The planet Vokar-17 groaned beneath the weight of centuries of conquest. Once a world of molten rivers, fungal canyons, and sky-borne beasts, it now lay dying—ripped open by mining drills, pockmarked by orbital bombardments, and soaked in the blood of resistance.
In a cratered basin lined with melted steel and shattered banners, Targan crouched beside the remains of a fallen outpost. Ash clung to his six muscular arms and deep red skin. His four glowing eyes scanned the ruins of their retreat—twenty-seven warriors left, barely holding formation.
Behind him, the flickering shadows of the Eyrvaks slimped through wreckage, some dragging the wounded, others burying the dead.
"We lost eleven," rasped Ka'roth, Targan's right-hand man, stepping forward. The taller warrior bore twin plasma axes strapped to his back and a jagged scar that ran across two of his four eyes.
"And the engineer?" Targan asked, not turning to face him.
"Dead. With the code we needed."
Targan's fists clenched. His lower left arm twitched. Another door to freedom sealed shut.
"We fight to preserve our world," he muttered. "And every hour, it slips deeper into theirs."
Ka'roth let out a low exhale, dust puffing from his cracked mask.
"Then perhaps it's time we stop fighting alone."
Targan's eyes narrowed.
"You mean them, don't you?"
"The Scorched Branch. Same race. Same pain. Different fire."
"They tried to burn half the planet during the first revolt," Targan growled. "They kill without a code."
"But they're alive. And they hate the Royals more than we do."
A long silence. The wind howled through the broken steel arches above them, carrying echoes of the past.
"You think they'll help?" Targan asked, voice low.
"They will—if they believe verdalians still alive. Their name still frightens their ghosts."
Targan stood. His shadow stretched over the ash-covered ground like a falling banner.
"Then send a runner. No transmissions. No trace. Use the old tongue."
Ka'roth nodded and disappeared into the smoke.
Targan looked toward the crimson sky, where twin moons loomed like hollow eyes. He had no idea that, just beyond the southern ridge, hidden beneath the overgrown ruins, Verdalian scouts had already made landfall.
The war for Vokar-17 had begun.
And the planet's destiny would not be written by one rebellion—
—but by three storms colliding.
The high ridge above the crater trembled.
Then—a blast.
Targan staggered back, a searing pulse tearing through his upper torso. He collapsed to one knee, four eyes flaring in shock as black-red blood spilled from the sizzling wound. The shot had come from miles away—fast, focused, precise.
"Sniper!" Ka'roth shouted, instinctively shielding Targan with two of his arms.
From a jagged hill crest 3 kilometers away, a voice echoed through a sonic channel—distorted, but unmistakably taunting.
"The rebellion dies with your leader," the voice said. "I am Commander Roouch. Lower B-class. And this was only the first pulse."
The figure crouched behind a sleek V-series railgun—a sniper forged from moonsteel, with adaptive recoil cores. Roouch, like all Zypherians, had six arms and four glowing crimson eyes, but his presence was sharper, colder. He wore no insignia but bore the confidence of someone who had killed across galaxies.
"I saw the alien vessels land. Ten drops. Ten zones. Verdalians, no doubt," Roouch continued. "The Empire's androids are already in route. And the Royal Army will raze this whole region within hours."
He loaded another round.
"I'll take care of your resistance personally."
The feed cut.
Targan gritted his teeth as Ka'roth pressed down on the wound, trying to seal it with a med-gel patch.
"I'm not dead yet," Targan hissed. "And Roouch is just one more blade in the storm."
Ka'roth looked up.
"What do we do now?"
Targan's breathing was ragged, but his voice remained firm.
"We make the deal. With Rovin—the leader of the Scorched Branch. Send a runner. Use the sigil of fire, not the code of unity. He'll know."
Ka'roth nodded and moved swiftly.
Then Targan turned to his left-hand man, a broad Zypherian with burn marks across his lower limbs and eyes sharper than steel—Rom.
"Rom. The Verdalians. If they're truly here..."
"I'll find them."
"No. You'll warn them. Tell them Vokar-17 is not a place for kindness. It's a battlefield."
Rom gave a short nod and disappeared into the haze like a shadow caught on fire.
Targan collapsed against the rusted wall of a destroyed mech unit, eyes closing briefly.
"We're surrounded by enemies," he murmured, "but maybe... just maybe, that means we all bleed the same."
The wind howled low and bitter across the blackened cliffs of Narlak's Maw, a jagged stretch of ancient volcanic terrain nestled in the heart of Vokar-17. The air was thick—hot with toxins, acrid smoke, and rising tension. Ash drifted in slow spirals like gray snow as Rovin, leader of the Scorched Branch, stood atop a crumbled fortress balcony, eyes scanning the dying horizon.
He was tall even by Zypherian standards, cloaked in black armor infused with burnt-gold edges, his six arms folded in meditative poise. His four glowing eyes flickered with thought as he watched the sunset struggle to pierce the polluted skies.
Behind him, his right-hand warrior approached, stepping with quiet reverence. "Rovin," he said, bowing slightly, "the protests in Zone 4 were suppressed. A few leaders escaped to the underground. The rest... didn't make it."
Rovin didn't turn. His voice was low, hollow. "The people no longer have the strength to scream."
The warrior remained silent.
"Where's my father?" Rovin asked suddenly, turning his head. "He was seen in the upper eastern sector. I need confirmation."
"We lost contact with his unit three days ago," the warrior replied grimly. "It's possible... he was taken during the Vir Empire's last sweep."
Rovin clenched all six fists.
He turned fully now, his face fierce, but tempered by deep grief. "The air... it worsens every cycle. Vokar-17 is choking. And now, these aliens have landed—Verdalians, they say."
"Not just them," the warrior added. "King Laco accepted androids from the Empire. Paid in gold, fueled by lies."
"And now he thinks he owns the planet," Rovin scoffed. "No. He's just another pawn burning in someone else's fire."
A silence stretched between them.
Rovin looked up at the sky—where smoke coiled through sickly light and distant Verdalian ships glinted like fallen stars. "If Targan truly comes... maybe it's time we listened."
He placed a hand on his warrior's shoulder. "Send scouts to meet him. And prepare the underground chamber for negotiation. I will speak with him myself."
The warrior bowed once more. "And the Verdalians?"
Rovin's gaze hardened. "We observe. If they are here to feed the fire—we'll crush them. But if they're here to smother it... maybe, just maybe, we light a different kind of flame."