Vermond lay in the grass near the treeline, the sky above him painted with stars he didn’t recognize. The alien constellations blinked coldly, like a thousand eyes watching, judging. The silence around him felt deeper now—not haunting, but almost thoughtful. The wind had returned in gentle gusts, brushing his hair as if trying to comfort him.

  His hands rested over his chest, where the glowing orb pulsed slowly, almost as if it were breathing with him.

  The number in his eyes still remained. 48.

  He heard them again. The voices. Some begged. Some cursed. Some just screamed endlessly in broken tongues.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would drown them out. It didn’t.

  But then—through the screaming—one voice rose clearly. Old. Warm. Familiar.

  “Vermond...”

  He sat up slightly. He remembered that voice. Grandpa.

  “No matter what happens, Vermond... no matter how dark it gets, you must always think positive. Always. That’s how you survive. Not just with strength—but with your will. You’ve got that from me. You do everything you can to survive, whether you have something left or not. Whether you're scared, alone, or broken. You push forward. You crawl if you must. You bleed if you have to. But you never stop.”

  Vermond felt his breath catch. His fists clenched the grass.

  He whispered, “Grandpa…”

  That spark—so small—ignited something inside him.

  He stood. Not like a hero rising from triumph—but like a beast dragging itself up after being beaten. He wasn’t strong. Not yet. But he had something just as dangerous: purpose.

  He turned to face the open clearing, the bits of scorched hull, the debris of the Corvette. His future—his salvager’s life—was buried beneath that ruin.

  And he was going to take it back.

  He spent the next hours—or maybe days, he’d lost track of time—trying to control his power. Not just the orb, not just the hunger for souls. But the thing growing inside him. The voices. The pull.

  He meditated near the wreckage. Screamed in frustration. Tried focusing his energy, reaching out like he once saw in vids of psionic users. He mimicked what he thought control looked like.

  Nothing worked.

  Sometimes the orb pulsed faintly. Sometimes he saw flickers in the air—shadows of hands, of runes, of something clawing at reality.

  But no matter what he did, it always felt like trying to hold water in his hands. Slipping. Refusing.

  Vermond growled, sweat dripping down his body. He punched a twisted bulkhead, denting the metal.

  Still, he refused to stop.

  He would learn this power.

  He would find a way off this planet.

  He would rebuild his grandpa’s ship.

  And no matter what was happening inside him, no matter the monster clawing from within…

  He would survive.

  The sky dimmed as if the world itself was holding its breath. Vermond stood before the forest’s edge, his pulse steady yet his instincts screaming otherwise. The wind had died, the air grown thick with a silence that felt... watched. Still, something deep within called him forward—a magnetic whisper threading through the trees, tugging at the core of his soul.

  He pressed onward.

  Branches clawed at his skin, leaves whispered forgotten truths, and the number 48 shimmered in his emerald-glowing eyes. And then… he found it.

  Half-buried under moss and twisting roots, a jagged structure loomed in the heart of the forest. Black stone, ancient and alien, pulsed faintly with a sickly green hue. It wasn’t the orb’s power. This was something else. Something older.

  As he stepped inside, the air changed. The walls hummed with a language his mind couldn’t translate, and the corridors twisted unnaturally—as if the structure didn’t want to be understood.

  Then came the sound.

  Not footsteps. Not breath.

  Something… wet.

  Vermond’s head snapped to the side as a figure stepped from the shadows. No, not a figure—a thing. Eight limbs, shifting eyes, bone spirals across flesh like armor. The unknown species hissed, its presence radiating primal fury.

  He backed away, fists clenched, the orb dim and unresponsive. "I don't want to fight you," he said—voice shaking, yet steady.

  But survival didn’t ask for peace.

  The creature lunged.

  Vermond moved on instinct, barely dodging a swipe that shattered a nearby wall. He countered with a punch that cracked bone—but his control faltered. He tried to summon his power… nothing. The rage, the hunger, all of it locked inside him with no key.

  The fight turned brutal.

  He bled. He screamed. But he fought.

  Every blow he gave was desperation. Every dodge was a prayer to live another second. The creature struck his chest and sent him tumbling. He rolled back to his feet, panting, eyes glowing brighter.

  "Grandpa…" he whispered. "I will survive."

  And then, as if something answered his resolve, a strange ripple pulsed through the structure—his body momentarily moving with more clarity, more purpose. He didn't master it… but something opened.

  With one final charge, he pierced the creature’s chest with a broken spike of the structure, snarling through gritted teeth as the alien let out a hideous, wet shriek. It collapsed. Silent.

  Vermond dropped beside it, gasping, hands shaking.

  He was alive.

  But deep within the temple… the call grew louder.

  Vermond’s boots scraped against the stone floor, each step deeper into the structure feeling heavier than the last. The air had changed. It was thicker, pulsing like breath from a dying beast. Shadows bent wrong on the walls, some stretching even when there was no light.

  He passed through a vast corridor, lined with statues that stared down at him with eyeless faces. His orb glowed faintly, reacting—not with hunger, but fear.

  Then... it hit.

  A soundless tremor shook the walls. Something shifted. And then it emerged from the black ahead.

  The creature was tall, slick, almost translucent. Limbs too long, too thin. No face. It didn’t roar. It didn’t snarl. It spoke by pressing down on Vermond’s thoughts. An emotional weight filled his skull like a scream underwater. Arrogance. Contempt. You are nothing.

  Vermond raised his hand, and the crimson flare of power pulsed out of his palm—wild, powerful, uncontrolled. The blast lit up the corridor, searing stone.

  But the creature was behind him now.

  A strike to the ribs. Bones cracked.

  Vermond slammed into the wall, blood trailing from his mouth. He tried again, but his power flared sideways—ripping apart a support beam, not the enemy. The creature moved like a nightmare, dancing through his rage like it was air.

  Another hit. Then another.

  He was on the ground now, coughing, eyes burning. The number in them flickered—“48.” A mockery. A joke.

  He muttered his grandpa’s words under his breath through pain:

  “Whatever happens… always think positive. Do everything you can to survive. No matter what the situation is. Even if you lose hope, or don’t know who you are—survive.”

  Blood stained his hands. His breath came in gasps. He wanted to control it. The power. The chaos inside.

  But he couldn’t.

  The creature stepped forward. It was about to end it.

  And then… light.

  A glow from deep inside the corridor. Not warm. Not safe. But ancient. Alien.

  The creature paused, hissing in a language older than time. It backed away. Retreating.

  Vermond, barely holding on, dragged himself forward with shaking arms. Toward the light.

  Toward the artifact.

  And it watched him approach—like it had been waiting for this moment all along.

  Vermond’s hands trembled as he reached the center of the chamber. The light didn’t warm him—it pierced him. It felt as though his soul was being peeled open, layer by layer, memories unspooling without his permission.

  In the center stood the artifact.

  A floating shard—impossibly shaped, neither crystal nor metal. It hummed, alive. As if it had a heartbeat. As if it remembered him.

  Then came the voice.

  Not in his ears.

  In his mind.

  “You were chosen, long before the blood. Before the hunger.”

  Vermond’s vision twisted. He was standing in a sea of stars, and around him, thousands of shattered orbs floated like dead suns. Images assaulted him—his grandpa’s laughter, Kiana’s eyes, Fredene’s last breath, his own hands dripping in crimson.

  He screamed, dropping to his knees.

  “You do not wield power. Power wields you.”

  “But if you survive, you may turn the chain.”

  Then it hit.

  A wave of pain surged through his skull as the artifact pulsed with sick light. A test. Not a battle of strength—but of control.

  The ground beneath him cracked. Blood ran from his nose, ears, and the corners of his eyes. The orb on his chest blazed with fury, resisting—like it knew this force threatened its dominance.

  His body thrashed, veins bulging, the number in his eye glowing violently—“48” surged, flickering as if trying to hold its form.

  Then voices—every soul he consumed—whispering, screaming, begging, laughing.

  But above all… his grandpa’s voice returned.

  “Remember who you are, Vermond. You are not the hunger. You are not the death. You’re the boy who fixed ships with grease-covered hands and stars in his eyes. You’re my grandson. You are Vermond.”

  He screamed, pushing forward, one hand outstretched. The power inside him clawed for control.

  But for the first time…

  He pushed back.

  And the artifact… accepted him.

  The chamber exploded in light. Vermond’s body convulsed, then fell still.

  Moments passed.

  When he stood again, blood-drenched and wide-eyed, his vision was clearer. His muscles steadier. His mind…

  Quieter.

  He wasn’t in control yet.

  But for the first time since it all began…

  He was closer.

  And now, deep in the structure, a new door opened.

  Something else waited for him.

  Something worse.

  The stone door cracked open with a grinding, ancient sound—like the planet itself was exhaling for the first time in eons. Beyond it… only darkness. The kind that felt wet, crawling up your skin, whispering into your bones.

  Vermond stepped forward, the artifact’s glow dimming behind him.

  He wasn’t alone.

  The corridor breathed.

  The silence wasn’t empty. It was watching.

  He walked slowly, careful not to let the hunger rise. His eyes still pulsed with that haunting number—“48”—a glowing mark of the souls he’d stolen. The artifact helped steady him, but the orb still burned in defiance, angry, jealous.

  Then—

  Skittering.

  At first, faint.

  Then louder.

  Then closer.

  A blur moved across the walls—then another. Something insectoid, but wrong. Thin limbs, spines, bone plates shifting like armor. One dropped in front of him.

  Its face opened vertically. No eyes. Just a screeching maw lined with dozens of twitching tongues.

  Vermond clenched his fists. No time to run.

  The creature lunged.

  CRACK!

  He sidestepped, slamming his elbow into its spine—only to watch it twist unnaturally mid-air, slicing toward him with a tail-blade.

  Slash.

  Blood splattered the wall. Vermond staggered, panting.

  They were fast.

  Three more dropped in behind the first. They chattered in clicks, surrounding him.

  But then Vermond’s eyes glowed red.

  The “48” flared—becoming “49.”

  He didn’t know how he did it.

  His body just moved.

  In a flash, he was behind the first.

  Crack.

  Its neck broke.

  Another leapt—he caught it mid-air and crushed it against the wall.

  The last hissed and backed away, only for Vermond’s foot to slam down on its spine.

  “Fifty,” he whispered, trembling.

  He wasn’t breathing heavily—he was trembling in rage and fear.

  Was he still him?

  Or was he becoming them?

  As he stood among the corpses, the wall at the end of the corridor slowly slid open, revealing a massive chamber…

  Glowing glyphs.

  Dozens of sarcophagi.

  And in the center, floating above an altar—another piece of the unknown. Not the artifact this time.

  But something older.

  Something that pulsed with a deep, forbidden hunger.

  And from the shadows…

  A voice spoke:

  “You are the heir of the Black Veins… We have waited long for your awakening.”

  The sound of his own breathing echoed through the stone walls, raspy and broken. Vermond’s body scraped against the ancient floor as something—no, someone—dragged him deeper into the structure.

  He had lost. His chest burned, ribs possibly broken, his blood now part of the dust. The orb on his chest dimmed, flickering like a dying star.

  Then—silence.

  His body was dropped. Vermond gasped, curling slightly, trying to sit up. His arms trembled. The faint blue glow lining the hallway was the only source of light. The creature that beat him was gone. Or watching. He couldn’t tell.

  Then… it spoke.

  A whisper from nowhere. “You fear yourself more than me.”

  Vermond's eyes widened. He tried to stand, but a jolt of pain chained him to the ground.

  “You crawl like a beast... and yet you hold the soul of a king,” the voice said again—this time deeper, layered, as if multiple voices spoke through one throat.

  Then, from the darkness ahead, it emerged. Not the creature that fought him. This was… a machine, or a monument? No—an artifact. Floating, pulsating with a soft, eerie hum. It resembled a heart made of obsidian and bone, suspended mid-air, wrapped in chains of light that flickered in and out of existence.

  His blood… reacted.

  The orb on his chest trembled violently, as if it recognized the artifact. But they were not the same. This thing… it was older.

  Vermond crawled toward it. Inch by inch, pain like fire searing through him. Voices chanted in his ears—some from the past, some not even human. And just before he could touch the artifact—

  —he was pulled into a vision.

  He saw himself. Not as he was, but as he could be. Towering. Cloaked in a flowing black and violet mantle. A crown of bones. Behind him, the galaxy burned—and yet, his face was calm, eyes glowing emerald. No longer lost.

  No longer human.

  The vision shattered.

  He was back, lying on the ground before the artifact. But now… it had changed.

  It opened.

  Like an eye.

  Vermond screamed as tendrils of light and shadow stabbed into his head, pouring memories into him that weren’t his—knowledge, instincts, control.

  He convulsed.

  He screamed again.

  And then—

  Silence.

  When he opened his eyes, everything was different. His pain dulled. His breath steadied. He could feel the raw forces inside him—not tamed, but caged… for now.

  A voice echoed once more. “You may walk again, Necromancer.”

  Vermond stood.

  His fingers clenched. His eyes still burned with the number 48—but he could sense every soul inside him now. Their screams. Their strength.

  Vermond’s breath was ragged, body pressed against the damp, moss-covered stone wall of the structure’s corridor. The creature he had just slain still lay motionless behind him, its twisted limbs twitching in postmortem spasms. Blood—thick, black, and oily—coated the floor in grotesque patterns, almost forming unfamiliar runes beneath the flickering bioluminescent moss overhead.

  The orb on his chest had dulled, no longer glowing—but Vermond’s eyes, now marked with the number 48, glared with unsteady resolve. His muscles ached, his mind was a fog of survival instinct and echoing voices. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing during the fight. His body had moved like a storm—wild, feral, unchained.

  Something deeper had taken over... something he couldn’t name.

  And yet, the call remained. A pull. Not physical, not entirely mental either—but a force... from the artifact deeper within this ancient place.

  He forced himself up, groaning, fingers brushing over gashes in his side. “No control… not yet,” he muttered, gripping the hilt of a salvaged blade. “But I’m not done.”

  As he limped forward, the corridor widened into a strange chamber—a circular arena of sorts, wrapped in spiraling stone. Above, floating like a black sun, was a pulsing orb—not his. Not like the one fused to his body. This one crackled with unknown energy, and in front of it stood a shadow.

  Another beast.

  No, not a beast.

  A guardian.

  It turned—eight crimson eyes glowing with unnatural light, its flesh draped in bone-like armor, hands ending in jagged claws. It didn't roar. It didn't screech.

  It whispered.

  “You are not ready.”

  Vermond grit his teeth, the visions returning again. Kiana’s scream. Fredene’s dying face. His hands dripping in soulfire. He screamed—not in rage, but defiance—and charged.

  Vermond’s breath caught.

  He tried to channel power from the orb, but it flickered, unstable. His vision split. The number 48 in his eyes began to glitch, warping, fading in and out.

  The monster lunged.

  He blocked with his arms, but the claws tore through his flesh like it was paper. Blood splashed against the walls. Vermond was tossed like a ragdoll, crashing into a pillar. His ribs cracked.

  He got up.

  His body shook. His instincts told him to fight. His soul told him to survive.

  But his control slipped again.

  He screamed—more beast than man—and lunged. The two collided in a brutal clash of will and rage. The creature struck again and again, slicing through his side. Vermond struck back, soul energy erupting violently, too uncontrolled, too raw.

  The corridor shook. The walls split open.

  In the end, it wasn't the creature that ended it.

  It was his own power.

  His energy exploded—violent, untamed, uncontrolled—and engulfed both of them. Vermond screamed. The world turned white.

  Then... silence.

  He lay there. His eyes stared upward, lifeless. The orb on his chest dimmed, and the number was gone.

  No heartbeat. No breath.

  Dead.

  For what felt like eternity, there was only blackness. Silence. Nothingness.

  But then… warmth. A spark.

  A voice.

  “Vermond...”

  It was his grandfather’s voice again, but not in memory—this time, it reached deep into the void.

  “You carry more than your guilt. You carry the weight of lives, the threads of souls. You are not lost yet, boy. But you must choose… will you let the darkness consume you, or will you master it?”

  The void shivered.

  The orb glowed faintly.

  His eyes snapped open.

  He gasped.

  He was alive.

  He sat up, covered in dust and blood, the air still, the corridor broken. Around him, silence. The creature’s remains were scattered… but something pulsed ahead—a dull hum calling to him.

  The artifact.

  And in his soul, something was different. He had died. But something had brought him back.

  And now…

  Something had changed forever.

  Vermond's legs trembled beneath him as he walked, the pain dulled but not gone. His body felt heavier now—not from wounds, but from something deeper. The place where his heart had once raced in fear now pulsed with eerie calm.

  He stepped over the torn remains of the creature he had destroyed through sheer force and death. The structure beyond it opened into a spiraling stairwell, carved in strange, seamless black stone. Faint green symbols shimmered on the walls—runes he couldn’t read, but they felt ancient… purposeful.

  Each step downward echoed like a whisper of the dead.

  And at the bottom—

  A door.

  No handle. No seam. Just a flat, towering surface of polished obsidian, with a jagged crack glowing emerald at its center. As he approached, the orb on his chest responded. It pulsed softly once… then went dark.

  The crack opened.

  And beyond it—

  A chamber.

  The chamber was vast and circular, with massive curved walls covered in veins of glowing runes. In the middle stood a pedestal… and on it, the artifact.

  It floated slightly above the stone base—a shard of something crystalline, jagged like a broken star. Its glow wasn’t harsh like the orb’s—it was softer, ethereal, like thought made visible.

  But the moment Vermond stepped inside, the chamber reacted.

  Walls twisted. The air became heavy. Whispers slithered in from all directions—words he couldn’t understand, but they filled his mind with pressure. His vision blurred again. The memories returned—Kiana’s scream, Fredene’s face, the screams of dying soldiers…

  You killed them.

  The voices pressed harder.

  He clutched his head. He staggered toward the artifact.

  You were never meant to live.

  He fell to his knees.

  But then he remembered—his grandfather’s voice, from beyond death.

  > “You are not lost yet. You must choose.”

  He stood.

  He reached for the artifact.

  The moment his fingers touched it, the shard shattered into light, streaming into his body—not into the orb, not into his soul—but his mind.

  And everything stopped.

  He floated in a space of light and dark, where time meant nothing. And for the first time, Vermond felt his power. Not the madness. Not the hunger. But the structure behind it. Threads, strings, patterns of energy. It was as if the artifact granted him a map of his own inner chaos.

  He understood.

  Not fully—but just enough.

  Control.

  Clarity.

  Balance.

  He awoke again in the chamber, gasping. The shard was gone. But he felt it within him now, humming like a second heartbeat in his mind.

  He looked at his hand.

  No longer trembling.

  The orb still glowed.

  The number in his eyes still said 48.

  But for the first time—

  He wasn’t afraid of it.

  Vermond sat cross-legged on the moss-covered floor inside the hollow chamber of the ancient structure. The shadows no longer threatened him, and the strange whispers that once clawed at his mind had fallen silent. Outside, the forest hummed with its usual eerie stillness—but here, for the first time in what felt like forever, he could hear himself.

  The number 48 still burned faintly in his eyes like a scar on the soul, but the storm of chaos within him had calmed—tamed by the artifact now embedded against his chest like a second heart.

  He closed his eyes, slowly inhaling the cool, metallic air. His heartbeat echoed in sync with something deeper, more ancient. He stretched out his senses—at first aimlessly—but then focused. He could hear. Everything.

  The distant rustling of leaves. The snap of a twig beneath an insect. The gentle rhythm of water dripping deep within the temple's inner ruins.

  He opened his eyes again, slowly raising his hand. For the first time, his movement wasn’t erratic, like before when raw power burned without purpose. Now, his fingers obeyed. His limbs followed his intent, not the chaos.

  He stood, took a step forward, then another—testing balance, precision, even silence.

  A pulse vibrated in his spine. He felt a flicker of energy, and with just a breath, the orb on his chest gave a soft hum. Not a roar of power—just acknowledgment. He could command it, slightly, like reining in a wild beast, though the leash was still frayed.

  He remembered his grandfather’s words, echoing stronger now:

  > "No matter how far you fall, Vermond… even in the void, you find ground. Even in madness, you find yourself. Keep going. Survive—not just for your sake, but because you’re still you beneath it all."

  The memory settled like warm light in his chest.

  Vermond picked up a chunk of stone nearby and tossed it high into the air.

  It fell—but before it could hit the ground, he moved. A blur. Swift. Controlled. His palm caught it, fingers curled around it gently.

  Not destruction. Not rage. Control.

  He let out a breath, his lips curling into the faintest smirk.

  "Alright," he whispered to himself. "Let’s see what I can really do."

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  From deep within the ruins, the silence stirred again—but this time, it wasn’t horror.

  It was anticipation.

  The air shifted.

  Vermond paused, his foot halfway through a step. A stillness fell over the forest—not silence, but expectation, like the entire world was holding its breath.

  He slowly turned toward the trees. The massive trunks loomed like the pillars of forgotten gods, their shadows long and dripping with mist. Nothing moved. Yet every instinct in Vermond screamed.

  He was being watched.

  Not by an animal. Not by a person. By something else.

  His enhanced senses trembled on the edge of awareness. A prickling ran up his spine like a trail of cold fire. No sound. No movement. But his heartbeat quickened.

  The forest didn’t feel like it had before.

  He stared into the darkness beneath the trees… and for the briefest moment, something stared back.

  Two slits of faint light—not eyes, not truly—but reflective like polished bone. They vanished the moment he noticed them. A whisper of motion, a rustle in the branches… and then silence again.

  Vermond took a step back.

  > "Don’t move."

  The voice was not his own. It wasn’t the voices in his head. It was something… external. Foreign. Calm, commanding, and very, very old.

  He spun around, looking for the source, but there was nothing. Only his breath, puffing in the chilled air.

  > "It sees you now."

  That one was in his mind—but it wasn’t like the ones that whispered when he consumed. It was deeper. Malevolent. Watching not just his body… but his soul.

  He backed toward the structure, eyes darting through the trees. The orb at his chest flickered, sensing the presence, pulsing with anxiety like a trapped animal.

  And then—

  A shape moved.

  It was tall, too tall, with limbs too thin. Cloaked in shadows and impossible geometry, it clung to the trees, its head cocked sideways like a curious predator.

  Vermond reached for his power.

  But nothing answered.

  Not the orb. Not the artifact. Not the strength he’d just begun to control.

  The creature only tilted its head again, a silent mockery of a greeting, and then faded into the trees—like it had never been there.

  Vermond stood frozen, his breath sharp in his throat.

  Whatever this thing was…

  It didn’t just watch him.

  It knew him.

  The wind had stilled hours ago.

  Vermond sat at the edge of his shelter, his back against a tree twisted by time and silence. The clearing he'd made in the forest looked peaceful—too peaceful. The grass swayed like something alive, not moved by air, but by presence.

  He stared at the leaves above, their veins casting sharp shadows over his face. The number “48” glowed softly in his eyes, like tiny candles refusing to go out.

  And beneath that quiet, something watched.

  The presence didn’t speak, not with words.

  It breathed through the cracks in his thoughts.

  At first, Vermond tried to ignore it.

  He sharpened a jagged piece of metal into a tool.

  He checked the perimeter.

  He ate.

  He counted stars.

  But even as he chewed, even as he swallowed, he felt it.

  Something was watching him.

  No footsteps.

  No shadows.

  Just... awareness. A pressure behind the eyes, like a second soul peering through the lens of his own body.

  That night, he slept.

  And the dreams were worse.

  Not of fire, nor of blood. But of himself—sitting on a throne made of bone and shipwrecks, cloaked in robes stitched from Federation flags and pirate coats. Kiana was there, head bowed, whispering. Her voice was hollow. Her lips moved but made no sound.

  And above them, behind a veil of stars, two eyes opened.

  Eyes that did not blink. Eyes that did not close.

  He jolted awake, breath sharp, hand clutching the dirt like a lifeline.

  “It’s watching me…” he muttered, his voice cracking under the weight of truth.

  From the forest, there was no sound.

  But a tree branch shifted—not by wind.

  No breeze had stirred in hours.

  Vermond’s body tensed. The orb embedded in his chest flickered once—then went silent. His clarity of mind allowed him to stay calm, but not unaware. Whatever it was… it wanted him to feel small.

  He stood, slowly.

  He didn’t know what it was.

  He didn’t know when it would come.

  But he knew this:

  It already knew him.

  The wind had long since died, and the only sound Vermond could hear now was the whisper of his own footsteps against the underbrush. The trees, thick and ancient, stretched endlessly around him. Their bark twisted with unnatural patterns—some like eyes, others like stretched mouths sealed shut.

  As he pressed forward, the pull in his chest grew stronger. It wasn't pain, not exactly. It was a knowing. Like something calling out to a piece of him that even he didn't understand yet.

  Then, he saw it.

  A tall, thin tree standing in the center of a narrow clearing—its bark carved with symbols. Not random scratches. Intentional markings, glowing faintly green, the same color as his own cursed eyes. One of the runes looked like a man… no, a figure with an orb embedded in its chest, holding up a crown made of bone.

  Vermond stepped closer. As he did, the carvings shimmered—reacting to him.

  He reached out. His fingers brushed the ancient bark.

  And the world stopped.

  “Vermond…”

  A whisper crawled into his mind—not loud, but heavy. Not human. It didn’t come from his ears but somewhere deeper, buried in his very soul. His breath caught in his throat.

  He stepped back, heart pounding, but the forest stayed still. Quiet. Waiting.

  Then, among the roots, something caught his eye. A stone altar, half-buried beneath moss. Ancient. Atop it lay a smooth black disc, etched with the same runes—and a symbol that made his blood run cold: the exact structure he was heading toward, depicted in eerie precision, and above it, a crown… floating over a throne.

  Vermond stared, his chest tightening.

  He’d been here before.

  Not in this body, not in this life. But this place… this place remembered him.

  It had carved his image into stone, into trees. It had been watching.

  Waiting.

  Behind him, the trees creaked. Not from wind—but from something moving.

  Vermond turned slowly.

  In the distance, a single pair of glowing emerald eyes flickered to life between the trees… watching him… unblinking.

  He didn’t move.

  He didn’t dare.

  The forest had never been silent.

  Until now.

  Vermond panted heavily, blood dripping from his cracked knuckles, skin scorched from the searing blows exchanged within the ancient, dark chamber. The creature before him—towering, skeletal, wrapped in sinew that shimmered like obsidian—let out a low, inhuman growl that echoed through the structure's hollow bones. Its breath was not air, but a cold void that stung at the edges of Vermond’s mind.

  This was no ordinary guardian. It was ancient—older than memory, a thing not born but constructed by intent, possibly bound to protect what lay deeper in this cursed structure.

  Vermond’s thoughts twisted with every step the creature took. His eyes still burned with the mark—48, but the clarity he had gained from the first artifact flickered. It wasn’t enough. He could feel his limbs aching to obey the chaos inside him rather than his own will.

  "Not now… hold it together… I have to control it," he muttered, teeth gritting as he barely avoided a strike that shattered a section of wall behind him.

  He darted under the guardian’s sweeping claw, sliding across the stone and slamming his fist into its ribcage. But it did nothing. It wasn’t about brute strength. This thing was testing something else—his spirit, his discipline.

  “You are still weak…” the creature rasped, though its mouth didn’t move. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.

  Vermond staggered, shadows flickering in his mind—Frederen’s last expression, the screams, the souls he had consumed. The guilt clawed at him.

  But then…

  "You did what you had to do."

  That voice—his grandfather again. Clear, steady. Like a stone breaking through fog. His hand stopped trembling.

  Vermond exhaled. His focus returned. His body moved—not with rage, but balance. He pivoted, drawing the power from within without letting it control him, weaving it into his strikes like flowing rivers of intent. His eyes glowed, no longer with hunger… but resolve.

  He slammed both palms into the creature’s chest, channeling that inner fire. The guardian convulsed, let out one last roar—then shattered into motes of black and violet light.

  Silence.

  Vermond dropped to one knee, breathing heavily, the number in his eyes unchanged—but something else shifted. The walls around him began to pulse with faint emerald veins, guiding him forward. And then, at the heart of the chamber, something floated… waiting.

  A second artifact.

  Unlike the orb embedded in his chest, this one was jagged, crystalline, hovering above a dark pedestal. As he reached out, the chamber whispered with a thousand voices, but none of them screamed this time.

  The moment his fingers brushed it, pain lanced through his spine—but this was different. It didn’t burn—it aligned.

  His breathing steadied.

  The voices hushed.

  His soul… quieted.

  And the number remained: 48.

  But now, he understood it better.

  He wasn’t just surviving anymore.

  He was becoming something terrifying.

  Something precise.

  The forest was too quiet.

  Vermond sat alone, back against a cold, barkless tree. The sky above swirled with pale clouds, the moon hanging like a dead eye staring through the silence. His breath slowed. His heartbeat was steady—but it didn’t feel like his.

  The glowing 48 in his eye pulsed faintly with every beat, like a quiet reminder of all he had done.

  All he had consumed.

  He clenched his hands, dirt caught in his fingernails, blood long dried on his palms. He was trying to hold it together—to hold himself together. But then, the artifact on his side began to hum—a sick, low vibration that rippled through his ribs.

  Without thinking, he stood.

  And then, it happened.

  A snap—not from a branch, but from inside him. Like a string had been pulled too tight for too long.

  He gasped, dropped to one knee—his hands plunged into the cold soil. And the ground responded.

  It cracked.

  A clawed hand shot up from the earth.

  Skin pale, peeling. Eyes sunken. A mouth wide open in an eternal scream.

  Vermond fell backward as the corpse dragged itself out of the ground—its neck twisted, one leg dragging behind. It was wearing part of a pirate’s armor. A familiar one.

  “You…” the undead gurgled, voice like cracked metal, “you… promised me…”

  Vermond’s eyes widened. “No. No, I didn’t mean to—!”

  Then, his vision flickered.

  The number in his eye changed.

  48 → 47

  His chest seized with cold. He’d just spent a soul.

  He had summoned the dead.

  > “One soul… one tether…” a voice whispered in his mind, ancient and cruel.

  “You are the chain, necromancer.”

  The pirate corpse lunged. Vermond dodged to the side, barely keeping his balance.

  “I’m not ready,” he whispered, “I can’t—!”

  But something clicked. That clarity from the artifact—it flickered again. A pulse of focus cut through the chaos. His breath calmed. The corpse turned to charge again—

  He raised his hand.

  “Stop.”

  The undead froze.

  Twitching. Groaning. Straining against invisible bindings.

  And yet—it obeyed.

  Vermond rose slowly, sweat trailing down his neck, breath fogging in the cold. His outstretched fingers trembled—but the pirate stood still, bound to his will.

  The whispers returned, softer now. Pleased.

  > “Claim your weapon… or be devoured by it.”

  He stared into the hollow sockets of the thing he summoned… and clenched his fist.

  The corpse dropped to its knees.

  Controlled.

  Vermond looked down at his trembling hand, then at the faint number glowing in his eye—47.

  “…Then I’ll use every one of you,” he said quietly, voice filled with fire, “if it means I survive.”

  He turned toward the dark tree line.

  Something was watching him.

  The whispering wasn’t done.

  Vermond knelt beside a dying campfire, his back to the ruin. The wind had settled into a dull silence, broken only by the breath of the forest. His hands, still trembling from the last fight, clutched the side of his cloak where the blood had dried black. His eyes—burning blood-emerald—flicked with the number 47.

  One soul used. One undead summoned.

  The figure stood beside him now, unmoving. A tall, silent sentinel wrapped in ghostly ash and tattered armor. Its presence wasn’t warm or comforting, but it obeyed. And that was what Vermond needed—for now.

  He glanced at it.

  That soul once belonged to a pirate. Now it stood bound in silence, borrowed from death to serve a will not its own. As long as it remained summoned, one soul remained tied—no longer his, no longer free.

  The knowledge had settled into him like a weight.

  Each summon consumed one soul.

  And each active undead required one soul at all times.

  He couldn’t bring them back unless he had souls to spare. The more he summoned, the faster the count would drop. He knew what would happen if it reached zero, though he didn’t want to admit it.

  He rose slowly, pain still gnawing at his ribs, and whispered toward the summoned:

  "You’re not just bones. You’re voices I took. I remember the screaming…"

  The undead didn’t respond. It waited.

  Something shifted in the trees again—eyes watching. Hunger in the dark. A new enemy stirring.

  Vermond turned to face the ruin. A cold breath swept through the trees, and the summoned undead stepped forward, shielding its master.

  "Then let’s see what one soul can do…" he whispered, voice low and steady.

  And together, they moved into the dark.

  Then came the sound.

  A slow, distorted tearing—like flesh dragged over rusted metal.

  Something emerged from the fog.

  It was malformed, taller than Vermond, its skin dark and wet, as though it had been birthed from the void itself. Its head was a mess of torn muscle and bone, no face—only an opening maw that screamed without sound.

  The undead moved.

  It glided forward, silent, its movements smooth but predatory. The creature responded instantly, lunging like a beast unchained.

  They collided with brutal force—no clash of weapons, just a violent distortion of air as mist and darkness exploded on impact.

  The undead clawed through the creature’s shadow-flesh, raking its essence with supernatural rage. The creature retaliated, limbs twisting unnaturally, slamming the undead into the earth—but it phased through, rebounding with ghostlike speed and pinning the beast against a tree.

  There was a high-pitched whine, like the souls of the dead howling all at once.

  The undead thrust its hand into the creature’s chest. A violent pull of energy ripped through the air—then silence.

  The monster collapsed.

  Vermond watched in awe. His eyes burned with the soul-count—47—still glowing crimson.

  The undead turned back toward him… and knelt.

  Vermond's heart raced. "So this… is my power."

  The kneeling undead remained still, its ghostly form flickering like a dying ember. Vermond stepped closer, cautious but drawn by instinct. The soul number in his eyes—47—reminded him of the price. A single summon, a single soul.

  He raised his hand slowly. The undead lifted its head in response, awaiting command.

  “Stand,” Vermond said.

  It obeyed.

  A strange sensation pulsed through his body, like threads of his consciousness were tethered to the thing—he could feel it, not just see it. Each movement, each breathless pause. He could will it.

  “I wonder… how many I can summon,” he murmured.

  The air around him chilled. He closed his eyes, focusing, reaching into the void of consumed souls. Faces flickered—soldiers, pirates, those he didn’t want to remember—but he needed them now.

  He pulled again.

  The wind howled, and the forest trembled as a second undead clawed itself out of the soil—this one smaller, limber, with sharp, broken armor still clinging to its translucent form. Its eyes glowed too—faint, but hungry.

  46

  They stood before him now—two undead, bound to him.

  Suddenly, whispers brushed his ears. Faint, distant—yet familiar.

  “They are watching…”

  Vermond turned.

  Far off between the trees, silhouettes stood still.

  Not undead. Not human.

  Watching.

  The forest had become a grave of secrets. And something else now knew what Vermond had done.

  The shape moved.

  It didn’t walk. It glided.

  Closer.

  One step.

  Then another.

  Each movement was unnatural—glitching between space, like reality couldn’t contain it. Cloaked in black and green hues, with long, flowing limbs that bent the wrong way, its face was shrouded beneath a hood of writhing shadows.

  And then, it spoke.

  “You should not have summoned them, Child of the Void.”

  Vermond’s fists clenched. “Who are you?”

  The figure stopped a few meters away. His undead growled low, weapons drawn—but the figure raised one finger, and both dropped to their knees. Not from fear. From command.

  Vermond took a step back.

  “You’ve tapped into what you do not yet understand,” the watcher said, voice layered like multiple tones speaking at once. “The souls you consume—every one of them binds you closer to us.”

  Vermond’s eyes widened. “Us?”

  “You are not the first, and you will not be the last. But unlike the others, your thread has not been cut yet. Why?”

  Silence.

  The creature drifted forward, now face to face with him. From beneath the hood, Vermond saw—no eyes, no mouth, only a swirling pool of green flame.

  “I wonder… if you can survive what’s coming.”

  Without warning, it raised its arm, and something pulsed out—a wave of pure, eldritch energy that threw Vermond back. The ground cracked, trees snapped. The undead howled and lunged toward the creature.

  And then—

  The battle began.

  Vermond’s breath caught. This was the thing that had been watching him.

  One of his undead, the first he had summoned, stepped forward to intercept it, reacting as if on instinct. The Watcher didn’t move. It simply stared, and the air around it seemed to twist and spiral, like time itself resisting its existence.

  The undead lunged. In a blur, it struck with a sweeping blow.

  The Watcher didn’t dodge. It raised a long, clawed hand, and caught the attack mid-air. The force trembled the ground, scattering dead leaves around them. With a sudden twist, the Watcher hurled the undead backward, slamming it into a tree.

  The second undead lunged from the side—this one faster, more agile—but the Watcher reacted with a wave of its hand. Shadowy tendrils erupted from beneath its robes, grabbing and binding the undead mid-motion, holding it aloft. The air vibrated with a horrible, guttural sound that resembled laughter.

  Vermond watched, not in fear—but focus. He was learning. Observing how his creations handled real battle.

  The first undead pulled itself from the tree, its bones cracked but limbs intact. It rejoined the fight without hesitation, flanking the Watcher again.

  Vermond clenched his fist. His eyes glowed faintly, the number "46" still shimmering. He could feel it. The souls inside him twisted in unrest as he focused, preparing to issue a command.

  But then the Watcher spoke. Its voice echoed with ancient distortion.

  "You are not ready, necromancer... yet still, you dare call the dead."

  Vermond stepped forward. "Who are you?"

  The Watcher tilted its head, shadows flickering behind it.

  "I am what remains. I am what watches. You feed on death... but do you understand it?"

  Before Vermond could answer, the Watcher released the second undead, letting it fall to the ground. It didn’t attack again—it simply faded backward, slowly retreating into the dark mist of the forest.

  The two undead returned to Vermond’s side, slightly damaged but standing strong.

  And in Vermond’s heart, a darker curiosity bloomed. What are the Watcher doing here? Why did it test him and let him live?

  One thing was certain: the forest had many eyes.

  And some of them were waiting for him to fall.

  Then something unexpected happened, breaking the silence of the forest.

  A deep mechanical hum vibrated through the air.

  From above, the clouds parted as a Federation fighter jet cut through the sky, small and sleek, trailing smoke from one wing. Vermond’s eyes narrowed. The number in his eyes flickered—46. His heart thudded with an unfamiliar rhythm.

  The fighter jet spun and jerked, failing to stabilize. Its emergency thrusters fired at the last second as it descended in a violent spiral, crashing into the forest clearing just a few hundred meters away in a flash of sparks and twisted metal. The undead twitched in response, snapping their heads toward the sound.

  Vermond clenched his fists.

  “…Not now,” he whispered.

  But the forest heard. And so did the Watcher.

  Without a word, the creature began to recede into the shadows, melting into the trees like smoke. Vermond turned back toward the direction of the crash. He didn’t know why a Federation ship had landed here—or why it was alone—but something told him it wasn’t a coincidence.

  He and his undead moved through the undergrowth like phantoms.

  The smell of burning circuitry and cracked fuel tanks filled the clearing as Vermond arrived. The fighter was in pieces, but the cockpit had survived. From inside, someone coughed.

  A lone pilot, in a Federation suit, forced the hatch open and tumbled out, dragging a leg clearly broken. He looked up—and froze.

  “…You…”

  His voice shook. Vermond stood there, not saying a word, the undead at his side like shadows of death.

  The pilot’s breathing quickened.

  “You… You were on the Corvette,” the pilot stammered. “You’re the one they said— You’re the one who—”

  Vermond raised a hand. “Leave,” he said coldly.

  But before anything else could be said, one of the undead took a step forward, its eyes glowing like burning coals.

  “Stay back,” Vermond commanded it, and to his relief, it obeyed.

  The pilot, sweating, limped back against the wreckage. “What are you? What have they done to you?”

  “I’m surviving,” Vermond said. “That’s all I’m doing.”

  The number in his eyes—46—still glowed, a silent reminder of the souls he carried.

  But from the shadows of the trees… something else was watching.

  The Watcher wasn’t gone.

  It was only waiting.

  The wreckage hissed behind them, heat still radiating from the torn metal. Vermond stood still, shadows from the trees casting broken lines across his face, the undead looming behind him like ancient guardians.

  The Federation pilot sat slumped against a blackened piece of hull, clutching his side. His visor was cracked, and blood stained his suit. Vermond finally spoke, his voice quiet, but cold like the breeze threading through the woods.

  “…What happened to the others?”

  The pilot looked up at him, eyes wide with confusion and fear. He hesitated before speaking.

  “The Fallen Battleship…” he began, “It turned on us. No warning. No orders. Carlos de Fallen… he—he went mad. Vice-Captain Yurell tried to take command, tried to call for retreat, but… the bridge was hit. Yurell is… dead.”

  Vermond didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. But the number in his eyes—46—flickered faintly.

  “All three Federation ships are gone,” the pilot went on, bitterness and horror flooding his voice. “Wiped out like nothing. All because we followed a damn noble’s orders!”

  Vermond’s gaze dropped to the dirt. The soil was dark here—darker than the rest. Almost like dried blood.

  Then the pilot lifted his head, and his tone shifted.

  “But what happened… inside the Corvette?” he asked. “What really happened in there?”

  Vermond didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t even look at him. The memory flashed in fragments—bodies, screams, Kiana’s face twisted by shadows, the orb, the voices.

  “…I lost control,” Vermond finally said.

  The pilot blinked. “Control? Of what?”

  Vermond looked him in the eyes, and for the first time, the pilot saw the truth—the haunting glow of 46, the echo of death stitched into his soul.

  “Myself,” Vermond said. “Everything I am.”

  A long silence stretched between them.

  Then, from the trees, a low rumble echoed. The pilot scrambled to stand, but Vermond didn’t flinch.

  He could feel it again.

  The Watcher was near.

  And it was no longer watching.

  It was approaching.

  The Watcher returned.

  It stepped from the shadows like smoke manifesting into flesh. Its body flickered between shapes—half-robed phantom, half-charred skeleton, its face an empty void where light seemed to die.

  The Federation pilot froze. “W-What is that?!”

  The Watcher turned its head, slowly… then suddenly darted forward, spectral hand reaching for the pilot’s neck.

  “No!” Vermond snapped.

  A crack split the ground as his undead lurched into motion, intercepting the Watcher with a ghostly roar. The Watcher barely flinched—it swiped through one undead, sending it staggering, then raised a clawed hand toward the pilot again.

  “You protect this?” the Watcher hissed. “How many have you slaughtered, necromancer?”

  Its voice echoed with unnatural layers—ancient, furious, mocking.

  “You killed them.”

  The pilot’s eyes widened, shaken. “Wh-What is it talking about…?”

  “I—” Vermond’s hands trembled. “I didn’t mean to… I lost control…”

  The Watcher grinned, if it could be called that.

  “You enjoyed it.”

  That was when something cracked inside Vermond.

  The number in his eyes—46—flickered rapidly. His breathing deepened. His teeth clenched.

  Then the air split.

  A wild surge of energy erupted around him. Black and green lightning surged across his arms and shoulders. His eyes burned—bright like twin emeralds set in obsidian fire. The number solidified again. Still 46—but pulsing with violent clarity.

  The undead around him changed.

  Their forms sharpened—more solid, more defined. Their aura twisted with the same black-green energy, crackling through their limbs. One let out a haunting shriek, its power intensifying as if Vermond’s fury had poured directly into its soul.

  The Watcher tilted its head, intrigued. “Ah… Now I see…”

  Vermond stepped forward, face shadowed by his own power.

  “If you ever try to touch him again,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll show you what it really means to control the dead.”

  The forest pulsed with silence.

  The Watcher paused… then laughed, a low, distorted sound like a funeral bell echoing backwards.

  “Very well, Necromancer. Show me.”

  Then it faded into mist, like smoke burned away by wind.

  Vermond stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched. The pilot sat stunned, staring at him like he was no longer human.

  And maybe he wasn’t.

  The silence between them stretched like a wound.

  The pilot, helmet tucked under his arm, kept his gaze locked on the flickering green numbers in Vermond’s eyes—46. He seemed to study them, the undead, and Vermond himself as if trying to piece together the impossible.

  “You…” he finally muttered, voice hoarse. “You were the one in the Corvette, right? That thing earlier said… you fought everyone. Killed them. You're the one who… nearly destroyed the noble Carlos de Fallen…?”

  Vermond’s eyes narrowed, his voice calm but ice-cold.

  “So Carlos is still alive… and he killed everyone, right?”

  The pilot hesitated. “Yes. He returned alone… said the Corvette exploded with you inside. But there were survivors. Not many. The ones who did live…” He looked away for a moment. “They didn’t die peacefully.”

  The undead behind Vermond shifted, their presence causing the shadows nearby to shiver unnaturally.

  The pilot stared at them again, cautious. “You did this? Raised them?”

  Vermond didn’t answer directly. He stepped closer to the downed fighter, placing a hand on its blackened hull. Its surface was scorched, one wing half-buried in the soft soil, the engine dripping coolant onto charred moss.

  “Can it still fly?” he asked.

  The pilot ran his hand through his messy hair. “Engine’s overheated. Stabilizers are offline. Hydraulics... shot. But with time, and parts… maybe.”

  Vermond turned his back. “We don’t have time.”

  The pilot glanced nervously at the forest behind them, haunted by what he’d just witnessed. “Then what do we do?”

  Vermond crouched near one of his undead—placing a hand on its back. The undead seemed to tremble slightly under his touch, as if acknowledging him.

  “We fix what we can. Scavenge what we need. And then… we go back.”

  “Back…?” the pilot echoed, confused.

  “To the stars.”

  The wind picked up.

  And for a moment, in the trees above, something moved. Watching.

  Always watching.

  Sparks crackled from the broken panel as Vermond slid the last component into place. The pilot was sweating, sleeves rolled up, hands blackened with soot and oil. The engine core hummed low, not steady—but alive.

  “She’ll fly,” the pilot said, wiping his forehead. “Barely.”

  Vermond nodded silently, then turned toward his undead. Two figures stood at attention, eyes hollow and burning faintly green. He opened the cargo hold of the small fighter—tight, but just enough space for them.

  “They’ll ride inside,” Vermond muttered.

  The pilot blinked. “You’re bringing them?”

  “They’re mine now,” Vermond said, stepping into the co-pilot seat. “And I’m not going back alone.”

  Vermond’s fingers curled tightly around the edge of his seat as the fighter jet shook mid-air.

  Then it came again…

  That sound.

  A low, resonant pulse—not from this world. Not metal. Not natural. Not human.

  He felt it in his spine, in his teeth, in the pit of his chest.

  The pilot’s hands danced across the controls. “We’ve got something on the scanners. It’s—”

  The sky above cracked open like a wound, and from the clouds emerged a sleek, silent shape. Dark. Winged. Gliding. No engine trails. No signal. No IFF. No markings.

  Vermond stood up slowly, staring through the cockpit glass. “It’s not Federation.”

  The pilot’s voice dropped. “Then what is it?”

  And Vermond, for the first time in a while, whispered truthfully—

  “I don’t know.”

  The Cleanser descended like a predator, its hull shifting—pulsating—like it was alive. Energy gathered around its undercarriage, swirling with black mist and red lightning.

  Inside the cargo hold, the undead hissed in unison.

  “Whatever that thing is,” Vermond muttered, his voice steady, “it wants me gone.”

  The fighter swerved, narrowly dodging a bolt of crimson light that tore a hole through the clouds.

  “It followed me from space… it’s not done.”

  The number in his eyes—46—flashed again. His skin tingled with static. The air around him grew cold.

  He reached back toward the cargo hold, gripping the latch.

  “If this thing wants a fight…”

  His voice darkened.

  “…then I’ll give it one.”

  “I’ve rerouted power through the secondary cores,” the pilot muttered, “but the cooling system is still down. If we fly like this—”

  “We’ll make it,” Vermond said.

  His voice was low, hollow. Determined.

  Then something shifted. A strange hum passed through the jet's frame. The pilot looked up. “What the hell...?”

  Green and black sparks licked along the wings. The metal pulsed—no, breathed. The ship’s systems surged, lights flickering on with unnatural life. The engine no longer whined in resistance—it growled, like something awakened.

  Vermond's hand was still resting on the hull.

  The pilot took a step back, his jaw tightening. “Did you… do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Vermond replied honestly, his brow furrowing. “But I felt something. Like a fire inside me. Like I needed this ship to move.”

  They boarded. The undead slithered into the cargo hold, silent guardians. The cockpit dimmed, yet pulsed with new energy. Controls felt different—almost alive. They took off, the world beneath trembling as the jet—now tinged in death’s breath—screamed into the sky.

  And then the shadow came.

  From orbit, a black ship descended—jagged, insectoid, cloaked in black mist. The Cleanser.

  The pilot’s eyes widened in horror. “No… no, not them again—”

  It launched a barrage. Purple beams and crackling shots tore through the sky.

  Vermond’s hand gripped the throttle. “Hold on.”

  As if hearing his resolve, the jet responded—not with speed alone, but agility beyond its specs. It danced through the beams like a ghost, engines blazing with the green-black surge.

  Inside the cargo hold, the undead began to howl—not in fear, but anticipation.

  “I’m not going to die,” Vermond whispered. “Not here. Not now.”

  The sky became a battlefield once more.

  The sky howled.

  Searing energy bolts lit the atmosphere like a thousand dying stars, each one barely missing the fighter jet as it twisted and spun between them. Vermond gritted his teeth, hands gripping the controls. The flight stick felt different now—less like metal and more like an extension of himself.

  “Hang on!” the pilot yelled. “This ship wasn’t built for this!”

  “No…” Vermond’s voice was cold. “But it is now.”

  With every pulse of emotion, black-green lightning surged through the ship’s frame, enhancing its thrusters, tightening its turns, sharpening its sensors. It moved not like a machine—but like a predator.

  Behind them, the Cleanser pursued. A twisted vessel that looked more like a floating executioner than a ship, its body pulsating with hungry void-light. Massive scythe-like appendages unfurled from its flanks, and beneath them, dark energy cannons gathered power.

  Then—

  BOOM!

  A blast grazed their wing. Warning lights screamed.

  In the back, one of Vermond’s undead braced itself against the wall, flickering violently. The pilot cursed. “We won’t survive another direct hit!”

  “I’m not letting them take anything else from me,” Vermond muttered, eyes burning. “I refuse.”

  And then—he felt it.

  Like a whisper beneath his skin. His hand sparked again, lightning crawling into the dashboard. The ship’s systems bent to his will—armor plating hardened, the engines surged, and the weapons system flickered to life.

  “Are those... weapons?” the pilot gawked as new barrels extended from the sides of the jet. “This thing didn’t have guns!”

  “Now it does.” Vermond’s voice was full of fury.

  He locked onto the Cleanser, eyes narrowing. “Let’s see how you like this.”

  He pressed the trigger.

  Green-black beams erupted from the modified guns, tearing across the sky. The undead in the hold let out a piercing screech in unison, their presence channeling through the ship, amplifying its wrath.

  One beam caught the Cleanser’s side. It recoiled, its hull distorting, shrieking.

  “Did we get it?!” the pilot shouted.

  “No,” Vermond said, “but we wounded it.”

  The Cleanser shrieked in return—somehow not with metal, but with voice, deep and bone-chilling. Its form shifted, and suddenly dozens of smaller spectral drones launched from its belly.

  “New targets—” the pilot began.

  “I’ll deal with them.”

  Vermond’s eyes flickered—46—and then he whispered a name that had never been spoken aloud.

  A third undead emerged beside the others in the hold, shaped like a knight of old, cloaked in smoke and flame, its eyes glowing like lanterns of the abyss.

  His soul count dropped to 45.

  “Attack.”

  The hatch opened. The three undead leapt from the jet, catching wind, flying like cursed harbingers toward the Cleanser’s drones in mid-air.

  The battle in the sky had only just begun.

  The sky bled green fire.

  Vermond’s undead clashed mid-air with the Cleanser’s spectral drones, the atmosphere torn apart by shrieks and eruptions of corrupted energy. His summoned warriors fought savagely—one slicing through drones like smoke, another shielding the jet from behind, the last diving with a scythe of bone and fire—but they were being overwhelmed.

  “They’re not holding,” the pilot muttered. “There’s too many!”

  “I know!” Vermond’s voice cracked, a surge of pain in his chest. Every movement felt heavier—summoning that third undead had shaken something loose inside him. Not just power… but something darker.

  His soul count burned behind his eyes. 45.

  “Then we run, right?!” the pilot shouted.

  “No.” Vermond’s voice turned sharp. “We fight.”

  As he reached deep into his fury again, the Cleanser dove—its scythe-like limbs spread open like wings, a beam of pure annihilation charging between them. It was preparing a final strike.

  And in that moment, he heard it again.

  The whisper.

  The Watcher’s voice.

  > “You still don’t understand. This is what you are. This is what you were meant to become. You feed on the dead, and now you command them. You will never go back to being human, Vermond.”

  Vermond trembled. “Shut up!”

  The ship surged, responding not to logic but to emotion. The enhancements flared once more—but they were unstable now. Lights blinked wildly, the engine pulsed like a heartbeat, the ship itself trembling as if caught between two worlds.

  Another drone smashed into their wing. Sparks. Smoke. The fighter began to spiral.

  “Stabilizer’s failing!”

  “I’ll hold it—!” Vermond’s body screamed in pain, but he forced the energy again—green lightning crackling from his arms, wrapping around the console, trying to control the fall.

  His nose bled. His vision blurred.

  He saw flashes again—memories not his own. A throne. A sea of corpses. A broken moon. His eyes flickered—something was inside him. Something more ancient than the undead.

  “Brace for impact!” the pilot screamed.

  And then—

  CRASH.

  The jet hit the ground hard, sliding across the rocky terrain, metal grinding, fire erupting in its trail. One undead was shredded mid-air, vanishing in a screech of torn soulfire.

  Silence.

  Smoke.

  Pain.

  Then the Cleanser hovered into view above the wreckage, its shadow casting a long darkness across the crash site. Its arms opened wide, energy swirling for one final judgment.

  Vermond crawled from the wreck, blood dripping down his brow. The pilot was unconscious. He looked up—

  And smiled.

  Because the last two undead were still standing.

  And behind them… the earth itself began to shake.

  Something was rising.

  Something more.

  The ground trembled again beneath Vermond’s feet. Cracks split the soil where the artifact had first pulsed in his hand. His undeads—both silent, ghostly figures—stood still, eyes glowing dimly. The pilot was still unconscious inside the fighter jet, unaware of what was rising below.

  A deep, grinding sound echoed across the valley. Not like thunder. Not like engines.

  It was older. Heavier.

  It was the sound of metal screaming from forgotten centuries.

  And then—eruption.

  Soil burst into the air, sending a shockwave through the forest. Trees bent, torn from their roots as an enormous black mass ascended slowly from beneath. Not alive… not dead. But something in between.

  A destroyer-class ship, half-decayed, half-forged in necrotic bone and rusted metal, rose from the grave. Its hull was marked in old, dead languages—faint runes now glowing with emerald fire. No mouth. No sound. Just the quiet hum of power awakening.

  Vermond staggered back. “What… is this?”

  Then the artifact in his hand pulsed once. And the number in his eyes flickered—

  [46]

  The ship responded.

  Its engines—silent and black—didn’t burn fuel, but something darker. Souls? Memories? He didn’t know. But somehow… it obeyed.

  It floated above the earth like a phantom, drifting toward the fighter jet—protectively. The wind around Vermond had vanished, as if reality itself held its breath.

  And then—

  A shriek from the sky.

  A light. No, a shadow.

  The Cleanser had returned.

  Descending fast. It had followed them.

  Vermond’s body surged with instinct. Electricity coiled across his arms—black and green energy dancing around his fingertips. “Not this time.”

  The undead destroyer turned slowly, angling itself toward the incoming threat. No cannons were visible. No weapons. Yet Vermond felt the power building inside it.

  The cleansing ship opened fire. Vermond grabbed the artifact again, and something strange happened—

  His mind split.

  For a moment, he saw the world as the undead did. Cold. Measured. Strategic.

  He raised his hand, and the destroyer responded.

  It fired.

  Not missiles. Not lasers.

  But a pulse of soul-disruption energy, like a scream from the abyss, slamming into the cleanser’s shields and cracking them open.

  The pilot stirred inside the jet, coughing.

  “Wh… what the hell’s happening?”

  Vermond stood firm, eyes glowing, his voice low:

  “The past is buried here. But I just unearthed it.”

  The pilot stumbled out of the fighter jet, shielding his eyes as the undead destroyer hovered above like a beast torn from forgotten war legends. It didn’t fly—it loomed, as though gravity itself feared it.

  Vermond stood in front of the rising dust, cloak torn and scorched, green and black arcs of necrotic energy dancing around him like an aura of vengeance.

  The pilot stared, trembling. “You… what are you?”

  Vermond’s glowing eyes turned toward him—[46] still flickering within them.

  “I’m just trying to survive.”

  Another beam came down from the Cleanser above, slicing into the earth. The explosion knocked the pilot back, nearly killing him again. The ship was firing recklessly now, desperate to end what it didn’t understand.

  Vermond raised both arms. His undeads stepped forward—silent, awaiting his will.

  “I need cover,” he muttered.

  His voice echoed. His mind reached out.

  And suddenly, the undead destroyer’s wings spread open—massive bone-like flaps unfolding from the hull, glowing veins of soul-energy pulsing through them. From its underbelly, several rusted pods detached and dropped to the ground, slamming with thunderous impact.

  More undead.

  A squad of phantom-like soldiers rose from the pods, weapons fused into their skeletal arms, armor etched in runes from ancient battles. They formed a circle around Vermond and the pilot.

  The pilot’s voice cracked. “You can summon entire armies now?!”

  “I didn’t know I could,” Vermond said, eyes narrowed. “But I guess I’m learning.”

  The Cleanser, realizing the threat, began its descent—its hull splitting open, revealing tendrils of purified plasma and containment fields.

  It would purge the surface.

  Vermond's eyes burned brighter. The artifact pulsed again in his palm, and his voice dropped, cold:

  “Try me.”

  The undead destroyer shifted, rotating its entire mass to aim directly at the Cleanser. Then, with a deep, echoing hum—it launched everything.

  A spiraling vortex of cursed energy tore from its center, laced with fragments of the souls Vermond had consumed. The attack ripped through the sky, colliding with the Cleanser mid-air.

  Explosion.

  A blast of black and green light swallowed the clouds, and the Cleanser was thrown back, spiraling like a falling angel. Vermond’s undead soldiers raised their weapons and fired, overwhelming the sky with ghostly gunfire.

  The pilot collapsed, completely stunned. “You’re not a salvager…”

  Vermond turned to him, calm now, but his aura still thrumming. “I was. I still want to be. But if this is what I have to become to survive…”

  He looked to the burning sky.

  “…Then I’ll become it.”

  The fire raged behind them, consuming shattered steel and torn earth. The air trembled with the force of it, and even the undead destroyer creaked like it mourned. Ash floated through the night like dying stars.

  Vermond stood, his cloak scorched and his breathing shallow. One undead still flanked him, the other torn apart in the earlier fight. The pilot, still unconscious and crumpled near the smoldering jet, was lucky to be alive.

  And then…

  From the heart of the fire, something moved.

  At first, it was just a shadow—long and twisting through the smoke. But soon, footsteps echoed. Not mechanical, not heavy, but graceful. Measured. Like a predator that didn’t need to rush.

  The flames parted.

  A figure emerged. Cloaked in obsidian armor, cracked and smoldering, as though it had crawled through the sun itself. Its face was hidden beneath a helmet molded with ancient runes, and in its hand, it held a long blade—one that seemed to drip with void, the space around it distorting.

  Vermond narrowed his glowing eyes. “Cleanser?”

  But no—this was different. Worse.

  The undead beside him growled lowly, a sound Vermond hadn’t heard before. Not fear… something else. Recognition?

  The figure stopped, standing tall between the blazing wreckage. It raised its hand, palm open… and spoke, voice like shattering glass.

  “You do not deserve them.”

  Vermond took a step forward, fists clenched. “Who are you?”

  It ignored the question, its gaze locked on the undead destroyer behind Vermond. “The key has been used. The lock undone. And now... the vessel walks. But you, child… you are not ready to command it.”

  Vermond’s veins lit with green lightning.

  “Try me.”

  The figure moved like smoke and thunder. Faster than the eye. Blade raised.

  The last undead leapt, intercepting the strike—and the shockwave split the ground beneath them.

  The blade sliced through the air with a shriek—and in an instant, the last of Vermond’s undead fell, its spectral form vanishing in a crack of light and smoke. Ash scattered where it once stood. The black-armored figure stood still, unfazed, its void blade dripping nothing and everything.

  Vermond gritted his teeth. His fists trembled—not with fear, but with rage. His eyes glowed brighter, the number "46" pulsing like a warning. Too slow. Too weak. Too reckless.

  Behind him, the undead destroyer groaned—its towering presence pulsing with dormant power, its runes flickering like dying stars. Its hull cracked open again, ready to obey.

  Vermond turned toward it and raised his hand.

  "Fire—" he commanded—

  But then, he stopped. His eyes widened.

  The cannon’s targeting rune locked on everything—including him.

  If the destroyer fired now, he would be vaporized too.

  His breathing became shallow. Not like this.

  Then, almost instinctively, he raised both hands instead. His body felt heavy, the green and black energy swirling with more focus now. Focus… like the artifact taught… control.

  The air shifted.

  The pods beneath the destroyer hissed, sliding open with a metallic groan. From the shadows of the massive vessel, figures dropped one by one—limbs cracking into place, hollow eyes lighting up with pale green fire.

  Undead soldiers. Dozens.

  They stood at attention around Vermond. Burned armor. Broken weapons. No words.

  Vermond stepped back, stunned. His eyes narrowed at his hand—he didn’t lose a soul. The number "46" remained.

  Not mine… these weren’t summoned. These were waiting. Sleeping.

  Then he felt it.

  A sudden pressure on the back of his neck.

  A presence.

  He turned his head slowly.

  Far up on a crag of blackened rock, partially hidden by shadows and smoke—

  the Watcher stood.

  Unmoving. Unblinking.

  Watching.

  And smiling.

  The battlefield burned, fire licking the edges of the crater where the fighter had landed. Ash and smoke coiled like specters in the windless air.

  The void-armored assassin stood still, cloaked in shifting shadows. Opposite it, ten of Vermond’s undead soldiers had formed a line—some with rusted swords, others with salvaged rifles buzzing with necrotic energy. Their eye sockets glowed with faint green embers, a reflection of the power tethering them to Vermond.

  Without warning, the assassin launched forward.

  It moved like a specter, almost teleporting. A rifle-bearing undead squeezed the trigger—too slow. The assassin spun mid-air, avoiding the bullet and slicing through the soldier’s chest.

  One down.

  A second undead raised a shield and tried to cover the third, but the void blade cleaved through both—Two, three.

  Vermond’s heart pounded, watching from behind, standing near the downed pilot. His hands were trembling. The artifact’s pulse inside his chest brought a painful clarity, but not the control he needed.

  He couldn’t just stand here.

  The remaining undead tried to coordinate. One with a rifle managed to graze the assassin’s side—a burst of black, oily blood splashed from the wound. Another followed up with a blade, cutting shallow into its shoulder. But the void creature snarled and retaliated with a whirlwind spin, bisecting another two.

  Four, five.

  The sixth raised a bayonet-rifle and fired at close range, exploding part of the assassin’s arm—only to be gutted by a hidden dagger seconds later.

  Six.

  Vermond’s eyes burned. The number 46 still glowed inside them.

  I can't waste them… but if I don’t fight too, they’ll all fall.

  He stepped forward.

  Green-black electricity surged around him, veins lighting up as he summoned the souls within him—raw, burning, barely tamed. His remaining undead fanned out, holding the assassin at bay.

  He focused, summoning the essence of one soul—not to raise another soldier, but to enhance his own body.

  His legs moved faster. His arms were stronger.

  His senses sharpened.

  He charged.

  The assassin turned just as Vermond arrived, launching a kick that the boy ducked under. He swept a glowing hand upward, slamming into the assassin’s ribs. Black sparks exploded.

  It roared.

  Vermond followed through, dodging a swipe and slamming his fist into its helm. The metal cracked.

  He stumbled back, panting. One soul burned. His count dropped to 45.

  The undead destroyer behind him rumbled, its eyes glowing dimly. The battlefield pulsed.

  And still…

  The void assassin rose.

  The fight wasn’t over.

  The clash of blade and gunfire echoed through the scorched trees as Vermond’s undead dropped like flies—cut down by the relentless creature’s speed and raw fury. From ten, only six remained, and the numbers were falling fast.

  Vermond gritted his teeth, stepping forward. Green and black electricity crackled across his skin as he consumed another soul, his body pulsing with chaotic energy. His hand burst into spectral flame as he leapt into the fray beside his undead, blade drawn from the ethereal dark. His strike landed heavy—forcing the creature back.

  But even then, it wasn’t enough.

  And then… something clicked.

  The destroyer behind him groaned—a sound like bones bending through time. Vermond felt it again, that strange whisper within his mind. No—more like an instinct. A pull. He raised his arm without thinking, fingers curled toward the sky.

  The air rumbled. A hatch opened.

  From the destroyer's underbelly, metallic pods hissed and dropped. With sickening thuds, they landed across the charred field—and opened.

  Undead soldiers poured from the darkness, eyes glowing with eerie green fire, rifles in hand, blades drawn.

  Vermond blinked, stunned.

  “I didn’t… know I could do more…”

  He didn’t finish. His breath caught in his throat.

  Because something… watched.

  From the forest’s edge, amid the smoke and ruin, stood the Watcher. Not attacking. Not moving. Just smiling—its twisted expression stretching across its pale, eyeless face.

  Vermond shivered. He didn’t know if it was pride, mockery, or something else.

  But one thing was certain.

  It wanted him to realize. It wanted him to grow.

  And Vermond… had just taken another step deeper into the abyss.

  The ground trembled as another pod slammed into the scorched soil, followed by another, and another still. The battlefield burned under the fading twilight, but the fire was nothing compared to what Vermond had unleashed.

  The enemy—a blur of violence and shadow, panting amid a pile of broken undead—spun, slicing down another of Vermond’s soldiers with ease. It growled, a distorted voice laced with contempt.

  “You weak bastard!” it spat. “Spamming your armies in no time! Fight like a man!”

  Vermond stood amidst the swirling smoke, tattered coat fluttering in the rising heat. His eyes glowed like emerald stars, the number 45 flickering for a heartbeat before vanishing entirely under the glow. Green-black electricity curled around his limbs like serpents, hissing with rage and focus.

  He raised his hand.

  Again.

  More pods opened with hollow hisses, dropping from the undead destroyer like seeds of dread. The earth quaked as one by one, they cracked open.

  More undead emerged.

  Ten... twenty... fifty... a hundred...

  The creature faltered, its confidence shaken as more and more figures joined the field—marching forward in silence, weapons drawn, eyes blazing with soul-fire.

  “Weak?” Vermond said coldly, voice deeper now, calm yet thunderous. “Fight like a man?”

  He took a step forward, blood running from his side, face pale—but his will unbroken.

  “Is there a rulebook in war? A fairness clause in the void?” His gaze narrowed. “No. There’s just survival. And all I want is to go back… salvage, fix ships, and never see this cursed place again.”

  The enemy snarled and charged.

  Vermond didn’t flinch.

  He stepped back.

  The undead surged forward.

  Behind him, the Federation pilot stood frozen in awe. His mouth hung open.

  "Is that... one hundred and seventy... six?!" he whispered, voice barely audible over the marching.

  The field became a sea of bone and steel, rotting flesh and glowing eyes. The creature, for the first time, looked cornered.

  And somewhere—far, far beyond the battlefield—the Watcher leaned forward in the dark, grinning wider than before.

  The creature roared, wild and desperate, spinning its blade through the air and cleaving three undead in a single arc. It moved like death incarnate, elegant and unrelenting. But for every one it felled—five more replaced them.

  Gunfire cracked from the ranks. Undead rifles barked with a chilling rhythm. Blades clanged. The enemy stumbled.

  And then—it happened.

  One of Vermond’s undead lunged, sword plunging through the creature’s arm.

  Another grabbed its leg, dragging it down.

  Then came the storm.

  Swords slashed.

  Rifles fired point-blank into its face, chest, limbs.

  The creature screamed—but it wasn’t a scream of death. It was a scream of torment, of being ripped apart inch by inch, its body being fed to the legion Vermond had brought to life.

  Limbs were severed, reattached, then torn again.

  It tried to crawl, but skeletal fingers crushed its ribs.

  It pleaded, but dead eyes do not understand mercy.

  They carved through its body slowly—methodically—like surgeons of pain. Flesh was shredded. Bone splintered. Undead fists crushed its skull, over and over.

  Vermond watched.

  And he laughed.

  He laughed like something unhinged, something broken. It echoed across the field—a sound not of joy, but a madness rising from the pit of his soul. He laughed, and the pilot behind him stumbled back in terror.

  The undead were celebrating with violence.

  But then—

  Silence.

  Vermond stood frozen.

  His smile dropped.

  His breath caught.

  He stared at the mutilated remains of the creature being devoured by his own creations. And suddenly, his eyes dimmed. The crackle of power around him faded.

  His voice came soft, hollow.

  “…What was I thinking…?”

  His arms lowered.

  The wind howled over the bloody field.

  And from the far shadows of the jungle, barely visible—the Watcher stood. Smiling.

  Eyes wide, black, and gleaming with delight.

  He tilted his head, watching Vermond as if he were a painting finally completed. The amusement in his expression said more than a thousand words:

  This is the beginning.

  The battlefield was silent now—silent, except for the moans of the last enemy being slowly torn apart. Sliced, shot, shredded by sword and bullet. The undead did not kill quickly. They surrounded their prey, dragging him down piece by piece, their hollow sockets never blinking, never looking away.

  Vermond stood still, hands twitching from the weight of the moment. The pilot remained frozen behind debris, pale and shaken. It was over. For now.

  Then the laughter came. Soft at first. A giggle. A chuckle. Then a full, manic burst from Vermond himself. He couldn't stop it.

  The pilot shivered.

  And then, as quickly as it started, the laughter died.

  "Not again…" Vermond muttered, blinking, coming back to his senses.

  But around him, the undead still stood. Still breathing. Still moving.

  He looked toward the looming undead destroyer in the distance, its shadow cast like a blade across the cracked ground.

  How do I call them back…?

  He tried commands. Words. Orders.

  "Stop."

  Nothing.

  "Return. Disappear. Go back."

  Nothing.

  Panic edged his voice, but then—a pulse. A flicker in his eyes. The number glowed faintly. A strange clarity settled in his mind.

  He stopped speaking. He focused. He pictured the undead returning to the pods. Marching into the hull. Fading away.

  One moved. Then another. Ten. Twenty. Dozens.

  The pods on the destroyer hissed open. Black metal stretched out like tongues, and one by one, the undead returned to their place. Some climbed. Some walked straight into the dark. And then they were gone.

  Vermond stared, breathing hard.

  "I didn’t say anything…"

  The pilot whispered behind him, voice dry as ash:

  "What… are you?"

  And far above, barely seen—hidden in the folds of smoke—the Watcher watched.

  Its grin widened.

  The moment Vermond stepped inside the undead destroyer, the temperature dropped. The air felt thin—not due to lack of oxygen, but as if the walls themselves were sucking in all warmth and light. The corridors were ribbed with bone-like structures, pulsating with a dim green glow. Ethereal energy slithered through the walls like veins, whispering in forgotten languages. The floor wasn't metal—it was some form of hardened obsidian-like material, scuffed with claw marks and ancient bloodstains.

  Behind him, the pilot followed reluctantly, his body stiff and his steps hesitant. He had removed his helmet, revealing wide, terrified eyes that darted around the corridor. “W-What is this place...?” he muttered. “This isn’t a ship... it’s a tomb.”

  Vermond didn’t answer at first. He was too focused. Too drawn in.

  Each step deeper into the destroyer revealed more of its terrifying marvels. The central chamber opened into a throne-like control node—an altar surrounded by jagged, floating runes. Tendrils of ghostly energy slithered from the ceiling down into the console. It responded to Vermond’s presence.

  He approached slowly. As he placed a hand on the blackened command altar, it pulsed, and a swarm of green holograms blinked to life in an ancient, unknown language. Yet somehow, his mind understood them. The artifact was helping him interpret everything.

  The pilot gasped behind him. “You’re really controlling it... aren’t you?”

  Vermond simply nodded, though a flicker of doubt crept into his heart. He was steering something far beyond human creation.

  Undead crew roamed silently along the halls, ignoring the pilot but bowing slightly when passing Vermond. One even guided them to a chamber—somewhere between a bridge and a crypt. A wide observation panel revealed the smoldering planet surface behind them.

  "Destination, pilot?" Vermond asked.

  The pilot jumped at his voice. “W-What?”

  “You said the ship’s engine was overheated. You still want to go back to Federation space?”

  The pilot paused. “You’re really going to fly this thing?”

  Vermond turned, eyes glowing with faint green and black currents. “We’re leaving this place.”

  Behind them, the ship groaned with life as undead pilots manned strange, glowing consoles. The destroyer began to rise, flame and dust kicking up below it. Screams echoed faintly—echoes of the past or memories burned into the ship’s walls.

  The undead destroyer had awakened... and now, it soared.

  The massive undead destroyer soared through the upper atmosphere, tearing clouds apart as if it were reclaiming the heavens it had once ruled. Vermond stood at the edge of the command bridge, the pale green glow of necrotic energy tracing every edge of the control panels. He could feel the structure respond to his thoughts now—sluggish, uncertain, but undeniably linked to him.

  The pilot sat rigid near one of the side terminals, glancing at the flickering screens, hands shaking. “This… this isn’t a ship. It’s a tomb,” he muttered under his breath, trying not to look at the undead crew silently working their old stations. Not one of them acknowledged his presence. Not one breathed. They moved, reacted—some even typed into terminals with bony fingers or spectral hands—but not a single sound came from them.

  “I don’t even know how I’m doing this,” Vermond admitted quietly, his eyes scanning the unnatural architecture. “It’s like the ship listens… but it doesn’t trust me.”

  Then the main screen lit up, unprompted. A faded image appeared, crackling with static. The pilot flinched, instinctively backing up. Vermond narrowed his eyes and stepped forward.

  The recording played.

  It showed a once-living crew, all wearing black and green uniforms with a strange sigil—one Vermond had never seen before. They were laughing, eating, running drills. A captain stood proudly at the helm, issuing commands.

  Cut.

  Alarms blared. The crew ran. Shadows danced in the halls. The camera feed shook. A voice—twisted, distorted—echoed: “Your souls… are mine.”

  Screams followed. The halls turned red. Crew members clawed at their throats, their eyes glowing faintly green before falling one by one.

  Then, silence.

  The same crew returned—undead, their flesh pale or missing, taking their former posts. The captain—now gaunt, skeletal, but still wearing his uniform—stood again at the helm. “The Necromancer King… commands us,” he whispered.

  The screen cut to black.

  Vermond stared at it in stunned silence. “There were… more,” he whispered. “This wasn’t the only ship.”

  “Y-You mean there’s a fleet?” the pilot said in disbelief.

  “Somewhere out there,” Vermond replied. “I don’t think even the Federation or anyone knows what they’re dealing with.”

  He walked across the bridge, brushing his hand over the glowing runes on the walls. “But this one… this one’s mine now.”

  As if in response, a low hum echoed through the destroyer—like a heartbeat. The undead moved a little sharper. The green lights burned just a little brighter.

  From deep inside the ship, a door hissed open.

  Vermond and the pilot looked toward it, a faint mist pouring from the hallway beyond. Somewhere within the corridors, whispers stirred once again.

  The undead destroyer drifted silently through space like a phantom leviathan, its blackened hull casting a shadow over the drifting derelict ahead. Inside, the pilot sat stiffly in the co-pilot seat, hands clenched, sweat trailing down his forehead. No words came from his lips—only a quiet, terrified stare aimed at the man standing before the panoramic window.

  Vermond.

  His eyes scanned the derelict vessel ahead. It was nothing special. No power signatures. No distress signals. No signs of life. But it called to him.

  Salvage it...

  It was instinctual—engraved into his bones by years working alongside his grandfather. The itch of potential value. The whisper of machinery that could be repurposed. No matter the changes, the deaths, or the unholy powers that now pulsed in his veins... that instinct hadn't died.

  Without a word, the destroyer turned.

  He hadn’t issued a command.

  The helm moved on its own.

  The pilot swallowed.

  On the lower levels, hatches groaned open. From within the interior depths, they emerged—undead soldiers donned in faded EVA suits. The suits had been modified, re-stitched with unknown black fibers that seemed to pulse slightly in zero gravity. Their helmets bore glowing green visors, yet no breath fogged the inside. No voice. No sound.

  They simply obeyed.

  As Vermond stepped toward the airlock, the undead followed him—moving in eerie synchrony.

  He didn’t even speak.

  They simply knew what he wanted.

  Onboard the derelict, the silence was absolute. The lights were flickering, the air stale but breathable. Vermond floated through the hallway with his undead behind him, their hands already picking apart broken systems, collecting power cells, and stacking food containers still preserved in sealed canisters.

  The pilot watched from the destroyer’s bridge feed—mouth dry.

  They stripped the radar array first. Then some salvageable plating. It felt normal... yet unnatural.

  This wasn’t a crew.

  This was an extension of him.

  One of the undead brought over a cracked control panel. Vermond didn’t speak, but it moved exactly where he was looking. His fingers brushed it. “It’s still warm.”

  He turned to the others.

  “Get the reactor logs. Anything usable.”

  They moved immediately.

  The pilot whispered to himself. “He didn’t even speak...”

  Hours passed.

  Once their work was done, the undead returned to the destroyer, dragging crates and gear with them. They moved not like monsters—but like trained engineers. Methodical. Efficient. Dead.

  And somewhere deep in the ship’s cold hull...

  ...the watcher smiled.

  Inside the belly of the undead destroyer, the stench of rust, oil, and something far more ancient filled the air. It was a silence broken only by the creaking of metal and the subtle hum of the ship's barely functional systems. The cargo bay doors slammed shut behind the undead, their arms full of salvaged materials—twisted steel, cracked panels, spare power cells, and broken control consoles. Despite their grotesque forms, they moved like they remembered what it meant to serve aboard a ship.

  Vermond stood in the central hub, his eyes tracking every motion. He hadn’t told them what to do. He didn’t have to. They simply knew.

  A long corridor flickered to life as power rerouted from the recovered generators. The lights didn’t glow white—they burned green, casting sickly shadows that danced like spirits across the walls.

  The pilot, still wary, wandered out of the cockpit and into the central deck, wide-eyed. “They're... fixing the ship?”

  Vermond nodded, slowly. “They know what to do. What I want. Even before I say it.”

  Bolts clanged. Wires sparked. One undead crawled along the ceiling, fusing a salvaged panel over a fractured bulkhead. Another loaded power cells into a rusty chamber, which pulsed once—bringing an entire segment of the ship back online. Screens glitched into view, showing diagnostics, incomplete star maps, and fragmented crew logs.

  The pilot flinched as he passed a group of three undead who were repairing a corridor wall. Their helmets turned to him in unison. For a moment, he thought they were alive inside those suits. Then he saw the movement behind the visors—black fog and hollow light.

  “They're... almost human,” he whispered.

  Vermond didn’t answer. He moved deeper into the ship, passing strange sigils etched into the walls. Ones that pulsed when he passed them.

  In one section, a long-dead medical bay reactivated. A holographic log flickered to life, corrupted by age and data loss. But one clip remained.

  :: Log Entry - Necrofleet Vengeance Protocol - Commander Vassk ::

  The image showed a man screaming as his own crew tore him apart—not out of madness, but ritual. A hooded figure watched, seated on a throne of bones.

  Then darkness.

  The pilot stumbled back. “This ship... belonged to a necromancer king?”

  Vermond stared, eyes glowing faintly. “One of many. But where the others are... I don’t know.”

  The destroyer groaned as systems continued to come back online—some functioning, some unnervingly altered.

  And the undead continued to work.

  As if rebuilding a ghost from the past.

  The soft hum of the undead destroyer's engines pulsed through the vast silence of space. Within its shadowy interior, Vermond leaned against the cold, ribbed wall of the command chamber, staring at the endless stars beyond the fractured glass viewport.

  Eerie silence hung between them until Vermond finally broke it.

  "Do you want to join me?" he asked, voice steady, but quiet.

  The pilot blinked in surprise. He had been seated near the emergency panel, nervously observing the skeletal crew as they moved with uncanny coordination—tightening bolts, connecting wires, repairing walls, and adjusting internal systems like engineers of old.

  "I… I don’t know," the pilot replied after a pause. "I still don’t understand all of this." He glanced at the undead crew. One passed by, its spacesuit still smudged with soot and scratches from the surface battle, its helmet cracked but filled with hollow, glowing light.

  Vermond turned to him, his expression unreadable. "What's your name?"

  The pilot swallowed and answered, "Ereie."

  Vermond nodded. "Nice to meet you, Ereie."

  Ereie looked down, his voice filled with conflict. "I'm sorry, Vermond. My loyalty to the Federation… it's not something I can just toss aside. But I… I won’t say anything. Not about you, not about this ship." His eyes scanned the eerie architecture around them. "They wouldn’t believe me anyway."

  Vermond offered a faint smile, just a ghost of one. "That’s good enough."

  The ship drifted further into the void, the last flickers of the distant planet now only a speck in the background. Within the hallways of the destroyer, the undead still labored. Their movements were soundless save for the clicking of boots against metal grates and the hiss of automated systems being brought back online.

  The salvaged food containers had been placed into the mess hall—now retrofitted into something usable. It was a strange sight: Ereie, a living man, cautiously biting into preserved rations while skeletal figures sat motionless around him, pretending to eat from trays they didn't need.

  Vermond watched from a distance, his mind split between amusement and sorrow. He still didn’t fully understand how the crew responded to him so perfectly, as if they heard his very thoughts.

  But there was one thing he knew:

  This ship, these souls, this silence—they were his now.

  And ahead, the stars waited.