They drifted steadily toward Jurnak’s Maw, the stars growing sparse as wreckage and debris fields thickened around them. Inside the destroyer, the bridge was calm, the hum of the cloaking field pulsing like a heartbeat beneath their feet.

  Vermond, now able to walk again, stood at the center of the bridge. His expression was cold and composed, the weight of command fully back on his shoulders.

  Then the comms crackled.

  “Stop! Stop the damn thing!” a voice shouted.

  A moment of static, and then—

  “This is Ruen—uhh... this old man here wants to solo the comms again.”

  “Give me that!” the old man’s voice barked in the background. “This is my turf, you bastard!”

  Kiana, lounging on the couch as usual with a warm drink in her hands, stared silently out the viewport, listening to the chaos echoing from the god-tier frigate.

  At the control panel, Erie tapped a few keys, speaking calmly. “Ruen, just let the old man have it. He’s the one guiding us through this mess.”

  The old man’s voice immediately cut through. “See?! Even that muscle-brain knows! Hand over the comms!”

  Ruen groaned. “Okay, okay! Fine!”

  A beat of silence passed before the comms stabilized again. The old man’s voice returned, more composed—barely.

  “Apologies. These bastards are more annoying than a plasma leech in your helmet.”

  Vermond spoke next, his tone as cold as ever. “About the station… is there an auction house?”

  The old man grunted. “Yes. Like I said—you’ll find everything there. Black market tech, rare parts, slaves, smugglers... whatever filth you’re looking for.”

  A faint smile crept onto Vermond’s face. “Good. We’ll auction the unknown crystals in the cargo hold—maybe even some of the titan’s loot.”

  Erie groaned between bites of something crunchy. “Here we go again. You remember when we sold off that cleanser? Miss those simple times.”

  “Don’t worry,” Vermond said darkly. “We’ll catch more. After we sell this haul.”

  From the couch, Kiana watched them quietly. Her green eyes gleamed as she caught the smirks forming between her brother and Erie.

  Those cold, mischievous grins.

  Planning something again.

  Something dangerous.

  Something... profitable.

  Vermond sat down beside Kiana, his expression calm as the hum of the bridge continued around them. Kiana leaned in slightly, sniffed once—and wrinkled her nose.

  “Big brother smells stinky,” she said with a gentle, honest smile.

  Erie, mid-bite, froze. His eyes widened. “H—You... W—well...”

  And then he burst into laughter.

  Vermond turned slowly, picking up a wrench beside him without a word.

  Erie’s laughter caught in his throat. “I—I was just thinking about something else! Yeah! About... the time we auctioned the cleanser! Together! Remember that?”

  Vermond sighed, defeated, and stood up. “Thank you for the reminder, Kiana. I’m going to take a shower.” His voice was dead serious, and his pride clearly wounded.

  Kiana reached out, patting his head. “Don’t worry, big brother. Even if you smell dirty... or like poop... I’ll still hug you tightly like this.”

  She wrapped her arms around him.

  Vermond smiled gently, returning the hug. “Thank you, Kiana.”

  As they pulled apart, Kiana cast a quiet glance at Erie—one filled with deadly intent.

  Erie froze in place, eyes darting away as he cleared his throat. “I-I didn’t say anything, alright?!”

  Vermond turned and left—but then stopped, a realization hitting him.

  The undead destroyer... didn’t have a bathroom.

  With a blank stare, he stripped off his upper suit and pulled on a pair of clean pants. Shirtless now, he returned to the bridge, towel slung over his shoulder.

  As he stepped in, one of the elite undead—the non-breathing humans—was standing silently in the corner. Upon seeing Vermond, it immediately stepped aside, respectfully making way.

  Erie turned to say something—and froze, the snack in his hand falling to the floor.

  “Vermond... your body—what the void? Did you train in secret or something?!”

  Only now did Vermond glance down, properly noticing his reflection on a console panel.

  He was lean, muscular—defined abs, chiseled arms, his physique honed and perfect. Not overly bulky, just... sharp, powerful, and graceful.

  Kiana, still on the couch, blushed faintly, smiling. “Big brother’s body is beautiful. Really handsome.”

  Vermond gave a soft smile. “Thank you, Kiana.”

  Erie looked down at his own stomach. Round. Soft. Full of snacks. “Damnit. I really need to catch up...”

  Then the old man’s voice came through the comms, snapping them back to focus.

  “We’re almost at the warp point. Brace yourselves—we're diving straight into the Maw.”

  The comms crackled.

  “We’re dropping out in three... two... one.”

  With a thunderous hum and a flash of twisted light, the cloaked destroyer and its god-tier escort exited warp.

  Before them loomed a shattered moon, torn apart ages ago by orbital bombardments. Its jagged remains orbited in slow death, broken plates of ancient stone and steel drifting in silent agony. Behind it—nestled deep in the shadows—was Jurnak’s Maw.

  It wasn’t a station. It was a graveyard turned fortress. Old ships, scavenged hulls, and broken titans had been welded together into a massive, living sprawl of outlaw machinery. Docking ports blinked with rusted lights. Hidden turrets tracked unseen targets. Cargo haulers drifted between shadowy corridors of twisted hulls.

  Kiana stepped up beside Vermond. “Big brother, so that’s the Maw...”

  Erie whistled from the controls. “Looks like a scrapyard for gods.”

  The old man’s voice came through, proud. “She’s ugly, and she’ll try to kill you if you don’t speak her language. But for those who know how to walk these decks—she’s paradise.”

  “Sending the transponder now,” Ruen muttered from the frigate. A beat passed. “We’re cleared for entry. Docking bay twelve.”

  The destroyer steered forward. Slowly, cautiously, the massive cloaked vessel slipped into the debris field, hiding between carcasses of forgotten ships.

  Erie scanned the monitors. “Tch. Look at that—mercenary ships, pirate rigs, even some Federation deserters. Everyone's here.”

  Vermond narrowed his eyes. “Do you think they’ll recognize us?”

  The Old man's voice crackled through the comms. “If they do, they’ll pretend they didn’t. That’s how the Maw survives.”

  As they approached the docking bay, massive gates opened like the maw of some ancient beast. Lights flickered red and yellow. Smoke drifted through the hangar’s broken ventilation systems.

  They touched down with a soft metallic thud.

  “We’re in,” Erie said, spinning his chair. “What now?”

  Vermond stood still for a moment. Then: “We bring out the cargo. The crystals. The artifacts from the titan. And we find the auctioneer.”

  Erie looked at him. “And if someone tries to take it?”

  Vermond smiled faintly, the glow in his eyes returning. “Then we remind them what we are.”

  The crew gathered—silent, focused—as the cargo bay hissed open and the blackened wind of Jurnak’s Maw swept through their ship.

  Welcome to the underworld.

  The elite undead—Non-breathing humans, fully geared and silent, began moving without a single word—intent on unloading the cargo from the cloaked destroyer. But then, they froze mid-step.

  Vermond raised a hand. “Hold. We’re exploring first. I want eyes on the place before we start moving anything.”

  Erie stretched his shoulders and smirked. “Finally, something fun.”

  Kiana remained quiet. Her cloak was up, hood drawn low over her face to conceal her features. Even in a place like this, beauty drew attention—and attention here meant trouble.

  The god-tier frigate’s ramp lowered with a hiss, and out came Ruen and the old man. The former looked annoyed. The latter, smug.

  “The rest of the crew’s locked inside,” the old man said casually. “I rigged the door. Nobody’s leaving the ship without my say.”

  Ruen shot him a look. “This old man’s a damn psychopath.”

  Vermond glanced at them both, then nodded. “Good. We’ve halted the operation. For now, we walk. Old man Renn—lead the way.”

  A grin spread across the old man’s face, crooked and weathered. “Trust me... this place will creep you out.”

  He turned toward the rusted gates of Jurnak’s Maw, smoke curling from vents above as distant sounds of shouting, laughter, and malfunctioning machinery echoed through the station’s bones.

  Together, they stepped forward—into a world of shadows, where every corner held a secret... and every deal came with a blade behind the back.

  Their footsteps echoed against the metal floors as they entered.

  Vermond walked at the front, his eyes sharp. Kiana stayed close behind him, her cloak drawn tight. She didn’t speak, but her eyes darted from corner to corner, watching every movement, every shadow.

  Ruen muttered, “This place gives me the creeps...”

  “Good,” Old man Renn said, grinning as he led them deeper in. “That means it’s working.”

  They passed by thick steel doors with strange markings—makeshift shops, private rooms, auction chambers. A mutant with four mechanical arms sold illegal implants from a rusted stall. A group of mercenaries with bloodstained armor argued over credits in a corner. A broken Federation bot limped past them, mumbling in corrupted speech.

  Erie tilted his head at a floating cage holding what looked like a half-alive creature humming with tech. “What the actual void...?”

  “Don’t look too long,” Renn said. “If it stares back, you’ve already lost.”

  They moved on, down a wide hallway lit by red emergency lights. A huge wall screen crackled with static before flickering into a black market menu—“LIVE AUCTIONS TONIGHT – RARE TECH, BIOWEAPONS, LOST ARTIFACTS.”

  Vermond stopped to stare. His gaze narrowed. “That’s our window.”

  Erie crossed his arms. “Think they’ll bite on those unknown crystals?”

  “They’ll bite,” Vermond said. “But they’ll try to take a chunk of our hands with them.”

  Kiana tugged gently on Vermond’s sleeve. He looked back at her. She didn’t say anything—just pointed toward a side corridor where a robed figure had been watching them, unmoving.

  But when they turned fully to look... the figure was gone.

  Vermond nodded once. “Keep your eyes open. We’re being marked already.”

  Renn let out a low chuckle. “Welcome to the Maw.”

  They continued deeper into the Maw’s twisted halls, weaving through crowds of smugglers, mercs, and shadowy traders. After a while, they found a quiet corner behind a broken vendor stall, where flickering neon signs barely reached.

  They sat down, backs to the wall, weapons nearby—just in case.

  Erie leaned forward, chewing on something again. “Look at those people over there.”

  They followed his gaze. Across the corridor, a group of silent figures stood in chains, collars blinking with red lights. Their eyes were hollow, skin bruised and worn. Some looked too young. Too small.

  Old man Renn exhaled sharply. “Slaves. They’ll be auctioned soon. Just another product in this pit.”

  Vermond’s eyes darkened. “This place is worse than I imagined.”

  Trying to sound composed, Ruen crossed his arms and looked off into the crowd, glancing sideways to check if Kiana was listening. “We should stay resilient. Keep our guard up.”

  Erie raised a brow and clapped sarcastically. “Wow. Oscar-worthy performance.”

  Ruen immediately dropped his head, muttering under his breath.

  Then Kiana’s quiet voice broke the silence. “Big brother…”

  Vermond turned toward her. She didn’t say anything else—just subtly pointed.

  The robed figure was there again, standing just beyond the crowd, half-hidden behind a flickering ad screen. Watching them.

  Vermond’s gaze locked with it.

  But like before, it vanished into the shadows the moment he tried to focus.

  Old man Renn leaned back, one hand on the hilt of his hidden blade. “Looks like someone’s taken an interest in us.”

  Vermond said nothing, his expression unreadable. But beneath the cold mask, the gears were already turning.

  They weren’t just visitors here.

  They were being hunted—or tested.

  Vermond stood without a word.

  Kiana glanced up at him, her hood still low. She didn’t speak, but he caught the slight nod. She had seen it too.

  Erie stood next, brushing crumbs off his coat. “We moving?”

  “Someone’s watching us,” Vermond said quietly. “I’m not letting that slide.”

  Old man Renn smirked, staying seated. “You go do that. I’ll hold your seats.”

  Ruen shuffled beside Kiana awkwardly, then followed behind Erie.

  They crossed the corridor, slipping between shady stalls and swaying banners of illegal syndicates. The crowds were thick, but not loud—this place didn’t believe in chaos. It believed in silence with knives behind backs.

  Vermond paused at the corner where the robed figure had last been seen.

  Then he turned sharply into a narrow alley, motioning with two fingers.

  Kiana followed without hesitation, her steps light as mist.

  The alley bent into darkness. And there, at the far end, stood the robed figure again—tall, unmoving. Its face still obscured in shadow beneath a smooth, metallic hood.

  It spoke first, its voice distorted. “Child of soulfire. We’ve watched your rise.”

  Vermond’s eyes narrowed. “And I don’t like being watched.”

  The figure tilted its head. “Then stop shining so brightly in the dark.”

  Kiana’s hand hovered near her sidearm. She didn’t draw it, not yet.

  “You’re not Federation,” Vermond said coldly. “Not Folkan either. Who are you?”

  The figure took a single step forward. “We are the ones who remember. And we know what you carry inside.”

  Vermond’s expression remained unreadable. “Then speak plainly before I lose interest.”

  The figure paused… then extended a black-gloved hand. Inside its palm was a shard—similar to the necrotic crystals Vermond had found in the Titan wreck.

  It pulsed.

  "Remember the person who gave you the triangle crystal? That's us. And remember, More will come for you,” the figure said. “You are not alone. But you are not safe.”

  Then, like smoke, the figure dissolved—vanishing without a trace, leaving only the pulsing shard behind on the ground.

  Kiana stepped forward and picked it up carefully, her green eyes flickering as it hummed in her palm, smiling faintly.

  “Big brother,” she said softly, “this shard... it's calling you.”

  Vermond took it from her hand. His eyes flashed—just faintly—as he felt the whisper of a soul trapped within.

  He turned back toward the corridor, his voice low.

  “Let’s go. This place just got more interesting.”

  A commotion broke out just as Vermond and Kiana returned from the alley. Erie was in the middle of it—locked in a fistfight with a smuggler, surrounded by a growing crowd.

  Old man Renn threw his hands up. “This muscle-head’s a damn magnet for trouble!”

  “Yes, I am,” Erie grunted, dodging a punch. “But he started it! Spit on my boots while I was eating!”

  Ruen tried to pull him back. “Calm down, you idiot!”

  The smuggler laughed, wiping blood from his lip. “Yeah? You suck, little void-eater.”

  Erie’s eye twitched.

  Then he lunged.

  The smuggler dodged and landed a sharp blow to Erie’s gut, knocking him back a step. “Too weak,” he taunted. “Go cry to your captain.”

  Erie smiled.

  And then—whoosh—he whipped out a spoon from his coat and jabbed it right into the smuggler’s backside.

  The man howled in pain, staggering forward.

  Erie followed up with a brutal flurry of punches to the face, sending him to the ground in a groaning heap.

  Vermond stepped forward and grabbed Erie’s wrist, voice cold and calm. “That’s enough. Eyes are already on us.”

  As if on cue, a group pushed through the crowd. Most were armed. One, with a scarred face and too many gold teeth, glared down at the scene.

  “Boss,” one of them growled. “These rats just attacked one of ours.”

  The ugly man cracked his knuckles, eyeing Vermond’s crew.

  “You just made yourselves real popular in the Maw.”

  Kiana, still hooded, didn’t say a word. But her hand subtly moved to her side.

  Vermond’s eyes dimmed slightly, his expression unreadable.

  Old man Renn sighed. “Well... so much for laying low.”

  The crowd thickened, voices rising with curiosity and excitement.

  “Hey! A fight’s breaking out over there!” someone shouted.

  The smuggler gang laughed cruelly, pointing at Vermond’s crew.

  “Look at these weaklings,” one sneered. “Barely worth the trouble.”

  Ruen muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. “Tch. This is why I can’t stand outlaws.”

  Then, a sudden flash of movement—someone from the crowd hurled a piece of rotten fruit. It flew straight at Kiana.

  The hood of her cloak slipped back, revealing her face.

  Her white hair shimmered under the station’s artificial lights. Her skin pale, flawless. And her emerald eyes—piercing, radiant—cut through the crowd like a blade of light.

  Time seemed to freeze.

  Erie’s gaze flicked to Vermond.

  His fists were clenched. His jaw locked. His body trembled slightly—not from fear, but fury.

  “Uh… Vermond…” Erie whispered. “Calm down...?”

  One of the smugglers stared at Kiana, dumbstruck. “Void... she’s beautiful…”

  Then their leader stepped forward, eyes wide and hungry. “I want her. Bring her to me!” he barked, pointing at Kiana.

  The crowd shifted, focusing all attention on her.

  A smuggler stepped toward her.

  Then—Vermond’s eyes changed.

  His left eye shimmered a pale, glacial emerald. The right one deepened into a dark, consuming green. The number: 121.

  A tremor ran through the station.

  One of the smugglers hesitated. “What was that…?”

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  “Probably the reactor acting up,” another muttered, unsure.

  Erie glanced at Vermond—and froze.

  Ruen backed away, swallowing hard.

  Even Old Man Renn exhaled softly. “Now that’s new…”

  As the smuggler reached for Kiana, she smiled gently.

  Like she already knew what was coming.

  Then—Vermond’s voice boomed.

  It echoed through the hall, not loud, but everywhere. A sound that felt both divine and demonic, like something speaking from across eternity.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  The smugglers froze.

  Even the crowd took a step back.

  Vermond walked forward, slow, controlled—like death itself taking form.

  “Don’t you dare touch my sister,” he said again, voice like thunder wrapped in silk.

  The air thickened with energy. The floor pulsed faintly beneath their feet.

  The smuggler leader stumbled back, eyes wide.

  “What the void is happening...?” someone whispered in the back of the crowd.

  Nobody dared move.

  And in the center, Kiana sat calmly, still smiling—quiet and untouched, like a goddess watching her celestials protect her.

  Silence gripped the hall.

  The smuggler who had reached for Kiana stepped back—hands raised, face pale. His leader, trembling now, tried to regain control of the situation, but his voice cracked.

  “W-We didn’t mean anything by it,” he stammered. “Just... just a misunderstanding!”

  Vermond didn’t answer. His glowing eyes bore into them, unmoving.

  The leader swallowed, then snapped his fingers toward one of his lackeys. “Get the crates.”

  The smuggler hesitated. “Boss... our goods?”

  “Now,” the leader barked, his voice shaking.

  A few moments later, they dragged forward three sealed crates, dropping them with heavy thuds onto the ground.

  “Rare tech,” the leader said quickly. “Illicit cores, black-market rations, even a few Federation-grade stimulants. A gift. An apology. We... we didn’t know who you were.”

  Vermond still said nothing. He simply stared.

  Then finally—he blinked.

  “Good,” he said quietly.

  Erie stepped forward, whistling low as he inspected the crates. “Well damn. We should get insulted more often.”

  Kiana lowered her hood again, hiding her face once more. Quietly, she moved to stand beside her brother.

  Ruen nudged the smuggler leader. “You're lucky he’s in a good mood.”

  The smuggler nodded rapidly. “Y-Yeah. No hard feelings, right?”

  Vermond took a step forward.

  The leader flinched—but Vermond only picked up one of the crates effortlessly with one hand.

  His voice was low and icy. “Next time, choose your targets more carefully.”

  “Yes, yes of course—absolutely,” the smuggler nodded frantically.

  Old Man Renn stepped in, chuckling. “I told you this place would creep you out. Seems like it’s the other way around now.”

  Erie grinned, holding up a strange-looking device from one of the crates. “This one’s illegal in twelve sectors. I love this place already.”

  Vermond turned, walking away with the crates. Kiana followed beside him, silent as ever.

  Behind them, the crowd slowly dispersed—whispers growing, rumors already spreading about the quiet girl with emerald eyes... and the boy whose voice could shake a station.

  Vermond turned to the group. “Head back to the destroyer,” he ordered calmly. Then, to Ruen and Old Man Renn, he added, “Bring the other two crates. Load them into the frigate.”

  They moved without question.

  As they walked through the corridors of the station, faint murmurs followed them. People whispered as Vermond passed.

  “Did you see him earlier?” one man said, eyes wide. “His voice—it shook the station.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” another scoffed. “No one can do that. It was probably the reactor or something.”

  “But it happened—I felt it—”

  Despite the protests, most dismissed the story as nonsense. The ones who saw it with their own eyes exchanged glances, their words dying in their throats. The memory of what happened lingered in silence, already becoming a myth, whispered and quickly forgotten.

  Back at the destroyer, the elite undead silently emerged as the group returned. Ruen, Erie, and Old Man Renn handed off the crates.

  Old Man Renn scratched his beard and muttered, “Silent as ever.”

  Without a single word from Vermond, the elite undead hauled the crates into the frigate with mechanical precision.

  Erie, now more relaxed, leaned toward Vermond. “Sooo… we heading to the auction now?”

  Vermond gave a small nod. “That’s the plan. I’ve seen what I needed.”

  Then suddenly, Kiana took his hand without warning, gently pulling him toward the destroyer. Vermond blinked in surprise—before she rose on her toes and softly bit his ear again.

  “Big brother was super cool out there earlier,” she whispered, her cheeks tinged pink.

  A small, genuine smile broke across Vermond’s face. He placed a hand on her head, gently patting it. “I’ll protect you. No matter what.”

  Kiana smiled back at him, eyes bright—like she had known, all along, that this moment would come.

  They made their way to the bridge. Old Man Renn and Ruen returned to the frigate, while Erie—unsurprisingly—was already munching on something again. Kiana quietly settled into her usual spot on the couch, pulling her cloak slightly tighter. Vermond tapped into the comms.

  The old man's voice crackled through. “Vermond, these bastards opened the crates.”

  A voice in the background shouted, “Hey! Check this out! Isn’t this some kind of advanced ship system tech?!”

  “I know,” Vermond replied calmly.

  The elite undead—those strange, human-like figures without breath—stood still at the edge of the bridge, unmoving, their camera-like eyes focused silently on everything.

  Old Man Renn’s voice came through again. “Oh, and I almost forgot—you’ll want to bring those elite mercs of yours into the auction for protection.”

  Erie raised an eyebrow. “Why? Is it that bad in there?”

  Renn chuckled darkly. “We’re in the Maw. You guard your own goods, or you lose them. No one else will care.”

  Ruen spoke next, his voice clear beside Renn's. “What’s the plan?”

  Vermond’s tone sharpened. “We bring five undead. Each will carry different items. We're keeping a low profile. No full display of strength—too risky.”

  Erie paused. “What about the dark crystal we got from the God of Death?”

  Vermond looked over. “That’ll be the first item. And we’re only auctioning a small portion.”

  “Why just a little?” Erie asked.

  The old man cut in with a snort. “To keep the price high, you muscle-head. Make it rare, mysterious. Supply and demand.”

  Vermond turned toward Kiana. “Kiana, do you want to come with us to the auction, or stay here?”

  She glanced up from under her hood, her voice soft. “I want to be beside big brother. Always.”

  Erie glanced at the two of them, groaning. “I swear, one of these days, I’m poking my eyes out.”

  Minutes later, the hangar bay inside the undead destroyer hissed open with a low, echoing groan. The five elite undead, their forms eerily still and efficient, stepped forward without a word. Each one was already equipped with reinforced exo-packs to carry valuable cargo.

  Vermond stood at the edge of the platform, arms crossed, eyes watching every detail. “Erie, Ruen—help them sort the crates. Only the ones with the marked tags.”

  “On it,” Erie said, brushing crumbs off his jacket as he moved.

  “Got it,” Ruen added, already scanning the crate markings.

  The elite undead moved like shadows, lifting heavy containers with unnatural ease. One picked up the case filled with polished alien tech. Another took a crate holding rare salvage from the Titan's Vault. A third lifted a sealed lockbox containing unidentified energy cores, then the fourth one picked up a small portion of the unknown dark crystal humming with a low pulse.

  Kiana stood nearby, her cloak draped over her form, hood up. She stayed silent, her emerald eyes quietly watching the process. She held onto Vermond’s arm gently, saying nothing.

  Vermond glanced down at her and gave a small nod before looking at the rest. “Leave the dark crystal sealed. The others stays until the final round. Erie, double-check its containment lock.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Erie replied, walking up to it and tapping the seal with a scanner. “Still tight. Still creepy.”

  Old Man Renn’s voice buzzed through the comms. “We’ve secured the external cargo route. You’re clear to move out when ready.”

  Ruen loaded the last of the selected crates onto a levitating hauler, then stretched. “That’s it. All prepped.”

  Vermond gave one last look at the lineup, then turned toward the exit. “We move carefully. No flash, no threats. Just business.”

  The five undead stood behind him like statues, silent sentinels.

  Kiana followed quietly, staying beside Vermond as always, her presence calm and constant.

  “Let’s get this done,” Vermond said, his voice low.

  They exited the destroyer, heading toward the auction floor.

  As they approached the auction hall, dozens of eyes turned to watch them. The five elite undead marched in formation, clad in black suits and full tactical gear, each carrying a sealed crate. Vermond walked at the front with Kiana beside him, while Erie and Ruen followed close behind.

  Erie muttered, “Yeah… low profile, alright,” as he stuffed another alien snack into his mouth.

  The hall buzzed with whispers and dim conversation, thick with the scent of alien spices and tension. Smugglers, mercenaries, and shady traders packed the room, their eyes flicking toward the stage and the mysterious group entering.

  Vermond and his entourage moved through the crowd like a blade through mist. People shifted away, intimidated by the silent undead and the aura of cold control surrounding Vermond.

  Erie snorted. “This place smells like someone boiled a dead lizard in old boots.”

  “Shut up,” Vermond said without looking.

  Beside him, Kiana clung lightly to his sleeve. Her emerald eyes scanned the crowd, quiet and observant. She tugged at his arm gently. “Big brother,” she said softly, “Someone’s staring at you again.”

  Vermond smirked, his tone dry. “Good. Let them.”

  At the stage, the auctioneer—a lanky, twitchy alien with a crooked smile—spotted them and hesitated. His eye lingered too long on Kiana’s face before he remembered himself and straightened.

  “Ah! Welcome, esteemed guests!” he croaked, voice cracking under pressure. “Today we offer the rarest artifacts and tech this side of the Maw! Let’s begin with our first item!”

  Vermond stepped forward, placing a datapad on the platform. A hologram flickered to life. One of the undead rolled a crate forward with a soft hiss. As it opened, an eerie, pulsing light spilled out.

  Gasps echoed.

  The dark crystal floated within, humming with otherworldly energy. Its glow cast flickering shadows on the stunned crowd.

  The auctioneer stammered. “Wh-What… what is that?”

  Vermond’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. “The Dark Crystal. It’s worth seven million credits. And a crate of high-grade provisions.”

  Murmurs broke out.

  One smuggler whispered, “That thing could power a whole fleet…”

  Another added, “Or destroy one.”

  Erie casually bit into his snack. “Might raise the dead too. Who knows?”

  A voice rang out from the crowd. “Five million credits!”

  Erie scoffed. “Cheap.”

  Vermond didn’t blink. “Seven million. Now.”

  The auctioneer hesitated, then began his count. “Seven million—going once—”

  A deep voice boomed from the back. A massive, armored smuggler pushed forward. “Eight million! I want it.”

  Vermond’s tone remained ice-cold. “Eight million and provisions. Nothing less.”

  The crowd murmured nervously.

  The auctioneer fidgeted, clearly overwhelmed. “W-Well… we can settle for seven million if the food’s good—”

  Erie facepalmed. “You’re unbelievable.”

  Ruen leaned close to Vermond. “Maybe we just take the eight and walk.”

  Vermond’s eyes glowed faintly. “Patience.”

  Then Erie stepped forward dramatically, hand on his hip. “We could always go somewhere else—find better buyers.”

  The crowd groaned.

  The auctioneer sighed, then relented. “Fine. Eight million and the food. Deal.”

  Erie grinned at Vermond. “Told you.”

  As the transaction finalized, more eyes turned on the five elite undeads—None-breathing Human. One smuggler whispered, “Those guys… they move like Federation black ops.”

  The auctioneer smiled shakily. “A historic sale, folks! Truly one for the books!”

  Vermond turned to Kiana. Before she could speak, he gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Erie, while munching something again, turned to Vermond. "What about the other crates we brought for auction?"

  Vermond then replied. "We'll skip into' that for now."

  The elite undead reformed around them, crates in hand.

  Erie lifted the food crate over his shoulder, dripping with green juice. “Best auction ever. Got credits. Got food. Got weird stares. Perfect.”

  They returned to the undead destroyer, the hulking vessel looming beside the sleek god-tier frigate. The five elite undead silently offloaded the crates of alien food into the destroyer's cargo hold. Ruen peeled away and headed back to the frigate.

  Inside the destroyer’s dim interior, Kiana settled into her usual spot on the couch. Vermond sat beside her, resting a calm hand on her shoulder.

  The comms crackled to life.

  The old man's voice came through, surprised. “Well... that was fast. What did you guys get?”

  Erie leaned back, grinning. “Eight million credits. And a crate of food.”

  There was a pause. Then: “T-That many?!”

  “It’s a dark crystal,” Erie replied casually, picking something out of his teeth.

  Vermond spoke next, voice calm, fingers still resting on Kiana’s shoulder. “The artifacts we salvaged from the Titan’s vault… we’ll auction those next. Slowly.”

  Erie glanced between the two on the couch, then groaned. “Why are you two getting closer every day? I know you're siblings but—seriously—I’m gonna poke my eyes out soon.”

  “You’re just jealous,” Vermond said, not even looking at him.

  “Shut up.”

  Meanwhile, the undead moved like clockwork, wordless and efficient. They began preparing the next set of cargo—artifacts salvaged from the Vault of the Warlord’s Titan.

  Erie scratched his head. “So... what do we price these things at?”

  Vermond replied, eyes still calm, his voice steady. “Ten million credits. Each.”

  Erie almost choked on the fruit he was chewing. “Ten mil?!”

  Vermond didn’t flinch. “We grind slowly. Let the hype over the dark crystal grow. When that peaks—then we sell the bigger stuff. That includes the illegal Federation map.”

  Erie whistled low. “So we're talking, what… a hundred million in the long run?”

  The comms buzzed again, Ruen’s voice cutting through. “You might want to check outside…”

  Vermond stood, eyes narrowing. He and Erie moved toward the ship’s viewing screen.

  Outside—gathered just beyond the destroyer’s ramp—was a crowd of smugglers. Armed. Watching.

  Waiting.

  Erie leaned in slightly, eyes sharpening. “Well... looks like omnious.”

  Vermond’s eyes flickered faintly.

  “Let them come,” he said coldly. “We still have plenty of dead to feed.”

  "Wait.. your undeads can now devour people?!" Erie choked.

  "Shut up."

  The docking bay outside the undead destroyer pulsed with tension. Over two dozen smugglers had gathered, forming a loose half-circle around the ramp. Some leaned on crates, feigning nonchalance. Others clutched rifles and pulse pistols, eyes sharp, fingers twitching. There was no mistaking it—they came expecting blood.

  Erie whistled low. “That’s not exactly a welcome party.”

  Ruen’s voice crackled through the comms. “They’re loaded. At least four high-energy signatures. One of them’s got a fusion blade.”

  Vermond stood at the top of the ramp, flanked by two elite undead. Towering in black armor, the breathless sentinels loomed behind him—white-eyed, unmoving. The air grew still around them, as if the destroyer itself were waiting.

  Kiana stood a step behind him, silent. Her green eyes scanned the smugglers, unreadable.

  Vermond took a step forward.

  The smugglers flinched.

  From the center of the crowd, a heavily tattooed smuggler with a chrome jaw stepped out. “You sold a dark crystal. We saw the energy spike from half the station.”

  Another shouted, “You don’t just drop power like that in a place like this and expect no fallout!”

  “And now you’re sitting on more?” someone else barked. “We want in!”

  Vermond didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate. Then—

  “No.”

  A single word, cold and final. It cracked through the tension like a shot.

  The smugglers shifted. Someone raised their weapon.

  Erie stepped up beside Vermond, cracking his neck. “Welp. Here we go.”

  The instant the weapon clicked, the undead moved.

  A blur—one elite undead surged forward, seizing the nearest smuggler by the throat. No time to scream. Just a wet snap of bone.

  122.

  Panic tore through the group.

  Blaster fire erupted. Blue plasma bolts screamed toward the ramp—only to fizzle out against a shimmering barrier. Another undead raised its arm, shielding the group with an energy shields. It hurled a plasma grenade into the crowd.

  A concussive pulse detonated across the bay.

  Half the smugglers dropped instantly. The others scattered in terror, weapons clattering to the ground.

  Vermond descended the ramp, calm, each step echoing through the stunned silence.

  “You thought you could take from me?” His voice was low, steady. “Remember this moment. I let you live.”

  The chrome-jawed smuggler staggered back, eyes wide. “This isn’t over!” he spat before vanishing into the smoke.

  Vermond turned to Erie. “Check the bodies. See if they dropped anything useful.”

  Erie scratched his head, surveying the unconscious figures. “Huh. Not bad for an auction after-party.”

  Behind them, Kiana watched, still silent.

  Vermond glanced her way, then forward again. “Next time... they won’t get to run.”

  The destroyer’s ramp began to close.

  Inside, the undead reset their formation, still and ready.

  Outside, the docking bay fell quiet once more—emptied of noise, and full of fear.

  Inside the destroyer, the low hum of engines thrummed beneath their feet. Crates were secured. Artifacts locked behind reinforced shielding. The undead stood like statues—silent, breathless, waiting.

  Erie dropped a small pouch on the table with a metallic clink. “Couple of credit chips, a rusted plasma knife, and… this.” He held up a thin black card—organic-looking, etched with glowing red symbols that pulsed faintly. “Looks like some kind of encrypted access key.”

  Vermond’s gaze narrowed. “Federation?”

  Erie shook his head. “Federation cards are blue and white. This… this is something else. Feels tied to the station.”

  He slid the card into a console port. The screen flickered, static buzzing through the air. Then a strange language scrolled across it—alien symbols, flickering red—and a low voice rumbled from the speakers:

  “Access verified. Retrieving lost signal from the █████ core.”

  Everyone froze.

  Erie blinked. “...The what now?”

  Vermond leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “Interesting.”

  A map projected from the console—a hidden layout beneath the station’s surface. A pulsing red point marked something deep within.

  “A smuggler’s den?” Erie muttered.

  “No,” Vermond said softly. “A secret base. We’re raiding it.”

  Before anyone could speak, Ruen's voice crackled through the comms, low and urgent. “Heads up. We've got more company inbound.”

  Vermond straightened from the console, his tone ice-cold. “Raise the shields.”

  Kiana stepped beside him, voice quiet but steady. “Big brother… Someone strong is approaching. I can feel it.”

  Vermond’s silence spoke volumes. Then, calmly: “We’ve been marked.”

  A shape emerged on the external cams—a hooded figure drifting toward the ship, silent as shadow. In its hand: a curved energy blade, humming with lethal promise.

  Its eyes never blinked.

  The comms crackled again with the old man’s grim voice: “Seems like the maw put a bounty on us.”

  The docking ramp groaned as it opened, exhaling a hiss of steam like the breath of some ancient beast.

  Fog poured out in curling tendrils, licking the cold station floor beneath stuttering lights. And in the heart of that haze… the bounty hunter stood.

  Motionless.

  Wrapped in shadow-drenched black, a jagged energy blade pulsing in one hand. The weapon flickered like it wanted to scream. The matte visor on his helmet reflected nothing—just darkness, empty and bottomless.

  Inside the destroyer, the air thickened—cold, electric, still.

  Vermond stepped out.

  Alone.

  He walked forward like a whisper wearing a body. His boots barely echoed on the ramp. Behind him, two elite undead emerged—silent, soulless. Their glowing white eyes stared ahead, unblinking. They didn’t breathe.

  The bounty hunter raised his blade—no words.

  Vermond’s lips curled—not in anger, but something worse.

  Curiosity.

  “You came for the crates?” he asked, voice low, like a prayer. “You’ll leave with nothing.”

  No warning. The hunter lunged.

  A flash of steel and hate.

  The blade came down like a guillotine. One undead stepped in—and was split in half, clean through. The other opened fire, its rounds hammering the hunter back—but the man didn’t fall. He slid, turned, and threw a spike straight into the undead’s eye.

  It didn't even flinch.

  The bounty hunter froze, breath caught.

  “What the hell—”

  Vermond tilted his head, like studying a bug trying to crawl away.

  “How is it still standing…?” the hunter whispered.

  Vermond smiled. Slowly. Too slowly.

  “You don’t kill what’s already dead.”

  He lifted a hand.

  And the shadows listened.

  They surged up like black roots, coiling around his arms, his boots, his throat. His eyes flared—one green, one dark, and both completely wrong. Empty and glowing.

  “Your soul,” he whispered, “will scream inside my orb forever.”

  The hunter roared and charged—fast, desperate. His blade moved like lightning.

  But Vermond didn’t move.

  The undead did.

  A second elite caught the strike mid-swing. Sparks howled. The hallway cracked under the pressure. The hunter ducked, spun, came in low—he was good. Too good.

  But then—

  A whistle.

  Soft. Delicate.

  Vermond’s lips barely moved.

  Then the ramp erupted.

  A wall of undead crashed into the scene—dozens, then hundreds—black armor, white eyes, rifles gleaming. The hunter stumbled back, eyes wide behind the cracked visor. He could barely speak.

  “What the hell is this…”

  Vermond’s tone dropped to a whisper, sharp enough to cut bone.

  “This,” he said, “is your grave.”

  The bounty hunter charged one last time, a final, frenzied lunge—

  —and the undead opened fire.

  Plasma tore through the air, hundreds of rounds at once. The hunter twisted, danced through the first volley—but the second hit.

  And the third.

  And the fourth.

  He jerked, spasmed—shredded by precision fire. Limbs twitched. Blood sprayed. A groan choked through his throat as he dropped to his knees, sparks flickering from torn armor.

  Still alive.

  Barely.

  Vermond stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully.

  He crouched in front of the dying man and studied him—like someone admiring broken art.

  “You were paid to kill me,” he whispered. “Tell your client—oh. You can't, can you?” His grin widened, sharp and eerie. “But don’t worry. I’ll find them. I’ll thank them... personally.”

  He stood.

  And nodded once.

  A final shot punched into the hunter’s chest.

  The body arched.

  Then crumpled.

  Vermond watched, unmoving, as the light left the man’s eye.

  123.

  His own eyes shimmered—counting the soul.

  Behind him, the undead returned to formation like nothing happened.

  Kiana appeared in the entryway, her face soft, calm… blushing faintly as her gaze lingered on her brother.

  Erie stood near the shadows, hand shaking slightly.

  “I… I didn’t know you had that in you,” he muttered.

  Vermond didn’t look back.

  He just stared down at the body, eyes unreadable.

  Then he turned to the console.

  The map still glowed. The next target—waiting.

  His voice, when it came, was colder than before.

  "I won't let them steal our treasures. That base is next.”

  The comms crackled, distorted for a second—then the old man’s voice came through, low and rough.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “I didn’t know our commander was that ruthless.”

  Erie swallowed. “Me… too…”

  Back inside the ship, Kiana sat curled on the couch, eyes locked on Vermond through the live feed. A soft blush crept into her cheeks. She smiled—gentle, almost dreamy.

  Vermond didn’t look back. His voice came cold and flat through the channel.

  “We’re infiltrating the base. Bring everyone from the frigate. We’ve been spoiling them too much.”

  The old man barked back immediately, voice sharp and energized. “You heard him?! Gear up! We move now!”

  Erie hesitated, voice tighter this time. “Are you sure about this…? They might… die.”

  “They won’t die,” Vermond said. Not hope. Not faith. Just certainty—like death itself had already told him.

  Then Ruen’s voice broke in through the static. “Vermond… someone found a crate here. Small pistol. Black metal. Feels like it’s humming with something wrong.”

  “Good,” Vermond replied. “They’ll use that.”

  Outside, the air grew heavier.

  Twenty elite undead stood at the ready—motionless, waiting like statues of war. A moment later, the sixteen crewmembers from the god-tier frigate arrived, gathering in tight formation. With them stood the old man Renn and Ruen, both holding those strange dark pistols.

  The atmosphere shimmered like something ancient was waking up.

  Inside, Vermond turned to Kiana.

  “You’ll stay here,” he said, voice softer but still distant.

  Kiana smiled like she expected that. “Okay, big brother,” she said, warmth lacing her words. “I’ll just watch everything… through the live feed.”

  But before he could walk past her, she suddenly stepped close, rose on her toes—and bit his ear again, lightly.

  Then whispered:

  “Stay safe, big brother.”

  Vermond’s eyes flickered, just for a second.

  Erie stared from the side, deadpan. “I swear to the void… I’ll really poke my eyes out.”

  The frigate crew lined up beside the elite undead—rifles shaking in human hands, steady in dead ones. The corridor to the smugglers’ den was dark, stained, humming with foul energy.

  Then—

  Bang.

  The first shot screamed through the hallway.

  Chaos erupted.

  Smoke exploded. Alarms shrieked. The undead surged in, silent and brutal. The crew followed, boots pounding on metal, dark pistols spitting violet bursts of energy that hissed through armor like acid.

  His eyes flickered: 126.

  A smuggler screamed—cut short by the elite undead's knife.

  And again: 127.

  Erie ducked behind a pipe as plasma fire zipped past his face. “Bang bang—this is not what I signed up for!”

  Vermond moved like a ghost. One hand raised, shadows swirling around him. His voice was ice. “Push forward.”

  The elite undead tore through the corridor. One smuggler tried to flee—his body was tossed like paper.

  And again: 128.

  From behind, a crewman yelled in pain. Renn turned and caught him before he collapsed.

  “Medic! We need a damn medic!”

  “He’s not dead!” Vermond growled from ahead. “Keep moving!”

  Blood smeared the floor. The hallway lit up with strobing red, a siren warping overhead. Gunfire rattled like thunder.

  Then again: 132.

  Then, deeper in—a massive storage room.

  Metal crates, stacked high.

  “Clear it!” Erie shouted, wiping grime off his visor.

  An undead crashed through the locked container. Inside: gleaming metals, preserved rations, sealed nutrient bars, weapon parts, salvage tech.

  Twelve crates in all.

  “Food,” Renn breathed, grinning through sweat. “And shiny things.”

  The undead didn’t pause. They started moving the crates without a word, forming a black wave of motion.

  One of the crewmen dropped to the floor, laughing madly. “We’re rich. We’re so damn rich!”

  "But we're already rich." Erie muttered.

  Vermond didn’t smile.

  He stood still, eyes glowing faintly, blood on his boots, watching the broken corridor behind them.

  “This was too easy…” he muttered.

  He turned to the others.

  “Get the loot back to the ships. Prepare for the next wave.”

  Erie blinked. “Next wave…?”

  Vermond’s smile twitched. Just slightly.

  “They’ll come.”

  The undead were halfway through hauling the crates when—

  Clang.

  The sound echoed through the vents, sharp and offbeat.

  Vermond's head snapped toward the shadows.

  A low voice followed—raspy, metallic.

  “Did you really think I’d leave empty-handed?”

  From the far end of the corridor, a figure stepped out—blood-splattered, limping, but grinning with a mouth of jagged chrome. One eye swollen shut, the other blazing with hate.

  The smuggler Vermond had spared.

  Chrome-jaw.

  He was dragging something.

  A crate.

  The crate hissed open, and out rolled a modified auto-turret, cobbled together with illegal parts, glowing sickly orange.

  “You killed my crew, freak,” Chrome-jaw spat, wiping blood from his mouth. “Now you’ll see what desperation looks like.”

  Gunfire roared.

  The turret fired first—slicing through the air. One undead went down, shot many times, its chest smoking.

  Erie swore and ducked. “He’s back?! This guy doesn’t know how to stay dead!”

  “Cover fire!” Ruen shouted, tossing a grenade forward.

  Boom.

  The ceiling cracked.

  Undead surged forward—shields raised, moving through the chaos like wraiths.

  Vermond didn’t move. He just stared.

  Chrome-jaw saw it.

  “You think you’re some god?! I saw you laughing while we ran!”

  Vermond stepped forward. Slowly.

  “Laughing?” he whispered. “No. I was remembering your face.”

  Chrome-jaw raised his rifle.

  Too slow.

  Vermond’s shadow darted across the floor and grabbed his leg.

  The smuggler screamed as the shadow dragged him forward.

  "Well... That's new." Erie said, watching Vermond.

  Vermond knelt beside him. Calm. The screams didn’t faze him.

  “I said I let you live once,” he said. “That was mercy. You threw it away.”

  He leaned in, voice like frost. “I’m taking your soul slowly.”

  The corridor dimmed. Chrome-jaw’s skin paled as the shadows poured into him—drinking. He writhed, the chrome on his face twisting, burning red-hot.

  His eyes went wide.

  “PLEASE—”

  Too late.

  His scream cut off. His body went still.

  133.

  Vermond stood, brushing the blood off his coat. The room had gone silent again—save for the low hum of the crates being loaded.

  Behind him, Erie shivered.

  “I liked it better when you were quiet,” he muttered.

  Vermond turned, eyes glowing faint green. “Then you’ll hate what’s next.”

  He looked down at Chrome-jaw’s twisted corpse. A flick of his hand—his soul twisted into a glowing shard and vanished into Vermond’s palm.

  “Kiana,” he said through the comms. “We’re done here."

  “Okay, big brother,” she said softly. “I’m watching.” Smiling faintly

  Boots echoed against the station floor.

  The crew of the god-tier frigate walked in silence, blood-splattered, dust-smeared, and wide-eyed. The nineteen remaining elite undead moved behind them like a second skin—silent, armored, soulless. And at the front, Vermond walked with calm purpose, his coat swaying, eyes unreadable.

  People stared.

  Smugglers. Mechanics. Traders. Syndicate eyes.

  Every head turned. Conversations died. Drinks froze halfway to lips. No one spoke. No one dared.

  But Vermond’s crew didn’t care.

  They walked like nothing happened.

  Like they didn’t just paint an entire den in blood.

  Like they didn’t drag out twelve stolen crates filled with food, weapons, and metals. Like they hadn’t just reduced a bounty hunter to pulp and shattered Chrome-jaw’s soul into ash.

  Like they belonged here.

  The old man, limping slightly with a burn mark across his jacket, cracked a dry smile.

  “Well,” he muttered, loud enough for the others to hear, “we’re in the Maw after all.”

  Erie groaned. “Gods, I need a drink.”

  “Shut up,” Ruen said. “You didn’t even get hit.”

  Erie gestured to his coat. “This was white.”

  Kiana’s voice came through the comms. “You did well, big brother.”

  Vermond smiled a little, but didn’t stop walking. His voice was cold and clear.

  “Next time,” he said, “we’ll take their ships too.”

  And nobody in that hallway—even the ones holding rifles—dared to follow.

  Because now they knew what had arrived in the Maw.

  Something colder than law.

  Something worse than war.

  Something that didn't die—and didn’t forget.

  They then entered the destroyer.

  The undead destroyer’s ramp sealed shut with a heavy thud.

  Inside, the soft hum of the engines returned, echoing through the cold, dim corridors. The raid was over. The loot was secured. Metal crates stacked neatly in the hold—twelve of them—filled with food, minerals, and rare components. The elite undead returned to their silent posts like statues resetting for the next war.

  Vermond, wordless, made his way back to the command lounge. His coat was stained with soot and a streak of someone else’s blood. Kiana met him there—waiting like she always did.

  She smiled. “Big brother, you didn’t get hurt.”

  He didn’t answer. He just sat down, leaned into her, and let his head fall gently into her lap.

  Kiana’s fingers threaded through his hair, brushing out the dust. “Rest, big brother,” she whispered, as if they weren’t surrounded by none-breathing humans and machines.

  Elsewhere, inside the destroyer, the frigate crew was… coping.

  Old man Renn stared at one of the strange dark pistols like it might explode. “This thing’s vibrating. Why is it vibrating?”

  Ruen flopped down into a chair, suit still scorched. “I got shot in the leg and I think it fused part of my boot to my skin. Anyone got a med kit? Or whiskey?”

  One of the younger crew poked a crate. “I think this one's hissing. Is that good?”

  Erie walked in, holding an armful of random loot and a half-eaten ration bar. He looked like he’d just sprinted through a minefield and liked it.

  “Hey,” he said, chewing. “One of the elites caught a crate with its face. Just headbutted it mid-air. I think I’ve imprinted.”

  Renn pointed at the wall screen—security feed of Vermond asleep on Kiana’s lap. “Meanwhile, our terrifying commander is getting pampered like a house cat.”

  Erie squinted at it. “Yeah, well, I’d sleep too if I just turned a bounty hunter into soup.”

  Another crewmember chimed in, deadpan: “You think he dreams in color? Or just static and screaming?”

  Someone from the back said, “We’re in a horror movie and we’re the comic relief. I can feel it.”

  Ruen groaned. “I watched one of the elites destroyed some guy's helmet. It didn’t even need to. It just wanted to.”

  A long pause.

  Erie leaned on the table. “So... what now?”

  Old man Renn sighed, “We wait. And pray he doesn’t decide we’re ‘in the way’ one day.”

  Erie popped the last bite of ration bar into his mouth. “Eh. I’ve been with him until now, he won't do that... Unless..”

  "Unless what?" Another crew member asked.

  "Unless we lay a hand at that beautiful goddess." Erie said, Pointing at Kiana on the security feed.

  Back in the destroyer's bridge.

  Vermond lay still, his head resting peacefully in Kiana’s lap. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady—but the flicker in his eyelids said otherwise. He wasn’t asleep. He was listening.

  Kiana hummed softly, brushing a speck of ash from his cheek with a maternal precision that didn’t match the mountain of corpses they’d just walked over. Her touch was gentle, like the world hadn’t just watched him incinerate a bounty hunter.

  Then—footsteps. Too loud. Too casual.

  Erie entered, arms crossed, a smirk already crawling across his face.

  “Well, isn’t this adorable,” he said, leaning on the doorway. “Commander Death himself, curled up like a lost puppy.”

  Kiana didn’t even look at him. “Big brother needs rest. Unlike you, he actually does something.”

  Erie raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Who dragged two crates full of metal across the station while ducking plasma fire?”

  “You dropped one and it nearly flattened Ruen.”

  “I was under pressure!”

  “You sneezed and tripped.”

  “That floor was uneven! And dusty!”

  Vermond’s lips twitched. Just a little.

  Kiana finally glanced at Erie. “Besides, you don’t get to tease when you screamed during the grenade blast.”

  “It was a tactical yell.”

  “It sounded like a bird being stepped on.”

  “Did not! It was a deep, commanding war cry!”

  “Even the undead paused. One tilted its head.”

  Vermond exhaled—just softly. The barest breath of laughter.

  Erie stepped closer, arms flailing now. “Look, I saved at least three people today. Minimum. Two of them were conscious.”

  Kiana narrowed her eyes, still stroking her brother’s hair. “And you almost shot Renn by accident.”

  “He startled me!”

  “He coughed.”

  “Exactly!”

  Vermond opened one eye, very slowly. “Children…” he murmured.

  They both froze.

  Then Erie leaned in. “Hey, Vermond. Be honest. If one of us had to be thrown into a fire to distract an enemy, who would it be?”

  “Erie,” Vermond answered without hesitation.

  Kiana grinned. “See?”

  “But,” Vermond added, closing his eyes again, “Kiana would be the one who pushed you.”

  She gave a satisfied smile. “Big brother is right.”

  Erie just groaned and dropped onto the nearest seat, arms flopping. “I need a vacation from this undead circus.”

  “Good luck,” Vermond muttered from her lap. “You’re already buried in it.”

  While Vermond rested inside the destroyer, the frigate crew had... other plans.

  “Alright!” one of them shouted, slapping on a helmet backwards. “Let’s see what this station’s really hiding.”

  The Old Man Renn, standing at the airlock door, raised one trembling hand like a prophet warning of doom. “Now hold on—The Maw ain’t your average back-alley dive, boys. This place eats newbies for breakfast and licks its teeth afterward.”

  “We’re not newbies,” someone said confidently, nearly falling down the ramp.

  “Name three things you know about The Maw,” Renn challenged, eye twitching.

  “Uh… dark, scary, illegal?”

  Renn pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m too old for this.”

  Too late.

  Sixteen overeager explorers in mixed gear charged into the winding guts of The Maw like kids on a field trip through a haunted asylum. Within minutes:

  —One crew member got caught in a poker game with three cybernetic lizards and bet their pants. Lost.

  —Another activated a vending machine that sprayed napalm.

  —Two got stuck in a lift with a malfunctioning AI that kept asking riddles with no answers.

  —Someone insulted a local gang leader by sneezing too close to her boots. A chase began.

  Renn, trailing behind them with both hands raised like he was defusing a nuclear bomb, kept shouting, “Stop poking things! Don’t eat that! That’s not soup—it’s a sentient sludge trap!”

  Ruen, calmly eating noodles beside a stall made entirely of recycled ship parts, just watched the chaos unfold. “This is why we don’t give them free time.”

  Eventually, alarms started blaring. Distant gunfire echoed. A stall exploded.

  Erie, back on the destroyer, watched the live feed and winced. “Uhhh… are they looting a customs office?!”

  Vermond didn’t even open his eyes. “Let them. We needed a distraction anyway.”

  Back in the station, Renn tackled one of the crew members as they tried to stuff a glowing orb into their backpack. “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT THIS IS?!”

  “No, but it looked shiny!”

  “That’s a temporal disruptor! It eats time!”

  “Oh. My bad.”

  “You brought me madness.” Renn muttered, dragging him away by the collar. “Madness with a rifle.”

  In the middle of the chaos—blaring alarms, confused vendors, and a very angry boot-polishing syndicate—the youngest of the frigate crew, Kez, tripped over a broken pipe.

  “Ugh, damn thing,” he muttered, kicking it.

  The floor under the pipe clicked.

  Everyone froze.

  “...That’s not supposed to click,” muttered Ruen through his comms.

  A section of the floor groaned, then shifted. A metal hatch hissed open beneath Kez’s feet, revealing a steep staircase leading into dim blue light.

  The crew stared.

  “Secret tunnel?” someone whispered.

  “Secret vault?” someone else whispered louder.

  “Nope. We’re leaving. Right now.” Renn was already backing up. “You hear me? If there’s one thing The Maw doesn’t do—”

  Kez took the first step down.

  Renn sighed, staring up at the ceiling like he was begging the stars for patience. “Why do I even bother...”

  They descended. Slowly. Carefully.

  The air grew colder.

  And then—they found it.

  A vault. Massive. Old Federation make, covered in dust, half-buried under The Maw’s newer structures. And inside?

  Fifteen crates.

  Each sealed tight, marked with the old warning symbols for high-value trade.

  Ruen scanned them from the comms. “That’s food. Rare rations. Processed metals. And... hold on. One of those crates has Isenium.”

  “Isenium?” Renn blinked. “That’s enough to power a dreadnought’s core for a month!”

  The crew erupted in cheers.

  “That means—” one said, grabbing another by the shoulders, “we’re rich!”

  “No,” Renn groaned. “That means we’re dead men walking. The Maw don’t lose crates like these without someone noticing. And whoever owned them?”

  He pointed a shaking finger at the crates.

  “They’re already looking for you.”

  Erie, watching on the screen, whispered, “Oh, crap…”

  Back on the destroyer, Kiana tapped Vermond’s shoulder gently.

  He opened one eye.

  “They found something, big brother.”

  Vermond sighed. “Of course they did.”

  Vermond then didn't speak.

  He simply exhaled, slow and steady, resting his head a little deeper on Kiana’s lap.

  But then, without a single gesture, three elite undead—The none-breathing humans near the ramp straightened—perfectly synchronized. Their eyes flared white. Wordlessly, they turned and began marching toward the lower levels of the station.

  Kiana blinked, smiling. “Big brother really knows what to do.”

  Vermond finally spoke—quiet, amused. "They’ve already won the fight. Now we’re just collecting the reward.”

  He tapped the comms, a faint smirk curling on his lips.

  “To Renn,” he said smoothly, “and the crew of the flying disaster...”

  Erie leaned forward. “Don’t say it—”

  “Good job,” Vermond said, the smile deepening. “You’ll all be receiving a promotion.”

  Cheers broke out on the other end.

  “Wait, really?” one of the crew shouted.

  “What kind of promotion?” another asked, followed by, “Do we get badges?!”

  Renn groaned. “Don’t encourage them, Vermond. They just poked a sleeping hive of plasma-slinging lunatics, and now they think they’re heroes.”

  Vermond chuckled darkly. “They found Isenium. That alone puts them above half the scum in The Maw.”

  He closed his eyes again.

  Kiana brushed a hand through his hair, smirking. “Big brother, you’re soft on them.”

  “They’re useful,” he replied, voice low. “For now.”

  Outside, the undead marched on—silent. Inevitable.

  The Isenium would be theirs before the station even realized what was happening.

  Minutes tick by, and the god-tier frigate crew finally came back with the crates on hands.

  The last crate clunked into place, stacked neatly beside the others in the destroyer’s cargo hold. The elite undeads stood silent as statues again, not a single step wasted, not a single word spoken. The crew from the god-tier frigate were catching their breath—grinning, high-fiving, some still marveling at the polished veins of raw Isenium inside one of the crates.

  Renn adjusted his coat and looked around. “Alright boys, smooth and clean. No alarms. No blood. Just like the old days.”

  Then—

  A scream echoed through the Maw’s metallic halls.

  “THIEF!” someone shrieked. “THE VAULT’S BEEN RAIDED!”

  Footsteps thundered. Lights flashed. Sirens began to wail through the upper levels. Shouts exploded in every direction.

  “Lock it down! Find them!”

  “That vault held half the Maw’s central trade chips!”

  “Where’s the scanner team?! Get heat readings—now!”

  From the safety of the destroyer’s dark hangar, Erie slowly turned his head, still sitting near Vermond. “Sooo... that wasn’t us, right?”

  Vermond, eyes half-closed and still resting with his head in Kiana’s lap, answered flatly, “No. We don’t leave fingerprints.”

  Erie looked at him with a curious sarcastic expression. “Then who did?”

  Vermond shrugged slightly. “Someone with bad timing.”

  Erie leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. “The Maw’s gonna eat itself alive trying to find a ghost.”

  Outside the destroyer, chaos escalated. Armed groups were now sweeping every dock and corridor. Two different smuggler clans were already arguing, and weapons were starting to get drawn.

  “Should we leave?” Erie asked.

  “Not yet,” Vermond murmured. “Let them tear each other apart first.”

  Erie grinned. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  Vermond’s eyes glinted faintly, just a sliver of green behind his lashes. “I enjoy silence. This is just the warm-up act.”

  A moment passed, and then Old man Renn’s voice crackled over the comms.

  “Uh... good news. They think some gang from Patrr did it. They're forming a hunt party.”

  Vermond smiled softly. “Perfect.”

  Then he turned toward Erie. "Prepare for launch.”

  Erie stood, stretching. “You know, I love it when we leave just before the fireworks.”

  The undead began moving again—quiet and efficient—readying the ship for departure as behind them, the Maw spiraled into confusion, rage, and inevitable violence.

  Back inside the destroyer, things had settled again. The crew from the frigate had returned to their posts—tired but grinning. The Isenium and metals were secured, and the cargo hold sealed tight. Outside, the Maw was still ablaze with confusion, but inside, Vermond sat on his usual seat near the command console, his tone cold and calm.

  “We’re not building a station anymore,” Vermond said flatly, addressing everyone through the shared comms. “Too slow. Too exposed.”

  He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “We’ll find one—and rebuild it.”

  A soft crackle came through the comms. Then Renn’s voice followed, gruff and nostalgic. “Heh... I might know a place.”

  Silence.

  Erie raised a brow. “You always do.”

  Renn continued, “Big station. Real big. Federation built it, then lost it. Been dead for decades. They called it Vella-9.”

  “Why abandoned?” Vermond asked.

  Renn paused for a beat, then said, “Because it’s near a black hole.”

  Erie frowned. “...That’s insane.”

  “You asked for hidden,” Renn said, amused. “Nothing hides better than gravity that wants to eat time itself.”

  Ruen's voice chimed in next, more cautious. “We also scanned it a few years back when I was still in the federation. Still stable. Artificial orbit. Mostly intact. Just... dead.”

  “Any survivors?” Erie asked.

  “None,” Ruen replied. “Unless you count the shadows.”

  Vermond smiled slowly.

  “Set the course,” he said. “Vella-9 sounds like home.”

  Erie blinked. “We’re seriously going there?”

  Vermond looked at him, voice cool. “Where better to grow than a place nobody dares to touch?”

  Erie grinned from his console. “One haunted ruin near a cosmic abyss coming right up.”

  The undead destroyer began to hum again. The god-tier frigate lit its systems beside it. Both vessels, silent and monstrous in design, waited in the dark of the Maw—ready to vanish from chaos and head toward something older, colder… and forgotten.

  Renn’s voice muttered one last thing before the comms clicked out.

  “You’ll love it.”

  Vermond's eyes glinted faintly.

  “I'll sure will.”