Captain Manuel's ship, the "Skiff," emerges into Earth's orbit.
Heavy. Silent. Stern.
Stardust slowly drips from its hull, like sediment from past battles.
A unique cloaking system—cobbled together by volunteers from the wreckage of hell—renders it an invisible executioner.
It hasn't come to show power.
It has come to deliver judgment.
The power field hums low, almost inaudibly—hidden in the dark.
It waits.
It weighs.
It prepares to leap.
Behind it—twenty smaller vessels.
Rebuilt inquisitor frigates, battered on the outside, deadly within.
They do not speak. They send no signals.
They drift in absolute silence.
Like a pack of shadows.
Like mute assassins, hunting the scent of war.
**
In the Skiff's command deck—half-light.
Panels flicker gently, like the pulse of a living thing.
The air is taut, as if a storm is about to break—so charged it feels like one word might snap it.
Before them—Earth.
Blinding. Serene. Magnificent.
"She looks like she's forgiven everything..."
Clouds drift over towers piercing the atmosphere.
Far in the distance—the Sky City.
Domes. Hanging gardens. Glass bridges that seem spun from light.
It doesn't feel built—it feels remembered, like a dream.
But behind that beauty lies coldness.
Control.
Sterile suspicion.
"This isn't paradise. It's a display window."
**
"Look… how beautiful it is," Pietro whispers.
His voice is a knot of awe, envy, unease. All at once.
As if he doesn't quite believe any of it is real.
"Our dear allies are living well," Manuel says without looking up.
His voice is tired. Harsh.
"An orbital resort. Only instead of lounge chairs—lasers."
Maria frowns.
Her lips a sealed airlock.
"Allies? That's debatable.
They chose Kyros. Not us."
**
Vikhar stands like a stone obelisk.
Hands clasped behind his back.
His gaze drills into the planet.
"Mars is already en route. Earth will soon have to choose.
And if we play this right… for the first time in a long while—victory might be ours."
Manuel frowns. His fingers graze the panel, but his eyes dive inward.
Into himself.
"Too many players. Too many gods.
And us? Just androids. Just ones trying to live until tomorrow."
"Too many variables…" he exhales.
"Gods, alliances, double games… And all we want is to survive."
**
And then—she appears on the horizon.
The Platform.
A colossal disc surrounded by radiance.
Its shield glows like a mechanical halo.
Its surface shimmers like liquid glass.
Spikes protrude—towers, antennas, generators. All trembling, humming—as if alive.
"I'm in awe…" Daniel, the operator, whispers. He stares at the screen like an icon.
"To build something like this in so little time…"
"Kyros seems good at inspiring," Pietro mutters through his teeth.
In his voice—poison. Not of envy. Of fear.
**
Vikhar approaches the hologram.
His face is drawn.
Cold light pulses in his eyes.
He's not looking—he's slicing the platform into layers, probabilities, weaknesses.
"The object… is complex. Incredibly so.
But we still must find a way to destroy it."
Pietro shakes his head. His voice is a step into the void.
"Compare their tech to our resources… It's suicide.
We have no fleet. No fire.
Only will."
**
Vikhar turns his head.
His voice—surgical.
He doesn't reply—he cuts through illusion.
"Optimism is a useful trait. Especially in an epitaph."
He sinks into his chair. Closes his eyes.
The command deck stills.
Even the screens seem to breathe more quietly.
**
He slips into calculations.
Inside—more than thought.
A storm.
Quantum modeling. Millions of scenarios.
Traps. Betrayals. Echoes of the past.
He searches for the key in the chaos.
"Find and strike. Fast. Precise. Once."
"If you don't find it—everything falls apart."
If he finds the vulnerability—the Platform will burn.
Earth will tremble.
If not…
There will be no second chance.
**
Outside, the Skiff drifts silently in orbit.
Unnoticed.
For now.
But inside—
the war has already begun.
Quiet. Internal. Almost sacred.
And when it ends—
some will fall.
And some—will rise.