The wormhole was behind them now, distant and flickering like a bad memory. Inside the destroyer, quiet returned—if only briefly. Vermond sat in the command chair, leaning forward slightly, staring at the glowing screen showing the interior of the newly acquired god-tier frigate.

  It was sleek. Too clean. Its metal walls didn’t hum like regular ships—they whispered, as if remembering ancient voices.

  The undead elite walked its halls without hesitation, their motion smooth, scanning every corner.

  Vermond narrowed his eyes.

  The crew—those who came from the Corvettes and fighters—were also exploring… if you could call it that.

  One man sat upside down in a seat, staring at a glowing panel.

  Another kept pushing random buttons, saying, “Maybe if I hit this one again, coffee will come out.”

  Someone else found a strange helmet-like device and put it on backward, declaring, “This must be the throne.”

  In the background, a pair of technicians were poking a floating orb that looked like a mini-sun.

  “It shocked me again,” one muttered, shaking their hand.

  “That means it likes you,” the other replied solemnly.

  Erie walked into the bridge and looked at the screen. He stared silently at a man trying to ride a moving maintenance drone like a mechanical bull.

  "...Are they okay?" Erie asked.

  "No," Vermond said, deadpan. "But they’re mine now."

  Erie grunted and sat down next to him. “So, what’s the plan, commander of space lunatics?”

  Vermond didn’t answer right away. He tapped the screen, zooming in on the frigate’s command deck. The controls were strange—etched with symbols that shimmered under light. A throne-like chair stood at the center, untouched. Even the undead hadn’t dared to sit on it.

  That made him curious.

  “I want to know what this frigate really is,” he finally said. “And what’s inside its systems.”

  “And after that?” Erie asked.

  Vermond turned his gaze to the illegal Federation map.

  “After that… we decide where to strike first.”

  Erie raised an eyebrow. “Strike?”

  Vermond’s emerald eyes glowed faintly again, the number 68 flickering.

  “Whatever is watching us… I want them to see what they let survive.”

  Somewhere in the dark, the watcher smiled once again.

  Deep inside the god-tier frigate, past halls of ancient metal and humming silence, one of the elite undead drifted into an isolated chamber—cameras transmitting everything back to the destroyer’s main bridge where Vermond and Erie sat.

  The chamber looked like a shrine.

  Blue glowing walls, a circular pool of water in the center, and… floating in it, perfectly still…

  A girl.

  She was beautiful. Almost unnaturally so. Pale skin. Long white hair drifting like silk in the liquid. Delicate, pointed ears. And she was very, very naked.

  Vermond leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.

  “…What is that?” he muttered.

  Erie, however, did not lean forward. He lunged toward the screen, knocking over a ration pack in the process. His eyes sparkled. His cheeks turned red. His nose—

  SPLURT

  Blood burst out like a geyser.

  “Oh my god she’s—THAT’S—WHAT EVEN IS THIS SHIP—WHY IS SHE—”

  SLAP

  A cold ration tin slammed across Erie’s face, launched at Mach speed by Vermond’s hand.

  “CALM DOWN, pervert,” Vermond said, now holding a second ration can in warning.

  Erie slumped in the seat, holding his face. “I think you broke my dignity.”

  “You never had one,” Vermond muttered.

  Back on the screen, the undead paused, as if sensing the awkward tension across the fleet. The floating girl remained undisturbed, her chest rising and falling slowly, encased in some kind of stasis water. Glowing glyphs spun around the chamber’s ceiling like constellations.

  Erie wiped his nose and sniffled. “Do you think she’s friendly?”

  Vermond raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I care?”

  “…You slapped me with beans.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t use the wrench.”

  The chamber was still.

  Vermond stood on the bridge of the destroyer, eyes fixed on the flickering feed coming from the frigate. Erie sat nearby, holding a wet tissue to his nose, still wounded in pride more than flesh.

  And then—

  A voice.

  Soft. Familiar. Distant, yet piercing straight into his soul.

  “Brother…”

  His breath caught.

  Kiana.

  “You’ve come far. You’ve changed… but I’m still here.”

  Vermond stood frozen. His eyes dimmed and flickered. The number 68 shined once more, but this time… it pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat.

  “We’ll meet again, finally.”

  Suddenly—

  BLARING ALARMS.

  Sirens echoed from the frigate's comms like wails from a buried beast. Lights turned red. The chamber began to shift.

  The water in the stasis pool started to bubble—not boil, dissolve. It evaporated unnaturally, vanishing into thin air as ancient mechanisms hissed and clicked around it.

  Erie stood up so fast he tripped over the chair.

  “OH NO SHE’S WAKING UP SHE’S WAKING UP—wait do I look okay!?”

  Vermond didn’t even blink.

  On-screen, the girl’s body lowered slowly from the air, her hair drifting gently around her like ghostly threads. Her toes touched the metal platform. Her chest rose. Her fingers twitched. Then—

  Her eyes snapped open.

  Emerald green.

  Just like Vermond’s.

  She didn’t speak. She simply stared at the camera.

  Vermond felt it in his chest again—like a second soul flickering inside his own.

  That was her.

  That was Kiana.

  Her body might be different—taller, more mature, radiant with some unknown divine touch—but her soul… it was her.

  Erie whispered beside him, “Bro... she's hot.”

  A wrench flew across the room and clocked him straight in the forehead.

  The moment her eyes opened, Vermond didn’t wait.

  He bolted from the bridge like a man possessed, nearly crashing into one of the undead as he leapt into the shuttle. The drone carried him over, zipping across the vacuum from the destroyer to the god-tier frigate in record time.

  Inside the frigate’s docking bay, the elite undead stood frozen, heads tilted slightly toward the stasis room, as if even they were too spooked to move.

  Vermond stormed in. “Out of the way. I need… something!”

  He scanned the nearby crates—tools, wires, energy crystals, a suspicious half-eaten snack bar—but no clothes.

  Nothing. Nada.

  Except…

  The cloak he's wearing.

  The god-tier cloak. Black as the void, woven from some unknowable material that shimmered with unnatural threads of ancient death energy.

  Vermond stared at it, took it off from him.

  Then sprinted back to the chamber.

  She was still standing there—silent, unmoving, staring forward like she wasn’t quite awake… or was choosing not to be.

  “Kiana? Okay. Cloak Here.”

  With a swift, nervous flick, Vermond threw the cloak over her shoulders like a towel at a beach. It draped down dramatically, the edges floating just above the floor, pulsing slightly with strange symbols.

  The girl blinked.

  Didn’t say a word.

  But she looked regal. Like an ancient goddess rising from the dead.

  Meanwhile—

  Across the frigate, one of the crew whistled.

  “Uhh… Commander? Who’s the glowing supermodel?”

  Another voice piped in: “Hey, is she single or is that like a… death bride situation?”

  “Should we salute or avert our eyes?!”

  Erie, watching from the destroyer, slapped his face again with the cold wet cloth and groaned, “We are so going to die because of beauty one day.”

  Vermond sighed deeply, returning to the frigate’s bridge. “She’s my sister,” he said firmly into the comms. “Look respectfully.”

  A long silence.

  Then:

  “…Does she have a twin?”

  A second wrench was thrown.

  This time, Vermond didn’t miss.

  The destroyer’s hangar was quiet, dimly lit by pale blue maintenance lights as the frigate docked seamlessly beside it.

  The salvager drone buzzed past, carrying crates lazily, but even it seemed slower now—like the entire ship held its breath.

  Kiana stood silently at the center of the hangar in the god-tier cloak. Her bare feet made no sound as she walked beside Vermond, who led the way with a subtle glance. No words were exchanged. She followed without resistance.

  Erie was already inside.

  He sat in the corner of the bridge, a ration bar half-chewed in his mouth, staring blankly at the wall as if he’d seen the very concept of beauty and decided to give up on understanding it. He wasn’t looking anymore. He didn’t dare.

  “Kiana…?” he mumbled, mouth full. “I’m not even gonna ask.”

  Vermond ignored him.

  He led her to the command room.

  They sat across from each other. Her cloak shimmered faintly, casting shadowy glimmers on the cold steel floor. She didn’t blink much. Her hair hung gently down her shoulders, white as the void, and when she finally raised her gaze to meet his, Vermond froze.

  Her eyes glowed—like his.

  But her number wasn’t dark.

  It was white.

  A shimmering, uncountable hue—no number, no count, just a glimmering white mark floating endlessly like light reflected on water.

  And then, finally…

  “…Big brother.”

  Her voice was calm. Soothing. Like a dream that hadn’t ended.

  Vermond's chest tightened slightly.

  Then she spoke again—still calm, still sweet—but her words struck cold.

  “I’m sorry.”

  A pause.

  “For lying to you. For hiding. For pretending at the start.. For becoming the orb. When you were just a salvager... I deceived you.”

  Vermond stared at her, eyes flickering gently, unreadable.

  She continued.

  “I wanted to protect you. Or maybe I didn’t trust you. Or maybe… I didn’t trust myself.”

  She lowered her gaze, blinking slowly. “About the god of death… I don’t know everything. Only that something went wrong. Horribly. I wasn’t meant to wake up again.”

  The hum of the destroyer systems filled the silence.

  Erie crunched loudly on his food in the background, then froze when he realized no one else was moving.

  Finally, Vermond exhaled.

  “…Past is past.”

  She looked up.

  He gave her a tired smile. “You’re here now.”

  She blinked. Once.

  And for the first time since waking, something barely visible passed across her expression.

  A tiny warmth.

  Maybe a memory.

  Maybe a hope.

  But she said nothing more.

  And the silence that followed was somehow heavier than any war.

  Kiana sat on the couch like she’d always belonged there.

  Wrapped in the oversized, god-tier cloak, she resembled a strange queen from another era—regal, calm, and slightly confused about everything happening around her.

  She said nothing.

  She didn’t blink much.

  She just watched.

  The destroyer bridge was buzzing. Screens flickered, undead moved in perfect rhythm, and Vermond was back at his command console reviewing the haul. Salvaged gear, black energy crystals, the new god-tier frigate—it was a jackpot of cosmic proportions.

  Kiana sat with her legs tucked beneath her, gaze quietly scanning everyone. Almost curious, almost blank. Her glowing white eye number flickered faintly.

  Meanwhile…

  Erie was trying to be normal.

  Trying very, very hard.

  He sat beside the console, pretending to type something.

  But he wasn’t typing.

  Not really.

  Because every twenty seconds, his eyes would sneak toward Kiana, glance once, and then whip back to the screen like he’d just remembered how to use it.

  And then again.

  And again.

  And—

  THUMP.

  “Erie,” Vermond muttered without even turning around, “if you break that keyboard, you’re salvaging a new one from the vacuum.”

  “I-I wasn’t looking!” Erie blurted. “I mean—I was—but—not in a weird way, just—like, making sure she’s not secretly a ghost or a soul-eating siren demon thing.”

  Kiana blinked slowly at him.

  Erie froze.

  She tilted her head.

  Then went back to watching the screen like he didn’t exist.

  Erie relaxed slightly. “Okay. I think she didn’t hear that…”

  “She did,” Vermond said flatly.

  “I’m dead,” Erie whispered.

  The couch creaked slightly as Kiana shifted her weight, pulling the cloak tighter around her like it was the most natural thing to do. Her expression remained neutral. Observant.

  “Does she ever blink?” Erie whispered again.

  “She’s scanning you,” Vermond said. “Probably calculating if you’re a threat or just an idiot.”

  “…Rude.”

  Vermond didn’t smile, but his lips twitched just a little.

  Kiana said nothing, her expression unreadable.

  Then—quietly, barely loud enough to hear—she whispered:

  “Idiot.”

  Erie blinked.

  “What did she just say?”

  Vermond stood up before Erie could panic, patting his shoulder.

  “She’s adapting. That’s a good sign.”

  “But she called me—”

  “I’m sure it’s just coincidence.”

  “Coincidence my—!”

  Kiana turned her gaze toward him again, expression calm.

  Erie turned away and stared at the wall, defeated. “I miss the time when we were just fighting cleaners and salvaging toasters.”

  The engines of the undead destroyer rumbled softly as it slipped back into the void. The god-tier frigate drifted in formation, its hull shimmering faintly under the faint light of distant stars.

  Kiana remained on the couch.

  Still.

  Silent.

  Staring.

  Unblinking.

  Regal.

  Vermond didn’t question it. Neither did the undead. They just worked around her like she was furniture blessed by some ancient deity—sacred and completely untouchable.

  Erie sat on the floor now. He didn’t even try pretending anymore. He just munched on a ration bar and stared at the ceiling, whispering to himself things like “Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her. The couch is cursed.”

  Back at the command console, Vermond tapped the comms.

  “Anyone know a planet nearby? Somewhere we can rest. Regroup. Fix the—well, clean the frigate.”

  A crackle.

  Then a voice, thick and dusty like someone who had been chewing sandpaper for fun: “Aye, Commander... There’s a place not far from here. Old trader’s haven. Goes by the name of—”

  “Planet Armpit!” another voice shouted in the background, followed by loud snickering.

  “Shut up, Drey!” the old man snapped.

  Vermond blinked.

  The comm crackled again as the old man tried to continue: “It’s called—listen—Ahem—Tardos Prime. Used to be a peaceful agricultural world before it got hit by an asteroid-sized—”

  “Planet Flatbread!” someone else shouted.

  Laughter exploded in the background.

  The old man coughed violently, clearly about to strangle someone. “If ONE MORE of you says anything stupid, I swear I’ll throw you out the airlock wearing only hope and duct tape!”

  Someone whispered loudly: “Hope and duct tape sounds like a band name.”

  “I WILL END YOU.”

  Vermond sighed, then chuckled under his breath. “Tardos Prime, huh? How’s it now?”

  The old man grumbled, his voice sharp. “Stable. Quiet. Good terrain for repairs. Not many scanners. Nobody likes visiting after the ‘incident.’”

  “Incident?” Vermond asked.

  A pause.

  Then laughter again in the background, followed by the old man yelling, “IT WAS ONE TIME! I DIDN’T KNOW THAT WAS THEIR SACRED FRUIT!”

  Vermond winced.

  Erie raised an eyebrow. “Should we really go there?”

  From the couch, Kiana blinked for the first time in an hour.

  Then, slowly… turned her head… to Erie.

  Erie froze.

  “Okay, okay, nevermind. Tardos Prime sounds amazing. I love sacred fruit. Let’s go.”

  Kiana turned back. Unblinking once more.

  “Commander,” the old man wheezed through the comms, “I suggest landing on the west side of the planet. Nice hills. Good village. No cults. Probably.”

  “Probably,” Vermond repeated, smirking. “Got it. Prep for descent.”

  As the stars swirled into motion and the destroyer adjusted course, Vermond glanced at Kiana one more time.

  Still silent. Still watching. But now…

  She looked like she was waiting.

  The descent was quiet.

  No voices. No jokes. Only the hum of the engines and the slow, haunting tone of the warning scanner as the undead destroyer entered the planet’s atmosphere.

  Tardos Prime stretched below them—a world that once thrived with crops, color, and community.

  Now... ash.

  Charred fields. Burnt trees. Houses collapsed into themselves like brittle bones. Smoke rose lazily from the ruins, as if the land itself was still exhaling its last breath.

  On the main screen, the wreckage of a village came into view. It was not ancient. It was recent.

  Bodies lined the broken roads. Some clutched each other. Others reached toward nothing.

  No signs of life. No sound but static.

  From the comms, the old man’s voice was low, nearly a whisper. “I told you it was quiet. Didn’t say it was peaceful…”

  Erie stood behind Vermond, silent. Even he couldn’t think of a joke now.

  “They didn’t die from war,” the old man continued. “They were... drained. The records said it was a plague. But this—this wasn’t a sickness. It was harvesting.”

  Vermond stared at the village ruins, unmoving. Then slowly, his voice cut through the silence.

  “We salvage what’s left.”

  He didn’t say it with greed. He said it with purpose. Survival. Remembrance.

  Kiana didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She simply sat on the couch—her eyes locked onto the screen. Still watching. Still observing. Her face unreadable, but her presence almost too still.

  As Vermond stood, preparing to give orders, a subtle glow pulsed from beneath his coat.

  The orb.

  It trembled—barely—but enough to send a chill through his chest.

  And then—

  A wave.

  An invisible, silent pull.

  Vermond gasped and clutched at his chest. It wasn’t pain. It was weight.

  Heavy.

  Alive.

  He could feel it. Something surging into him, not out.

  His vision blurred.

  In his mind, he saw... souls.

  Not one. Not two.

  Dozens.

  Then more.

  They were pouring into him. Not from the ground—but from the village.

  The orb was consuming the remnants. The ghosts. The memories. The echoes of the dead.

  His eyes widened as the glowing number in them began to shift rapidly.

  68…

  76…

  88…

  97…

  103…

  109.

  Then, silence.

  He stumbled slightly. Erie caught him by the shoulder.

  “What the hell just happened?” Erie asked.

  Vermond didn’t answer at first. His gaze drifted to the smoldering village, then to the orb nestled against his chest. It no longer glowed with that quiet thrum.

  Now it pulsed… with hunger.

  “It took them,” Vermond finally said. “The orb… it took their souls.”

  Kiana’s voice came softly from the couch, still watching the screen, her tone calm but distant:

  “Some places are graveyards, big brother… but others… are offerings.”

  The words hung heavy in the air.

  The village lay still.

  But now… it felt emptier.

  The salvage teams dispersed.

  Undead and crew alike moved carefully through the remains of the village—rusted tools, shattered dishes, burnt fabrics clinging to crumbled walls. They scanned. Searched. Dug.

  But there was… nothing.

  No metals worth taking. No fuel. No cores.

  Just silence, and the smell of dust and loss.

  The ground cracked beneath their boots, ash rising with every step. Most buildings had nothing but charred beams and collapsed roofs.

  Until—

  One of the elite undead paused.

  It stood motionless between two leaning walls of a ruined house. Then it turned slightly, tilting its head like it was listening. Or sensing.

  Then it saw them.

  A man. A father, from the look of him. His back pressed to the crumbled wall, arms wrapped around the small body in his chest. A little girl, barely more than five.

  His body was riddled with three bullet holes. Clean shots. Tactical. Execution-style.

  He died shielding her.

  Her arms were curled into his coat, face hidden.

  The elite undead stepped closer, silently kneeling beside them.

  It didn't breathe. Didn’t speak.

  Its pale hands moved slowly—respectfully—checking for anything to carry back. Not to scavenge… but to remember.

  It reached into the man’s pocket.

  Dust spilled out first. Then a small item.

  A bracelet.

  Woven from thin strings of wood and dried vines. Handcrafted. Imperfect.

  Another one lay gently wrapped around the girl’s tiny wrist.

  A pair.

  The elite undead paused. The camera feed showed its stillness to the destroyer’s bridge.

  Vermond watched.

  He didn’t say a word.

  Kiana didn’t move from the couch. But her eyes… were locked on the screen. Her expression unreadable, but her lips trembled.

  Even Erie stood quiet behind them, his usual grin nowhere to be found.

  The undead reached down, and without a sound, slid the bracelet from the man’s hand.

  Then carefully, it placed both bracelets together in a cloth and secured it to its side.

  A mark of what once was.

  As the undead rose, Vermond whispered.

  “Bring them back. Both.”

  The elite undead nodded once, almost human in the motion, and slowly carried the two bodies to the salvage drone.

  The sun above the ruined village cast no warmth—just a dull, orange light over the broken earth.

  Vermond stepped out of the destroyer.

  He didn’t say a word.

  Boots pressed into the blackened soil as he moved past the wreckage. He picked up an old shovel leaning beside a scorched doorway. Its wooden handle was cracked, but still whole.

  “Drone,” Vermond said softly.

  The salvager drone followed, humming gently, its tractor beam off for now—just a silent companion.

  Erie and Kiana remained on the destroyer, watching through the live feed. Erie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, lips pressed together.

  Kiana sat on the couch, her eyes soft… but empty. The screen flickered across her pale gaze.

  Vermond began digging.

  The soil was stubborn—half-ash, half-stone—but he didn’t stop. His breath was steady. His movements slow. An elite undead stood beside him, motionless, watching in silence like a guardian of grief.

  After what felt like hours, the hole was ready.

  Vermond carefully lifted the two bodies—father and daughter—and placed them side by side, as gently as he could.

  He knelt for a moment.

  No words. Just breath.

  And silence.

  He put the soil back. One scoop at a time.

  As the last bit fell into place, Vermond froze.

  His hand trembled.

  A tear fell.

  Just one.

  And then… somewhere—he didn’t know where—but somewhere in the stillness of that broken place… he felt something warm.

  Two lights.

  Two gentle souls.

  Smiling at him.

  Vermond closed his eyes.

  Grandpa… you seein’ this?

  Somewhere, beyond the veil of death, his grandfather smiled.

  The father’s soul and the daughter’s soul drifted to him. No fear. No hatred. Only peace.

  He felt them.

  And then—his eyes flickered.

  109.

  The soul count flickered… and yet, it felt lighter.

  Vermond stood, his hand clenched around the old shovel.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Dig every grave,” he said to the comms. His voice cracked only once. “Give them peace.”

  The drone hummed back to life.

  Undead scattered.

  Each began to dig. Each began to carry what remained.

  It was no longer salvage.

  It was remembrance.

  The sun had begun to dip lower now, casting long shadows over the graves.

  Dozens of them.

  Each freshly dug.

  Each carefully covered.

  Vermond sat beside one, arms resting over his knees, the shovel half-buried in the soil beside him. Dirt clung to his gloves. His back ached. His breath was shallow. But he didn’t move.

  The drone hovered nearby silently, its lights dimmed as if it, too, was mourning.

  From the side ramp of the destroyer, Kiana stepped down. Quiet as a feather.

  She walked across the scorched earth, barefoot, the god-tier cloak wrapped around her pale form like a whisper of shadows. Her glowing emerald eyes locked onto her brother—her steps slow but determined.

  She stopped in front of him.

  Vermond, sitting at the wooden crate, looked up.

  Tired. Dust-streaked. Silent.

  Kiana dropped to her knees in front of him—and hugged him.

  Tight.

  Not soft. Not gentle.

  Tight.

  Like she was trying to hold together every shattered piece of him.

  Vermond froze.

  He hadn't been hugged like that in years.

  And then—he felt it.

  Something inside Kiana. Something deep.

  It wasn’t just warmth.

  It was him.

  His grief. His exhaustion. His buried sorrow. All of it.

  She felt everything.

  As if her soul was stitched to his.

  “It’s okay to cry,” she whispered.

  Vermond's breath caught.

  He looked at her—eyes wide, trembling—and suddenly he saw his grandfather again.

  Standing by the old salvage ship. Laughing. Teaching him how to fix a broken fuel line. The smell of engine grease. The old man's voice saying, "You don’t have to be strong every moment, kiddo. You’re not a machine."

  That’s when the tears came.

  Silently at first.

  Then he crumbled.

  His shoulders shook as he buried his face in his sister’s shoulder, letting it all fall out. The loss. The weight. The dead. The guilt. Everything.

  Kiana held him tighter.

  No words.

  Just warmth.

  Then—

  Crunch… crunch…

  Footsteps.

  Erie walked over holding… two cans of fruit.

  “Hey, uh…” He knelt awkwardly beside them, holding out the cans. “I—I brought fruit? In case you, like, wanted vitamin C while crying…”

  Kiana just blinked at him.

  Vermond—mid-sob—looked up with the ugliest teary face and just snorted.

  Erie blinked, then added, “This one has peach slices! That’s… emotional, right?”

  Kiana looked between the two of them.

  Then smirked.

  Vermond laughed—wet, ragged, but real—and wiped his eyes with a filthy sleeve.

  “…You’re an idiot,” Vermond muttered to Erie.

  “Yeah,” Erie replied. “But I brought two spoons.”

  The night settled gently around them, the stars flickering overhead like silent watchers of sorrow and warmth.

  Vermond leaned against the hull of the destroyer now, his head resting back, eyes still puffy from crying. Kiana sat beside him, legs crossed, the edge of the cloak brushing against the dusty ground. Erie was awkwardly squatting a few steps away, still holding the second spoon like a weapon.

  There was silence.

  Gentle.

  Healing.

  Kiana turned to Vermond, resting her head lightly on his shoulder. The pulse of the shared connection between them still hummed softly in her chest—his sadness, his memories.

  “Big brother,” she whispered, so softly only he could hear. “You have to stay strong. You always have. But this time…”

  She leaned in, her voice a breath:

  “…you don’t have to be strong alone.”

  Then she kissed his cheek.

  Tender.

  No theatrics.

  Just family.

  Vermond didn’t move.

  He just closed his eyes.

  Felt the warmth of it. Let it bury into his heart like a new promise.

  And then—

  "WH-WHA—HUHH?!"

  Erie’s voice shattered the peace like a meteor through glass.

  He had dropped both cans. They rolled across the dirt like tiny fleeing witnesses to a scandal.

  “D-DID YOU JUST—?! I-I THOUGHT—BUT YOU’RE—HUHHH?!”

  Vermond opened one eye, looking at him with a dead stare. “…She’s my sister.”

  Kiana turned to Erie with an almost angelic blink. “Yes.”

  Erie’s jaw hung open like an ancient temple door. “That was so pure and yet so confusing. I thought you were gonna turn into a goddess and marry him or something!”

  Kiana tilted her head, confused. “Why would I do that?”

  Vermond sighed and rubbed his temples. “Erie. Breathe.”

  “I am breathing!! Through my eyes!!”

  Kiana blinked again, turned to Vermond, and whispered calmly: “Big brother, Is he always like this?”

  “Every day,” Vermond muttered.

  They all sat there quietly for a second.

  Then a loud pop! echoed across the quiet.

  Erie had opened one of the fruit cans and was now eating in betrayal silence.

  “I just… I just needed a snack,” he grumbled.

  Vermond leaned back again, exhausted, but now with a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  “…Thanks, Kiana.”

  The seventeen crew members stationed aboard the ancient frigate had set up a temporary camp outside, just beyond the perimeter of the undead destroyer. They were surrounded by quiet wilderness and wreckage, the air filled with the crackle of flames and the scent of reheated ration stew. A few of them were joking, another roasted a stick of something that used to be meat, and two were fiercely arguing over whether their “legendary find” was a priceless alien artifact or just a piece of bent ship metal.

  Erie sat by the edge of the fire, poking the flames with a stick. “This planet’s not bad,” he muttered, “if you ignore the corpses and emotional trauma.”

  Then—

  BOOM.

  A thunderous blast ripped across the sky. The fire flickered wildly as a searing light split the dark heavens above them.

  Everyone turned.

  Ships.

  Dozens of them—maybe more—streaking across the atmosphere in chaotic motion. Explosions bloomed in the air like fireflowers, each louder and brighter than the last. Red trails, blue beams, something that looked suspiciously like a flying tank…

  Kiana, still wrapped in the god-tier cloak, stood from her seat inside the destroyer’s observation deck, peering out the viewing pane.

  Erie squinted upward. “What the—those Federation? Pirates? A rogue food delivery fleet gone mad?!”

  Vermond calmly approached, sipping from a steaming mug of something bitter. He glanced up at the sky like he was checking for rain.

  He watched one ship spiral down in flames before it disappeared behind a distant ridge.

  Then, with absolute, unshakable calm, he took a seat by the fire and said:

  “…Let’s just wait. Watch them blow each other up.”

  Everyone stared at him.

  “What?” he said, taking another sip. “We’re salvagers. That’s free loot falling from the sky.”

  Erie blinked. “You’re not even worried about the battlefield up there?!”

  Vermond’s eyes glowed faintly green as he stared into the flames.

  “Nope. Let the credits come to us.”

  One of the frigate crew leaned toward Erie and whispered, “Is he always like this?”

  Erie sighed. “Only when he’s smart.”

  Kiana sat silently behind them, her white hair gently catching the firelight, watching the sky with a strange calm.

  “…It begins again,” she murmured, almost to herself.

  "Free fireworks show." Erie muttered.

  And in the sky, another massive explosion lit up the night—one of the ships being split in half.

  Vermond raised his mug slightly in its direction. “To future salvage.”

  Hours passed.

  The camp had quieted down. Most of the crew were snoring in their makeshift tents, some curled up inside crates, and one poor soul had passed out while still holding a ration bar halfway to his mouth. The fire was dying to glowing embers, flickering shadows across the side of the ancient frigate.

  High above them, the battle still raged on.

  Explosions lit up the night sky like some twisted fireworks show that forgot to end. Ships darted and danced in a deadly ballet, occasional debris streaking down like angry stars.

  Inside the command room of the destroyer, only a few lights were still on. Vermond sat in his usual spot, arms crossed, eyes scanning the visuals in silent interest. Kiana had dozed off on the couch again, like she hadn’t just been reborn from a floating tomb.

  The old man’s voice crackled from the comms.

  “Well, son,” he began, his tone as dry as space dust, “I ain’t seen a battle go on this long since the Great Fish Market Brawl of Sector 6.”

  Vermond blinked. “…What.”

  “Oh yeah,” the old man continued. “Was a war over tuna. Three traders, two dozen pirates, and a religious cult all swore that fish was theirs. Took two days, and in the end? Turned out to be a mislabeled crate of socks.”

  Erie, half-asleep and face-planted into the armrest, mumbled, “Did… did the socks win?”

  “Nah. But they did smell like fish.”

  Another explosion shook the sky.

  The old man sighed through the static. “This one, though… galactic-level. You don’t fight this long unless somebody owes somebody a planet, or somebody else kissed the wrong queen.”

  Vermond sipped from his now-cold mug and muttered, “Or both.”

  From outside, one of the undead silently stared at the sky. Then, very slowly, tilted its head like it, too, was wondering if they were about to salvage royalty or just another burning garbage barge.

  Vermond leaned back with a smirk.

  “…Let ‘em tire themselves out. Then we strike.”

  Another explosion, brighter than the rest, bloomed across the stars.

  “Showtime’s not over yet,” the old man said. “Get some popcorn. Or socks.”

  The night was peaceful. Kind of. The sky was still glowing with spacefire, but on the surface of the planet, things had settled into a weird kind of normal.

  Kiana was curled up under a blanket on the couch again, calmly watching the stars. Erie was asleep with a piece of bread halfway into his mouth, mumbling something about “mysterious space muffins.” The old man was snoring on comms—yes, somehow.

  Then…

  BOOOOOOOOM!!!

  The sky screamed and the ground shook. Everyone jolted awake as a half-melted Corvette came spiraling out of the atmosphere like an angry drunk pigeon, crashing into the dirt a few clicks outside the village and exploding into a fiery mess that shook the trees and launched a cow-sized piece of wreckage into a nearby crater.

  Erie screamed, flipping backwards off his sleeping mat. “WE’RE UNDER ATTACK! I KNEW THOSE MUFFINS WERE REAL!”

  Vermond calmly stood, watching the smoke rise from the new crash site. “…Guess someone lost.”

  Kiana, still wrapped in her blanket, yawned. “Big brother should check it”

  Vermond tapped into the comms. “Elite unit. Six of you, move. Take cams. Investigate.” Even though they already know what to do.

  Six undead, fully armored and completely unbothered by the fiery crash or Erie’s panicking, deployed instantly. Their cams blinked on in Vermond’s screen.

  They marched through the dark village ruins toward the wreckage. The Corvette was scorched, ripped in half by atmosphere and impact. Metal still sizzled and popped as the undead entered the burning remains.

  One of the undead paused. Its camera focused on a faint red light—a survival pod, wedged between twisted metal.

  The hatch had been forcefully ejected.

  Then… they saw him.

  A man. Unconscious. Lying facedown in dirt, half-covered in ash, one arm twitching slightly. His uniform, though scorched and tattered, still bore the Federation insignia across the shoulder.

  One of the undead zoomed the cam in.

  His ID tag: Lt. Ruen Halstead.

  Vermond leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "The Federation?"

  Kiana, now fully awake, sat up. “Big brother, he’s still alive.”

  Erie blinked, standing beside them. “Did we just catch a Federation guy like a falling fruit?”

  Vermond didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were locked on the screen.

  “Bring him in,” he finally ordered.

  The undead carefully lifted the man’s unconscious body, and the salvage drone arrived seconds later, tractor-beaming both the pod remains and the officer toward the destroyer.

  Vermond’s thoughts grew heavy. What was a Federation officer doing in that battle… and why did he crash here?

  The skies still burned.

  The room was dim—partially to hide the creepy undead standing near the wall, and partially because Erie had accidentally knocked out one of the ceiling lights and forgot to fix it. Ruen Halstead sat on a metal chair, his body bandaged and bruised, still reeling from the crash. His uniform bore burn marks, the Federation logo barely visible now.

  In front of him sat Kiana.

  Hair like moonlight. Cloaked in mystery. Calm as ever.

  Ruen blinked as he stared at her, clearly dazed. “Am… am I in heaven…?”

  Kiana tilted her head, not reacting. Vermond and Erie, crouched behind the wall with a mic feed open to Kiana's ear, immediately whispered in:

  Vermond: “Don’t answer that. Let him keep thinking he's dead.”

  Erie: “Tell him he's in space purgatory and the fee is twenty credits.”

  Kiana ignored them. She simply watched as Ruen slowly sat up straighter. His eyes flicked around the room—then widened in horror as he noticed the elite undeads, looked like a elite special force, standing perfectly still in the corner, their glowing eyes fixated on him.

  “What the hell—are you with the Folkan?!” Ruen shouted, panic rising in his voice.

  Kiana remained silent. The undead didn’t move.

  Meanwhile, Vermond and Erie were hiding in a cramped maintenance closet, peeking through a crack in the door.

  Erie (whispering): “He’s panicking. That’s good. Now we mind-game him.”

  Vermond: “Kiana, lean in a bit. Just enough to look dramatic.”

  She did, calmly.

  Ruen finally exhaled, dropping his shoulders. “…You’re not Folkan, are you?” His voice turned grim. “Damn things would’ve killed me already…”

  He looked up, pain flashing across his face.

  “Our mothership’s gone. Betrayed from the inside. Some of our own officers sided with the Folkan. They fed them coordinates, fleet paths… the bastards knew everything. We tried to retaliate. Lost half the fleet doing it. And their second name was Folako, third name was Folanko, I've just learned it a few days ago.”

  Erie then whispered. "They have many names... Why the hell do they need that many."

  Kiana’s brows twitched slightly.

  Ruen continued, “If we had just recovered that map—the one stolen back on Black Spire station—we could’ve reacted faster. The whole layout of outer sectors, emergency jumps, hidden outposts… it was all in there.”

  He looked away.

  “The Federation’s falling apart. What’s left of us is fighting up there. Just ships full of ghosts, barely holding the line against folkan fleets and some dogs.”

  The room grew still.

  Back in the closet, Erie whispered, “Did he say the map was stolen… back at the station?”

  Vermond nodded. “The one we took.”

  “Ha! We’re the bastards!”

  Kiana’s voice finally broke the silence in the room. Calm. Steady.

  “…You are safe now.”

  Ruen blinked. Her words cut through like a warm breeze in a frozen room.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Kiana stood, not answering. She walked to the door, glanced once at the elite undead—then stepped out.

  Vermond and Erie scrambled backward in the closet.

  Ruen stared at the door after it closed.

  “…Am I still in purgatory?”

  Inside the command chamber of the undead destroyer, the illegal Federation map flickered. The screen above showed the ongoing battle in orbit—blinding flashes, broken hulls spinning like burning leaves, and the chaotic ballet of war. It had been hours. The debris field had tripled in size.

  Vermond leaned over the console, eyes narrowed. Erie sat beside him, one leg propped up, munching on something suspiciously crunchy.

  Kiana?

  She was on the couch again. A soft pillow tucked under her arms, watching the two as if they were putting on a mildly amusing stage play. Quiet. Observant. And unreadable as ever.

  “We can’t join that battle,” Vermond muttered, tapping on the screen. “Too risky. That fleet would either shoot us down… or panic if they saw a god-tier frigate and an undead destroyer creeping around.”

  Erie nodded. “Yup. Besides, I didn’t sign up to be target practice for a battleship railgun.”

  Kiana blinked once. No comment.

  “Then there’s Ruen,” Vermond said. “He’s Federation. Possibly high-ranking. And he thinks we’re space heaven.”

  Erie scratched his chin. “What if we play along? Let him think he’s being tested by space angels? Or… space necro-angels.”

  Kiana turned her head slightly toward Erie. Her face didn’t move. But her eyes said: Really?

  “Okay okay,” Erie raised his hands, “no fake angel cult. But seriously, what do we do with him? If he finds out the truth about us and decides to scream ‘NECROMANCY’ at the wrong time, we’re gonna have a fleet on our backs.”

  Vermond exhaled.

  Kiana got up quietly, walked over to the screen showing Ruen still sitting alone in the debrief room, and stared at it. Her fingers slowly reached to touch the image. Then she said, softly,

  “He’s scared.”

  Both boys paused.

  “And broken.”

  She turned to Vermond, eyes unreadable.

  “Big brother, you’ll know what to do.”

  Then she went back to the couch, sat down, and resumed watching them with that quiet ‘Sister watching her dumb brothers plan war crimes’ vibe.

  Erie turned to Vermond. “Well. That’s helpful.”

  Vermond chuckled dryly. “I think that was helpful… in her Kiana way.”

  The plan continued. No final decisions were made yet. But as the battle raged above, one thing was clear:

  They couldn’t hide forever.

  The old table in the corner of the ship's war room was cluttered with open ration packs, half-finished mugs of something probably not coffee, and a crumpled napkin with a very poorly drawn map of the planet. Erie was holding a marker, confidently circling random craters like they were strategic assets.

  “So,” he said, “what if we lure the Folkan here with a fake distress signal, then make Ruen think he’s leading an op, while we just... puppet things from the shadows?”

  Vermond just stared at him.

  “That,” Vermond said slowly, “sounds like it’ll blow up in ten minutes.”

  Kiana was in her usual couch spot, one leg up, sipping on something pink and fizzy. No one knew where she got it. No one dared ask. Her face remained emotionless, but her brow raised ever so slightly every time Erie suggested something chaotic.

  Vermond sighed and leaned back. “We need information first. If the Folkan or should I say Folako and Folanko destroyed a mothership and took over Federation sectors, that means they’ve already advanced deeper than the charts say.”

  Erie nodded, finally dropping the marker. “And if that map he mentioned really exists… we need it. Or make it look like we have it.”

  Kiana swirled her drink. “Bait.”

  Both boys turned to her. That one word held more strategy than the past hour of scribbled nonsense.

  Vermond nodded slowly. “She’s right. If we can leak something—make it look like Ruen is carrying that map—they’ll come for him.”

  Erie frowned. “That’s dangerous for him.”

  Kiana looked at Erie for a long second, then tilted her head. “Do you care?”

  Erie blinked. “No. Just saying.”

  Vermond smirked. “We can protect him. Use him as bait without him knowing it.”

  “Classic,” Erie mumbled, grabbing another ration pack. “Poor guy thinks he’s in angel daycare. Meanwhile we’re plotting five layers of backstabbing warfare.”

  Suddenly, the camera on the debrief room pinged. Ruen had started pacing.

  Vermond tapped the screen. “He’s getting impatient.”

  Kiana got up and walked toward the screen again. She stood next to Vermond, arms crossed.

  “He’s remembering things.”

  Erie blinked. “You mean—like what?”

  “War,” she said. “Fire. People screaming. Friends dying.”

  Vermond turned toward her. “You can feel that?”

  Kiana didn’t answer.

  Instead, she gently placed a hand on the console and whispered, “We wait… until he tells us the rest.”

  Then she walked back to the couch and resumed watching.

  Erie leaned toward Vermond and muttered, “Your sister is way cooler than you, man.”

  Vermond elbowed him. “I know.”

  The corridor to the interrogation room was dimly lit, the overhead lights flickering as if the ship itself could feel the tension building. Vermond walked ahead with Erie trailing behind, chewing nervously on a snack stick.

  “I still think we should’ve interrogated him with fire and drama,” Erie muttered. “Like those classic spy flicks. I had lines ready, man.”

  Vermond ignored him.

  Just as they reached the door to the room, Kiana, who had been silently trailing behind them, stepped closer and gently took hold of Vermond’s arm.

  He paused.

  Then, without a word, Kiana leaned in close… and softly bit Vermond’s ear.

  Vermond froze, blinking.

  Erie dropped his snack.

  “What the—” Erie sputtered. “What was that!? Was that a SIBLING BITE?? Is this normal where you're from?! Should I be worried?!”

  Kiana simply let go, stepping back with the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. “It means ‘wake up’ in some cultures,” she said calmly.

  Vermond, still a little stunned, muttered, “What cultures...?”

  Kiana walked past both of them toward the room without answering. Erie leaned over to Vermond, whispering, “Bro. Your sister’s terrifying. But in like... a majestic way.”

  “I know,” Vermond sighed, rubbing his ear. “I really know.”

  Inside the room, Ruen sat slouched, arms bound, but clearly not too concerned anymore. His eyes, bloodshot from exhaustion, locked onto the figure entering the dim light.

  Kiana.

  She walked slowly, barefoot, silent. The god-tier cloak draped around her flowed like liquid shadow, and her emerald eyes gleamed faintly—eyes that saw too much. Eyes that whispered of death and memory, yet somehow… glowed with innocence.

  Ruen sat straighter, his voice catching in his throat.

  “You… again.. you’re…” he swallowed. “A goddess… no. No, more than a goddess…”

  Kiana didn’t respond. She simply tilted her head, watching him with a blank expression, the soft click of her footsteps echoing unnaturally.

  In a hidden corner behind the wall, Vermond and Erie were crouched beside a control console, watching the feed.

  Erie whispered, “Okay, okay, new rule. No more letting Kiana go solo. She's turning this into a divine cult interview.”

  Vermond didn’t blink, eyes focused. “She’s reading him. Let her.”

  Back in the room, Ruen seemed entranced. “Are you… real?” he asked. “Or some kind of projection? I— I don’t know why I feel like telling you everything.”

  Kiana finally spoke. Her voice was like glass, smooth and fragile. “You are broken. You are lost. You look for meaning in faces that seem familiar.”

  Ruen blinked, suddenly unsure. “What...?”

  She leaned forward, just a little, her long white hair cascading down her shoulder. “Would you kill for me?”

  Erie whispered, “BRO, WHAT IS SHE DOING?!”

  Vermond hissed, “Shut up, she’s fishing for loyalty.”

  “I—” Ruen stammered. “I don’t… even know who you are…”

  “I’m Kiana,” she whispered. “But I’ve been other things too.”

  The lights in the room flickered.

  Ruen shivered.

  Then she straightened, stepping back as if satisfied.

  Ruen sat there, stunned, uncertain whether he’d just been interrogated… or reborn.

  Kiana walked out slowly, expression unreadable. As she passed the hidden door, Vermond and Erie emerged, Erie still wide-eyed.

  “Kiana,” Erie whispered, “What the hell was that?”

  She didn’t even glance back. “A test.”

  Vermond narrowed his eyes. “Did he pass?”

  Kiana gave the faintest smirk. “Maybe.”

  Kiana sat quietly on the bridge couch again, legs tucked beside her, cloak draped like a queen’s robe. Her white hair shimmered under the console lights, and her green eyes—those strange, pale-umber emeralds—watched everything with that same ghostlike stillness.

  Erie peeked at her, slowly leaning toward Vermond.

  “She’s as beautiful as ever,” he whispered dramatically, “Her hair’s like the freakin’ moon, her eyes are straight-up carved emeralds... and her body—bro, c’mon! Her body’s perfect!”

  Vermond didn’t even flinch. “Focus.”

  “I am focused,” Erie said, then added under his breath, “...on appreciating fine architecture.”

  “Want me to toss you in the recycler?”

  “…I’ll behave.”

  Kiana blinked slowly. “I can hear both of you,” she said softly.

  They froze.

  Then she tilted her head slightly toward them. “Big brother and Erie talk like children. It’s cute.”

  Vermond stiffened. Erie melted.

  But then… something shifted.

  Her expression faltered. Not much—but her fingers trembled. Just once. Vermond noticed. Kiana’s lips pressed together, and for the first time, she seemed unsure. Her gaze shifted away from them, down to her lap.

  Erie whispered, “Wait… is she—?”

  “Kiana,” Vermond said, stepping closer. “Are you alright?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Sometimes… I feel things I don’t understand. Echoes.”

  Her eyes turned toward him—wide, almost scared.

  “I laugh at things that aren’t funny. I feel sad when I smell smoke. I feel… guilt, when I see stars. I think it’s yours, brother.”

  Vermond’s breath caught.

  “Or maybe... it's mine,” she added.

  There was a strange silence.

  Erie, holding a ration bar, slowly sat next to her and offered it. “Want one? These taste like wet concrete, but they’re comforting somehow.”

  She took it, stared at it, and whispered, “You’re very strange.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  She smiled—but then… a tear slipped down her cheek.

  And she didn’t seem to notice.

  Vermond knelt in front of her.

  “Even if you feel echoes, Kiana… even if you're something else now—you’re still you. You’re still my sister.”

  Kiana looked at him for a long time.

  Then leaned in, hugged him tight—and whispered, “I’m scared, Big brother.”

  For the first time.

  That vulnerability.

  Erie sniffled. “This is emotional, man... I’m not crying, you're crying.”

  “You are crying.”

  “Shut up.”

  Time passed. Vermond, Erie, and Kiana returned to what they now called their so-called purgatory—the interrogation room.

  Ruen sat under the cold light of the interrogation chamber, sweat dripping from his temple. He looked at Kiana, still blushing—but this time, his expression was serious, worn, and a little… broken.

  “I’ll tell you everything,” he said.

  Vermond and Erie, crouched behind a wall, mics in Kiana’s ear, nodded in unison.

  “Go on,” Kiana said softly, her face unreadable.

  Ruen leaned forward. “Back at the station... before the chaos… a prince—some lost royal, or so he claimed—handed me something. Said it was my last chance to survive what’s coming.”

  He reached into a hidden pouch and pulled out a small crystalline shard—glowing. But not like Vermond’s orb. This one… shone. Soft, pulsing, almost like a living thing. It radiated light—warm, soothing, unnatural.

  Vermond narrowed his eyes.

  That artifact didn’t hum with death. It pulsed with… life. The opposite of everything his own orb represented. And yet—something stirred within his chest.

  Then—

  THUMP.

  Vermond clutched his chest as the orb embedded within him pulsed, as if it had smelled something delicious. It responded—not with darkness, but with a strange hunger. It wanted the light.

  “Vermond?” Erie whispered. “Are you okay? You’re glowing. Dude. You’re glowing—more than usual.”

  The artifact in Ruen’s hands suddenly floated—dragged from his palms. His eyes widened in terror.

  “W-Wait, what?!”

  Kiana calmly stepped aside as the shard floated across the air, a soft whistle echoing through the silence—

  —and then it slammed into Vermond’s chest, melting into the orb like rain into a fire.

  Silence.

  The lights flickered aboard the destroyer.

  Then—a pulse.

  A cold wave blasted through the ship.

  Erie gasped. “Uh… Vermond? You just… did something.”

  The undead aboard the ship—working, monitoring, maintaining—froze.

  And then…

  They changed.

  Skin appeared—veins, faces, hair. The undead looked human now. Almost alive.

  Almost.

  Because their eyes—

  Their eyes were pure white. Unmoving. Unblinking.

  One elite undead walked calmly past the camera. He reached for his helmet and removed it—revealing a clean-cut man, handsome, youthful.

  But his face didn’t move.

  His chest didn’t rise.

  No breath.

  No heartbeat.

  Just white, dead eyes staring straight ahead like something from a horror movie that forgets it's pretending.

  Erie stood up slowly, wide-eyed. “W-Wha… What the hell is that?! They look like… us! But not us. But... AAAAAA—!”

  Ruen backed into the wall, mouth agape.

  “This—this wasn’t supposed to happen! That artifact was a gift! A gift from light! What are you people?!”

  Kiana turned to him, still serene.

  “You gave light to darkness,” she said. “And now… it’s become something new.”

  Vermond stood at the edge of the bridge, hand over his heart. He felt the orb thrum with both death and life.

  He looked at one of his elite undead now standing before him—perfect human appearance… white soulless stare.

  “...You still with me?” Vermond asked.

  The undead nodded once.

  “Yes… Captain.”

  The voice was clear. Human.

  Yet… wrong.

  Erie backed away. “Oh no. Oh no no no. This is like if necromancy and plastic surgery.. And the undeads can now talk?!”

  Kiana slowly walked forward, her white hair glistening, and smiled faintly.

  “They’re evolving. And so are you, big brother.”

  Ruen’s heart pounded as the strange warmth of the artifact faded from his fingers.

  “I—I need answers,” he said, gripping the chair beside him. “What just happened? What are you—?”

  Kiana didn’t speak.

  She simply walked up to him, leaned slightly closer, and raised a single finger to his lips.

  “Shh.”

  Ruen blinked. His brain blue-screened. His whole system crashed.

  He stared at her, cheeks flaring bright red. “I—uh—yes ma’am.”

  Erie snorted from her corner, whispering under her breath, “Damn. She’s like a glitch in a man’s soul.”

  Vermond, now composed, stepped forward. His hand still rested over his chest, the orb beneath his skin pulsing gently. “Ruen… come with us.”

  Ruen hesitated but nodded, trailing behind them like a confused puppy as they led him through the corridors of the undead destroyer.

  Doors hissed open.

  And there they were.

  Dozens of undeads, or should we say, a none breathing crew members.

  Some walking past, some standing by consoles, some standing perfectly still like statues.

  They looked alive. Their uniforms clean. Hair neatly in place.

  But none of them blinked.

  None breathed.

  All their eyes were blank white—like marbled glass reflecting something far away.

  Ruen froze mid-step. “...What the hell is this place?”

  One of the elite undead passed by, helmet under his arm. He gave a crisp nod.

  “Afternoon, sir.”

  Ruen screamed internally.

  Erie whispered near his ear, “Yeah. You get used to it. Kind of. Not really. I still pee a little sometimes.”

  On the bridge, the eerie calm was even stronger. A pale blue light washed the room. The controls all moved on their own, operated by silent hands.

  Kiana was already there—sitting on her usual spot on the plush couch, her legs crossed, gaze distant. She looked like a queen in a court of ghosts.

  Ruen looked around nervously… then sat himself on the floor, directly in front of the couch.

  Vermond smirked. “Comfortable?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  Erie leaned on a railing and whispered to Vermond, “You gonna tell him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Vermond turned toward Ruen. “We want you to act as bait.”

  “Excuse me?!” Ruen’s voice cracked like a dry twig.

  “It’s simple. You’re Federation. You walk into a place, you look lost, they’ll talk to you before they shoot you.”

  “No no no. I’m not dying for whatever undead cult you're running in this flying haunted house—”

  Then he looked up.

  Kiana was staring at him.

  Not blinking.

  Expression neutral.

  Eyes deep and unreadable.

  He shrank under that look like a leaf under a magnifying glass. His heart tap-danced into his throat.

  “I mean… I guess I could consider it…” he mumbled.

  Kiana tilted her head slightly.

  “…Fine. I’ll do it.”

  Erie burst out laughing behind a hand. “Bro, she didn’t even say a word! You’re down bad!”

  Ruen grumbled, face red, staring at the floor again. “She looks like the moon gave up heaven to become human…”

  Vermond walked past him, patting his shoulder with a grin. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep you mostly alive.”

  The comms buzzed with a familiar, scratchy voice—old man Renn’s, the oldest engineer in the god-tier frigate, currently camping outside with sixteen others who still had no idea they were surrounded by literal undead.

  “Hey! Hey, kid!” the Old man called out. “These elite guys of yours? THEY FINALLY SPOKE!”

  Vermond, lounging casually on the bridge of the undead destroyer, raised an eyebrow.

  “They did?” Vermond asked, pretending to know nothing.

  “Yeah!” Renn's voice cracked with excitement. “One walked past, looked me dead in the eye—well, more like through my soul—and just said: ‘Move.’ That’s it! ‘Move!’ I almost short-circuited my own pacemaker!”

  Kiana was sipping juice on the couch, legs crossed elegantly, while Erie muttered beside her, “I told them not to go near him...”

  “And get this!” Renn continued, voice going from thrilled to suspicious. “Their eyes? PURE white! No pupils, no iris, no nothing. I think… I think they’re wearing some kinda eye contacts! You know, the creepy ones you buy from sketchy vendors at discount Halloween shops!”

  One of the elite undead on the destroyer paused mid-walk, as if it heard that through sheer telepathy. It tilted its head slowly toward the camera with its dead white eyes. Erie quickly slammed the monitor off.

  “NOPE.”

  Vermond leaned toward the mic. “Renn… just don’t ask them to take the contacts out, alright?”

  “Why? What’s gonna happen? Their eyes gonna shoot lasers or somethin’? Wait—do they even blink? I’ve been watching one for like five minutes now, and it just… stands.”

  Another voice came on the comms—someone from Renn’s crew: “Hey Renn, this one guy keeps pointing at my sandwich. Should I give it to him?”

  Renn hissed. “NO, DON’T FEED THEM! You don’t feed elite soldiers! Everyone knows that—like feeding a stray cat, they’ll never leave!”

  Vermond muted the channel, leaned back in his chair, and smirked.

  “You think we should tell them?” Erie asked.

  Vermond looked at the screen, where an elite undead calmly stared at Renn while another stood awkwardly beside a crate, still holding someone’s sandwich.

  “Nah,” he said. “Let them believe in eye contacts.”

  Kiana chuckled softly behind them. “Humans are fun.”

  The halls of the undead destroyer hummed with eerie stillness as final preparations were underway. The recently-revealed elite undead—now cloaked in the illusion of life with their helmets off—moved like humans. Too perfectly. Too quietly. Their pale, motionless faces and pure white eyes made them look like mannequins left just a second too long in a nightmare.

  Ruen stood near the center of the bridge, sweating, lips slightly parted as he struggled to make peace with what he was seeing. He turned slowly to Vermond, voice trembling.

  “They’re… they’re not wearing contacts, are they?”

  “No,” Vermond replied calmly, leaning against the console.

  Erie nodded with wide eyes. “Yeah, they’re... people-shaped nightmares.”

  Kiana sat elegantly on the couch, legs crossed, eyes observing Ruen like a cat watching a mouse wander too close. She tilted her head slightly. “You agreed to be bait. You should not be this nervous.”

  “I didn’t agree because I wanted to!” Ruen snapped, then instantly shrunk under her gaze. “…I agreed because you looked at me.”

  “Still counts,” Erie whispered with a smirk.

  Vermond ignored the banter. “You’ll wear the tracking beacon. We’ll drop you in one of their dead zones. Wait for the Folkan to pick you up. We’ll be watching. Listening. The moment they move you, we strike.”

  Ruen sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “I survived pirates, betrayal, and a collapsing Federation… and now I’m being gift-wrapped for the undead horror cult.”

  “They’re not a cult,” Kiana said softly. “They’re family.”

  Ruen stared at her, pale. “You’ve got issues.”

  Erie leaned in close to him and whispered, “You have no idea.”

  Just then, the old man’s voice cracked over the comms again. “I was walking past your elite fellas again. One of ‘em smiled at me. I think. Might’ve just been… facial twitching? Not sure. But they all standing like statues now, surrounding the hallway like it's a haunted art museum. I hate it here.”

  Vermond gave a small smile. “Tell them to clear the path.”

  Seconds later, the hallway cleared.

  Ruen’s eyes went wide. “They… they heard him?”

  “They hear everything,” Vermond replied, his tone as cold as the void of space.

  Everyone grew quiet.

  Then Kiana broke the silence.

  “Don’t die out there, Ruen.”

  Ruen chuckled nervously. “Wasn’t planning to. But thanks for the… encouragement?”

  “Good,” she whispered with a subtle smile. “Go get them.”

  Erie immediately held in a scream-laugh and turned around, clutching his mouth.

  Ruen looked around, flustered. “I changed my mind. I don’t wanna be bait.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Vermond said, tossing him the beacon. “Just smile pretty for the monsters.”

  And with that, the plan was in motion.

  The laughter from the comms had died down. The old man, now quieter than before, adjusted his seat aboard the god-tier frigate. Despite the jokes, something felt... off. The elite soldiers Vermond brought on board weren’t just “quiet professionals.” No one blinked. No one breathed heavily. Their helmets were down now, revealing faces too perfect, too still. White eyes stared forward, cold and empty.

  Back on the destroyer, Vermond stood near the viewing platform, eyes locked onto the stars. He could feel the artifact now embedded deep in his chest pulse faintly—like a second heart, except this one beat to the rhythm of death itself. It had consumed the light-based artifact Ruen brought, and since then, the undead had changed. No longer grotesque or broken. They looked… alive. But they weren’t.

  Kiana stood near the entrance of the bridge, arms crossed, eyes dimly glowing. Erie was silent now, staring at a monitor, watching the remaining Federation fleets slowly lose ground in the battle above the atmosphere.

  Vermond turned.

  “We move in twelve hours,” he said. “Whatever is left of the Federation will collapse soon.”

  Erie nodded. “We need that map. If the Folkan get to the outlaw sectors before we do…”

  “We lose,” Vermond finished.

  They had no time to waste.

  Meanwhile, on the god-tier frigate, one of the elite undead slowly turned its head toward one of the seventeen crew members. Its mouth moved for the first time in days.

  "May I help with the preparations?"

  The man flinched. “Y-You talked!”

  The old man, standing by the table, narrowed his eyes. “You… you guys are finally speaking, huh?” He leaned closer, muttering to himself. “Pure white eyes… too perfect… must be some sort of high-end eye contacts. Tactical stealth model. Expensive ones, for sure.”

  But deep down… the chill in his spine told a different story.

  Hours passed.

  The destroyer powered up. The god-tier frigate linked with it. Both ships prepared for a silent, coordinated jump.

  The stars above flickered as more wreckage from the Federation fleet burned in orbit.

  Ruen, now armored and standing beside Kiana, took a deep breath.

  “I hope I don’t die being bait,” he said quietly.

  Kiana didn’t answer. She simply walked ahead, her emerald-white eyes locking onto the screen.

  From the distance, a signal echoed through the sector—an encrypted transmission from a Folkan command ship, faint but traceable. Vermond raised his hand.

  “We follow it.”

  They followed the encrypted Folkan transmission while cloaked. The god-tier frigate hovered beside the undead ship, both hidden in the black of space.

  Vermond stood at the bridge, watching it all unfold in silence.

  Kiana sat on the couch, casually sipping a drink no one could figure out the origin of.

  Ruen stared at her, thoughts spiraling. He was the bait—possibly living his final hours—but somehow, it felt worth it. All because of the girl who made him the bait. Blinded by her beauty, lost in his emotions.

  They left the planet behind, the village below now forgotten.

  Erie stepped beside Vermond and muttered, “I’m going to miss that place.”

  Vermond patted him on the back. “All you did was eat and scream.”

  “Hey, I did a lot of stuff,” Erie protested.

  Just then, the comms crackled to life. The old man renn's voice came through: “Hello? I think I’m seeing something—ships. A lot of them. They're firing at each other.”

  The stolen Illegal Federation Map, the one worth a hundred million credits, beeped. One of its buttons turned red.

  Kiana narrowed her eyes at it. Erie stepped in and pressed it.

  The map shifted, transforming into an advanced radar display. Massive ships lit up on the screen, their sizes accurately shown.

  “What in the void…” Erie whispered. “This thing’s not just a map or a TV—it’s a damn ship radar!”

  “No wonder it’s worth hundreds of millions,” Vermond said, walking over.

  Kiana sipped her drink, still lounging on the couch, watching.

  Vermond called out, “Ruen.”

  Ruen approached.

  “Where’s your fleet?” Vermond asked.

  Ruen pointed at two locations on the radar. “Here and here. Only some destroyer groups and one battleship remain… They’re fighting to the death.” His face was filled with regret.

  “They’re outnumbered,” Erie noted grimly. “How are we supposed to bait the enemy like this?”

  Kiana finally stood.

  Erie leaned toward Vermond and whispered, “Here comes your beautiful genius little sister.”

  Kiana looked at them and spoke plainly: “Split them. Create distractions.” Then she returned to her couch and resumed sipping her purple tea.

  Vermond smiled. “Right. Divide and conquer.”

  Erie tilted his head. “That’s great and all—but how do we actually fight them?”

  Kiana looked at Vermond and smiled.

  Vermond smiled back. “We’re going back to the planet. We’ll split them up with distractions… then unleash our elite undead to tear them apart.” His voice was cold.

  Erie sat down and looked at Ruen. “Remember, you’re the bait.”

  Ruen hesitated, trembling slightly.

  Then Kiana looked at him.

  “I… I’ll do my best!” he stammered.

  The formation began to shift. Vermond opened the comms, linking to the god-tier frigate.

  The old man’s voice crackled through, sharp with tension. “What’s the plan—Hey! Quiet! I’m speaking with Vermond. Our fleet commander is on the line.”

  Vermond exhaled slowly. “We’re transferring Ruen to your ship. Your crew’s now part of the bait.”

  The line went silent.

  “…Bait?” the old man asked, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

  Erie cut in, crisp and clear. “We’re splitting the Folkan fleet. You run fast, get to the planet, draw their forward line in. That’s your role.”

  Vermond picked it up from there. “Meanwhile, we’ll broadcast a fake transmission targeting their flagship—their battleship. While they scramble, Erie will contact the remnants of the Federation fleet. If we time it right, everyone converges on the planet. It becomes a kill zone.”

  There was a pause—background chatter, hushed voices on the frigate’s end, weighing risks.

  Then the old man came back on.

  “…Copy that. We’re in.”

  The false broadcast began. Erie handled it—quick, clean, efficient. Within seconds, half the Folako/Folkan/Folanko fleet took the bait, redirecting course.

  Vermond turned toward him. “What exactly did you broadcast?”

  Erie grinned, smug. “Ruen’s fake map. The one we talked about. Worked like a charm.”

  Kiana gave him a long, unimpressed stare—like she was watching a toddler celebrate a mistake.

  Vermond’s tone dropped, cold and commanding. “Erie… Ruen was supposed to handle that. His transmission was meant to draw them to the planet. Your job was to contact the remaining Federation forces for the ambush. We were going to arrive late with the elite undead for cleanup.”

  Erie blinked, his expression frozen. “Plan B! Yes. This is… Plan B.”

  Before anyone could respond, the illegal Federation map let out a sharp, warning beep. New warp signatures—massive. Not Folanko. Not Federation. Unknown.

  The display lit up: a fleet under a notorious outlaw warlord.

  And their command ship? Not a destroyer. Not a cruiser. Not even a battleship. A Titan. Big enough to rival a mothership. Its shadow loomed across the radar.

  Then, a voice thundered over wide-band comms, deep and arrogant:

  “To all currently engaged in combat—surrender your ships, your gear, your valuables… and your lives.”

  Silence followed. On the couch, Kiana sipped her drink, deep in thought. Everyone else stared in stunned disbelief.

  The old man voice burst through the comms. “What in the void was that?! A Titan-class?! I’ve seen a few in my day—but why here?!”

  Ruen’s voice followed, grim and flat. “The plan’s gone. Our fleet’s going to be wiped out.”

  Panic hovered over the room—until Kiana spoke again, calm and radiant as ever.

  “We board that Titan. Use the elite undead. Their tech won’t compare. Their arrogance will.”

  Everyone turned to her. Then to Vermond.

  The old man’s voice came through again, this time more grounded. “She’s right. Those—uh—Elite… whatever they are, they’re like elite mercs, yeah? Undying soldiers.”

  Vermond looked at Kiana. Then nodded.

  “She’s right. And we’re out of time. No other option.”

  The undead moved without command—silent, precise, like they knew. Rifles locked, energy shields lit. Shoulder energy shields plates deployed. Space suits sealed. Energy knifes sheathed. Secondary energy pistols ready. Knee guards clicked into place. Grenades secured. Vests tightened. Cameras activated. They were ready.

  Vermond faced his team, voice steady, eyes hard.

  “We’re breaching that Titan. And we’re salvaging everything.”

  Then… he felt it.

  A call.

  From the crown of the God of Death. From the Reaper’s sword. From the ring, the necklace, and the cloak—Kiana’s cloak. Every artifact, every relic of the dead pulsed in sync.

  Something was waking.

  Something old.

  As they prepared for the assault, Vermond placed the crown on his head. Instantly, his eyes blazed a dark emerald green. The number 109 flickered violently, pulsing with necrotic energy.

  Power surged through him.

  He slipped the ring onto his finger, fastened the necklace, and secured the Reaper blade at his belt. A strange clarity washed over him—his body felt lighter, his mind sharper. The artifacts whispered in silence, feeding him strength beyond the living.

  Kiana stepped close. Her expression softened, and without warning, she leaned in and kissed his cheek again.

  Vermond blinked, then smiled faintly. “That’s the second time you’ve kissed me on the cheek, Kiana.”

  She looked up at him. “Big brother should be more careful.”

  From the side, Erie stood frozen, a spoon dropping from his hand with a loud clang. “You two—what the hell?! You’re spoiling her too much!”

  Vermond turned toward him, brows raised. “What are you talking about?”

  Erie crossed his arms, flustered. “You’re lucky. A beautiful sister like her, just kissing your cheek like that... ridiculous.”

  Vermond chuckled. “You’re just jealous, Erie.”

  “Shut up,” Erie muttered, turning away with a scowl.

  Kiana reached up and unfastened her cloak. “Big brother needs this more than I do.”

  Vermond immediately stopped her and wrapped the cloak back around her shoulders. “No. That’s yours. And don’t even think about undressing in front of me—or that pervert over there.” He pointed at Erie.

  “Huh?! Hey!”

  Kiana smiled, laughter dancing in her eyes. “Humans are so weird… and funny.”

  The hangar doors of the undead destroyer opened slowly, soundless in the vacuum. The assault shuttle hovered just outside, its black hull blending into the void. Inside, the elite undead stood ready—silent, weapons charged, visors dimmed. Vermond was among them, cloaked in shadow, his emerald eyes faint beneath the visor of his suit.

  They were ghosts now—no engine flares, no transmissions. Just a trail of death heading toward a titan.

  Kiana stood near the exit ramp of the hangar, her long white hair flowing behind her in the filtered air. She didn’t speak. She just watched her brother.

  Two elite undead stood at her flanks like statues, armor heavier than the rest, bearing twin rifles and deployable shields. Their orders were unspoken: protect her with their body.

  Vermond approached her one last time. “You stay here. If anything goes wrong… you run.”

  Kiana shook her head slightly. “I’ll stay. But I won’t run.”

  He hesitated—then placed a hand on her shoulder. “Then hold the line. You’ll know when to move.”

  She nodded.

  Erie stepped up beside Vermond, helmet sealed. “Ready?”

  Vermond turned, his voice like steel. “Let’s breach this titan.”

  The shuttle slipped away, disappearing into the black.

  Inside the destroyer, Kiana sat back in her chair, eyes locked on the radar. Her drink untouched. Her fingers hovered over the command console.

  The comms cracked to life in Vermond’s helmet.

  It was the old man aboard the cloaked god-tier frigate, his voice low, uncertain.

  "Are you sure about this? We just stay here? No support, no fire, nothing?"

  Vermond stared out into the black void. The massive silhouette of the titan loomed ahead, its sheer size blotting out stars.

  "Yes," he replied coldly. "Stay cloaked. If we fail, you're our last chance to run. If we succeed... you’ll know when to move."

  There was silence. Then a resigned sigh.

  "Understood, Commander."

  The first capsule launched.

  A sleek, silent bullet of reinforced alloy, no engine flare, no signal. It glided through space like a hunter’s blade—undetectable.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Soon, dozens filled the darkness—an entire wave of boarding capsules, drifting toward the titan from all directions like a swarm of invisible predators.

  A hundred elite undead.

  Each wearing a black suit. Each outfitted with silent, magnetic boots, energy shields on the other hand, rifles locked to their chests, energy knifes at their sides, grenades ready, bags ready for looting, everything is ready.

  Their cameras were active.

  Inside the destroyer, Kiana sat alone in the darkened command deck. Two armored undead stood behind her—still, watchful.

  The main screen flickered to life.

  One by one, the helmet feeds appeared. A hundred silent viewpoints. Walls. Ducts. Hull plating. The titan’s massive shape surrounding them.

  They were inside.

  Each team had entered from a different section—some through maintenance shafts, others through armor gashes or cooling vents, their capsule doors melting away without a sound.

  No words were spoken. Only the subtle red glow of emergency lights within the titan. The enemy had no idea.

  Vermond stood among one of the breach teams. Unlike the rest, he bore no cloak—his dark suit exposed, the glow of the reaper blade at his hip faint but steady.

  He looked up as the final seal blew open.

  Inside the titan’s interior was vast metal—a maze of halls, war rooms, reactors, weapon stations, crew quarters. And they were crawling into all of it.

  Vermond raised two fingers.

  His squad moved.

  Kiana, still watching, leaned forward. Her green eyes narrowed. Every camera feed showed the same thing:

  Silence. Precision. Total infiltration.

  She whispered under her breath.

  "Big brother..."

  Inside the titan.

  “Did you hear the announcement earlier?” one of the crewmen grunted, adjusting the thick collar of his padded suit. He leaned against the railing, a worn energy rifle slung lazily over his shoulder.

  The other crewman scoffed, sipping from a steaming ration flask. “About surrender or die? Yeah. Real diplomatic. Like anyone’s actually gonna give up when we’re carrying a damn titan.”

  “Exactly!” the first chuckled. “They see this beast and scatter. That’s how it always goes. Just point the guns, and watch the galaxy run.”

  A low hum echoed through the corridor.

  The second crewman frowned, holding up a hand. “You hear that?”

  The lights overhead flickered.

  Then—silence.

  The hum returned—closer now. Wrong. Not the ship. Movement.

  Then—

  Crash!

  A nearby ventilation grate exploded open, sending shrapnel across the corridor. Both men spun around—rifles raised.

  Too late.

  A black armored shape dropped from the ceiling, slammed onto the floor with a thud, and drove a knife through the first crewman’s chest before he could scream.

  The second fired wildly—bolts streaked through the hall—but the figure blurred, moved with inhuman speed. One shot—direct to the helmet. The crewman’s body crumpled instantly.

  More vents burst open.

  Five more undead dropped into the corridor.

  Their vests gleamed under the red emergency lighting. Rifles raised. No words. No hesitation.

  Somewhere deeper in the titan—an alarm finally sounded.

  “BREACH DETECTED. MULTIPLE—”

  “—SECTOR TWELVE, SECTOR FOURTEEN, SECTOR—”

  “—ALL SECURITY UNITS RESPOND—”

  Inside the destroyer, Kiana watched across dozens of feeds. Muzzle flashes flared like lightning in the dark. Blood sprayed. The titan’s soldiers scrambled—confused, uncoordinated, outnumbered before they even understood what hit them.

  Kiana leaned back slowly, eyes locked on the screen.

  “Good,” she whispered.

  On one feed, Vermond stepped into a control room, slicing through a guard mid-turn, then fired twice into the ceiling to send sparks raining down.

  He wasn’t hiding anymore.

  He was leading.

  They were deep inside the titan’s main control room now.

  A dozen crewmen stood in front of them—armed, panicked, unprepared.

  The five elite undead flanking Vermond stepped forward without a word, forming a tight shield wall around him. Their heavy energy shields locked in place, rifles aimed over the top with ruthless precision.

  The enemy opened fire.

  Blasts of plasma slammed into the shield wall, crackling and sparking, but the undead formation held—unmoving, disciplined. Then—

  Return fire.

  In perfect sync, the elite undead fired a salvo of bolts, cutting through the crew like paper. One of them lobbed an energy grenade—detonation.

  The room fell silent.

  Smoldering. Empty. Nothing left standing.

  Vermond’s eyes flickered.

  109 became 121.

  Erie stepped up beside him, brushing dust off his jacket. “Void damn. That was worth every credit back on Black Spire,” he said, grinning.

  Vermond said nothing. He moved forward slowly, absorbing the silence, the stillness. But something felt… different.

  Lighter.

  His steps didn’t feel normal. Was it the Reaper at his belt? The Crown? The Necklace? The Ring?

  He couldn’t tell.

  Then it hit him—he forgot something.

  He tapped the comms. “Kiana. The boots and the belt from the Death God—take them. They’re yours now.”

  A pause.

  Then her voice came through, warm, steady. “Okay, big brother.”

  Erie side-eyed Vermond, leaned in, and whispered, “I thought you were saving the belt for me…”

  Vermond didn’t even turn. “I never said anything.”

  Erie let out a dry breath, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

  They attempted to operate the titan’s control systems, but the earlier blast from the energy grenade had left much of the console fried and unresponsive. Sparks danced across ruined panels; several monitors remained black.

  “Damn,” Erie muttered, tapping on a dead screen. “I think we overkilled this room.”

  Vermond said nothing. He moved to the side, eyes scanning for anything useful.

  Then Kiana’s voice came through the comms, clear and calm.

  “Big brother, there’s a key—right beside the control desk.”

  Vermond paused, looked, and sure enough—there it was, tucked into a small panel slot on the side of the console.

  He picked it up and asked, “How did you know that was here?”

  “Undead camera feed,” she answered sweetly. “I’ve been watching everything.”

  Vermond turned the key in his fingers, a faint smile crossing his face.

  “Thanks, Kiana.”

  On the destroyer, Kiana smiled quietly, clutching her hands to her chest. Her brother’s gratitude was warm.

  Erie clapped his hands together. “You better protect that sister of yours—not only is she more beautiful than a goddess, she’s a genius and cool as hell!”

  Vermond didn’t even glance back. “Shut up and follow me.”

  Erie grumbled, trailing behind. “Alright, alright… getting serious now. What’s that key for anyway?”

  Vermond’s eyes narrowed, a small grin forming as he walked toward the titan’s interior.

  “A vault,” he said.

  “Let’s go salvage something priceless.”

  They moved swiftly through the dim corridors toward the titan’s vault. The massive structure of the warship groaned around them, distant alarms echoing through the metal.

  Erie glanced at Vermond. “How do you even know the vault’s in this direction?”

  Without slowing, Vermond replied, “Kiana’s guiding me.”

  Erie furrowed his brow. “Then how does she kno—”

  Before he could finish, their comms crackled to life.

  “Vermond? Commander? Are you there?”

  The old man’s voice came through, laced with static and tension.

  “I’m here,” Vermond answered.

  “The Federation and the Folkan… they’ve stopped fighting. But now they’re turning toward the titan.”

  Erie scoffed. “What are they, muscleheads? They could just retreat. The titan’s massive, but it’s slow as hell.”

  The old man snorted. “You’re the musclehead.”

  “Huh?!” Erie’s voice shot back, clearly annoyed.

  The old man chuckled through the comms. “The titan’s not alone. It’s got destroyers, cruisers, and a full escort. Who the hell’s dumb enough to turn their back and run? That’s how you get blasted in the rear.”

  Erie huffed. “Well… me! Why not?!”

  Before it could escalate further, Vermond cut in, calm but firm.

  “Enough. Keep your eyes on the battle. Let me know the moment something changes.”

  The old man sighed. “Alright, we’ll keep watch—”

  Then a shout behind him.

  “Shut the hell up!”

  His voice faded, and the comms went silent again.

  Back on the destroyer, Kiana sat quietly on the couch, sipping her drink. Her emerald eyes stayed locked on the screens, tracking the undead cameras with precision.

  Vermond and Erie finally reached the titan’s vault. The door loomed before them—thick, towering, sealed shut with reinforced plating.

  “We’re here,” Vermond said, scanning the door’s surface.

  “Where do we even put that key?” Erie asked, tilting his head.

  Kiana’s voice entered the comms again, smooth and clear.

  “Big brother, there’s a hidden key slot—on the right side of the vault door.”

  Vermond walked over, found the panel, and inserted the key.

  “Thanks again, Kiana.”

  Back on the ship, Kiana smiled softly. Her eyes flickered with green light as she leaned forward, focused.

  Erie watched Vermond and muttered, “How does she always know this stuff?”

  Vermond smirked. “You said it yourself—she’s a genius.”

  “Oh… right.” Erie scratched his head. “Still creepy.”

  With a low click, the key sank into the hidden slot. A quiet hum followed, like the vault itself was awakening from a long slumber.

  Then—THUNK.

  Massive mechanical locks deep within the door began to disengage, one by one, echoing like thunder in the tight corridor. The ground beneath them trembled faintly as hydraulics groaned to life.

  Erie stepped back. “That’s a good sign, right?”

  The door split slightly in the center, light seeping out from the cracks—cold, pale, and artificial. Steam hissed from vents along the edges, and with a heavy grind, the two massive panels began to part, revealing the vault's interior.

  Inside was a chamber lined with relics—armored suits sealed in display capsules, crates stamped with warlord insignias, alien tech humming faintly, and weapons too advanced for their time.

  Erie whistled, stunned. “Holy hell…”

  Vermond stepped forward slowly, his eyes scanning everything. But then—his gaze fixed on something at the far end of the vault.

  There, resting atop a dark pedestal, was a long, coffin-like box covered in engraved symbols. Unlike the others, it pulsed faintly with an eerie black glow. The Reaper sword at his side vibrated—almost like it was reacting.

  Kiana’s voice came through again, quieter this time.

  “Big brother… something in there feels wrong.”

  Vermond narrowed his eyes. “I feel it too.”

  Erie looked at him. “You want to open that thing, don’t you?”

  “…Yeah.”

  "But before we touch that coffin…" Vermond said calmly, his voice low and focused. "Let’s grab everything else we can first."

  Without needing a command, fifty elite undead moved in, bags open, hands precise. They swept through the vault like silent shadows, collecting every artifact, weapon, and valuable piece of tech they could carry. Strange devices with glowing cores, alien weaponry marked with symbols long lost to history, and relics from forgotten wars—all vanished into their bags.

  Elsewhere in the titan, more undead continued their diversion, sowing chaos to keep Vermond and Erie hidden in the shadows.

  Erie grabbed one of the undeads’ bags, his eyes practically sparkling.

  "Vermond! Let’s get the powerful-looking, expensive ones!" he said with a boyish grin.

  Vermond smirked. “You’re like a child in a candy store, Erie. But don’t worry—I already planned for that.”

  The two joined the effort, Erie snatching up advanced tech with gleeful greed while the undead focused on gathering the more arcane items—the kind Vermond could use. He, too, moved with purpose, selecting the artifacts that called to his strange power.

  Minutes passed. The vault, though ransacked, still brimmed with treasure.

  "If I brought bigger bags," Erie muttered, eyeing the untouched loot, "I could’ve cleaned out the whole vault."

  Vermond didn’t respond. His attention was pulled to the far end of the chamber. The coffin.

  As he stepped toward it, a pulse echoed through his chest—coming from the orb inside him. His eyes flickered, the number 121 shimmering for a second, as if sensing what lay within.

  Kiana’s voice broke in softly through the comms.

  “Be careful, big brother…” Her voice was light, almost teasing, but there was a strange, knowing smile on her lips. Like she sensed what was about to happen.

  Vermond approached the coffin, the air around it thick and still. Erie stood beside him, staring at the ominous box in silence.

  Vermond slowly began to open the coffin, inch by inch. The grinding sound of metal echoed through the vault. Around him, the elite undead silently slung their treasure-filled bags over their backs, then raised their rifles and activated energy shields, forming a silent perimeter.

  Erie leaned forward, eyes wide with curiosity.

  “What’s inside? Let me see!”

  The lid groaned open fully. Inside—resting atop dark velvet—was an orb. But unlike the one within Vermond, this orb pulsed with pure, radiant light. No shadow, no corruption—only warmth, life, and clarity.

  “The opposite…” Vermond whispered.

  Kiana’s voice came through the comms, soft and steady.

  “Big brother… try to touch it,” she said, a small smile on her lips, watching through the undead's cameras.

  Vermond reached out. The moment his fingers grazed the orb, searing pain shot through him. He gasped, staggering back, blood spilling from his mouth.

  “Vermond!” Erie shouted, but didn’t move—frozen by what he saw.

  The glowing orb rose from the coffin and hovered in front of Vermond’s chest. Then, in one fluid motion, it surged forward—merging into his body where his original orb rested.

  Vermond’s body jolted as if struck by lightning. His eyes snapped open.

  On his left, dark emerald light pulsed—flickering the number 121. On his right, a radiant light emerald glow matched it—121 as well.

  Erie stared, stunned.

  “Holy… What am I witnessing?!”

  It was as if light and darkness had found balance inside him. Two forces once at odds, now fused within a single being.

  “I can feel… something strange,” Vermond murmured.

  In that instant, the crown, the reaper, the necklace, and the ring—all glowed brightly before dissolving into motes of light and shadow, fusing into him. His power surged. Images flashed through his mind—on one side, the grim, skeletal form of the death god… and on the other, a serene, radiant goddess cloaked in celestial light.

  Vermond stepped forward, the vault shaking slightly under his presence.

  His voice echoed, layered—one divine, the other dark.

  “Erie.”

  Erie flinched. “Vermond… your voice…”

  From the destroyer, Kiana watched the screen, eyes wide. A smile touched her lips—and a faint blush colored her cheeks, as if seeing a piece of her brother she hadn’t known was missing… now complete.

  Vermond’s glowing eyes dimmed. He stumbled, his voice low but firm.

  “Leave the titan… immediately…”

  Then, his body gave out. He collapsed.

  Without hesitation, the elite undead reacted—no orders needed. One stepped forward, hoisting Vermond onto its back, while the others formed a moving shield wall. Erie fell in beside them, his breath sharp as he activated his rifle.

  The comms crackled.

  “Vermond! I think you guys should retreat!” the old man shouted. “The Federation and Folkan—both—are closing in on the titan!”

  “We’re already doing that!” Erie snapped, sweat running down his temple.

  Kiana’s voice cut in calmly, directing them through the chaos.

  “Go right. Then left near the control room. Keep straight until the armory room, then take a hard left.”

  Following her instructions, they moved fast—dodging fallen debris and broken lights. Alarms were beginning to echo through the titan.

  The massive vault had been close to their boarding point—luck was still with them.

  Undead units were already scattering, slipping into capsules one after another, their heavy bags packed with artifacts and stolen tech. The destroyer’s stealth systems were still holding.

  “There! The capsule!” Erie shouted.

  The elite didn’t reply—they just ran faster. Reaching the capsule, they loaded Vermond in first. Erie followed, panting. The last undead stood outside, watching them.

  Then, he did something unexpected.

  He turned toward the rushing titan crew—and didn’t move to enter.

  “What are you doing?! Get in here!” Erie yelled.

  The undead looked back at Vermond, unconscious in the pod.

  “It was my pleasure to serve the Necromancer King,” he said, voice hollow and resolute. “Or should I say… the young god of life and death.”

  "What the void?!"

  Then he turned again, activated his energy shield, and charged into the oncoming enemy.

  “Damn it!” Erie slammed a fist against the side of the capsule. “There was still time!”

  As the pod launched, Erie looked at Vermond, lying still beside him, power still pulsing faintly through his veins.

  “What the hell just happened to you, Vermond…”

  The capsules roared through the void, streaking away from the titan like comets tearing across space. Inside, Erie held onto the side rail, one eye on Vermond’s still form, the other on the rapidly approaching destroyer.

  “Come on…” he muttered.

  Then suddenly—light.

  A pulse shimmered across the void. From the side of the god-tier frigate, which had remained cloaked in the shadows—unmoving, silent—something activated.

  A vast arc of golden energy bloomed from its side, stretching like a celestial wing.

  A long-range energy shield—pale yellow, powerful—spread out, expanding like a protective dome that reached over and around the destroyer.

  “What the—?” Erie blinked. “Did… did that frigate just… react?”

  The energy surrounded them. As the capsules pierced through, the shield solidified behind them like a closing gate. Enemy fire from afar fizzled harmlessly on its surface, redirected or absorbed by the immense energy lattice.

  Inside the destroyer, Kiana stood from her seat as screens flared to life. She watched the incoming pods.

  “They’re almost here…” she whispered, her hands trembling with relief.

  The hangar bay doors slid open with precision. One by one, the capsules landed and hissed open. Undead poured out, bags clutched tight, many of them wounded, but none stopping.

  Erie jumped out, dragging Vermond with him. “Get a medical pod! Now!”

  Kiana ran to them, her eyes locked on her brother. “Big brother…”

  Vermond was unconscious, but his presence felt… different. Power still radiated off of him—both divine and unholy.

  Kiana placed a hand on his chest. The orb inside pulsed softly, flickering with light and darkness.

  Behind them, the final capsule closed as the last Undead returned. The destroyer sealed itself.

  Outside, the god-tier frigate remained silent and still, but its shield held strong—like it had recognized something… or someone.

  Outside, the Federation and Folkan forces unleashed hellfire on the titan, their combined barrage lighting up space. The Folkan fleet that had been lured away earlier by Erie now returned, flanking the titan’s defense line. As explosions rocked the void, the Folkan called in reinforcements—this was war at full scale.

  Minutes ticked by.

  Inside the destroyer’s medical bay, Vermond’s eyes finally fluttered open. His vision cleared slowly, revealing a familiar face above him—Kiana. Her green eyes shimmered softly, and she smiled down at him, her beauty as radiant as ever.

  He was resting on her lap.

  “Good to see you alive,” came Erie’s voice from the corner. He was munching on something suspicious-looking, probably stolen from a ration kit. “You’ve been out for years, by the way.”

  Vermond blinked. “Wait… years?”

  Erie smirked. “Nah. Just a few minutes. Wanted to see if your brain still works.”

  Vermond tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t respond. He felt nothing—no pain, no warmth, just emptiness. Like his soul was still drifting somewhere in deep space.

  “I’m glad you’re awake, big brother,” Kiana said warmly, brushing his hair back gently.

  Erie, still chewing, whispered to himself, “Damn… she’s way too hot.”

  Kiana turned her head slightly. She’d heard him.

  Erie froze. “W-what?”

  But instead of a glare, Kiana smiled sweetly at him. “Thank you for protecting my brother.”

  “I—it wasn’t me, really,” Erie stammered. “The undead handled most of it…”

  Suddenly, the comms crackled to life. The old man’s voice filled the room.

  “I don’t know what the hell happened, but the god-tier frigate’s shielding us and the destroyer. Some idiot pressed something, and now it’s playing guardian angel.”

  All eyes turned to the view outside—the massive titan being pummeled by Federation and Folkan forces working in sync, their differences forgotten in the face of mutual fear.

  Then Ruen’s voice came over the comms, quieter this time. “Vermond… all of you… thank you. Even if I was just bait, I know you tried to help us. But there’s nothing we can do now. They’re fighting at full strength.”

  Vermond exhaled softly. “Then we wait. Let them tear each other apart… and once it’s over—we salvage.”

  Erie leaned closer to the console. “Hey, Ruen… you still loyal to the Federation?”

  There was a pause.

  “Not anymore,” Ruen replied, voice solemn. “Our sector’s been wiped out by the Folkan. Our mothership is gone. What’s left of our fleet is dying out there.”

  Erie nodded. “Then join us.”

  “…Wait, really?” Ruen asked, disbelief in his tone.

  Vermond smiled faintly, still resting on Kiana’s lap. “Ruen… welcome aboard.”

  Over the comms, Ruen let out a choked sound, and the old man’s voice cut in, grumbling, “Oh for crying out loud. Calm down! Don’t cry on the damn radio!”

  Ruen’s voice returned, trembling. “I’m just… I’ll get to see that beautiful goddess every day now…”

  Erie narrowed his eyes, glancing at Kiana, then at Vermond. “Should I poke his eyes out?”

  Vermond sighed, eyes half-lidded. “Let him dream.”

  Then somewhere in the dark again, the watcher smiled, not because he's amuse nor satisfied, but because a new god arouse.

  Hours passed, and the battle still raged on outside. The sector was in chaos—reinforcements from the Folkan Empire had arrived in full force, joining the carnage. Moments later, the warlord’s fleet tore through the void, warping in with terrifying precision. The clash between giants showed no signs of stopping.

  Inside the destroyer, things were quieter… and stranger.

  Erie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the feed of the battle. “Damn. They're still at it.”

  He turned his head—and froze. Kiana was sitting beside Vermond, carefully feeding him with a spoon.

  Erie blinked. “What the void are you two doing?!”

  Kiana glanced up at him, unbothered. Erie immediately looked away, face flushed. “Y–you're as beautiful as ever…”

  Kiana gave a soft, warm smile. “Thank you, Erie.”

  Blood trickled from Erie’s nose. He quickly turned away, flustered. Vermond just stared at him, disbelief in his eyes.

  “…What?” Erie asked.

  “Hm,” Vermond replied, unimpressed.

  Kiana still wore her cloak, the one infused with strange energy. Around her waist, the belt gifted by the death god shimmered faintly, the boots still there. It hadn't faded nor consumed by Vermond's orb. Perhaps… because Vermond and Kiana were no longer ordinary.

  Vermond’s voice was quiet as he spoke again. “I saw something… strange. The death god—I’ve seen him before. But the other one… the one bathed in light…”

  Erie, still munching on his food, replied through a mouthful, “That undead, before he sacrificed himself, said something weird… ‘The Young God,’ I think.”

  Vermond frowned slightly, repeating the phrase. “The Young God…?”

  Kiana smiled faintly at that. Vermond noticed it… but didn’t ask.

  Suddenly, the comms crackled.

  The old man’s voice came through, half-exasperated. “I swear, this war’s never gonna end.”

  As the battle roared on beyond their cloaked destroyer, Erie rummaged through one of the crates and pulled out a blueprint—Vermond’s old prize from the Black Spire Station, the one he stole from a Federation Engineer.

  He waved it casually. “Alright, I’m bored. Let’s talk about this space station you’ve been dreaming of.”

  Vermond, still resting on Kiana’s lap, glanced over lazily. “It’ll take billions of credits... but with those unknown crystals in our cargo—and the loot we salvaged from that titan—I think we’re close.”

  Kiana gently fed him another spoonful as Vermond spoke, her touch calm and precise.

  Erie, still slightly red in the face from Kiana’s presence, raised a brow. “So… if we could build it now, where would we place it?”

  “Somewhere resourceful,” Vermond replied simply, eyes half-lidded.

  Erie sat back, thinking aloud. “Yeah… a resource-rich area. We could manufacture ships, expand the fleet, maybe even create a full-blown undead armada.”

  His gaze shifted to one of the elite undead standing silently in the room—its skin flawless, almost human. No heartbeat. No breath.

  Erie tilted his head. “Actually… calling them ‘undead’ doesn’t feel right anymore. They look too human. I’m gonna call them... ‘non-breathing humans.’”

  Laughter suddenly erupted through the comms.

  “You're really as much of a muscle-head as a dumb horse,” the old man cackled from the god-tier frigate.

  Erie’s eye twitched. “Shut the void up, you crusty old fossil.”

  “Oh, I see, trying to bait me now, huh? Nice try, kid. I'm too mature for that.”

  “That wasn’t a trick, you dusty noodle! You're the real muscle-head here!”

  “What the hell did this brat just say?!”

  Their heated nonsense was cut short as the battlefield lit up—one of the Folkan command battleships erupted in flames, splitting apart in the void.

  The remaining Federation fleet, now leaderless, attempted to flee. Most didn’t make it. Only their battleship, and one destroyer managed to warp out in time.

  More Folkan reinforcements warped in. The warlord’s forces, despite their strength, were being pushed back—slowly, but surely.

  Erie leaned forward, still munching some mystery snack. “Looks like it’s almost over.”

  The battlefield beyond the cloaked destroyer had become a tempest of fire and shattered steel. Massive hulls cracked open like ancient bones, their pieces drifting silently through the void. Folkan reinforcements surged forward, their warships unleashing volleys of golden plasma that tore through the black with brutal precision.

  The warlord’s fleet, once proud and vicious, fought on with bloodied resolve. Their titan were scarred and smoking, their hulls barely holding together—but they fired to the last. For every Folkan ship they destroyed, two more slipped in from the fold, relentless and fresh.

  Erie leaned over the console, eyes locked on the shifting war map. “The warlord’s forces are falling back. No... they’re not just outnumbered—they’re outmatched.”

  The old man’s voice crackled through the comms. “They’re retreating?”

  “Trying to,” Vermond answered quietly. “But the Folkan aren’t letting them.”

  A sudden bloom of fire lit up the screen—a warlord supercruiser exploded, its core breached under concentrated fire. The shockwave scattered nearby wreckage like dust in the wind.

  The old man spoke again, his tone heavy. “It’s over. The warlord's finished. A handful of ships are trying to jump out… but most won’t make it.”

  A long silence followed.

  Vermond, still resting on Kiana’s lap, whispered, “So this is war… when you’re watching from the shadows.”

  Kiana gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, her smile soft. “Big brother should rest.”

  Then the sensors pinged. A wide-range broadcast echoed across the sector—Folkan command.

  But it wasn’t a warning. It was a claim.

  “This sector is now under Folkan authority. All remaining forces are to surrender or face total annihilation.”

  Erie folded his arms, scowling. “Tch. Now they're annexing outlaw territory? How about the salvage?”

  Vermond’s light-filled and darkened eyes flickered. “Let them. For now. We’ve already taken what we came for.”

  Kiana nodded, her voice like a breeze. “Big brother is right.”

  As the Folkan fleet spread like a net across the shattered remains of war, the cloaked undead destroyer and the god-tier frigate slipped away, silent and unseen.

  A shadow retreating beneath the light.

  As the cloaked destroyer drifted deeper into outlaw territory, the god-tier frigate in the distance buzzed with chaotic life.

  "Hey! You dumb void-brained idiot, stop pressing random buttons!" the old man shouted over the comms, his voice echoing through the ship.

  "Relax, old man! Nothing bad’s gonna happen," came the casual reply from one of the younger crew.

  Then, with a low rumble, the entire frigate began to shift.

  Panels folded, armor plates slid into new positions, and the sleek frigate reformed—its entire structure morphing into the shape of a colossal railgun.

  The old man roared. "What have you done!?"

  Back aboard the destroyer, Erie blinked at the display. “Uh... Vermond? The frigate’s... changing. It’s turning into a massive cannon?!”

  The comms crackled again. The old man’s voice came through, laced with fury. “One of these void-damned Like Erie fools touched something again, and now this frigate’s a damn artillery piece!”

  “What?!” Erie exclaimed, scandalized. “You damn greezer!”

  Still resting on Kiana’s lap, Vermond tilted his head slightly, watching the transformation. “That’s... something new. And powerful.”

  Then, Vermond’s thoughts sharpened. It’s going to rotate...

  And right on cue, the frigate began to turn—aligning with a nearby asteroid.

  A heartbeat later, the railgun fired.

  A monstrous beam of compressed darkness erupted from its barrel, obliterating the asteroid in a single shot. Space rippled with the aftermath.

  “Holy void!” Erie yelled, wide-eyed. “That thing could vaporize a battleship!”

  Vermond focused again, wondering if it could fire a second time—but nothing happened.

  Then the old man’s voice crackled back on, this time laced with awe. “The hell was that? There’s a countdown on the screen now—1,500 seconds. It’s got a cooldown!”

  Vermond nodded slowly. “Powerful, but too slow for sustained fleet battles.”

  Kiana smiled as she fed him another bite. “Big brother is really cool.”

  Vermond, for once, blushed faintly.

  Erie, watching from the corner, squinted at them... feeling something twist in his gut.

  He muttered under his breath. “…Should I poke my own eyes?”

  As the hum of the obliterated asteroid faded from their screens, a thick silence settled over the bridge—until Vermond finally broke it.

  “We need a place to trade,” he said quietly, his voice low, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. “Somewhere that doesn’t ask questions.”

  Erie raised a brow. “You mean an outlaw trading station?”

  Vermond nodded. “We’re low on synth fuel. The artifacts we took from the titan... we can sell them. Quietly. Cleanly.”

  The comms crackled as the old man’s voice cut in, now sharper, more serious. “Heh. I know just the place.”

  Erie leaned forward, intrigued. “You do?”

  “Of course I do, you muscle-headed void-eater,” the old man snapped. “You think I’ve survived this long without knowing where to fence stolen goods?”

  He cleared his throat. “Pull up the black-sector nav chart.”

  Erie tapped the Illegal Federation Map, and a dark holographic projection shimmered into life—an outlaw map of the fragmented zones beyond empires reach. Red pathways blinked against a sea of dead stars and fractured moons.

  “There,” the old man said, tracing from his end. “That’s Jurnak’s Maw. Hidden behind a shattered moon, guarded by mercs who’ll gut you for breathing wrong. But if you broadcast the right transponder signal... they let you in.”

  Erie gave a low whistle. “Sounds like a trap.”

  “It is a trap,” the old man chuckled. “The trick is not acting like prey.”

  Erie zoomed into the route. Dense fields of wreckage and collapsed asteroid belts painted a narrow maze across the map.

  “There are three passageways,” the old man continued. “If we cloak and follow this one— we reach it unnoticed.”

  Vermond nodded. “Then we move.”

  Kiana looked down at him, concern in her eyes. “Shouldn’t big brother rest?”

  Vermond’s gaze sharpened. “I’ll rest after we sell what we stole, Kiana. And after we grow stronger.”

  She gave a gentle smile. “Then I’ll watch over you until then.”

  Erie grinned, already imagining it. “An outlaw station... weird tech, shady people, and black market deals. Sounds like a party.”

  The old man’s laughter echoed through the comms. “Just don’t blink too slow, boy. Everything there bites.”

  With silent grace, the cloaked destroyer and the god-tier frigate arced into motion—drifting through the starless void toward a haven of shadows, treachery, and opportunity.