Ardota Prime was not a planet. It was a monument to cold, hard, eternal order. The capital of the Stellar Accord was a world-city, but it shared nothing with the chaotic, layered vibrancy of Nexus Prime. Here, there was no grime, no neon, no sense of life lived in the cracks.
The architecture was a triumph of the Brutalist style, designed to dwarf the individual. Vast, geometric structures of dark, polished stone and raw, unending concrete stretched for kilometers, their sharp, clean lines blotting out the sky. These buildings were not designed to inspire; they were designed to intimidate, to make every citizen feel like a single, insignificant ant against the eternal, unfeeling bulk of the Accord.
Inside the tallest of these structures, the Celestial Citadel, was the Grand Chamber of the Celestarch. It was a vast, circular room, its ceiling so high it was lost in shadow. In the center, a massive, round table of polished black stone sat, a symbol of unity, a gesture of false equality. Because at its head, the chair belonging to the Celestarch was not a chair at all. It was a throne. Carved from a single, dark, unknown crystal, its back rose ten meters high, a jagged, regal spike that asserted absolute dominance over the "equal" Grand Viziers seated around the table.
A Vizier was droning on, his report on agricultural tariffs dry and meticulous. "...and the new tariff protocols on the Neman labor trade have shown a 4.7% increase in–"
"Are there any new remnants of the Sol'ar we have found?"
The voice of the Celestarch was thin, dry, and sharp as glass, cutting through the boring report and freezing the entire room. He sat motionless on his high throne, an ancient, wizened figure draped in robes, his face a mask of ancient, paper-thin skin.
"That," the Celestarch continued, his voice barely a whisper but carrying more weight than a starship, "is what interests me."
The Grand Vizier of Finance, a portly man, dared to shift in his seat. "Celestarch," he began, his voice strained with a poorly-hidden frustration, "these... expeditions... are the primary reason we are bleeding the Accord budget. The search for these–"
The Celestarch slowly raised his hand. He extended a single, skeletal finger. A simple, shimmering weave of near-invisible thread, like a strand of a spider's web, shot from his fingertip. It zipped across the vast table and wrapped itself instantly around the Finance Vizier's throat.
The Vizier's eyes went wide with terror. He began to choke, his hands clawing uselessly at his neck, his face turning a deep, agonizing purple. He made no sound.
"It is your job to find the budget," the Celestarch said, his voice a calm, serpentine hiss, as if scolding a child. "I suggest you take the payroll from the less... essential sectors. And take the rest from the Outer Rim worlds we have conquered."
The Vizier, still choking, his body convulsing, managed to forcefully nod his head. "Yes... Celestarch..."
The Celestarch retracted the thread as quickly as it had come. The Grand Vizier collapsed forward, gasping and wheezing, a dark, terrified stain spreading on the front of his expensive trousers.
"I do not care," the Celestarch said, his gaze sweeping over the other silent, terrified Viziers, "if we have to comb through every forgotten galaxy. Our sole, eternal purpose is to disintegrate every last remnant of the Sol'ar from my universe."
One by one, the Grand Viziers bowed their heads low over the table. "Obey and Prosper," they chanted in a dull, practiced monotone.
The Celestarch stood, his grand throne looming behind him, and left the room without another sound, his robes whispering over the cold, stone floor.
…
Dorian waved goodbye to Lyra and Marcus, their small figures disappearing into the entrance of their school block. He did not turn back towards his apartment. He had been a Gacha-spamming machine while on Sela and during the trip back, and his System's inventory was overflowing with minerals, all ready to be sold. He giggled to himself. 'Hehehe.'
He stepped inside the starliner and took a seat, the car beginning its familiar, rattling ascent to the mid-level. As it climbed, a single, weak ray of the upper-level's sun lights managed to penetrate the gloom, landing on the window.
Dorian instinctively raised his hand to it, a ghost of an old habit. He remembered his school days, standing by the open door of the transport, just to feel that brief, warm bath of sunlight.
He wondered what would have happened if he had been compatible. If he had become a Solar. Would things be better? He doubted it. He would probably be on a transport ship just like this, heading to the Outer Rims, his mind just as tunnel-visioned as it was before, just focused on a different, more violent goal.
He sighed, a small, quiet sound, as the market station came into view. If that reality existed, it was one far away from where he stood now. And, he realized with a surprising certainty, it was one he did not miss.
He stepped out of the liner into the bustling, chaotic market. His first instinct was caution. The last time he had been here, the air was thick with tension, Legion patrols on every corner.
But as he walked around, he felt the atmosphere was different. The heavy, oppressive presence of the white-armored stormtroopers was gone. The local, slightly-less-intimidating Nexon security forces were back on patrol, and they seemed more interested in accepting bribes from food vendors than in harassing pedestrians. He relaxed. It seemed they had backed off.
He felt safer now. He navigated the crowded alleys, losing himself in the flow of shoppers, his movements a casual, meandering path designed to lose any monitor cam that might be tracking him. He found the familiar, dingy public toilet stall and slipped inside.
He thought, 'System.' He tapped Profile and Equip: Farmer of the Past.
He felt the familiar, subtle shift as reality seemed to wrap around him. The change felt less jarring this time. The real, nutritious food he had been eating for the last two months had given his own body more mass, so the shift to the farmer's lean, toned muscles was less of a shock. He looked at his reflection in the cracked, dirty mirror. The warm brown hair, the clear blue eyes, the healthy, sun-kissed tan. He turned his head left and right. "Great," he whispered.
He materialized the smaller, more valuable minerals, a handful of Tigerseye, a shining Prismatic Shard, a few gleaming Jade and a few more cloudy Opals, and put them in the simple bag he had prepared. He stepped back out into the crowded alley, a different man, and smiled as he began the walk towards Mr. Triabdi's store.
He was so focused on his destination, on the credits he was about to make, that he did not notice the scruffy-looking man in a civilian jacket who saw him bump with a passerby and immediately tapped a comm unit in his ear. He did not notice the two Nexon security officers who just happened to turn and begin following him, their pace casual, their distance perfectly maintained.
…
[Nexon Control Room]
"Lieutenant, a breakthrough." Ret Breind's voice was sharp, professional. "The seller is on the move."
Verza Zal, who had been staring at a holographic map of the mineral sector, turned. "Lead me."
She arrived in the main control room, a dark, cold space lit only by the glow of dozens of data feeds. The local Nexon Security captain, his uniform pressed, stood and saluted as she entered.
"Supervisor," he said, "I relay my chain of command to you."
Verza just nodded, her eyes already locked on the main screen, which now showed a grainy, zoomed-in feed of a brown-haired young man walking through a crowded market.
"Enclose and box the mineral sector," she ordered, her voice cutting through the low hum of the room. "Add additional plain-clothed units around the Triabdi store. It is a high-probability contact point. I want him contained."
As her orders were relayed and the officers scrambled, one of the cam operators, sitting side-by-side with his partner, whispered, "Who is this suspect, anyway? Do you know why we are locking down an entire sector for one guy?"
Verza, who had been walking by, overheard him. She stopped, her cold gaze landing on the terrified operator. "It does not concern you, officer," she said, her voice a silken, deadly whisper. "Either you do what I say, or I will have you in a holding cell and put a charge of aiding a suspect on your record."
The officer's face went pale, a sheen of sweat instantly appearing on his forehead. "Yes, ma'am."
…
Dorian, in his "Farmer of The Past" profile, saw Mr. Triabdi's store open for business. The Kalamoran was just finishing a deal with another customer, who quickly scurried away. Triabdi saw him, and a visible tremor went through his slender frame. His iridescent skin seemed to glisten with a new, sudden layer of sweat. "Ah," he stammered. "It is... you."
Dorian's internal alarm bells, finely tuned by a month of paranoia, began to ring softly. "You seem too shocked to see me," he said, his farmer's voice casual and friendly. "Did you miss my goods?"
Mr. Triabdi, who was visibly sweating now, his large, dark eyes darting to the street outside, forced a smile. "Yes, of course!" he said, his voice a high-pitched, unnatural squeak. "Okay, let's see what you have. I will give you a fair price."
Dorian placed his heavy bag on the counter but did not open it. "No need to scan it. I guarantee, all of it is the best quality."
As Triabdi began to check the minerals one by one, his hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped a large, flawless opal. He was sweating profusely now. He tried to make small talk, his voice cracking. "Where... where have you been?"
"Oh, you know," Dorian said, his own eyes now scanning the street outside the shop. "Things were good. Good things have been happening in my life, so I am just enjoying myself."
"Oh, good, good," Triabdi nodded, not really listening. "You know, you... you have never once told me your name."
Dorian was taken aback. He scrambled for a name, his mind defaulting to the first silly thing that came to him, the Stardew test character he is. "B... Bepoo." He coughed, trying to cover the awkwardness. "My name is Bepoo. But it does not matter who I am, as long as the goods keep coming, right?"
"Oh, of course, of course," Triabdi said, wiping his forehead with a cloth. "I have checked... let's see..."
But Dorian was not listening anymore. He was looking outside. The path around the store, usually a bustling river of people, was quiet. The normally crowded walkway was not completely empty, but the foot traffic was unnaturally low. And the people... they were not browsing. They were lingering.
He turned his head slightly. From every alley, at every intersection, he could see them. Handfuls of men in local Nexon security uniforms and civilian clothes. But they were holding Accord Radiant Carbines and Helios Pistols. Standard-issue, high-grade Legion weapons. He knew those guns. He had spent the last month obsessively studying the Accord's arsenal, ever since Verza's visit.
He turned his body fully, his back to the counter, his hand going behind his back. "Stop," he said, his voice no longer the friendly farmer's.
All the figures in the street stopped moving. The trap was sprung.
"Mr. Triabdi," he said, his casual farmer persona gone, replaced by a cold, sharp edge. "Is this a trap you have set up? Does the price of my goods offend you that much?"
Triabdi let out a terrified squeal and curled up in the corner of his shop, scared shitless.
Dorian scoffed, then looked around at the soldiers now closing in, forming a loose, inescapable perimeter. "Look, I do not know what I did to offend the Accord, but I assure you, I did not steal any of my goods."
A figure stepped out of the alley opposite the shop. A Legion captain in plain-clothes, flanked by two more troopers. "Give it up, Bepoo," the captain said, his voice cold and amplified. "You are surrounded."
They had been listening. The name was confirmation. 'This was a setup from the start.' his mind racing. "What did I do?" Dorian asked.
"Selling illegal, high-energy minerals without clear clearance," the captain recited, as if reading from a datapad. "Give up and come to the station with us. You can plead guilty and tell us all about your accomplices. Maybe then we can give you the minimum charges, and not add aiding the separatists charges."
"What?" Dorian breathed. "Separatists? When did I..." He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. Haaahhh.
He thought, 'System. Inventory. Weapons.' He remembered the lucky Gacha pulls from the other night. 'Materialize.'
He slowly showed both of his hands, empty, holding them up in front of him. "Okay, okay," he said.
The troopers lowered their guard, just a fraction.
'Now!'
And in that instant, with a shimmer of pixelated, blue-green light, two items materialized in his grasp. In his right hand, a heavy, curved [Cutlass]. In his left, a short, leaf-shaped [Elf Blade] dagger.
The troopers' relaxed posture vanished. "Irregular Solar!" the captain shouted, his own pistol snapping up. "Take him! Alive!"
In that same split second, Dorian felt it. A jolt, not of energy, but of knowledge. The [Combat LVL 10] skill from his profile activated. He suddenly knew how to hold the blades. He knew how to balance, how to move, how to parry.
One of the troopers fired a low-yield paralyzing shot from his pistol, a crackling burst of blue energy aimed directly at his legs.
But the new knowledge was already in his muscles. Without thinking, Dorian did something his old body could never have done. He did not just duck. He moved, twisting his body in a fluid, unnatural motion, the stun-burst sizzling through the air where his legs had been a millisecond before. He was in a fighter's stance, his blades up, his blue eyes narrowed and blazing with a cold, desperate light.
Dorian took a breath, the adrenaline surging through his veins, sharpening his senses. He did not know how it worked, but his [Combat LVL 10] was singing in his blood. He saw the alley, the ten troopers moving to flank him. He saw the single choke point they had left open. He had to trust the System. He had to push through.
He exploded into motion. "Fire! Fire!" the captain yelled.
The air filled with the sharp, glassy crackle of photon bursts. A guide, an invisible hand of pure instinct, seemed to take over his body. He did not just run; he flowed. He ducked under a red burst, the heat of it singeing the brown hair of his farmer persona. He parried a crackling blue stun-bolt with the flat of his heavy Cutlass, the impact jarring his arm, but he used the momentum to spin. The Elf Blade, a whisper of steel, came up in a graceful, light arc, slicing a trooper's Radiant Carbine in half.
He was a whirlwind of two conflicting styles. The Elf Blade was a fencer's grace; the Cutlass was a pirate's brutal, heavy chop. He was not just dodging. He was weaving through a storm of photon fire, the bolts passing centimeters from his skin, as if he were moving between raindrops. He leaped, kicked off a corrugated metal wall, and vaulted over the heads of the first two troopers, landing in a crouch behind them. He was out.
…
[Nexon Control Room]
Verza Zal watched the monitor feed, her eyes wide with a cold, new fury. The tan boy was moving with the precognitive grace of a trained, high-level Solar.
"Catch him!" she shouted into the comm. "Get the barricades in Sector 7 to push forward! Turn off the lifts! Secure the gates between levels! Do not let him escape the mid-level!"
…
Dorian was in a full sprint, the heavy boots of the troopers clanging on the metal walkway behind him. He needed a ranged option. He thought, 'System! Unequip!' The blades vanished from his hands. 'System! Materialize!'
His magnum opus appeared in his grasp. The [Galaxy Slingshot].
He heard the troopers shouting, but they were not shooting recklessly, not in these civilian corridors. Good. He reached into his inventory. 'System! Gold Ore for Ammo!' A handful of heavy, glittering [Gold Ore] nuggets materialized in his free hand.
He ran, weaving through the tight alleyways, not daring to stop. He heard them getting closer. He did not look back. He just turned his upper body, aimed the slingshot over his shoulder, and fired. A scream. He turned a corner. Fired again. A heavy thud as an armored body hit the deck.
He saw a squad of white-armored Legion troopers ahead, sealing the alley. He spun on his heel, running back the way he came, right into the first group of pursuers. He fired, the gold ore pellet a blurred, glittering missile. It punched straight through the Nexon trooper's local-issue armor, and the man went down in a heap.
The Legion troopers behind him opened fire, their superior white armor making them bolder. A stun-bolt sizzled past his head. He saw his escape: a crowded market square just ahead. But the main gate was already blocked by two more Legion troopers, their carbines raised.
He took aim, a single, perfect shot. The gold ore blurred across the square and struck one of the troopers in the helmet with a sickening crack. The trooper collapsed.
The market-goers screamed, a wave of pure panic erupting as they scattered in all directions. This was his chance.
Dorian did not hesitate. He sprinted into the screaming, scattering crowd, a fox in a stampede. As he was shoved between a large, panicking Neman and a terrified human family, he thought one, clear, simple command.
'System. Unequip.'
The world shimmered for a nanosecond. The tan faded. The brown hair turned black and white. The lean, powerful muscle vanished. The farmer "Bepoo" was gone. In his place was Dorian Kepler, a skinny, terrified-looking kid in a cheap jacket, running for his life with everyone else, his face a mask of convincing, genuine panic.
The Legion troopers burst into the square. "Clear out the area! BSO! OUT! OUT!" they roared.
As the civilians scattered. Dorian ran with them, his heart hammering, just another anonymous face in the crowd. The troopers secured the area. It was empty, save for their fallen comrades.
"Bepoo" was nowhere to be found.
The Legion captain, his voice tight with a mixture of rage and disbelief, activated his comm. "Supervisor... The suspect is... gone. He is nowhere to be found."
Back in the BSO control room, Verza Zal stared at the screen, at the empty, locked-down square. Her face was a mask of cold, unadulterated fury. She slammed her datapad down onto the console, the screen cracking under the force of the impact.
"DAMN IT!"
**A/N**
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**A/N**