The smoke of burning metal and ash clouded the skies above Segment 1, a reminder that the Vir Empire's grip had poisoned the very air. Jason and his companions marched at the frontlines, their faces hidden behind crude masks to shield against the toxic pollution. Each step crunched against the broken soil, echoing with determination.
Beside him, the towering figure of Mek'lar, the adoptive father of the Scorched Branch leader, strode forward. His scarred body was wrapped in ancient Zypherian armor, faintly glowing with inscriptions of their ancestors. His voice was grave as he spoke to Jason and the soldiers around them.
Mek'lar: "Do not be fooled by silence. The Empire's wrath is never far. Reports whisper that android legions await us. Jason… we know you are capable of breaking through any wall, crushing any foe—but the others must tread carefully. Not all can match your strength."
Jason said nothing, only tightening his fists inside his armored gloves. His masked eyes burned with focus, the faint glimmer of defiance leaking from him like heat.
From the Verdalian ranks, Jigo stepped forward. His towering frame, muscles bulging beneath simple war leathers, dwarfed most men. His voice was a thunderous boom that stirred courage in the hearts of the soldiers.
Jigo: "Hah! Let them send their machines. Flesh and spirit still stand stronger than circuits and steel. We will crush them, together!"
A murmur spread among the mixed host of Zypherian rebels and Verdalian warriors. Tension gave way to fire. Side by side, united despite their scars, they raised their weapons high.
Then, as if one voice carried the weight of thousands, they began the Battle Hymn.
A deep chant, half song, half roar, rising through the smog-choked air. The ground trembled under their rhythm, their spirits merging into one unstoppable tide of rebellion.
Jason stood silently, listening. Beneath his mask, a faint smile curved. This was not just a war anymore. This was a storm—the kind no empire could hold back forever.The clash of steel rang in the dust-choked air.
Targan's blade scraped across Roouch's armored forearm, sparks spitting like fireflies in a storm. The larger Zypherian hardly flinched. His crimson eyes glowed beneath the shadow of his helm.
Targan's chest heaved, blood dripping down his side, soaking into the ragged cloth beneath his armor. He swung again—wild, desperate—but Roouch caught the strike in one hand, shoved him back with brute force.
"You've grown," Roouch's deep voice echoed, calm, cold. "But you'll never surpass me."
Targan snarled, wiping blood from his lip. Rage trembled through his bones. But his strength—no matter how fierce—did not measure against Roouch's towering presence.
And then—
The battlefield dissolved into the shadows of memory.
Flashback – 10 Years Ago
The desert winds howled over Rot City – Darnak-9, one of the Zypherian empire's slave-mining colonies. The sky was a rust-stained orange, choking with smog from the refineries.
Targan was only nineteen then, skin still raw from the endless lash of chains, muscles hardened by years of labor. Beside him worked others—Ka'roth, Roouch, Rom—all Zypherians of the same age, all shackled under the weight of stone and dust. Their hands bled from picks and hammers, their throats burned from air that reeked of iron and ash.
Food was scarce. Water scarcer still. Drought clawed through the land, and the overseers cared nothing for the dying. Hunger gnawed at their ribs, yet the work never ceased.
Then came the scream of horns.
The sky darkened with sails—the desert pirates of Vokar-17. Black banners marked with skull-flames swirled in the heated wind. Their war-bikes thundered through the outer gates, weapons blazing.
The Zypherian royal officials tried to resist, but their defenses crumbled under the pirate charge. Blades flashed, rifles cracked, and fire spread through the barracks.
In the chaos, the slaves were not spared.
Chains rattled as the pirates turned their fury toward the miners. Whole rows of laborers were cut down where they stood. Blood pooled in the sand, mixing with dust.
Targan remembered the heat of that day—the choking ash, the way his lungs nearly collapsed under the poisoned wind. He remembered Ka'roth coughing blood, Rom screaming for help. And above all, he remembered Roouch—calm even then, stronger than all of them, his eyes lit with something dangerous.
That was the day their paths began to split. The Eyrvaks, once famed as the galaxy's elite space cops, now stood reborn as rebels of justice. Their leader, Ir'ken, the strongest among them—an Upper A-Class Warrior, a legend whispered across star systems—was a towering presence within the Caves of the Unknown, their hidden headquarters.
After liberating thousands of enslaved souls from Vorrak-7, the cries of the freed echoed in gratitude. Children clung to their mothers. Old men wept, their chains finally broken. And yet, amidst the relief, the fire of resistance only burned brighter.
Ir'ken gathered the young warriors—Ka'roth, Targan, Roouch, Rom—each with blazing eyes filled with determination.
As they began their training, Targan broke away, his chest heaving with both exhaustion and urgency. He approached Ir'ken, his voice trembling but resolute.
"Master Ir'ken… Roouch has another brother—Kroouch. He was kidnapped and enslaved in another Rot City. I beg of you… save him too."
Ir'ken's glowing eyes narrowed. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"What will I gain from helping you again, boy?"
The chamber grew silent. Every Eyrvak turned to listen.
Targan did not hesitate. He dropped to one knee, fists clenched against the stone floor.
"I, Targan, swear on my soul. I will sacrifice my life if it means bringing peace—not just to Vokar-17, but to the entire Liliput Star System. If that is the price, I will pay it."
From the shadows of the cavern, a figure stirred—Yenna, her sharp eyes studying Targan from afar. Her heart wavered between admiration and worry.
Ir'ken stepped closer, his towering form casting a long shadow over Targan. Then, for the first time, a smirk tugged at his lips.
"Your resolve is true. Then rise, Targan. I will train you… all of you. If you want to face the evil ahead, you must become strong enough to shatter destiny itself."
The Eyrvaks roared in approval, their voices shaking the cavern. A new fire had been lit. The young ones—Ka'roth, Targan, Roouch, Rom—bowed their heads, their hearts burning with purpose.
From that moment, the training of the next generation of warriors began.