The Rot City trembled as the Eyrvaks launched their raid—shadows and flames spreading like a sickness through the twisted streets. The distant clang of steel and the echo of warhorns reminded everyone that the rebellion had truly begun.
But beneath this chaos, in the forgotten underground chambers, Ir'ken guided four young Zypherians through training that would shape their destiny.
Targan, Ka'roth, Roouch, and Rom—all born into chains, forced to mine emerald until their bodies hardened like the stones themselves. Their six arms bore scars of endless labor, their backs bent but unbroken. Now, they sat in silence, struggling to breathe in rhythm, to let their minds open to something they had never known: freedom of the soul.
Roouch trembled, sweat dripping down his forehead. His thoughts were not of meditation, but of his brother.
"Ten years…" he whispered, clenching his fists. "Ten years since they took Kroouch away. He was only three… and I was six. If he's still alive in some other Rot City…"
His voice cracked, anger fighting against grief.
A heavy hand rested on his shoulder. It was Bill, the senior Zypherian, only twenty-five but already weathered by battles and losses. His tone was firm, but patient.
"Roouch… if you drown in memories, you'll never rise to fight. You must master at least one of the Fantam Arts. Only then can you stand against the injustice that took your brother. Calm your storm. Empty your mind. Will and determination—that is your weapon before any blade."
The boys nodded, though their eyes burned with both rage and hope.
From the shadows, an old figure watched—the legendary Zor, once leader of the Eyrvaks. His body was broken: only one eye remained, and of his six arms, only one survived. Yet his spirit had not been extinguished.
He smiled faintly as he saw the children struggling, sweating, refusing to give up.
"The future lies in their fire," Zor murmured to himself. "Even if I will not live to see it, these young Zypherians… they will carry the flame where I could not."
And in that dim chamber, amid the echoes of war above, the first sparks of destiny began to flicker.The palace of Segment 1 loomed like a colossus of obsidian and crimson light, its spires cutting into the polluted sky. Within its towering halls, cloaked in shadow, sat the ruler of the Liliput Star System—Laco, a figure of power draped in darkness, his face veiled in silhouette, even before his ministers.
A trembling minister fell to his knees.
"Lord Laco… the news spreads like wildfire. The Eyrvaks stormed Rot's cities. They broke the chains of the slaves. The people sing their names."
The chamber's silence cracked under Laco's fury. His clenched fist slammed the throne's armrest, the sound echoing like thunder.
"Summon Commander Li'gon and Commander Ga'lin… now!"
Moments later, the massive bronze doors parted. Two towering Zypherian generals stepped forward, their armor gleaming with jagged scars of countless battles. Li'gon, the strategist whose eyes burned with cold calculation, and Ga'lin, the warlord whose axe had bathed in the blood of entire legions. Both kneeled.
"Rise," Laco commanded, his voice sharp as steel.
Li'gon bowed his head.
"My lord… the rebellion is no longer scattered noise. The Eyrvaks, led by Ir'ken, march with purpose. They rally not only Zypherians, but slaves, workers, even deserters. Their banners fly in nearly every colony."
Ga'lin growled, his deep voice like grinding stone.
"They strike like beasts. Their leader is dangerous. Once, he was ours."
At Laco's gesture, Li'gon stepped forward.
"Ir'ken—a Zypherian who rose from the ranks of the common class. Fifteen years ago, he carved his way into the Elite 10, the highest honor outside the royal blood. He wielded strength that rivaled commanders themselves. But instead of loyalty, he chose rebellion. He cast aside his badge as a Space Cop and built the Eyrvaks from the ashes of the oppressed. Now, his army bleeds us dry."
Ga'lin's voice thundered through the hall:
"And worse… he does not stand alone. He has allied himself with that shadow who moves between systems—Arco, the Mysterious One. The leader of the Liberation Army. Together, their flames spread across the Liliput Star System."
A tense silence fell.
From the throne, Laco leaned forward, his face still hidden by shadow, only the faint outline of glowing eyes visible. His words dripped like venom:
"Then we will answer their fire with war. The Eyrvaks will learn that rebellion against the throne of Laco is rebellion against the stars themselves."
The generals bowed deeply, the heavy air thick with impending battle.
Outside the palace walls, the polluted winds howled, carrying whispers of war.The vast training grounds of the Zypherian barracks hummed with restless energy. Rows of young recruits stood firm under the watchful eyes of their instructors, sweat dripping, breaths heavy, determination etched into every face.
It had been barely a month since they began their path—an initiation where most struggled to grasp even the faintest flicker of energy within. To awaken the first of the Chakras, the Root, was no small feat. Yet among them, one name already echoed louder than drills and war chants.
Targan.
With a clear vision and ambition sharper than steel, he had succeeded where others still faltered. The Root Chakra pulsed within him, a red flame grounding him, making every step firmer, every strike heavier, every word carry weight. He became not just a trainee, but a beacon—proof that the impossible could be seized. Whenever he sparred, the other recruits stopped to watch, their own spirits ignited by his resolve.
But destiny had more for Targan than discipline and sweat.
It was on the forty-third day of training, as the suns dipped low, washing the barracks in hues of fire, that his eyes caught hers.
Yenna.
She stood apart, practicing alone beneath the shade of a half-broken column, her stance precise, her aura quiet yet unyielding. Her gaze was fierce, but there was sorrow hidden beneath it—a storm locked behind calm waters.
For the first time, Targan felt his own heartbeat stumble.
He walked toward her, each step heavy not with fear but with a strange anticipation. She noticed him, lowered her stance, and spoke first, her voice smooth, deliberate.
"You're the one they all talk about," Yenna said, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. "The one who awakened the Root in only a month."
Targan hesitated, his usual confidence bending under her gaze. "I… only did what had to be done."
Her lips curved faintly—not a smile, but something close, fleeting. "No. You did more. Most of us still chase shadows. You've touched the flame."
For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the clash of weapons in the distance. Targan's chest tightened, not from the day's drills, but from the weight of her presence.
He had faced exhaustion, pain, and failure countless times, yet this—this first exchange with Yenna—felt like stepping onto a battlefield far greater than the training grounds.
And somewhere in that instant, an invisible thread was drawn between them.
The Root had been awakened… but another force, far older and deeper, stirred quietly within.