The leviathan didn't just appear; it asserted its dominance over the very fabric of space.
Along its central axis, a massive, long-barreled primary rail-cannon extended like a predatory spine. The hull was sheathed in overlapping plates of matte, blue-black armor, scarred by micro-meteorites and the faint, telltale scorch marks of high-energy weapon impacts. Encircling the midsection, partially hidden beneath retractable armor shutters, was a high-speed magnetic rail-ring.
Four secondary turret batteries sat perched on these rails, capable of sliding into position within seconds to saturate every cubic inch of the surrounding void with defensive fire. This wasn't a patrol boat; it was a specialized instrument of death.
Before Vance could even reach for the emergency thrust, the warship's ventral bays cycled open. Four brilliant, amber-hued tractor beams lanced out, latching onto the Ore-Tyrant MK-II with the grip of an angry god.
Simultaneously, the universe went silent.
Vance's sensors flatlined. His HUD flickered into a storm of static, and the low hum of the long-range comms was replaced by the agonizing "shhh" of white noise.
"Minovsky Particles," Vance whispered, his voice steady despite the chaos.
It was a signature technology of this human civilization—particles with near-zero static mass that, when dispersed in high concentrations, acted as an electromagnetic shroud. They rendered every known form of wireless communication and radar tracking useless, leaving only visible light as a means of navigation.
Even though this sector of the asteroid belt was naturally isolated, the intruder was taking no chances. They were creating a "Black Hole" in the information grid.
It's exactly like the last time, Vance thought, his heart thumping a heavy, rhythmic beat against his ribs.
He didn't panic. In fact, he leaned into the role he had to play: the talented, bewildered rookie. He performed the "Survival Protocol" with practiced perfection. He feigned shock, then scrambled to check his sensors and communications. Finally, he reached for his emergency flight suit, sealing the helmet with a sharp hiss-click.
He didn't make the mistake of firing the Ore-Tyrant's pathetic mining laser. That tiny beam wouldn't even scuff the paint on the warship's secondary turrets. An armed response would be interpreted as a threat, and a threat would be met with vaporization.
Instead, Vance did the only logical thing for a helpless miner: he reached out and manually killed the main thrusters. He sat back, hands raised and visible through the viewport, signaling his total surrender.
He was trapped, but he wasn't dead. If they wanted him dead, they wouldn't have used tractor beams; they would have turned him into stardust with a single volley from their secondary batteries.
Vance allowed his facial expression to settle into a complex mask: thirty percent confusion, thirty percent dread, and forty percent suppressed excitement.
He needed to look like a man who was terrified for his life but secretly mesmerized by the raw, forbidden power of the vessel before him. It was a delicate balance—the look of a "predestined protagonist" who hadn't yet realized his fate.
In the corner of his vision, the Auxiliary System—silent and indifferent—provided the data he already knew by heart:
[Target Identified: Fireseed-Class Destroyer (E-Class)]
[Integrity: 88%]
[Growth Potential: Low]
The stalemate lasted for a few tense minutes as the tractor beams reeled him in. Then, the armored plates of the warship's ventral hangar groaned open, revealing a cavernous interior bathed in the clinical, crimson glow of emergency lighting.
Eighty-nine seconds, Vance noted, checking his internal clock. Less than a minute and a half. In his previous life, he had felt like hours had passed. Now, with the clarity of a veteran, he realized the ship's commander was in a desperate hurry. Their time was bleeding away, and every second spent in the open was a second the pursuers could use to lock onto their residual ion trail.
The Ore-Tyrant was sucked into the belly of the beast.
As the hangar doors hissed shut behind him, sealing out the void, the artificial atmosphere began to pump in. Outside his viewport, two metallic figures emerged from the shadows of the cargo bay.
They were silver-framed machines, slightly taller than a man, with exposed hydraulic "bones" and glowing sensor optics.
"Guardsman MK-III Combat Droids," Vance murmured.
He knew them well. They had been top-of-the-line security models forty years ago, retailing for a staggering 6.5 million credits per unit. They were famous for their sophisticated combat AI and versatility, though their lack of external armor plating made them vulnerable to heavy-caliber anti-material rifles.
But against an unarmored miner? They were invincible.
Vance obeyed the silent command of their raised weapons—high-intensity scatter-cannons designed for shipboard suppression. He opened his hatch, stepped onto the hangar floor, and raised his hands.
The droids didn't speak. They didn't need to. They flanked him with mechanical precision, their sensors locked onto his vitals to detect any surge in adrenaline or hostile intent.
A green arrow illuminated on the deck plating. The droids nudged him toward a circular platform—a magnetic levitation disc—roughly 1.5 meters in diameter. As Vance stepped on, a faint, reddish magnetic shroud shimmered into existence around the rim, locking his boots to the surface.
The disc hissed to life, floating a few inches off the floor. It accelerated into the ship's interior, whisking Vance through a labyrinth of cold, industrial corridors.
He saw glimpses of the Tomahawk's true state. The walls were lined with exposed wiring and flickering conduits. This was a ship that had been pushed to its absolute limit, surviving on jury-rigged repairs and sheer willpower.
They crossed three main junctions and four airtight bulkheads before the disc came to a smooth halt in front of a massive, circular armored door.
The Bridge, Vance thought.
Five seconds later, the heavy door slid into the wall with a pneumatic hiss.
Vance didn't hesitate. He stepped into the Command Center, his boots clicking on the metallic floor. The door snapped shut behind him, cutting off the mechanical hum of the droids.
Even though he had lived this moment before, the sight of the Bridge still gave him a jolt of genuine surprise.
The air was thick with the smell of ozone, old blood, and the metallic tang of a failing life-support system. And there, amidst the flickering consoles and holographic displays, sat the ghost of his p