The bridge of the Tomahawk was not the gleaming command center Vance remembered from the propaganda films of the Bauhinia Kingdom. It was a tomb of cold steel and flickering holographic ghosts. The air was heavy with the copper tang of blood and the chemical sting of high-potency antiseptics.
In the center of the room, slumped in the high-backed commander's chair, was the man Vance had come to see.
He was a middle-aged man dressed in a scorched black combat uniform. He didn't sit so much as he was pinned to the chair by gravity and sheer willpower. Above him, a small, wheel-shaped intelligent medical drone, silver-white and humming with a soft, mechanical whir, hovered in the air. Its needles and laser-scalpels were extended like the legs of a metallic spider, dancing over the man's chest in a frantic rhythm of life-support.
The drone's status lights were a chaotic mess—the green "active" light strove against the frantic, rhythmic pulsing of the red "critical" warning.
The man didn't move as Vance approached. He didn't even turn his head. Only a voice—thin, raspy, and sounding like dry leaves skittering across stone—drifted from the shadows of the chair.
"Forgive me... my current state does not permit... formalities. Please, come closer."
Vance stepped forward, stopping just a few feet from the chair. Up close, the carnage was even more visceral. The man's left eye was gone, replaced by a jagged, bloody crater that had been crudely cauterized. A long, deep gash ran across his right brow, exposing the pale glint of the skull beneath; the swelling was so severe the remaining eye was pinned shut, reduced to a mere sliver of darkness.
But it was the chest wound that made Vance's stomach turn. A black-hilted dagger was buried deep into the man's left breast, driven in so far that the guard was flush with the skin. The medical drone's surgical arms were focused entirely on this area, pumping translucent fluids into the wound to prevent total organ failure.
It's a miracle he's even conscious, Vance thought. That blade hadn't just grazed the heart; it had likely shredded half of the muscular tissue. By all laws of medicine, this man should have been a corpse ten minutes ago.
"I don't know why you've brought me here, sir," Vance said, his voice carrying a calculated edge of indignation and fear. "But if you have something to say, I suggest you say it quickly. You aren't exactly in a condition for long-winded speeches."
The man's lips curled into a gruesome, distorted smirk. "Military-grade stimulants... from the Levistane civilization. Within an hour of injection, you stay awake... even if they take your head. It's a gift for the dying... so we can settle our accounts."
Vance glanced around the bridge. It was empty save for the dying man and the two combat droids standing silently at the entrance. "If you're looking for a doctor, you won't find one in this sector. If you could fly this ship to a real facility, maybe there's a sliver of hope. But here? You're just waiting for the clock to run out."
"Don't bother looking," the man whispered, his head tilting slightly. "I'm the last soul left on this ship. And as for a hospital... the 'Heart-Piercing Dagger' of the Jin Clan isn't something a backwater clinic can fix. It's designed to kill the spirit as much as the flesh."
Vance went quiet, staring at the man. "Then why am I here? If you just want a witness for your death, then start speaking. I'm just a miner. I have a life to live, debts to pay, and a future I'd rather not spend in a wreckage."
"You're a sharp one," the man wheezed, a wet cough rattling in his chest. "But it's too late for that. You think you can just walk away? You're on the Tomahawk now. The moment those tractor beams locked onto your hull, your old life ended."
The man paused, his breathing shallow. "There's a pack of wolves out there. They come from the Dingyuan System... the Jin Clan. I killed three of their branch-line sons. In their eyes, I'm a dead man walking. And in the eyes of the Jin... anyone associated with me is a target to be erased."
Vance froze. He let the silence stretch, allowing the gravity of that name to settle over the room. "The Jin Clan of Dingyuan? The ones who... 'Touch a blade of my grass, and I will raze your entire lineage'?"
The man chuckled, a sound like glass breaking. "You've heard of them. Good. Then you know the 'Jin of Dingyuan' don't believe in mercy. They believe in absolute, disproportionate retribution."
Vance knew the name all too well. Even in his previous life, the Jin Clan was a legend of terror. Though KQ-03 was part of the Bauhinia Kingdom and the Jin Clan belonged to the neighboring Golden Sparrow Federation, their infamy transcended borders.
In the Federation, they were an "Upper-Tier Clan"—the equivalent of high nobility. They were a family that had turned pettiness into a weapon of state.
Vance remembered the stories. There was the infamous "Academy Incident." A minor Jin scion had been caught drugging a student at a prestigious female academy. A passerby had intervened—politely, without violence, simply taking the girl away. But to the Jin, the mere act of interference was a slight against their blood.
That night, the scion returned with a squad of mercenaries. They stormed the dormitory and abducted four students. Those girls were never seen again.
When the academy's principal demanded justice and the news sparked a national outcry that reached the Federal Parliament, the Jin didn't hide. They waited.
Within months, the principal and his deputies were imprisoned on trumped-up charges. The families of the victimized girls suffered a string of "unfortunate accidents." Parents were paralyzed in hit-and-runs, siblings were maimed, and even a one-year-old niece was left disfigured by a "chemical spill."
The perpetrators were caught—hired thugs with no official ties to the family—but everyone knew who had paid the bill. The Jin Clan was a monster that the law couldn't touch, a predator that lived by the creed of total annihilation.
And now, Vance was "associated" with a man who had murdered three of their own.
"I see," Vance said softly, his pupils contracting as he looked at the dying commander. "So, I'm already a dead man in their files."
"Precisely," the man replied. "You have two choices. You can go back to your mining rig and wait for their scanners to find your ID tag—at which point they will vaporize you just to keep the records clean. Or... you can listen to what I have to offer."
Vance tightened his grip on his helmet. The trap had snapped shut. The script of his second life was unfolding exactly as it had before, but this time, he wasn't the terrified victim. He was the player waiting for the winning hand.
"Talk," Vance said, his voice turning cold. "What do you want?"