Rot City – Sector 9, Vokar-17, Darnak-9
The air in Rot City was heavy—thick with the metallic stench of smog, rotting fuel, and the cries of the enslaved. The streets were lined with deteriorating steel blocks, homes carved into rusted towers that once belonged to a proud people. Now, the Zypherians who weren't chained in mines or factories walked as shadows, beaten down by years of subjugation under the corrupt rule of Kuaq'Sire, the Overseer of Darnak-9.
In a crumbling warehouse at the edge of Sector 9, the fire of rebellion flickered.
Around a makeshift table of iron sheets sat Mi'ken, Si'lino, Cho'doq, and a handful of other Zypherian youths, none older than twenty. Their eyes glowed with the same pale-blue hue of their race, but unlike the defeated masses outside, theirs burned with defiance.
"We can't wait any longer," Mi'ken said, fists tightening. "Every day, more of our people vanish into Kuaq'Sire's transports. They're sent to rot in Vir mines, to die in their wars. But this time, we strike first."
Si'lino, her braided silver hair falling over her shoulders, nodded. "We take down Kuaq'Sire's hold. We cripple his guard stations in Rot City. Once the people see he can bleed, they'll rise with us."
Cho'doq leaned forward, his face scarred from years of labor in the smelting fields. "If we free the slave pens in Sectors 7 through 12, the numbers will be on our side. They'll fight—not for us, but for themselves."
The room buzzed with low voices as the young Zypherians mapped their plans. It wasn't just about fighting anymore—it was about giving their people a reason to hope again.
Meanwhile, in the head chamber of Darnak-9, Kuaq'Sire lounged on his grotesque throne, his jeweled robes shimmering under the dim light of red crystals embedded into the ceiling. His jowls quivered as a holographic call materialized before him, bearing the seal of the Vir Empire.
The sharp, cold voice of a royal head boomed through the chamber:
"Kuaq'Sire, the Vir Empire has a demand. Within two days, you will prepare and transport Zypherian children, ages five to fifteen, to the landing zone on Vokar's northern plateau. A carrier ship will arrive. Failure to comply will be considered treason."
The Overseer smirked, his teeth yellowed with decay. "As the Empire commands. The young ones will be ready."
The call ended, leaving silence in the chamber. Around him, guards in plated armor shifted uneasily.
One among them, Serath, felt his chest tighten with rage. His hand gripped the shaft of his spear until his knuckles whitened. Unlike the others, Serath's heart hadn't turned to stone. He had watched too many Zypherian children taken—watched the light fade from their eyes as they were dragged away.
He knew he couldn't stay silent.
As the Overseer barked new orders, Serath quietly slipped from the chamber, his pulse racing. He moved through the dim corridors, every step echoing the weight of treason.
There was only one place he could go—
To Mi'ken and the young rebels planning in secret.
If they knew of the Empire's plan, if they acted fast, they could stop the transfer. They could save the children.
For the first time in years, Serath felt something more than despair. He felt the spark of hope—
And he prayed the youths would be strong enough to ignite it.
The halls of the Royal Palace on Roouch Outpost glimmered with crystalline chandeliers, yet the air was heavy. The royal commanders—Roouch himself, Kroouch, and the other elites—stood in formation before the grand star-map table.
The map showed the Eyrvaks' encampments across the Ashen Mountain range, their stronghold marked with crimson. Yet the latest report shattered the illusion of certainty.
"Commander Log'fim, repeat what you just said," Roouch demanded, his sharp voice slicing through the silence.
Log'fim saluted stiffly. "My scouts report no movement, no encampments, no armies in the Ashen Mountains. The Eyrvaks… are gone."
A murmur swept across the room. Kroouch slammed his gauntlet against the table. "Gone? Impossible. They've held those mountains for centuries. Either they've burrowed deeper… or—"
"Or they've vanished with purpose," Roouch interrupted, his brow furrowed. "No enemy abandons ground without reason. Which means their eyes are on something greater."
Tension gripped the chamber. The commanders began speculating: was this a feint, a hidden march across the void, or some pact with the Scorched Branch? The palace walls seemed to tighten, as if the very empire itself sensed danger looming.
Far away, in the underground sanctum of the Liberation Army, a different fire burned. The rebels had gathered in secrecy, their banners draped over rusted metal walls, the air electric with anticipation.
At the head of the assembly stood Arco, the scarred and unyielding leader of the Liberation Army. His voice thundered across the chamber:
"Brothers and sisters, the time has come. No longer will we fight in shadows while the empire bleeds us dry. From the Rot Cities of Darnak-9 to the Ashen Mountains, from the ice fields of Ryvek to the burning moons of Lilliput, we strike as one. A rebellion across all ten Lilliput star systems!"
Cheers erupted, fists slamming against metal.
Arco raised his hand to quiet them. His eyes burned with conviction. "But know this—I will go myself to Vokar-17, to the heart of their chains. That is where the empire thinks it is strongest. That is where we will break them first."
The crowd roared. The plan was reckless, audacious—but it was fire in the veins of the hopeless.
Meanwhile, the Empire moved like a tightening noose. The Vir Empire's royal orders rippled outward, demanding Zypherian child slaves from Darnak-9. The chessboard of war stretched further, with pawns and kings converging on Vokar-17.
And somewhere in the cracks, a soldier with a guilty conscience raced to deliver his message to Mi'ken and his companions—the only ones daring enough to listen.
The galaxy's storm was gathering.
Rot City – Sector 9, Darnak-9, Vokar-17
Mi'ken's jaw tightened as the soldier's words sank in. His fists clenched around the rusted railing of the broken balcony they had gathered on. Below, the sprawling slums of Rot City seemed to groan with misery, unaware that in just two days hundreds of Zypherian children would be dragged onto Vir Empire ships, never to return.
Si'Lino slammed his hand on the table. "They'll hollow out our people generation by generation. If they take the young, they take the future. This ends here."
Cho'Doq leaned forward, his voice calm but burning with resolve. "Then we light the fire. Not just in Darnak-9, but in every Rot City across Vokar-17. The rebellion must begin now."
The soldier who had overheard the transmission trembled but stood tall. "I will spread the word through the garrisons. Not every Zypherian wears Kuaq'Sire's chains willingly. Many are waiting for a spark."
Mi'ken looked at the young faces gathered around him—twenty-year-olds hardened by toil, scarred by the lashes of overseers, yet carrying the weight of hope. His gaze fell on Kairox, a 10-year-old boy crouched silently by the corner, eyes wide, listening to every word.
Kairox's small hands gripped the edge of his ragged cloak, his breathing sharp and fast. He didn't understand strategy, fleets, or Vir decrees, but he understood fear. He understood loss. And he felt the stir of something else—something fierce—igniting in his chest.
Mi'ken crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Kairox… you'll see what it means when slaves no longer bow."
The boy nodded, swallowing hard, his voice a whisper but filled with fire. "I'll carry the word. I'll run through the alleys. The children… they'll know. They'll hide before the ships come."
Si'Lino's eyes softened for a brief moment. "The kid's braver than half the men I know."
The group rose together, the tension in the air sparking like lightning before a storm.
Mi'ken raised his hand, his voice carrying across the broken rooftops.
"Let the Rot Cities burn with rebellion. We'll strike at Kuaq'Sire's throne, and from the ashes of chains, a new dawn will rise for Zypherians."
And as the words left his mouth, Kairox's young eyes widened with the knowledge that he was witnessing the birth of something greater than any of them—a firestorm that would consume Darnak-9 and beyond.
The rebellion had begun.