Deep Space. Near the Central Belt of Civilization.
The Martian fleet—dozens of ships, armored hulls drawn tight like muscle beneath steel skin, engines flaring like comet tails—surges toward Mercury. A pack of hunters cutting through the void.
Their shadows stretch across the stars.
And in the silence of the comms, something feels wrong.
Too smooth. Too precise…
Admiral Tyler feels the tension like a splinter under the skin.
Where's the catch?
Suddenly—alarm.
Fleet Command Station "Cobalt." Tactical Hall.
Holograms glitch. Screens flash red.
On the fleet map, ship icons blink yellow… then orange.
One by one, the vessels are struck by unseen hands.
"We're under attack!" a voice pierces the room.
The captain of a lead cruiser comes through, his signal laced with static and panic.
"Four ships down! Systems failing!"
Admiral Tyler—tall, silver-haired, in full fleet armor—rises like a missile on launch.
The fleet emblem gleams on his shoulder, but all the focus is in his cold, calculating eyes.
"Kill the thrusters—now!" His voice cuts like a railgun blast.
"Form battle formation! 'Shield' and 'Harpoon' groups on cover duty! Threat coordinates uploaded!"
Stop the bleeding first. Then find the blade.
The chamber doors explode open.
President Marcus of Mars storms in, Agent Ani close behind.
Their faces are taut, their eyes burn into the screens—anger and dread held in check by duty.
"What the hell is happening?!" Marcus booms.
His voice is thunder, fists clenched like he's ready to punch straight through the hologram.
"Minefield," Tyler snaps. "Enemy cloaked. No visual contact. Sweepers deployed. We begin clearing ops immediately."
Marcus spins toward him, fury tightening every word.
"Why weren't the sweepers leading? Is this a war or a goddamn field trip, Admiral?!"
Tyler answers with deliberate calm.
His eyes are old—but behind them, countless battles and not a single defeat.
"This is the Central Belt, Mr. President. A neutral zone. Intelligence assured us it was safe."
Marcus freezes. Shoulders tight as a cruiser bracing for impact.
"Mines… in a neutral sector? That's not defense. That's provocation. That's war."
Ani steps forward. Her voice—velvet wrapped around steel.
"They're baiting us. If we strike Earth now, we open a second front.
We can't survive a split."
"Exactly," Tyler nods.
"They don't want us dead. Not yet. They want us stalled. Delayed.
Slow strangulation."
Crush without striking.
Break without a battle.
The room stills.
The holographic fleet hovers on the map—like ghost dolphins frozen beneath translucent ice.
"Damage report?" Marcus asks, voice low but loaded.
"Four cruisers hit. Life support stable. Weapons online. Minimal repairs needed.
We're ready to proceed."
Marcus steps up to the projection.
His eyes lock on Mercury—distant, red, but close enough to burn like a brand.
And in this moment, there is no doubt left in him.
"Continue."
He pauses.
Then says it—like a sentence. Like a national creed.
"But understand this: we're not coming for territory.
We're coming for flesh.
These soulless machines dared to challenge the living.
They don't understand fear.
They don't know faith.
They've never felt pain.
But we… are humanity.
And we will take back what belongs to our kind."
The projection of Mercury pulses.
Beside it—the logo of the Zeus Corporation.
It flickers, flickers…
Then fades.
Soon, it will be replaced.
By a new emblem.
The mark of those who never surrendered.
The march through space begins.
The war has started.