Viltrum Standard Year 7361
The sky over Viltrum was a cold, crystalline blue, streaked with high, thin clouds like white scars. The upper towers caught the pale light of the morning sun, their gleaming metal spires stabbing into the atmosphere like the teeth of a predator. On the high plateaus, farmers worked the grav-tilled fields under the watch of armored patrols, while above them, the thin streaks of warships cut silent paths toward the horizon.
Viltrum was at peace, or at least as much peace as an empire built on conquest could ever know. That made what happened next all the more strange.
It began as a flicker — a point of light on the far edge of the upper sky. A farmer, his face leathery from decades of high-altitude wind, looked up from his work and frowned. The speck grew, brightening from silver to orange to a fierce, molten gold. The air began to tremble with the low, distant roar of something punching through the upper layers of atmosphere.
From the orbital watchposts, the object appeared first as a blip, then a streak, moving faster than any approved vessel. Sensors struggled to get a reading — whatever it was, it was dense, heavier than its size should allow, and moving at impossible speed without any sign of braking.
By the time the alarms reached High Commander Thraxis, the object was already halfway across the sky. He strode onto the balcony of the watchtower, visor narrowing against the glare. The falling craft tore through the thin clouds in a spray of vapor, leaving a blazing trail in its wake.
"Impact in the southern plains," a technician barked. "No transponder, no Council codes, no—"
The sound hit them — a tearing, bone-deep thunder as the object broke the sound barrier again and again in rapid succession. It slammed into the hard soil of the landing plains with a shockwave that rattled the watchtower's steel bones.
The crater was still smoking when Thraxis arrived. His personal guard formed a perimeter, weapons at the ready, scanning for signs of an ambush. The smell of scorched soil and burnt ozone hung in the air.
In the center of the crater sat a pod — a perfect silver teardrop, its surface scorched black in places but intact. Alien symbols, faint and irregular, glowed like embers along its curved sides. The markings were unlike any Viltrumite script — more intricate, with looping curves and clustered dots that suggested both art and purpose.
Thraxis descended into the pit, boots sinking into loose, hot soil. He rested one gauntleted hand on the pod. It was warm, thrumming faintly beneath his touch — not the mechanical pulse of an engine, but something almost organic.
With a hiss, the pod's seam split open.
A rush of sterile, recycled air escaped, carrying with it the scent of metal and something faintly sweet, almost floral. Inside lay a small figure, no larger than a human infant, wrapped in a silvery cloth that shimmered as though woven from liquid light. The child's skin was pale but healthy, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes, when they opened, were a deep, unnatural blue — the blue of skies over oceans Viltrum did not have.
The baby squinted against the daylight, his tiny hands curling into fists. His breathing was steady, even under the thin air.
"What is it?" Sub-Commander Ryll asked from the rim of the crater.
Thraxis lifted the child with one arm, his eyes never leaving the boy's face. The weight was unusual — heavier than the size suggested, as if his bones were lined with steel.
"A survivor," Thraxis said. Then, after a long pause, "Or a weapon."
They brought the child to the High Citadel for examination. The medicae facility was cut into the base of one of the city's central spires, its walls lined with surgical steel and humming diagnostic engines. Kael lay under a scanning array while physicians murmured to one another in low tones.
His cellular structure was… wrong. The cells themselves seemed to be drawing in energy from the surrounding light, storing it in microscopic organelles unlike anything in known Viltrumite biology. His musculature was denser than most adult warriors. His skeleton was a lattice of uncommonly resilient tissue — not quite Viltrumite bone, not quite metal, but something that resisted every test blade.
The head physician looked at Thraxis. "If this child reaches maturity… I do not know what he will become."
Thraxis studied the boy through the glass. The child's eyes followed him, unblinking.
"I will find out," Thraxis said at last. "And if he is strong, Viltrum will forge him into a blade."
They gave him a name from both worlds — or at least, from what little they could glean of his own. The pod's inner panel bore two clear glyphs among the unreadable script: K-A-E-L. The rest was indecipherable, a riddle from the stars. In Viltrumite war dialect, Ren meant "son of no clan."
Kael-Ren.
That night, under Viltrum's pale-blue sun, the child slept in a steel cradle in the warrior nursery. Outside, the sky was clear, the stars sharp. Somewhere among them lay the world that had sent him here — or perhaps the world that had been destroyed to make his journey necessary.
Viltrum did not care for origins. Only for strength.
And Kael's strength was already beginning to stir.