Across the ten planets of the Lilliput Star System, Zypherian royal troops prowled the skies and streets with relentless vigilance. Their fleets shimmered in orbit, casting shadows of oppression across entire continents, while ground patrols moved through the cities like iron chains. Every outpost, every checkpoint, every channel of communication was under their grip. The people watched in silence, but whispers of rebellion stirred beneath the surface.
Far away, in the jagged dark of Narlak's Maw, the void split open as Verdalian ships descended into the hidden valley of fractured stone. From their ramps emerged the Eyrvaks, towering and sharp-eyed, their obsidian armor catching the pale glow of twin moons. Alongside them marched the warriors of the Scorched Branch, scarred yet unbroken, their banners fluttering like flames.
Waiting at the center were Targan and Ka'roth, guardians of the Verdalian cause, flanked by elite escorts who had risked everything to reach this clandestine meeting.
For the first time in generations, the Eyrvaks and the Scorched Branch stood side by side. Once bitter rivals, now bound by a single oath—they would fight together, or fall together.
The council fire burned high as strategies were whispered, alliances sealed, and weapons pledged. And then, as silence fell, the truth became undeniable:
The war for freedom would begin in twelve hours.
Tomorrow, the galaxy would burn.
The choking fumes of smoke rose over Dranak-9, the heart of the Rot City, where the Kuaq'sire oversaw lines of weary slaves. Their chains clinked as they worked, their majestic red skin glistening under the heat lamps, six muscular arms bent from endless labor, their multiple eyes dulled with hopelessness.
Then—chaos.
A burst of fire tore through the scaffolding. Sparks erupted, and before Ku'ak'sire could bark an order, a single rifle shot echoed. The overseer jerked back, roaring in pain, black blood spilling across the steel deck.
Alarms blared. The Zypherian enforcers swarmed in, rifles blazing, their armor glinting crimson under the artificial suns. Slave after slave fell, their screams filling the rusted streets.
But the fire had already spread. Chains were shattered, doors torn down—Mi'ken and his rebels moved swiftly, cutting locks and shouting orders. The enslaved Zypherians, their long-suppressed fury now ignited, began to fight back. They tore tools from the forges, swung hammers, and pushed against their captors.
"To freedom! For our children!" voices roared, uniting the city.
Kuaq'sire, clutching his wound, bellowed with venom:
"Release…the Vir Androids."
A hush fell across the rioting crowd. Even Mi'ken froze.
The command was carried. A soldier sprinted toward a fortified safehouse hidden behind the refinery walls. The doors hissed open—rows of sleek androids, tall and faceless, gleamed under dim light. Their cores pulsed with Vir-tech, their only programming: Kill the slaves. Seize the children.
Mi'ken's heart sank. He shouted over the uproar, his voice breaking with fear:
"Everyone, run! Get the children out! Now!"
But before the crowd could scatter, one android raised its arm. A blinding beam of plasma cut through the smoke.
Ten Zypherians fell instantly, their bodies collapsing in silence. The air reeked of scorched flesh.
The rebellion had begun in fire—but it might end in blood.
The air of Drank-9 choked with smoke and screams. The fire spread through the slave pits, turning shadows into violent flickers. But the true terror arrived when the androids activated.
Just ten of them. That was all it took.
They moved with unnatural grace—gleaming steel, crimson optics glowing like miniature suns. They weren't here to guard. They were here to exterminate. Within seconds, blaster beams tore through the crowds; Zypherian slaves fell in heaps, their majestic six-armed frames collapsing like broken pillars.
"In the name of Lord Laco, we will cleanse you all!"
Kuaq'sire's voice thundered, his eyes burning with cruel satisfaction.
That was the breaking point.
Mi'ken, trembling but unyielding, raised a stolen rifle. His voice cracked as he shouted,
"Not anymore!"
The shot rang out. Kuaq'sire's skull exploded, and his body crumpled against the burning backdrop.
For the first time in centuries, a Zypherian enforcer had been slain by a slave.
The crowd gasped—but the androids didn't hesitate. One launched forward, slamming into Mi'ken. The platform shattered under the impact, raining metal and ash.
From the rubble, a young cry pierced the chaos.
"No! Please, not him! First my mother yesterday… now you too?!"
It was Kairox, barely ten years old, clutching at the debris. His words were swallowed by the roar of battle. An android seized him by the arms, lifting him into the air as he kicked and screamed.
And then the horror multiplied—all the androids were doing the same. Children between five and fifteen, snatched from the chaos, dragged away as if they were harvest.
The rebels had no chance. Blasters ripped through Zypherian bodies; slaves tried to resist with bare fists, but each strike against metal was futile. The androids left corpses and silence in their wake, carrying their child-captives into the black smoke of the city.
But across the void, whispers spread like fire.
The Eyrvaks,
the Liberation Army,
the Scorched Branch,
and the Verdalians—
alien allies who had waited for a moment to rise—now saw the signal.
The first spark of rebellion had been lit in Drank-9. And it could not be extinguished.