The Wraith coasted along a designated orbital corridor, its hull catching the pale golden light of Caryth's stars. The traffic was tighter here, narrower lanes nested inside regulated channels. Every maneuver was tracked, every signal authorized in real time. No deviations. No improvisation.
"Now entering Guild-assigned route three-dash-nine-alpha," Iris stated. "Expected arrival at designated planetary dock in fifteen minutes."
Ethan leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on the vastness beyond the viewport.
"Give me the layout," he said.
Iris's voice came through without delay, smooth and composed. "Caryth's primary systems are distributed based on purpose, optimized through over three centuries of macro-engineering."
A holographic map expanded before him, highlighting orbital lanes, key planetary bodies, and secure zones.
"Veltraxis Prime," she began, as a crystalline world rose into focus. "Caryth's administrative capital. The Federation's civil branches, regulatory councils, and Tier-One research institutions are housed there. The entire city is vertical, designed to scale, not sprawl. A marvel of controlled density."
The image shifted.
"Fort Daran. Primarily military. Less grand than Talveth's command infrastructure, but fortified beyond most sectors. Includes rapid deployment fleets, anti-orbital gridworks, and a defensive matrix with clearance authority across this side of the sector."
Another shift, this time to a beautiful halo of interconnected platforms orbiting a turquoise planet.
"Astrel Station, a floating arcology. Hosts diplomatic summits, corporate negotiations, and elite residence tiers. Pristine artificial environments are maintained to sub-micron cleanliness. A fusion of luxury and silence."
Then came the last.
"Zarenth Clusters, a network of terraformed resort worlds reserved for the ultra-elite. Their atmospheres were sculpted for aesthetic impact, not practicality. Oceans engineered to reflect sapphire tones. Forests tuned to seasonal bloom cycles. No manufacturing. No military presence. Pure indulgence."
Ethan watched the projections shift and rotate in real time, each location feeling like a different universe.
"Sounds like a dream," he murmured.
"For most, it is," Iris said. "These places are not accessible to the general public. Unless one is born into them or summoned through official channels, most Federation citizens will only ever see these names on nav-charts, if that."
He stared a moment longer, then closed the display.
For a brief second, he let himself imagine it...sightseeing on Astrel, walking under the crystalline towers of Veltraxis, or floating in the engineered tranquility of a Zarenth lagoon.
Places he had no business in.
He wasn't a diplomat. Or a magnate. Or a political figure.
He was here on borrowed clearance, invited only because of the Guild's summons. And once his C-Rank test was over, he'd be shown the door.
Maybe he'd glimpse one or two marvels on the way out, but none of this was his.
"Approaching Guild Territory," Iris said.
The map zoomed out again, now showing a full system of terraformed planets and moons, all outlined in bright gold and deep blue.
"The Mercenary Guild's domain is isolated from civilian access," she continued. "Independent orbital systems maintained under the Interstellar Guild Charter. Civilian entry prohibited without Guild credentials, diplomatic override, or an active summons."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Even here in the Core?"
"Especially here," Iris said. "The Guild's Caryth installation is the most secure of its kind in Orion Federation. All activity is logged, layered by classification. Even your current access grants only limited internal mobility."
Figures.
As the Wraith began its final descent, the designated Guild planet came into view, broad, rugged, and unmistakably industrial. It lacked the sculpted beauty of the Zarenth Clusters or the curated elegance of Astrel Station, but there was a certain gravity to it. Not the pull of mass, but of purpose.
Across its darkened continents, ridges of metallic architecture dominated the terrain. Cities weren't designed for comfort or charm, they were built for resilience.
Sky-piercing towers loomed like watchful sentinels, their armored surfaces coated in dull anti-radiation alloy. Landing grids, garrison zones, manufacturing spires, training yards, all embedded into a planetary crust forged from practicality.
There were no beaches here. No biosculpted gardens. Just armored ferrocrete, reactor hums, and an unshakable sense of movement.
It wasn't beautiful, but it was real.
A working world. A crucible. Not made for the masses, made for mercenaries.
As the Wraith lined up with the assigned airspace vector, a vast docking ring began to take shape below. Suspended across the upper atmosphere like a metallic spider web, dozens of circular platforms extended out like petals, each with its own control tower, traffic node, and hangar complex.
Anti-ship turrets rotated slowly, tracking every inbound vessel. Plasma field walls shimmered faintly, pulsing with containment energy.
Towers rose from the planet's crust like vertical fortresses, communication spires, long-range scanners, and Guild emblems etched in white and blue, clearly visible from orbit. It was clear that this world didn't just host the Guild, it belonged to it.
The Wraith's landing assignment appeared on the holo-console: Bay 17C.
As the ship eased into final descent, automated docking arms extended with smooth precision, their movements swift and almost serpentine. Refueling lines, hull scanners, and cargo validators all activated in tandem.
The platform itself was sleek, reinforced with a sheen of obsidian-black plating polished from years of wear, maintenance, and conflict.
But that sterile order ended the moment the ramp lowered.
The second Ethan stepped off the Wraith, the tarmac greeted him not with silence, but with the orchestrated chaos only mercenaries could call normal.
Dock officers shouted over intercoms in clipped tones. Mechanics sprinted across lanes, barking codes, adjusting landing calibrations. Mercs in a rainbow of armor types and cultural garb marched by, some in full combat rigs, others in faded jackets covered in scorch marks and clan sigils.
The air smelled of machine oil, plasma residue, and synthetic cleaning agents that never quite masked the grit.
He stood still for a moment, letting it all pass by like a storm, each piece of it uncoordinated and yet functioning together.
Customized ships of every class filled the docking pads, from rusted corvettes to sleek black cruisers, each modified beyond standard specs. Hull paint peeled off in stripes, engine ports repurposed, weapon hardpoints replaced with exotic mounts. Some ships had names scrawled in, others bore mural-like decals or the remains of battle trophies bolted onto their sides.
Every ship told a story. None told the same one.
Just like the mercenaries who flew them.
Ethan stepped off the final ramp plate, his boots hitting the steel platform with a soft thud. He was dressed in his usual gear: slim combat armor under a dark-weathered jacket, utility pants fitted with hidden pockets, and reinforced boots worn down just enough to show he lived in them.
An earpiece linked to Iris buzzed quietly as she synced with local frequencies. His data pad rested against his hip, his laser pistol holstered at thigh level, and behind his back, the sheathed astral slayer dagger sat concealed.
It wasn't flashy. But it was efficient and that's what mattered here.
He took a long look around the bay.
Sleek, yet chaotic. Professional, yet unpredictable.
Caryth outside. Guild within.
Here, the Core's perfection gave way to raw autonomy. The crystal order of Veltraxis or the diplomatic serenity of Astrel Station couldn't touch this place. Inside the Guild's domain, structure was traded for function, silence replaced with noise, and protocol balanced precariously against personality.
And yet, it all worked.
Mercs laughed too loud, bickered over mission terms in open comms, traded hardware parts like snacks. Some were huddled around live-feed terminals, watching bounties unfold in real time. Others compared scars while waiting for registration.
No polished Senate etiquette. No corporate niceties. Just survival, swagger, and credits.
Ethan smirked to himself.
For all of Caryth's order and prestige, mercenaries were still mercenaries. Untamed by polish. Unapologetic in presence.
That was the truth of the Mercenary Guild, an ancient institution older than some nations, yet still ruled by the restless. It didn't adapt to its surroundings. It didn't blend in.
The galaxy adapted to the Guild.