Year: AP 925

  Planet: Unknown

  The darkness closed around Connor.

  The elevator was the only thing that spoke.

  A low mechanical hum vibrated through the narrow chamber as it carried him downward. The speed of the descent was the only indication of the tower’s true height. Floors passed without sound—unseen, uncounted, unacknowledged.

  The elevator had no need for light.

  Sealed inside metal and shadow, Connor found the stillness… comforting. The walls pressed in just enough to remind him of containment. It felt less like transport and more like a coffin set in motion. In some distant, irrelevant corner of his mind, he wished the doors would never open. But nothing in the tower existed for comfort.

  The elevator slowed.

  Connor inhaled—slow, measured. His breath steady. His pulse unchanged. Before the doors parted, awareness bled outward. Shade Sight ignited behind his eyes, and unseen tendrils of Vigor spilled from him, sliding through the seams of the doors like living smoke.

  They stretched into the corridor beyond.

  They searched.

  Technicians. Servants. Slaves.

  The mundane machinery of Erini society.

  No threat.

  The doors hissed open.

  Connor stepped into the hallway and was immediately swallowed by the tower’s muted gloom. This floor was alive—not loud, not frantic—but occupied. Watched. Measured. Controlled.

  He knew this place.

  Technicians lined the walls, shoulder to shoulder before wide observation windows that stretched the length of the corridor. Their eyes were fixed downward, tablets glowing faintly in their hands as data scrolled endlessly—metrics, vitals, performance indices.

  Cold numbers.

  Precise calculations.

  Specimens.

  Connor did not look into the windows.

  He did not need to.

  Each chamber held children.

  Not prisoners.

  Not students.

  Raw material.

  One room housed toddlers—two, perhaps three years old. As soon as a child could walk, they were brought here. Conditioning began immediately. Fear suppression. Pain thresholds. Obedience reinforcement.

  Another chamber held the next stage—young bodies driven through endurance trials and survival tests far beyond what flesh was meant to endure. Collapse was not failure.

  Stopping was.

  There was no concept of weakness among the Erini.

  You performed.

  Or you were erased.

  Occasionally, a technician’s screen flickered—a name appearing for a fraction of a second before being blacked out. A designation struck through. A specimen deemed unviable.

  Disposed of.

  As Connor passed the next series of windows, sound bled faintly through reinforced glass. Grunts. Impact. Cries crushed into silence.

  Adolescents.

  Ten to fifteen.

  Here, they learned to kill.

  Hand-to-hand combat. Weapon drills. Live engagements. Sometimes duels. Sometimes not even between equals. Survival determined rank. Death resolved inefficiency.

  Connor walked on, his stride unhurried. His presence pressed outward, heavy enough that technicians stiffened without understanding why. None looked at him.

  None needed to.

  Near the end of the corridor, his Shade Sight collided with something dense.

  A presence.

  It weighed into the hallway like gravity, Vigor coalescing around it in slow, disciplined currents. Anyone attuned to Shade energy would have felt it instantly.

  Connor stopped.

  The man stood near the final window, arms folded behind his back. Aged, but unbroken. His body bore the scars of decades of controlled violence. His Vigor was immense—compressed, refined, and disciplined; nowhere near Taehor’s level, but far beyond the recently deceased Aidan.

  Connor’s lips twitched.

  For the briefest moment, he considered what it would be like to fight him.

  Valard. Champion of Saymor. Head trainer of this floor. Overseer of every kin-batch, every child, every surviving weapon forged here.

  Connor approached.

  Valard did not turn.

  He did not acknowledge Connor’s presence.

  Nor did Connor acknowledge his.

  Rank meant nothing.

  Only potential.

  Their strength was close enough that challenge was unnecessary. To acknowledge one another would be to invite disruption—to question equilibrium. And so they passed as equals always did.

  In silence.

  Connor moved on.

  He hated this floor.

  Not because of memory.

  Not because of pain.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He did not suffer from nostalgia—good or bad. His past held no power over him. Trauma was for those who survived without transcending.

  Still… something about this place irritated him.

  Perhaps familiarity.

  Perhaps the reminder that this had once been his beginning.

  The screams. The training. The calculated cruelty.

  Irrelevant.

  The past had served its purpose. Connor had no use for it now.

  He cared only for what came next.

  Future power.

  Future glory.

  Everything else was an obstacle.

  And fewer and fewer were foolish enough to stand in his way.

  The doors ahead sensed him before he reached them.

  Identity verified.

  They parted.

  Connor stepped into a new section of the tower.

  Here, the architecture changed.

  The structure was ancient—older than the Erini themselves. Gothic arches loomed overhead, their stone etched with symbols long forgotten. Rusted ornamentation clung to the walls beside sleek panels of repurposed technology. Cables threaded through crumbling stone like veins forced into a living corpse.

  The tower had not been built by the Erini.

  It had been taken.

  Like everything else.

  The Erini did not build. They repurposed. They conquered and hollowed out—stripping function from beauty, allowing grandeur to rot so long as it remained useful. Centuries of neglect clung to the walls. Once-magnificent halls stood dim and uncelebrated, their splendor eroded by indifference.

  The tower groaned softly, as if remembering something it had once been.

  Connor walked through it all without pause.

  He felt them.

  His Shade Sight expanded reflexively, without effort, and the world sharpened.

  Presences bloomed across his awareness—large, distant, undeniable.

  Champions.

  Five of them.

  Their signatures hovered within his perception like vast silhouettes suspended in fog, each distinct in density and contour. Some burned with fierce intensity. Others pulsed with slower, heavier rhythm.

  But all shared the same truth.

  A Kidokane.

  The source of all Champion power.

  Even when unmanifested, a Kidokane could never be fully concealed. Any Champion bound to one could sense another. It was instinct. A resonance. A low, eternal hum beneath reality itself.

  The strength of a Kidokane reflected its bearer.

  Experience.

  Training.

  Survival.

  Connor measured them in an instant.

  None were worth his time.

  And he knew—without doubt—that they felt him.

  The reaction was immediate.

  One by one, the signatures shifted. Not retreating in panic—no, that would have been insulting—but redirecting. Routes altered. Paths adjusted. Like insects veering away from sudden light that threatened exposure.

  They busied themselves.

  Which was wise.

  To cross the path of a superior—even unintentionally—was a risk no Champion took lightly. Being unseen was safer than being acknowledged.

  Connor continued forward.

  This floor was alive.

  The operations floor.

  Activity surged around him—hundreds of individuals moving with rigid efficiency. None posed a threat. He could erase them all without slowing his stride. They were nothing more than cogs in the Erini machine.

  Expendable.

  But, necessary.

  Men and women in dark uniforms moved in tight formations, heads lowered, hands occupied with data-slates and instruments. None looked at him.

  Not directly.

  But they felt him.

  Fear clung to them like static—sharp, unmistakable. And yet beneath it was resolved discipline. They had functions to perform, and fear did not excuse failure.

  Connor passed through them as though through mist.

  Windows lined the corridor, revealing vast operational chambers beyond. Consoles and holographic displays filled the rooms—fleet movements rendered in cold projections, Erini warships departing worlds in precise formations. Entire systems reduced to shifting symbols and vectors.

  This was where Taehor ruled from when he was not secluded in his chambers at the tower’s peak.

  For a moment, Connor almost expected the Primelord to emerge from one of the doors.

  He did not.

  Some of the tension in the room—subtle, barely perceptible—stemmed from that absence. Shoulders held a fraction less rigid. Movements were marginally less restrained.

  Connor did not slow.

  He had orders.

  He did not intend to be interrupted.

  The shuttle bay was his destination.

  There were only three access points within the tower capable of accommodating transport to a dreadnought-class vessel.

  This was the closest.

  That alone justified his presence.

  At the corridor’s end stood another set of doors.

  Two guards waited there.

  Not Champions.

  Soldiers.

  Their armor was black and angular, reinforced plating designed for suppression rather than honor. Heavy-caliber automags were slung across their chests, vibro-blades secured at their hips.

  Against ordinary men, they would have been sufficient.

  Against Connor—

  Insects.

  They sensed him the instant he approached. Neither raised a weapon. Neither issued a challenge. The guard on the right moved first, entering a sequence into the keypad with mechanical precision.

  No hesitation.

  No eye contact.

  The blast doors responded immediately.

  With a deep hydraulic hiss, the locks disengaged. Massive plates slid apart, retreating into the walls.

  The shuttle bay opened before him.

  Connor stepped forward.

  The doors sealed shut behind him.

  Connor took two steps forward—

  And stopped.

  Something was wrong…

  The shuttle waited as promised at the far end of the bay—engines humming low, hull gleaming under dim industrial lights. Technicians and crew moved with urgency, loading cargo and securing restraints. Other warriors passed through the space as well, Champions of varying degrees, each heading toward the departing shuttle.

  But none of that mattered.

  Three oddities appeared by his Shade Sight.

  Three Kidokanes.

  They were not moving toward the shuttle.

  They were moving toward him.

  Connor exhaled slowly.

  He knew all three signatures the moment they resolved. One woman. Two men. Their approach was deliberate, controlled—not aggressive, but unmistakably intentional.

  They stopped several meters away, forming a half-circle.

  The man directly in front of Connor stepped forward half a pace. He was tall—nearly six and a half feet—broad-shouldered, wrapped in the same black hooded cloak as the others. His skin was dark, his hair cut short and clean, his presence steady and disciplined.

  “Bekra,” Connor said calmly.

  Bekra inclined his head a fraction.

  “Executioner,” Bekra replied. His voice was deep, smooth, unhurried. No arrogance. No bravado. Just precision.

  “It has come to my attention,” Bekra continued, “that you have been ordered to deploy to Atlana. By Taehor himself. Is that correct?”

  “Affirmative,” Connor replied.

  Bekra said nothing for a moment.

  “Then we have a problem.”

  Connor already knew. This was the work of Taehor.

  Of course, he had.

  A test, wrapped in obedience. Four warriors. One shuttle. One command.

  “Then I suppose you’ll be operating under me,” Connor said flatly.

  Bekra’s eyes remained steady.

  “That seems to be the issue,” he said. “Taehor informed each of us that we would lead this operation.”

  Only one could.

  The woman to Connor’s right spoke next.

  “That is accurate.”

  Connor did not turn his head.

  “Daria,” he said. “You confirm this?”

  “I do,” she replied. Her voice was calm, sharp, observant. “It appears Taehor has found another way to amuse himself.”

  Connor’s gaze flicked briefly to her.

  She was a slip of a woman—small, thin, almost fragile in build.

  Almost.

  Size meant nothing among Champions.

  Kidokanes and Vigor erased such distinctions.

  “And you, Gregor?” Connor asked.

  The third figure shifted.

  Gregor’s voice slithered out smoothly, softer than Bekra’s, edged with something serpentine. “What I believe is irrelevant. The Primelord has ordered. We comply.”

  He stepped forward just enough for his presence to press outward.

  “All four of us were commanded to lead. Therefore, one of us must.”

  Connor nodded once.

  “I see.”

  Silence fell.

  Not tension, just resolution.

  This was not pride or ego; it was simply the way of the Erini. Every day was a challenge. You did not have to seek conflict—it arrived, uninvited, unavoidable.

  And in that instant—

  Lights exploded.

  Blazing manifestations consumed the hands of all four Champions simultaneously.

  Connor’s Kidokane tore into existence with a scream of displaced air. A massive halberd formed before him, its black blade wreathed in seething heat. The air around it hissed and warped, as if the weapon itself were forged from living fire. Death promised itself through simply touching its edge.

  Daria moved with fluid grace. Two Kidokanes emerged—twin blades. Rare, but not completely uncommon. While classified as daggers, in her hands, they appeared as massive longswords. Identical in both form and weight. Like most Noctus weapons, they were comprised of otherworldly black metal. Dark blue veins pulsed through their length like living vines, glowing softly as a cold azure aura bled into the air.

  Gregor’s weapon arrived with a thunderous impact.

  A colossal war hammer—eight feet long, its head the size of a smithing anvil. The dark metal was wrapped in silver engravings, etched with twisting patterns that emitted a yellow-green aura. Power rolled off it in heavy waves.

  And Bekra—

  Bekra’s Kidokane eclipsed them all.

  A gigantic greatsword erupted into existence, nearly eight feet of brutal steel, two feet wide, the hilt extending impossibly long. Violet veins cracked across its black surface—not vines, but lightning, jagged and alive.

  He held it in one hand, as if it weighed nothing.

  The bay reacted.

  Technicians screamed. Crew scattered. Consoles sparked. Loose cargo rattled as the pressure of gathered Vigor crushed the air itself. Every non-Champion fled in blind panic, diving behind bulkheads, crates, anything that might shield them from what was coming. Only a few remained—watching from afar, drawn by instinct or paralyzed by fear and awe.

  Four Champions.

  One command.

  Connor brought his halberd forward and rested it before him.

  Then—

  He gave a mock salute.

  A gesture he stole from a Sacer he dueled once.

  “Very well,” Connor said. “Let’s not delay our orders any longer.”