whispering something into the king's ear.
The king finally stirred—barely.
He raised a hand slowly, not in command, but in dismissal.
The soldier bowed again, uncertain. "And... sire, there's one more thing. Foreign ships have landed outside the capital perimeter. They bear the Verdalian crest."
Now, the king turned his head slightly. The air tensed.
The advisor narrowed his eyes, a flicker of panic breaking his composure.
"Shall we engage them, Your Majesty?" the soldier asked.
A cold voice echoed from the side—not from the king, but from another shadowed figure behind the throne.
"yes, send the troops confront them."
As the palace watched in silence, Targan's rebellion surged onward, reaching the second line of barricades. The rebels were losing numbers—but gaining rage. Every fallen brother was fuel for vengeance.
Verdalian scouts from Ship-14 watched the rebellion through advanced optical scopes, hiding behind broken statues at a ruined monastery.
"Sir," whispered a young officer, "they're not fighting the royal army. They are the people."
Captain Shin, now positioned at a temporary command outpost, observed a live map with thirty red flares—each a battle zone.
"This isn't war," he muttered. "It's a civil fracture."
And somewhere in the middle of it all, they had to deliver food—to people torn between starvation and revolt.
Inside the command deck of the lead Verdalian ship, the mood had shifted from calculated urgency to a smothering dread. The curved screens lining the walls blinked with unread messages, scanning errors, and failed attempts to establish quantum relays back to Verdalia. Technicians whispered among themselves. Officers paced the metal floor.
Louis tapped again on the communication console, his brow furrowed, voice quiet.
"Still no response from High Council..."
Captain Shin clenched his fists behind his back, staring out at the dust clouds still rising from the northern horizon, where the enemy force approached.
"How can the capital be silent for this long?"
They'd tried everything. Standard data channels, encrypted high-speed relays, even the old emergency star-beacons. All yielded nothing but static.
Jason's voice still hadn't returned either—not since the moment he separated from the fleet midair.
In the corner, a young female operator stared intently at her screen, her fingers trembling slightly as she typed. Suddenly—her console pinged, a shrill, unfamiliar tone.
"Sir! Incoming transmission—Verdalia..."
Every head in the control room turned.
Captain Shin rushed toward the station. "Is it military command?"
The screen flickered. Then slowly resolved into an image—a blurred feed, filled with interference, smoke, and red flickering lights. A figure came into view: a woman, barely visible through the static. She wore the navy-blue robe of a civilian information officer, her cheeks stained with tears.
She was crying—eyes wide, lips trembling as she spoke through the chaos.
"T-this is Verdalia Central… Please… can anyone hear me?"
Louis stepped forward. "Yes! This is the Verdalian fleet in Lilliput. What is your status?"
Her voice broke as she continued.
"We are… under attack. I repeat, Verdalia is—"
A massive explosion rocked the transmission. The screen jolted violently. Sparks rained down behind her, and figures ran across the background screaming. For a moment, all they could hear was the piercing wail of alarms and shouts muffled by smoke.
Then came a second, closer blast—so loud it shook the very speakers aboard the ship. The screen went black.
Silence.
No signal.
Inside the control deck, no one spoke.
Captain Shin slowly removed his headset. Louis's face had gone pale. One of the younger officers whispered under his breath.
"They've… they've hit Verdalia."
Outside, the wind howled through the dry cliffs of Vokar-17. And behind the horizon, two armies inched toward each other under the burning sun—unaware that the world they fought to defend… might already be burning.