"We've surrounded them, sir."
"Excellent," the officer replied, voice cold as steel. "Those fools will learn what it means to stain the name of the Terrian Empire. Prepare the Radical Cannon. Target the Tartarusios."
Two Hours Earlier
A ship was getting close to a planet. It drifted through space like a shadow cast by something ancient and forgotten. Long and dark, the ship stretched across the void like a blade carved from obsidian, its hull matte and silent, absorbing starlight rather than reflecting it. No insignia. No markings. Just mass and menace.
At its prow, a massive cannon jutted forward — not sleek, but brutal. It looked less like a weapon and more like a warning. The kind of artillery designed not just to destroy, but to erase. Its barrel was etched with faint, glowing lines, pulsing like veins of dormant fire. No one knew what powered it. No one dared to ask.
The ship's silhouette was jagged and asymmetrical, as if it had been grown rather than built. Long spines ran along its sides, some functional, some decorative.
And then — the engines roared.
Not a hum. Not a whisper. A roar. Deep, thunderous, primal. The kind of sound that made nearby vessels shudder and comms flicker. It didn't just announce its arrival — it declared it. A sonic boom across the void, as if the ship itself refused to be ignored.
Inside, the vessel was vast. Cavernous. The corridors stretched wide and high, lit by cold blue strips embedded in the walls. Echoes followed every footstep, and the air carried a faint metallic tang. It felt less like a ship and more like a cathedral — built not for comfort, but for awe.
The command deck rose like a throne room, with tiered platforms and sweeping views of the stars. Consoles glowed softly, their interfaces minimal and precise. No clutter. No chaos. Just control. And somewhere deep within — beneath reinforced bulkheads and encrypted locks — the core pulsed. Quiet. Watching.
"Approaching Zellion's border and docking station, Captain," said the helmsman, fingers dancing across the console. "Payment confirmed. Still no response."
"Patch me through to Zellion Space Station," Oscar Meilton ordered, leaning forward in his chair. "Video call with the director. Tell him we've got Brions for appraisal."
Oscar Meilton was a young commander, yet his presence carried the weight and authority of someone twice his age.
He stood tall — broad-shouldered and lean, built from years of battlefield discipline rather than vanity. His movements were sharp and precise, every step deliberate, the kind that drew attention without needing to demand it.
His eyes, a piercing shade of electric blue, seemed almost unnatural — like shards of crystal reflecting both the fire of ambition and the chill of command. When he looked at someone, it felt as though he could see straight through their lies, their fear, their resolve. Many under his command often said his gaze alone was enough to silence a room.
His hair, jet-black and unruly, was kept in short, spiked layers that gave him a rugged edge — a soldier's practicality paired with the restless energy of youth. Even when the light hit it, it refused to soften, much like the man himself.
The faint scar that ran diagonally across his right brow — a remnant of his first real battle — gave him an almost noble ferocity, as if carved there to remind him of the price of leadership.
A moment of static—then a voice filled the bridge.
"Docking granted, Tartarusios. Proceed to Bay Four."
The screen flickered, revealing Director Harry Blain, half-bald, half-smirking.
Harry Blain was the kind of man whose presence filled a room long before his voice did — and when he finally spoke, it was with the smug assurance of someone who believed the world itself owed him respect.
He was half-bald, the last strands of hair clinging stubbornly to the sides of his head, slicked back with too much oil in a desperate attempt to mimic dignity. His round, flushed face gleamed under the lights, the shine of excess and arrogance. A thin mustache framed his upper lip, twitching every time he smirked — which was often.
His body was large and soft, a monument to indulgence. Years of rich banquets, fine wines, and an idle lifestyle had sculpted him into the shape of his own greed. The gold embroidery on his uniform strained slightly at the buttons, and the jeweled rings on his fingers glinted as he gestured grandly — as though every motion were a declaration of his own importance.
"Well, well… Captain Meilton. Didn't think I'd see you again."
"Director Blain," Oscar said, grinning. "You're looking well. Gained some weight?"
"Careful," Blain hissed. "I could revoke that clearance right now."
"Relax, Harry—it's a joke. I've got a clean shipment this time. You'll be pleased."
Blain's smirk faltered. "You'd better be. The Empire's been sniffing around for you, Meilton. I won't cover your ass twice."
As the call ended, Blain turned to his aide.
"Once they unload, contact the Empire. Tell them the Tartarusios is here. Those criminals think they can play me—let's see how long they last."
Aboard the Tartarusios
"Hey, Oscar," Halley muttered over comms. "You think that bastard's gonna keep his word?"
Halley was a woman who carried herself with the kind of confidence that didn't need to be announced — it radiated from every sharp movement, every measured glare. Standing beside Oscar, she wasn't just his right hand — she was his shadow, his equal, the blade that cut through hesitation when he could not.
Her hair, cut to neck length, framed her face with bold precision. The bleached green color caught the light like sea glass, rebellious and wild, a vivid declaration that she bowed to no one's expectations.
Her brown eyes were alive with emotion — fierce when angered, but equally capable of warmth and loyalty that ran deep for those she trusted. When she looked at Oscar, there was a flicker of affection there — the kind born not of romance, but of countless battles fought side by side, the unspoken bond of those who have bled and survived together.
Oscar snorted. "Blain? Not a chance. He's still sore about last time. Get those Brions offloaded before they rot."
"Copy that. But we should stay ready. The second he gets his hands on the cargo, he'll sell us out."
"Already on it. Prep the Orbitons. Reload the cannons. Maintenance on standby. Let's hope I'm wrong—but don't count on it."
Crew Quarters
"What's with all the noise?!" Youri's voice echoed down the narrow corridor. "I can't sleep with this racket!"
Youri was the kind of man who seemed to carry an entire lifetime on his skin — a tapestry of scars, stories etched into flesh, memories carved by blade, burn, and battle. To mask them, or perhaps to reclaim them, he had covered his body in tattoos, dark ink winding over muscle and bone like rivers of history. Each line meant something, though no one quite knew what — and Youri never explained. He simply smirked when asked, took another drink, and changed the subject.
His hair, a shade of untamed brown, hung loosely over his face, unkempt and careless, as if he'd long given up trying to tame it — much like himself. His eyes green, though often half-lidded and unreadable, held a strange kind of depth; not the sharp focus of a soldier or the cold detachment of a killer, but something quieter. Tired. Ancient. The eyes of someone who'd seen too much and cared too little — or perhaps cared far too much once, long ago.
Youri spent most of his days lounging around the ship, sprawled across a couch in the crew quarters or perched on the hull watching the void drift by, a bottle in one hand and silence in the other. He'd laugh with the crew, play cards, share smokes — but he never talked about himself. To them, he was a paradox: lazy, aimless, yet always composed. A man who seemed to be running from nothing and everything at once.
When asked why someone like him — a man clearly born to lead — wasn't in command, he'd shrug and say, "I've done enough leading for one lifetime."
The crew respected him not because he demanded it, but because he didn't care if they did. They said, "Youri is who he is," and that was enough. He was the man who'd stand beside you in a fight without question, then vanish afterward to drink in solitude. The one who'd fix your weapon, patch your wound, and never ask for thanks.
Beneath the ink and the apathy, though, there was a weight — an unspoken sorrow that clung to him like smoke. No one knew its origin, but everyone felt it. There were nights when the ship was quiet, and they'd find him sitting in the dark, staring out at the stars, his hand resting on a half-empty bottle — as if waiting for something, or someone, that would never come.
Oscar's voice came through the comm. "Docked at Zellion. Crew's rushing repairs. We've been running non-stop for weeks. Fifth time this month."
"Fifth?" Youri groaned, rubbing his temples. "I get that we're outlaws, but this is suicidal."
"Sorry, Youri. These runs pay well. We need the credits."
"Fine," he muttered, grabbing his jacket. "I'll get something to eat."
He paused by the viewport. The world below was scarred and half-dead—vast craters and clouds of ash.
"Zellion…" he murmured. "A planet gutted by empire greed. They say the Terrians unleashed a God Orbiton here during the last war—to remind everyone who rules the stars."
Zellion Station
Director Blain paced across the platform. "Be careful with that cargo! Those Brions are worth more than your lives."
Oscar gave a lazy salute. "Relax, Harry. We didn't drag them across six systems to drop them now."
"Hangar Seven. My team's waiting."
"Copy that. Halley, go with them," Oscar said. "I'll check something outside. Stay sharp. This place stinks of betrayal."
Above the Hull — The Forbidden Hangar
"There it is," Oscar muttered, staring at the sealed doors of Hangar Two. "He's gonna kill me for this."
"Captain?" Nolan called from below. "What are you doing up there?"
Nolan was a man built like the machines he loved — solid, rounded at the edges, but impossible to break. In his middle age, his body had taken on a comfortable heaviness, the kind that came from years spent hunched over reactors and engine cores rather than battlefields. His hands were thick and scarred, stained with oil and burn marks that no amount of scrubbing could remove, and his fingernails always seemed to hold traces of the ship's last repair.
His hair, once a bright golden blond, had faded into something paler — like old brass dulled by time. It was messy and uneven, often sticking out from under a grease-stained cap he never seemed to take off. His face was broad, marked with laugh lines and soot smudges, and his blue eyes held a spark of weary intelligence — the look of a man who had seen every system failure imaginable and learned how to fix it with duct tape and sheer stubbornness.
"Just… checking the weather radar." Said Oscar
"He's always hanging around Hangar Two," Nolan said under his breath. "That area's off-limits—even to the captain."
"Yeah," one of the mechanics replied. "Why is that?"
Nolan leaned back against the wall, eyes distant. "Sit down, kid. Let me tell you a story."
He spoke of Garossos—a planet of iron and stone, once bustling, now dust.
"The Empire used it as a junkyard during the war. I ran a burger stall. Simple life. Then the sky cracked open. Fire fell like rain. They called it a lesson in obedience."
He smiled bitterly. "That's when I saw my first warship. Beautiful… and terrifying. I thought—if I'm gonna die, let it be aboard one of those. So I joined. Became a mechanic. Later, I deserted. Crashed on some nameless rock. Starving. Hopeless."
Nolan's gaze softened. "Then I saw her—the Tartarusios. Cutting through the clouds like a scar of light. No signal, no call—just… music. A melody from that little window above Hangar Two. Sad. Beautiful. Alive. I slept to that song. Woke up aboard her."
He chuckled. "Oscar found me. Said, 'Welcome to the Tartarusios.' Told me one thing—'Never open Hangar Two.' Not even I asked why. Some things you just… feel."
Inside Hangar Two
The heavy door hissed open. Youri stood in the dim light, half-shadow, half-machine.
Oscar stepped inside quietly. "So… this is where you hide."
"Shouldn't you be steering the ship, Captain?" Said Youri
"I'm the captain. I go where I please."
Youri smirked. "Then you already know what's in here."
Oscar's eyes shifted toward the hulking silhouette beyond the glass—a sleeping titan wrapped in steel and silence.
"Is that—?"
"ALTOPEREH," Youri said. "The Vanisher."
It stood like a god forged from the bones of dying stars — a towering Orbiton, one of the few still operational in the known universe. Its frame was forged from black metallic alloys so dense they drank in the light, leaving nothing but a silhouette of pure shadow against the backdrop of space.
From head to heel, ALTOPEHRE exuded power and dread. Its body was long and angular, built for war yet moving with the precision of a living being. Each motion carried weight — the kind that made the ground tremble when it took a step. Its armor plates were seamless, overlapping in a design both ancient and impossibly advanced, etched faintly with ancient runes that pulsed like veins of molten silver when it awakened.
Its head was narrow and blade-like, a single crimson visor cutting across the darkness like an eternal wound. That eye didn't glow — it burned, a restrained fury staring down from heights few dared to meet. Beneath it, the mech's mouthpiece resembled a set of fused metal jaws, as if the designers wanted to remind all who looked upon it that this machine devoured worlds.
The hands were colossal — five-fingered, humanoid, but made to crush steel like paper. Each digit could be retracted into weaponized forms: plasma blades, arc emitters, or anti-matter projectors. The spine of the machine was a mountain of interlocking machinery, humming with a low resonance that sounded disturbingly organic — like the breathing of something that shouldn't be alive.
When ALTOPEHRE moved, its footfalls created sonic booms. The air around it shimmered with magnetic distortion, the kind that made instruments flicker and comms die. Pilots who faced it swore they could feel it — not hear, but feel — a faint, rhythmic pulse, like the heartbeat of a slumbering titan.
Inside, the cockpit was a cathedral of metal and neural links — silent, cold, yet humming with raw consciousness. It didn't have simple controls; it had a nervous system, meant to fuse with its pilot's mind. To command ALTOPEHRE was to risk one's sanity — its neural matrix was said to "push back," testing those who dared to sit in its core.
The mech was legend. Blacker than the void, stronger than dread, it was the last of the god Orbitons — machines built not for conquest, but for annihilation. Those who saw it on the battlefield didn't call it by its name.
They called it the Vanisher.
Oscar's breath caught. "That's impossible. It was destroyed at Orion."
Youri's tone was soft but heavy. "Some things refuse to die."
He turned to him. "Tell me, Oscar. What does freedom mean to you?"
Oscar hesitated. "Freedom? It's this—what we're doing. Traveling the stars. No borders, no rules. Just open space."
Youri nodded slowly. "Good answer."
"Why ask?"
"Because," Youri said, walking past him, "I needed to be sure I picked the right captain."
"Captain! Imperial warship on approach—bearing Zellion's border!"
Oscar's smirk vanished.
"Put it on screen."
The command deck fell silent as the Terrian crest appeared — an iron phoenix soaring across a field of red stars. The symbol of conquest. The mark of death.
"Damn it," Oscar hissed. "Blain sold us out. Warm the engines."
"Main shields to two hundred percent!" Halley shouted across the bridge. "No one fires without my order! If that Radical Cannon hits, we're nothing but cosmic dust!"
"All pilots to their stations! Enemy Orbitons closing in fast!"
Oscar clenched his fists. "Tom — buy us seven minutes."
Tom was the embodiment of a seasoned warrior—an ace Orbiton pilot whose very presence carried the weight of countless battles. His head was cleanly buzz-cut, every bristle a testament to discipline and years spent in the cockpit of war machines. A thin, pale scar traced the curve of his chin, the last remnant of a near-fatal skirmish—a reminder that survival often balanced on a razor's edge.
His eyes were sharp and focused, the kind that scanned a battlefield not with fear but with cold precision, always searching for angles, weak points, ways to turn chaos into control. His movements were efficient, almost mechanical, like someone who had long ago synchronized his heartbeat with the rhythm of war.
Despite the hardened exterior, there was a quiet steadiness about him. The crew respected him not just for his kill count or his flawless maneuvers, but for the silent assurance he brought—when Tom was in the air, victory felt closer. His Orbiton was his second skin, and inside it, he was unstoppable.
"Copy that. Said Tom. Titans, launch!"
THE BATTLE OVER ZELLION
The void erupted.
Blue plasma streaks cut across the darkness, each one a thunderbolt in the night.
The Tartarusios shuddered under the blast of nearby detonations.
Orbitons streaked through space — towering humanoid war machines, their thrusters glowing like burning halos. Metal roared against metal as the Titans clashed with the Empire's hunters.
"Titan Three, engaging the left flank!"
"Titan Five, heavy fire—armor breached!"
"Pull back, Titan Five!" Oscar barked.
"Negative! They've locked onto my core—I can't shake them—!"
A flash. Static.
Then—
"Enemy Orbiton destroyed."
The comm went quiet for a heartbeat before Tom's voice returned, breathless:
"That's one down… five more to go!"
"Good work, Tom. Titans, fall back to formation! Get ready for leap prep!"
"Engines hot," Bjorn shouted. "ETA—one minute!"
Bjorn was the mind of the crew—their quiet compass in the storm. With his blond hair neatly combed back, giving him the look of a professor rather than a spacefarer, and round glasses that always seemed to slide down his nose at the wrong time, he looked more like a scholar lost on a battlefield than a navigator aboard a warship.
He rarely raised his voice, preferring the company of star charts, holographic maps, and the soft hum of data streams. His cabin was always cluttered with old books, navigation logs, and notes written in a dozen languages only he could read. Though shy and easily flustered in conversation, Bjorn's intellect commanded the respect of even the toughest veterans.
When it came to combat, he wasn't the one you'd want on the frontlines—but in the realm of knowledge, strategy, and precision, no one could rival him. He could calculate orbital trajectories faster than most computers, and when things went wrong mid-battle, it was usually Bjorn's calm, calculated voice over the comms that guided everyone back to safety.
The crew often joked that while their weapons won the fights, it was Bjorn's brain that made sure they lived long enough to celebrate them.
"Set destination—five hundred light-years from Zellion." Said Oscar barking.
"Copy. Initiating leap in five… four… three—"
The stars stretched—then froze.
Halley's eyes widened. "Captain… we're surrounded."
"Twenty-three warships. All Imperial."
THE HUNTERS ARRIVE
"We have them, my lady," a lieutenant said aboard the Imperial flagship. "The Tartarusios cannot escape."
Countess Emilia Rozasar stepped from the shadows into the light.
Her crimson hair, long and sharp as a drawn blade, shimmered like liquid fire beneath the command bridge lights, each strand catching the glow of the monitors around her. Yet it was her eyes that silenced entire rooms — black as the void between stars, reflecting no light, no mercy.
"Patch me through to their captain," she said, her tone soft but deadly.
"My lady, it's unnecessary. We can obliterate them from here—"
Her gaze cut through him like a mono blade.
"I want to see the man who slaughtered my fleet at Onyx."
The holo-screen flickered alive, bathing the bridge in cold blue light.
"This is Countess Emilia Rozasar, Commander of the Eastern Galactic Forces.
You are surrounded. Surrender and stand trial for your crimes against the Terrian Empire.
Or be erased from existence."
TARTARUSIOS — BRIDGE
"Oscar, incoming transmission!"
"Put it through."
Emilia's face filled the screen—serene, predatory, the calm before annihilation.
"Last chance, Captain," she said evenly. "Surrender."
Oscar turned toward Halley. "Time to leap?"
"Fifteen minutes."
"Too damn long." He clenched his jaw. "Power to cannon."
"If we divert that much, shields will drop. One hit and we're gone."
Before he could respond—
"Sir! Hangar Two is opening!" Nolan's voice cracked.
Oscar froze. "What? Who authorized that?!"
"Put me through!"
Static flared—then came Youri's voice, calm, defiant.
"Boost shields to two hundred percent. Hold the line. I'll make an opening."
"Youri, that's suicide!"
"This is my ship, Oscar."
A pause—a breath of finality.
"And no one points a gun at it and lives."
The AI's monotone followed:
"Hangar Two opening. Titan Zero—launching."
The Tartarusios' underbelly split open, venting light and vapor into the black.
From that burning gate, a single shadow emerged—
jet-black armor veined in molten red, energy pulsing like a heartbeat.
The ALTOPEREH.
Codename: The Vanisher.
Last of the God Orbitons—myth turned reality.
Thrusters ignited, flaring crimson. The resulting shockwave shattered nearby debris into dust.
Halley's breath caught. "Titan Zero… deployed."
"I've never seen an Orbiton move like that…"
Oscar's eyes hardened. "You won't again.
Anyone who does—doesn't live to tell about it."
Youri's voice slid through the comms—low, human, tired.
"I swore I'd never climb back into this cockpit. But promises… are for the living."
ALTO's AI responded, cold and precise.
"Target locked. Antimatter cannon—charging."
Inside the cockpit, Youri's hands moved like instinct reborn.
The machine remembered him.
Panels lit up with alien symbols, the hum of raw cosmic power filling the air.
The enemy fleet tightened around him—a steel storm ready to crush a single spark.
"Empire warship locked."
Youri vanished in a flash of red light.
A heartbeat later—impact.
The first Orbiton split clean in two, plasma still glowing along the cut.
Another dove at him.
Youri spun, fired micro-singularity rounds—tiny collapsing stars that folded the attacker into nothingness.
"Enemy count: nineteen."
He streaked upward—disappeared again.
Each reappearance was death.
Each flash of crimson light, another Orbiton torn apart.
The void became a graveyard of twisted steel.
"Enemy count: eight."
On the Imperial flagship, Emilia gripped the railing, voice trembling.
"Impossible… he's a phantom."
Then Youri's voice came again—every frequency crackling with it, resonating through the bones of every soldier who heard.
"ALTO. Erase."
The antimatter cannon fired.
There was no sound—only a wave of lightless energy, so pure it devoured its own shadow.
The front line of twelve Imperial warships disintegrated, their atoms scattering into radiation and silence.
In the aftermath, the stars flickered like they were gasping for air.
The vacuum screamed.
And then—nothing.
When the light died, only drifting fragments marked where the Terrian fleet had once stood.
On the bridge of the Tartarusios, no one spoke.
Oscar stared at the holo-feed—static and ash.
"Youri…" he whispered. "What have you done?"
Through the haze of comm interference came a single reply—hollow, almost tired.
"What I always do."
Then silence.
And in that silence, across the endless dark, his name began to spread again.
Whispered like a curse. Revered like a myth.
Youri Kronos.
Pilot of ALTOPEREH.
Codename: Titan Zero.
The God Orbiton that erased fleets—
and the man who vanished with them.