The world was still in the early light of dawn.
A faint golden glow painted the sky, stretching over the horizon like a celestial fire, illuminating the training grounds outside the barracks. The air was crisp, laced with the sharp scent of steel and the distant smoke from the fortress forges.
Gaius stood alone in the vast, open yard.
Barefoot, shirtless, his body was a testament to years of relentless training—lean, powerful, sculpted through war and hardship. His muscles were not the exaggerated bulk of a brute warrior, but the refined cords of tempered steel, built for speed, endurance, and absolute control. His skin, kissed by the light of the twin suns, gleamed with a faint golden hue, interrupted only by faint freckles dusting his shoulders and the scars etched across his frame. His emerald-green eyes, sharp and calculating, reflected the rising light, and his dark curls, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead.
His sword was already drawn.
He exhaled slowly, centering himself, then moved.
The Galaxy's Forms.
A series of sacred techniques, passed down through the Imperium's army as a foundational technique. Not simply a collection of stances, but a philosophy—a way to move, to strike, to kill with absolute efficiency.
Gaius flowed from stance to stance, each motion seamless, each cut precise. His sword whispered through the air, carving invisible arcs of death. A downward cut, reversing into a feint. A side step, blade twisting in a cruel flourish. A killing thrust, pivoting into a spinning parry.
The forms were not rigid. They were alive, adaptable. A perfect balance between raw aggression and measured restraint.
He pushed faster.
His muscles burned, sweat dripped down his back, but he did not stop.
Faster.
His breath came in steady exhales, his bare feet barely disturbing the dirt beneath him. His sword became an extension of his will, slicing through imaginary enemies with ruthless precision.
One step, two steps—a twist, a strike, a feint.
His mind was empty. Only the blade existed.
Then—stillness.
Gaius came to a stop, his sword raised in a final stance. The sun had fully risen now, bathing the training grounds in light. His breath slowed, his pulse steady.
The Galaxy's Forms were complete.
His training was done.
He sheathed his sword.
It was time to leave.
Aulus Kor was waiting for him.
The older man stood outside the barracks, arms crossed over his chest, watching as Gaius approached. His face was lined with exhaustion, his uniform crisp despite the grime of war still clinging to it.
For once, his expression was not one of irritation or sharp-witted sarcasm.
It was quiet. Almost reluctant.
"You came to say goodbye," Aulus said, voice gruff.
Gaius nodded.
Aulus sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I suppose I should give you a long, wise speech about duty and honor."
"You could," Gaius said, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. "But we both know you're terrible at speeches."
Aulus snorted. "Damn right I am."
The silence between them stretched, neither willing to break it first.
Then, finally, Aulus sighed again and pulled Gaius into a rough embrace.
"Don't get yourself killed, kid," he muttered. "And don't go picking fights with nobles. You're a soldier, not an idiot."
Gaius hesitated, then returned the embrace. "No promises."
Aulus huffed but said nothing.
When they pulled apart, another familiar voice cut through the quiet.
"Leaving without saying goodbye? Now that's just cruel."
Gaius turned just in time to see Cassius Redfang approaching, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement. The half-beast mercenary was dressed in his usual battered leathers, his wild silver hair tousled from sleep.
"You'll miss me," Cassius said, grinning. "I'm the only one who puts up with your brooding."
Gaius smirked. "I won't be gone forever."
"Still." Cassius held out a small flask. "One last drink before you go?"
Gaius took the flask, tilting it back, the burn of strong liquor sliding down his throat.
Cassius laughed. "Now you're ready."
Other soldiers came to say their farewells, men and women who had fought beside him, survived with him. Some clapped him on the back, others muttered quiet well-wishes.
It was a strange feeling.
A reminder that, despite everything, this was home.
But home would not wait for him.
The cruiser was waiting