The main viewport of the Tartarusios flickers with static, then sharp visuals: a sleek, black vessel—the Orbiton—bursts from the enemy ship, its hull reflecting the eerie glow of nearby starfields. Energy ripples pulse from its engines, lighting the surrounding debris in strobing blues and reds.
Empire's Main Ship
Emilia Rozasar stands on the bridge, silver-threaded uniform gleaming, red hair catching the ambient light, black eyes narrowed in focused determination. Around her, consoles beep and alarms scream. Crew members scramble, hands flying over panels.
"Fire! Destroy that ship and the Orbiton! Energy output at maximum!" Emilia commands.
A massive energy cannon hums, glowing brighter, releasing a concentrated blast toward the Orbiton—but the black ship twists impossibly, skimming the edge of destruction. Shockwaves ripple across the fleet. Twelve ships are gone in a blink. The bridge quivers.
"The enemy ship… it's initiating its leap engine!" a lieutenant shouts. Smoke and sparks streak across the ceiling as the remaining fleet retreats.
Zellion Space Station
The Empire's fleet limps into the orbit of Zellion Space Station. Docking bays open with mechanical precision, welcoming the battered ships.
Director Blain, tall and formal, approaches Emilia. "Lady Emilia Rozasar, it's an honor to have you here."
Emilia's black eyes are sharp. "We need rapid repairs, Director. Time is critical."
Blain gestures to the bustling repair crews, who already begin disassembling damaged turrets and hull plating.
"This was unexpected," she says, voice low. "Twelve ships… gone."
Emilia's expression hardens. "We underestimated them. The ALTOPEREH… it's more powerful than we imagined."
Terrian Empire – Fansilia Capital
The Consul chamber is vast and austere, light streaming through towering windows that overlook the capital's gleaming skyline. Advisors and generals murmur quietly. Emilia's report echoes in their minds as Minister Alan steps forward.
"We face a threat unlike any before," Alan announces, voice steady but tense. "The ALTOPEREH."
A hush falls. Consul members shift in their chairs, eyes wide with concern. Sir Roland, half-dressed from his pool break, mutters in disbelief. Lady Wistoria adjusts her uniform, tense but poised.
Outside the chamber, holographic projections of the Orbiton streak through space, black and almost spectral against the stars, leaving trails of energy like tears through the cosmos. The Empire's future hangs by a thread, and only those at the Consul know the full scale of the threat.