Universal Location: Unknown
Planet: Unkown
Precise Coordinates: -ERROR-
The world arrived in fragments, painful and sharp. Serath. All he knew was only the chilling ache of cold stone and the desperate, struggling breath that pulled him back from the merciful dark. He was the Hollow One, but the emptiness he usually beared was now replaced by a crushing disorientation.
He strained his failing vision. The room was a stark void, dimly illuminated by a weak, sickly blue glow originating from some unseen source on the floor. It was a place of isolation, a cage designed for interrogation. His arms were bound high above him, pulling his shoulders taut, anchored to the rough wall by restraints that felt impossibly ancient, yet vibrated with fresh, malignant power.
Serath tried to flex the muscles that had once crushed destroyer-class warships. Nothing. The restraints were not common alloys; they were woven energy, dark and viscous, a form of corrupted power he recognised with a sickening drop in his gut—Aethermancy.
He looked up, finding the source of the unsettling atmosphere. Silhouetted against a bright, square doorway stood two figures, casting long, distorted shadows across the prison floor. One was a towering, vaguely humanoid shape, utterly blurred by the darkness of the passage, impossibly still. The other was closer, defined by an unsettling permanence: a high-collared silhouette topped by a wide, perpetual, artificial grin.
The grin was the only thing Serath needed to see. It was a construct of malice and high theater, gleaming and bluish-white, fixed to a mask that obscured everything else. A wave of profound, immediate loathing settled over the Warlord.
A high-pitched, almost musical laugh echoed from the doorway—a sound of pure, unadulterated psychosis. The figure with the smile moved, stepping out of the harsh backlight and into the dim, pervasive shadows of the hideout.
"Welcome, Warlord Valorian," the figure chirped, his voice unnervingly cheerful yet artificial, like the host of a decadent feast. "Or should I say, the Hollow One, waking up in my humble establishment."
The grin drew closer, and Serath finally saw the man in full. This was Arkan.
Arkan was an embodiment of stylised, corrupted nobility. He wore a shadowy, high-collared coat that hinted at forgotten courtly styles, yet it was laced with metallic filigree and crimson accents. His elaborate, gothic hat was crowned by a pulsing, heart-shaped red gem, and the single visible eye—a predatory, piercing purple—gleamed with genuine menace. The air around him seemed to warp slightly, streaked with faint, residual purple energy, suggesting proximity to immense, controlled power.
"You look confused, Serath," Arkan continued, gliding past the few sparse chairs lining the wall of the hide. He paused, leaning casually on the hilt of his ornate sword, which crackled faintly with the same violet intensity as his eye. "A grand sight, really. The great leader of the Valorian Dynasty, looking less like the shield of the Imperium and more like a captured rodent."
Behind Arkan, the second figure finally moved, stepping just far enough into the light to reveal himself. And this be no blurred shadow.
He was Kravic Bane.
The bounty hunter was a brutal contrast to Arkan's refined, dandyish villainy. Bane was a wall of muscle and synthesised armor, his face obscured by a seamless, jade green visor that offered no hint of expression or humanity. He carried himself with the heavy, silent lethality of a coiled predator, his massive frame draped in the dark colors of the Brotherhood—the Assassins Guild. Serath instantly recognised the man as the source of the initial, diversionary attack during the space chase, the precise vector of his downfall.
"Kravic Bane," Arkan introduced, waving a negligent hand toward the hunter. "A useful operative. He managed to separate you from your overly armored kin. Efficient, if somewhat messy."
Serath ignored the buzzing pain in his arms and focused on the chains. "What is this place? What manner of trickery is this, Arkan?"
Arkan chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. "Trickery? No. This is my Hide, under the warm, Nexirial Transmutation Domes of Aqualora. A lovely place, built entirely underwater. This place however is far more secure… as you can see."
He tapped one of the dark chains binding Serath's wrist. The touch sent a spike of cold despair through the Warlord.
"These, my dear Serath, why these are no chains. They are constructs of pure Aethermancy, the Nexomancy of the Void. They are calibrated precisely to a Hollow Human energy signature—a lovely touch, if I may say so. You, the great Warlord of Valor, bound by the very power you pretend doesn't exist."
Serath pulled, a desperate, sudden surge of Valorian strength fueled by rage and humiliation. He channeled his inner Nexirial focus, attempting to charge his combat suit systems, to wrench the metal from the wall, to simply break the arcane bonds.
The Aethermancy resisted, not by snapping, but by absorbing and dampening his efforts. The dark tendrils tightened painfully, the energy surging back, chilling his core. He gasped, falling back against the wall, helpless.
Arkan watched the spectacle with his fixed, grotesque smile, clapping his hands softly, once, twice.
"Oh, Serath, Serath. That was truly pathetic. A flicker of effort, and already the strain is visible on your face." Arkan stepped closer, his shadow engulfing the captive. He lowered his voice, though the playful malice remained. "You see, that is why you will fail. That frown, that moment of struggle? It is a confession of weakness. I never struggle, Serath. I simply am."
The Warlord gritted his teeth, refusing to show further pain. "If you meant to kill me, you would have done so in space. What is this? What do you want?"
Arkan sighed dramatically, straightening his coat. "Always so direct. No appreciation for the narrative. Very well, let's skip to the climax."
He gestured to Kravic Bane. The massive bounty hunter shifted, his hands resting near the weaponry on his belt.
"You will be delivered to The Brotherhood, Serath. Kravic here has a lucrative contract—one I helped facilitate. They have a certain appetite for high-profile targets, especially those who carry the scent of the Valorian Dynasty."
Serath's gaze narrowed. "I am the Warlord. My disappearance would incite a military response that would flatten everything you hold dear on this world."
"Precisely," Arkan purred. "But you won't disappear. You will appear in chains, live, on the universal network. And then, the finale: the execution of Serath Valorian, leader of the most powerful house in Aculon. And they'll turn to me, all of them. First Aqualora. Then the Master. And then the Imperium, and soon the universe shall know that the Hollow One is no more!"
The plan was audacious, horrific, and terrifyingly plausible. Serath's rage, which had been simmering, boiled over.
"You fool," Serath spat, ignoring the mounting pain, his voice raw. "You believe the Brotherhood can stand against the might of the Imperium? Against the strength of the God Emperor? Against the Valorian Dynasty? We are the order of this universe. We are unbreakable!"
Arkan threw his head back and laughed—a high, manic sound that scraped across the silence of the hideout.
"The Imperium! The God Emperor!" Arkan mocked, wiping a nonexistent tear from his painted mask. "You cling to these ancient idols. Do you truly believe that the God Emperor still sees anything beyond his own withered glory? He is a relic, Serath. A crumbling edifice of outdated ideals."
Arkan's smile seemed to widen, somehow becoming more predatory. "The Imperium is built from dynasties of cowards, shackled by antiquated loyalty. And the Valorian Dynasty? Oh please, you are just its most arrogant lapdog. You fight for order when the universe is screaming for change. A powerful, singular change, perhaps guided by a hand more capable than some tired, half-dead deity."
He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper laced with absolute narcissism. "The future belongs to those willing to embrace the truth of the Void, not those who hide in the shadow of a fallen god."
Serath tried to respond, but the words caught in his throat. Arkan was not just a villain; he was a philosophical nihilist with enough power to enact his grand designs. He was very much a dark soul in the Nexium Wars but this, this was pure evil.
"But enough of the heavy talk," Arkan said, suddenly bored. He stepped back, raising his ornate sword. The purple energy around the blade intensified, crackling violently, illuminating the jagged teeth of his mask. "You look thirsty for a demonstration of power. I must show you exactly why your chains—and your Imperium—are worthless."
He did not hesitate. Arkan channeled the dark, ambient energy, focusing the might of Aethermancy into a devastating strike. A spear of pure Void-magic, dark and agonisingly cold, shot from the tip of his sword.
Serath was strapped and defenseless. The dark energy hit him square in the chest, the impact sending a shockwave of pain through his body that felt like instantaneous freezing and burning. He roared, a sound torn from his throat, his body convulsing against the restraints. The dark chains held, drawing the energy into themselves.
Arkan watched his captive writhe, his purple eye gleaming with satisfied cruelty. The intensity of the assault lasted only a second, but it was enough to shatter Serath's defenses and drown him in agony.
What Arkan did next however was nearly imperceptible. While the Aethermancy impact masked the subtle shift, Arkan, in the guise of attacking, had secretly and deliberately weakened the fundamental nexus points of the Void-chains. He needed Serath to believe he was still contained, seconds before he was not.
When Arkan retracted his blade, Serath slumped, breathing heavily, soaked in sweat, his mind poisoned by the pain and the sheer dark force he had endured.
"See?" Arkan chirped, dusting off his lapel. "Helpless. Just as you are about to be—"
—A mistake.
The pain, the humiliation, and the sudden, overwhelming exposure to raw Aethermancy had pushed Serath past the breaking point. The combined fury of the Warlord of Valor, the fury of the Valorian Dynasty, surged through his veins. That dark, residual energy Arkan had imparted was meant to break him, but instead, Serath seized it.
He channeled his rage not into breaking the chains, but into rejecting them utterly. The moment the strain was applied, the altered constructs gave way.
With a sound that ripped through the silence—a shriek of straining metal and volatile energy—the dark chains exploded outward in shattered fragments of dark power.
Serath's body hit the floor, unbound and surging with uncontrolled power.
He didn't waste a moment. Instinct took over. His consciousness snapped to his suit, now online and drawing power from his core. With a hiss of venting pneumatics and the sharp clank of activation, Serath Valorian's combat armor flared to life. The dark room was momentarily illuminated by the brilliant gold and crimson of Valorian power armor, reasserting the Warlord's presence.
Bane stepped back ready to fight as Serath sprang to his feet, driven by a chaotic cocktail of emotions: the searing pain of Arkan's attack, the acute humiliation of being bound, and the desperate, burning need for vengeance. Everything Arkan had said—the mockery, the threat to the Imperium—had served only to fuel Serath's violent desire for immediate escape and retribution.
He faced Arkan, his armor locking its targeting systems. Kravic Bane had instantly drawn a monstrous kinetic rifle, aiming without hesitation.
"The execution can wait," Serath grated, his voice amplified and digitised by the helmet's modulator. He didn't fire; he was too close, too desperate to breach the containment. He needed distance, atmosphere, and time.
He pivoted, launching himself toward the rear wall of the hideout. With a single, armored impact fueled by a Nexirial surge, he smashed through the reinforced wall and out of Arkan's secluded prison. The sound was deafening—cracked stone, twisted metal, and the sudden rush of air displacement.
The Hollow One, did not look back. He burst into the complex structure of Mizu city, shattering a reinforced view-port and launching himself into the crimson architecture contained within the enormous dome.
Arkan stood perfectly still in his shattered hideout, watching the gap in his wall where the most formidable man in the known universe had just escaped. Kravic Bane held his weapon steady, waiting for the order to fire.
Arkan didn't frown; he never did. The fixed, painted smile on his mask seemed to vibrate with delight.
A soft, melodic chuckle escaped him, which quickly escalated into a high, hysterical peal of maddening laughter that filled the wreckage of the room.
"Oh, how utterly predictable!" Arkan crowed, the sound manic and triumphant. He strode toward the hole in the wall, peering out at the cultural cityscape of Mizu City—a beautiful target for the chaos he had just unleashed.
"The rage, the immediate, self-destructive need to run! He thinks he has escaped. Foolish, foolish man! I left him enough strength to shatter the chains, yes, but I also flooded his consciousness with enough insult and pain to eliminate any rational thought of strategy!"
Arkan turned, his purple eye burning with cold calculation. He needed the Warlord unstable. He needed the Valorian Dynasty to feel the immediate sting of betrayal and panic. The execution was the beginning of his plan, but the ensuing chase—the humiliation of the Warlord hunted by a Guild Assassin—was the necessary chaos.
Arkan gave the order, his voice dropping from hysterical joy to lethal command.
"Bane."
The bounty hunter lowered his rifle slightly, waiting.
"He is poisoned, Kravic. He is running on pure, unrefined rage. Give him thirty seconds of distance, then hunt him down. I want him exhausted. I want him cornered. But do not bring him back here."
Kravic Bane nodded, his heavy armor thudding softly as he moved toward the wreckage of the wall. He did not ask questions; his job was execution.
"Take him down," Arkan finished, smiling wider into the void. "Let the universe see the Valorians bleed."
The bounty hunter stepped through the gap, disappearing into the maze of the Aqualoran city, beginning the chase. Arkan remained, the masked figure of dark charisma, the architect of a rising storm. The true depths of his ambition remained his secret, a delicate flower ready to bloom in the impending universal chaos. All he had to do now was watch Serath Valorian destroy himself.