Planet Seron was not a world that welcomed much life.
From orbit, it appeared as a fractured sphere of rusted reds, deep umbers, and scorched blacks, its surface carved by time and violence. Massive tectonic scars stretched across entire continents, forming canyons so deep they swallowed light, their interiors hidden beneath perpetual shadow. Jagged mountain ranges rose like broken teeth from the crust, their peaks cutting into the thin, unstable atmosphere.
Seron existed within the Orion region—a sector of space both rich and dangerous. Unlike the more stable core systems of the Terrian Empire, Orion was a frontier shaped by volatile stars, collapsing asteroid belts, and gravitational anomalies that twisted navigation into a constant gamble. Nebulae drifted like ghostly curtains between systems, interfering with sensors and long-range scans, while electromagnetic storms rippled unpredictably through space, distorting signals and cloaking entire fleets if timed correctly.
It was the perfect place to disappear.
And Seron… was its crown jewel of concealment.
Despite its placement within the Goldilocks zone of its system, Seron's atmosphere was erratic. Oxygen levels fluctuated between regions, stabilized only in scattered pockets where life had managed to anchor itself. Violent windstorms swept across its plains, carrying razor-sharp mineral dust capable of stripping exposed machinery within minutes. Electrical storms lit up the skies in near-constant flashes, turning nights into flickering displays of silent lightning.
Orbiting Seron were three small moons—irregular, broken masses of rock that cast shifting shadows across the planet's surface. Their gravitational interference created unstable orbital paths, making satellite deployment difficult and predictable positioning nearly impossible.
Below, hidden within a vast canyon network that cut deep into the planet's crust, lay the base.
It wasn't visible from orbit.
It wasn't meant to be.
Deep within one of Seron's largest canyon systems, where the walls rose thousands of meters high and blocked most atmospheric interference, a massive installation had been carved directly into the rock itself. Reinforced plating lined the canyon interior, blending seamlessly with the natural terrain, masking its presence from external scans.
At the heart of the facility stood the weapon.
It was colossal.
A cannon unlike anything the Terrian Empire had ever officially documented.
Its base alone stretched across hundreds of meters, anchored into the canyon floor with reinforced pylons that drilled deep into the planet's crust. The barrel extended upward at a slight angle, its segmented structure lined with glowing conduits that pulsed faintly with restrained energy.
Even inactive… it radiated power.
Trevor Mosioh stood at its edge, looking up at it.
His expression was calm.
Satisfied.
Two years had changed him.
Gone was the arrogant noble who once hid behind status and influence. What remained was something sharper—more calculated. His posture carried confidence now, not borrowed authority.
Beside him stood Dellor, arms crossed, his gaze moving between the cannon and the surrounding activity.
"Impressive," Dellor muttered. "Even for you."
Trevor smirked faintly. "This is just the beginning."
Nearby, teams of engineers and technicians moved with urgency, calibrating systems, reinforcing structural nodes, and running diagnostics across the weapon's core framework.
On the far side of the canyon, partially concealed within a recessed docking platform, Amnesia was undergoing maintenance.
The ship's dark hull shimmered under artificial lighting, its surface reflecting almost nothing. Panels were open along its body, exposing internal systems that flickered with unfamiliar energy signatures. Crews worked silently, efficiently—tightening, replacing, enhancing.
Everything was being prepared.
Everything.
Elsewhere within the facility—
Serin Valis stood before the Hound unit.
The machine loomed silently in its docking frame, its matte-black armor absorbing the surrounding light. Faint orange lines traced along its structure, pulsing slowly like a heartbeat.
Larsen stood nearby.
Leaning casually against a support pillar.
A bottle in his hand.
He took a slow sip, his gaze fixed on the Hound—not with admiration, but with anticipation.
Serin didn't look at him immediately. Her attention was on the data display projected before her, streams of information flowing rapidly as she adjusted parameters.
Finally, she spoke.
"I've made an upgrade."
Larsen exhaled lightly, uninterested in her tone but curious enough to listen.
"Oh?"
Serin turned slightly, gesturing toward a nearby platform.
Resting on it was a device.
A ring.
Roughly the size of the Hound's hand.
At first glance, it looked simple—smooth, circular, metallic. But upon closer inspection, its surface was layered with microscopic etchings, complex circuitry embedded within its structure. Faint orange light pulsed from within, synchronized with the Hound's core frequency.
Larsen pushed himself off the pillar, stepping closer.
"What is it?"
Serin's eyes gleamed faintly.
"A regulator… and an amplifier."
She tapped the console, and the ring lifted slightly, rotating in midair.
"The Hound's biggest limitation isn't power," she continued. "It's control. The Valis particle flow is unstable under sustained output—especially in combat conditions."
Larsen took another sip, watching silently.
"This," she said, pointing at the ring, "stabilizes that flow. It synchronizes directly with the fusion core and redistributes excess energy through a controlled loop."
The ring pulsed brighter for a moment.
"It allows for higher output… longer durations… and more precise manipulation."
Larsen's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And the downside?"
Serin didn't hesitate.
"If it fails… the feedback will overload the entire system."
A pause.
Then—
A faint smirk crossed Larsen's face.
"Sounds fun."
Serin didn't react.
"It's not a toy," she said coldly. "It's the difference between dominance and destruction."
Larsen chuckled under his breath.
"To me… those are the same thing."
Then—
The alarm sounded.
Sharp.
Violent.
Immediate.
Red lights flooded the hangar.
A voice echoed through the facility.
"WARNING—MULTIPLE SIGNATURES DETECTED—ORBITAL ENCIRCLEMENT CONFIRMED."
Serin's expression changed instantly.
"What?"
She turned, already moving.
Her fingers flew across the console, pulling up external feeds.
Her eyes widened.
"That's impossible…"
Without another word, she sprinted out of the hangar.
The control room was already in chaos.
Operators shouted over one another, screens flashing with warnings and corrupted data streams.
"They're everywhere!"
"We didn't detect them—how did they get this close!?"
"Our sensors are down—everything's jammed!"
Serin pushed her way forward, slamming her hands onto the main console.
"Status!"
One of the operators turned to her, panic in his voice.
"The entire region is under signal suppression—we can't get a lock on anything beyond visual range!"
Serin's mind raced.
"They masked their approach…" she muttered. "Using the Orion interference…"
Her eyes darted across the displays.
Orbital readouts.
Fleet formations.
Dozens… no—
Hundreds.
"We're surrounded," someone said.
Silence fell for a split second.
Then—
A new signal cut through the noise.
Comms channel—internal.
Serin froze.
She recognized the frequency.
Larsen.
His voice came through calm.
Almost amused.
"Deploy me."
Serin's eyes narrowed.
"Larsen—wait—"
"I'll carve a way out."
The words were simple.
Certain.
Final.
"No," Serin snapped, turning toward the comms panel. "We don't even know their full formation—"
A pause.
Then—
A quiet chuckle.
"You worry too much."
Serin clenched her jaw.
"This isn't a game—"
Another pause.
Then his voice again.
Lower.
Sharper.
"I know."
Silence followed.
Then—
"I'll open the path."
The line cut.
Serin stood there, staring at the dead signal.
Around her, the alarms continued to blare.
Outside—
The empire had arrived.
And the battle…
Was about to begin.