Asher stumbled. Breathing ragged. Saw a ship on cracked landing gear. Ramp lowered. He ran. He was five feet from the ramp when the air trembled. He dove. Rolled under a steel support beam.
BOOM. The roach slammed back down. Still alive. Still hunting.
But now—a figure stood atop the crates. Watching. A person. Unmoving. Their eyes met. Just for a second.
Asher ran in the direction of the other human.
Suddenly, gunfire cracked like whips across rusted steel. Echoes folded in on themselves, bouncing between broken containers and skeletal cranes. Asher didn't look back. He ran.
His lungs burned like they were leaking. Boots crushed gravel and broken shell. Behind him, a giant roach followed him. It was an enormous abomination big enough to eat a human whole. To make it worse the monster was fast, too fast. Its limbs clicked and scraped as it glided over debris and corpse.
Asher rounded a corner—and froze.
A man stood atop a crate like it was a throne. One boot raised. Rifle hanging loose at his side. Calm. Like he'd done this a thousand times.
The man raised a hand—sharp, urgent.
Asher dropped.
A drum behind him exploded in a burst of shrapnel. Bullets screamed overhead. He rolled, dragged himself behind cover as metal pinged off steel.
The man dropped beside him, crouched low. Focused.
"That was close, my friend," the soldier said without looking at him.
Somewhere nearby, someone was screaming. Somewhere else—something was laughing. Or maybe that was the gunfire.
Another man—a sailor—was yanked backward into the dark.
No scream.
Just bones.
The other sailors didn't panic. They retreated. Like they'd seen this before. Like they knew the line had failed.
But the thing didn't follow them.
It looked straight at Asher.
And started walking.
They ducked into a cargo ship groaning with every step. The hull was blackened and rust-bitten. Bulkhead door slammed behind them, sealing the screams out—for now.
Asher panted. "Why's it chasing us? Are we really that tasty?"
The man didn't laugh. Just glanced sideways—one eye clouded white from a burn scar. The other sharp as broken glass.
"You haven't heard? Few weeks back, the sky cracked open. These things started crawling through. Some kind of rift."
Before Asher could answer, the wall beside him exploded.
A man was yanked through. Gone. Just gone.
No time to think.
The soldier grabbed his arm. Hauled him through a cracked hallway that barely held its shape. The whole ship groaned, a dying beast of metal and memory.
They burst into a storage bay.
Crates.
Hundreds of them.
The man pried one open with the butt of his rifle.
Inside: rifles, grenades, rusted RPGs.
Old World gear. Still used by mundane soldiers to this day.
Dust clung to the faded stencils of forgotten nations. Leather straps. Wooden grips.
Asher stared. "This your master plan?"
"We were sent to hold the dock," the man said, already checking his gear with mechanical ease. "What ever you do, do not go for a swim. The real danger is in the water, where you cant see them coming."
The burn marks. The dust. The layout.
It clicked.
Asher looked down.
His hands weren't his.
The gloves were different. The gear. The way he moved.
This wasn't just a simulation.
This was a preserved memory.
The man stacked charges like he'd done it before. Ten times. A hundred.
Asher followed without thinking. Until he asked something—off. A stray question, unscripted.
The man froze.
Expression blank. Face empty.
Like the puppet had lost its strings.
Then, as if rewound, he started moving again. Seamlessly. Calmly.
Asher didn't speak. Just watched.
"This must be one of the Empire's preserved echoes," he thought. "A memory they copied and sealed. A last stand of the old world. Before the apocalypse."
"Lure it," the soldier said, pointing toward the dock. "Make noise. I'll bury it."
"You'll die," Asher said quietly.
The man only smiled.
Asher stepped out onto the dock.
The wind howled across the dock. The sky churned above, gray and boiling. Stormlight flickered behind thick clouds—not quite lightning, but close enough to make Asher flinch.
He raised his blade.
The Roach came.
Its plates cracked. Antennae twitching—counting heartbeats.
It moved.
He moved faster.
A swipe nearly took his head off. He dove. Rolled. Ran.
Then—BOOM.
The ship went up in flame.
White-hot fire crawled down the gangplank. Metal shrieked and folded.
The Roach screamed. Not alien.
Pain.
The soldier burst from the flames—limping, on fire.
He almost made it.
But the Roach's claw punched straight through him.
His body twisted.
Dropped.
Still.
Asher charged.
No hesitation.
The Roach staggered. Wings charred. One eye melted.
They collided.
Blade met carapace. He carved deep.
It hissed. Slammed him into crates. Ribs cracked.
He didn't stop.
Dodged. Cut. Took a hit to the leg.
Sword flew.
He scrambled. Found it.
One final breath.
He dove under its jaw.
And drove the blade up.
Straight into its brainstem.
The creature twitched.
Then slumped.
The pod hissed open.
Asher coughed. Air burned.
Ryvak stumbled out beside him, clutching his stomach. "That rat cooked my intestines in a soup pot. How'd yours go?"
Asher didn't answer.
Something pulled at him. Cold.
He turned.
At the end of the hallway, near flickering glyphs, stood the boy.
The same one from before.
Black robes. Barefoot. Pale as marble.
Eyes too still. Like they'd seen this all before.
He raised a hand.
And motioned: Follow me.