The Upper Eastern Sector of Vokar-17 groaned under the weight of its poisoned skies. The once-mighty red sands now blew with a lifeless ash-gray hue. Beneath the half-collapsed ruins of a forgotten outpost, Jason Amberdenk, bruised and scorched, pressed onward.
Each breath was harder than the last. Even a Verdalian, with their naturally adaptive lungs and affinity with ecosystems, struggled to inhale here. The air was saturated with toxic particles—centuries of Zypherian industry and war had rendered the atmosphere a slow-acting poison.
Jason dragged his feet forward across a jagged, rust-colored ridge. Below, the ground sloped down into a shallow basin—a massacre laid bare.
"What in the name of the Tree of Life…" he whispered.
All around him were bodies—some burned, some torn apart. All wearing the same tattered black and crimson symbol: the Scorched Branch. He knelt beside one, flipping the body over. The name stitched into the sleeve was barely legible—"Jargun, Lieutenant."
Jason looked away, fists clenched.
"So many… all Zypherians. But this wasn't a battle—it was a slaughter."
He moved among the corpses, salvaging an oxygen mask from a fallen rebel. After a few clicks and repairs using his field tools, he slid it on, letting the filtered air finally fill his lungs.
"King Laco… You begged us. Begged Verdalia for aid. Asked for refertilization tech, food synthesis modules, and medicinal nanobots to save your star system," Jason muttered bitterly. "But this? This is how you treat peace?"
Suddenly, a warning beep blared in his ear. He dropped flat as a blazing red energy beam sliced through the air, vaporizing the sand where he'd just stood.
He rolled into cover behind a wrecked drone tank.
"That's… Fantom Arts. Red Spectrum. Only mid to high-class Zypherian warriors can use that."
He narrowed his eyes, focusing. A figure limped out of the haze—a tall, weathered Zypherian. His skin was dark red, his six arms trembling, and one was broken. His four eyes were bloodshot, but wise. His uniform torn, but barely recognizable beneath soot and wounds.
The old warrior leaned on a broken spear.
"You're not one of us…" he rasped. "Green skin. Silver hair. A Verdalian?"
Jason stepped forward cautiously.
"Yes. I'm Jason Amberdenk, Commander of the Verdalian relief fleet. Who are you?"
The elder laughed—a dry, painful sound.
"Verdalian. The farmer conquerors turned peace-bringers."
"They used to say you came with seeds in one hand, and swords in the other. Now you come with medicine and false hope."
He collapsed to one knee, coughing violently. Jason rushed to catch him.
"Who are you, old man?"
The Zypherian wheezed out:
"Mek'lar. I'm… what's left of the Scorched Branch's old flame. And father to Rovin, its last true leader."
Jason's eyes widened.
"Mek'lar? The one the Empire is hunting?"
Mek'lar grinned.
"Then they still remember me. That's nice. Help me up, Verdalian. If you are truly here to heal this world… we have a lot to talk about."
The dry wind howled across the poisoned plains as Rom, clad in a cloak woven with resistant fibers, sped across the cracked earth on a rust-colored Zephar-Class Glidecycle, one of the last models still running in protestant hands.
With the memory of Targan's bloodied orders echoing in his mind, Rom's eyes focused straight ahead. "Find the Verdalians. Learn their true intentions. Warn them. Before it's too late."
The advanced tech of the bike beeped softly as he approached the Verdalian crash site in the upper eastern sector. Jagged metal debris from drop pods, laser-scorched rocks, and fallen android limbs littered the terrain. It wasn't long before he spotted a trio of figures up ahead—Scorched Branch rebels in partial armor, their insignia dull but proud.
Rom skidded to a halt. One of them, a bulky soldier with burn scars and an axe strapped across his back, squinted.
"You ride alone, protestant?" he asked, half-mocking.
Rom dismounted, unshaken.
"Rom, loyalist of the fallen fire—Targan. I ride with reason. We need to talk to the Verdalian fleet."
A slender Scorched Branch woman with a half-shaved head scoffed. "Since when did Targan's dogs talk peace?"
Rom smirked coldly. "Since fire met acid rain. If you want to survive, follow me."
Together—reluctantly but urgently—they moved toward the Verdalian ship. Towering above the horizon was the lead command cruiser: an Aurion-9 Neural-Class Warship, matte green hull still humming with life. Though older in make, it was clear this vessel had been refitted with modern tech, likely including a bio-adaptive AI core and resource vaults large enough to sustain a star system.
Rom stared up at it and muttered, "Old bones, solid spirit."
As the group reached the checkpoint near the ship, they were met by Verdalian guards, their silver hair glinting against their green skin, spears and rifles ready.
"State your business," one soldier said sharply.
Rom stepped forward. "We need to speak to your captain—or commander. Now."
Inside the command center, Captain Shin stood over a holographic map, his eyes moving from one zone to the next, lips pressed tightly. Jason was still missing, and every minute counted.
A beep interrupted his thoughts.
"Sir," said a junior officer, "Protestants from the Scorched Branch and an independent Zypherian have approached. They're not hostile. The Zypherian says his name is Rom. Claims he's here to speak of alliance and warnings."
Shin turned his head. "Rom? From Targan's group?"
"Yes, sir."
He narrowed his eyes, then nodded.
"Bring them in."
As the wind carried a cloud of dust over the plains, the lines of enemies, rebels, and peace seekers began to blur. And something bigger—far bigger—loomed in the poisoned air.
The air inside the Aurion-9 Neural-Class Command Cruiser was crisp, artificially maintained to mimic Verdalia's forest breeze. Captain Shin stood tall at the central hologram, flanked by tactical officers, his silver hair tied back in a loose knot.
Across from him stood Rom, covered in dust, and three members of the Scorched Branch, their hands on their belts—not hostile, but far from relaxed.
Rom cleared his throat.
"Verdalians," he began, "we came not to negotiate. We came to understand. You bring ships full of food, tech, medicine—yet you're seen as invaders. Why?"
Shin replied calmly, "We're not here to conquer. We're here to restore. Your star system sent out a distress signal decades ago—your leaders may deny it, but King Laco of Vokar-17 asked us for aid."
The woman from Scorched Branch hissed, "Then why did your ships land like war machines in ten zones?"
Shin pressed a switch. A display of Verdalian fleet zones shimmered to life. "Our ships landed where the Vir Empire wouldn't shoot us down. We avoided major settlements. Still, we were attacked."
Rom nodded slowly. "Fair enough. But know this—we're not aligned with Laco. We fight him too. Targan, our leader, lies injured. He sent me to speak. If you are not his enemy, then we are not yours."
Shin took a moment. "You're proposing an alliance?"
Rom nodded. "From both Eyrvaks—Targan's group—and the Scorched Branch. We ask not for weapons or soldiers. Only mutual survival."
Shin glanced at his officers. "Verdalia didn't come here for war. If you fight for freedom and your people's future, we can stand beside you."
A silence hung between the three factions—for a moment—then Rom extended his arm.
Shin shook it.
A new pact had been forged.
Deep within the crevice of Narlak's Maw, where thick crimson vines coiled and sulfur winds howled, Ka'roth leaned on his staff as he stepped into a moss-covered cavern lit by fungal glow.
There stood Rovin, leaner than most Zypherians, but with fire in his four eyes.
"You came," Rovin said.
Ka'roth bowed. "On behalf of the Eyrvaks. Targan is alive—but wounded. The Vir Empire grows bold. We need you."
Rovin's expression hardened. "They captured our outposts. My father lies missing. And now… the Verdalians."
"They're not here to rule," Ka'roth said calmly. "I sent Rom to them. If they align with us, we can reclaim our planets. Not just for revolution—but for restoration."
Rovin walked to the edge of the glowing pool. "The air worsens daily. Vokar-17 is dying. My father said it was once a fertile world—before the android harvesters drained its life."
Ka'roth stepped closer. "Help us. Let the three banners rise as one—Scorched Branch, Eyrvaks, and Verdalia."
Rovin turned slowly, and after a moment's pause, he gave a slow, firm nod.
"It begins then."
High above the chaos, in the orbital trail of dust and metal, 29 ships glowed green in formation—their scanners syncing, their captains connected by oath and urgency.
In the shadows, King Laco's spies watched, recording every movement.
But on the poisoned earth below… an alliance had sparked into flame.