The cosmos burned.


    Plasma fire rained down, streaking across the void like the vengeful spears of forgotten gods. The wreckage groaned beneath them, a skeletal battlefield caught between past and present destruction. Garett could feel the impact of every blast in his bones, the reverberations shaking the ancient metal beneath his boots. His grip tightened around the Voidlance.


    There was no time.


    "Anya! Take Veydran and Ravella back to the ships," he ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos.


    Veydran snarled, his fingers twitching toward his pistols. "You want me to run?"


    "I want you at the helm of the Steadfast, firing those damn Luminite cannons through the SES array!" Garett snapped. "You’ll be more useful laying down fire from the bridge than dying down here."


    Veydran’s jaw tensed, but he knew Garett was right. He let out a frustrated exhale, throwing a glare toward the incoming ships. "Fine. But if you die, I’m dragging you back just to kill you myself."


    Anya grabbed Ravella’s wrist. "Move it!"


    Ravella hesitated, shifting nervously before forcing a determined pout. "Don’t you dare die. Either of you. Because if you do, I’m bringing you back just to yell at you!"


    Leona smirked, drawing her sword. "Not in the plans. Now go."


    As Veydran, Ravella, and Anya sprinted toward the extraction point, the wreckage trembled under another brutal volley. Garett turned to Leona, who rolled her shoulders, golden light flickering along her armor.


    "So," she said, "just you and me, huh?"


    Garett exhaled sharply. "Just like old times."


    <hr>


    Aboard the warship hovering over the battlefield, a figure stood at the command deck, watching the destruction unfold with impassive, lifeless eyes.


    Zyrax.


    The dim light of the bridge cast deep shadows over his scarred, reanimated features. His face—a corpse’s mask given motion—was eerily preserved, his skin unmarred by decay, as if he had never died at all. Only the unnatural glow of his cybernetic blue eyes betrayed the truth, casting cold light over the bridge. His fingers drummed rhythmically against the metal railing, slow, methodical. The motions of a man who once had patience but had long since forgotten the concept of time.


    He did not blink as he spoke.


    "Continue the barrage. I want that wreck torn apart. No more surprises."


    The officers around him stiffened, nodding quickly. "Aye, Lord Zyrax. Increasing bombardment pattern. Targeting auxiliary structures."


    "Good," Zyrax murmured, his voice a hollow echo of what it once had been. "Flush them out. Make them scurry like vermin."


    A junior officer hesitated before stepping forward. "Sir, there are still unknown energy readings coming from the wreckage. If we continue bombardment—"


    Zyrax turned his head, just slightly. The officer froze.


    "Do I look as though I fear ghosts?" Zyrax asked, his voice a whisper of cracked earth and broken glass.


    The officer swallowed. "No, sir."


    "Then do not speak of them. Execute my command."


    "Aye, Lord Zyrax."


    As the crew rushed to obey, Zyrax turned back toward the viewport, his undead gaze locked on the destruction below. He did not feel satisfaction. He did not feel triumph.


    He did not feel at all.


    But deep within his hollow chest, something stirred.


    An echo. A memory. A voice calling from another life.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Something forgotten.


    Something waiting to be remembered.


    He let out a slow breath, turning his gaze toward the planet below. A sensation prickled at the edges of his mind—a presence. Resonance. It was faint, but undeniable.


    His fingers curled against the railing.


    "Prepare for boarding operations," he said, voice measured. "And delay the killing blow. Let’s see if the mice come running."


    <hr>


    The dreadnought groaned violently, ancient structures buckling under the relentless assault. A deafening crack split through the battlefield as an entire section of the wreckage sheared away, drifting into the void. Garett barely had time to react before the platform beneath him collapsed.


    The world tilted.


    He and Leona plunged into the abyss of twisted metal, debris spiraling in all directions. Garett braced for impact—


    A golden glow flickered in the darkness.


    Then, the battlefield ignited with brilliance.


    From the rift in the dreadnought’s carcass, a storm of radiant energy erupted. Emerging from the chaos, their summoned forms cutting through the wreckage, were two titanic war machines.


    Galatine, wreathed in its celestial radiance, ascended like a vengeful god from the debris, its towering frame gleaming with the tempered might of an age long past. The Voidlance Garett was carrying transformed with the summoning of the God-husk, adjusting to the size of its wielder. It hummed with barely contained power, a weapon forged from history itself.


    Beside it, Direwolf—a beast of metal and fury—landed with a bone-shaking impact, its armored plating marked with the sigil of House Leonis. Golden light traced its form, the unmistakable signature of its master. It was massive, a hunter designed for war, its predatory stance ready to strike.


    Inside the cockpit of their mechs, the neural links surged to life, flooding their senses with raw power. Garett gripped the controls of Galatine, the sheer magnitude of its presence nearly overwhelming, but familiar—like a long-lost piece of himself falling into place. Across from him, Leona exhaled sharply, flexing her fingers over Direwolf’s command interface, golden runes lighting up in response.


    She let out a breathless laugh. "Took you long enough."


    And then, the comms crackled.


    A message, directed at Zyrax’s fleet.


    A voice, unwavering and resolute.


    "Unknown flotilla, this is Garett Fenralis of the Steadfast. You are trespassing in an active military operation. Power down your weapons and withdraw immediately."


    Leona smirked, tilting her head. "That’s the polite version. The real version?"


    Galatine’s grip tightened on the Voidlance. "If you''re looking for a fight, then congratulations—you just found hell."


    <hr>


    Aboard the bridge of his warship, Zyrax raised an eyebrow at the name. "Fenralis, is it? One of the Empire’s pet houses. I wasn’t expecting nobility."


    He activated the comms. "Garett, was it? I assume you have proof of your claim. I’d hate to kill a fraud."


    Garett uploaded his authentication codes. A pause. Then, a chuckle from Zyrax.


    "Well, well… I suppose that makes negotiations easier." His voice dripped with amusement. "Give me..what''s he call himself nowadays....Veydran… the little missy he’s with… and that pretty toy your mech is holding. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t turn you into another wreck in this graveyard."


    Leona''s breath caught. That voice.


    Then, a few banging sounds echoed over the radio. "Finally, the holo works. That damned thing—"


    The screen flickered.


    Leona’s heart froze.


    Garett exhaled sharply through his nose. Then, without breaking eye contact with the holo-screen, he raised his middle finger. "I was hoping you''d make this harder for me."


    Zyrax smirked, a slow, deliberate curl of the lips. "Oh, I intend to."


    Inside Galatine, Garett gripped the twin control levers, the cockpit around him humming with raw energy as the neural interface linked with his mind. Every movement of his hands dictated the colossal machine’s response, a seamless fusion of thought and action. The Voidlance in his mech’s hand pulsed with the gravitational might of a black hole, raw energy warping the space around it.


    Then he charged.


    The thrusters on Galatine’s back roared to life, launching the titanic mech forward like a meteor through the wreckage. The battlefield seemed to warp around him, debris caught in the wake of his sheer velocity. The Voidlance crackled with an unnatural hum, devouring the light around it as he thrust it forward, aiming to tear through the heart of Zyrax’s flagship.


    Leona, still in Direwolf’s cockpit, stood frozen, floating in space. Her hands trembled over the controls, her mind drowning in the echoes of the past.


    Memories crashed through her mind like a tidal wave.


    A sunlit courtyard. The clang of steel meeting steel. A broad hand ruffling her hair as she stood victorious over another sparring partner.


    "The best swordsman among your peers, as expected of a Leonis," her father’s voice, filled with pride, echoed through the past. "You will be the shield that guards our house."


    Evening hours spent in the quiet of the garden. The scent of blooming irises. Her father, reading over battle reports with a rare softness in his expression. Her younger brothers playing at her feet, laughing, carefree.


    Then—fire.


    The Leonis estate burning, the night sky painted in orange and ash. The sound of screaming. The clash of metal and the sickening crack of bones breaking against stone. Her feet pounding against marble halls, slipping on blood, her hands gripping a blade too small to make a difference. The bodies of their guards and relatives littering the floors, their eyes wide and unseeing.


    She had hidden, trembling, breath locked in her throat, as Draconis soldiers stormed through the ruins. They dragged bodies from the wreckage—some still breathing, others not. Then she saw it.


    Her brothers, pale and lifeless, their limbs jerking unnaturally as necromancers raised them from death. Their eyes glowed the same unholy blue as those of the Draconis lords who had come to oversee the purge.


    And now, that same glow stared back at her from the holo-screen.


    She felt the breath leave her lungs. No. No, it wasn’t possible. It couldn''t be.


    But she knew that voice.


    Her fingers trembled on the controls of Direwolf.


    The dead did not speak.


    And yet, here he was.