Inside, he found remnants of technology and signs of a fierce battle. The walls were marked by deep scratches, as if enormous claws had tried to claw their way in from the outside. Some scratches went through the metal like paper, exposing the torn interior insulation as well.
There were acid marks—circular burns that had pierced the metal at several points, creating fist-sized holes—and punctures that seemed to have been made by biological projectiles, the kind some creatures shoot from their bodies. Layers of organic material, dry and brittle, clung to the metal like mute testimonies of what had happened there. Dorian touched one with his fingertip, and it crumbled into dust.
On the main console, an indicator flickered weakly. Still holding power, after all that time. An amber light, almost dying, pulsing with the irregular rhythm of a failing heart.
Dorian approached, his fingers brushing the controls. The technology was ancient, yes, but the principles were the same. The symbols had changed slightly, the layout was different, but he could recognize a control panel when he saw one. He found the log playback button—an old Helion habit, record everything, always—and pressed it.
A broken audio log began to play, the voice distorted by time and damage:
"—Sigma-12 here… —the voice was tense, urgent, laden with something Dorian recognized immediately: the contained panic of someone who knows they are going to die—. We've been attacked. The creatures on this planet… they aren't simple animals. They have organization. Intelligence. They ambushed us at… —[static] —three crew members have fallen. The core is damaged. We can't take off. Repeat, we cannot… —[static] —if anyone receives this message, don't come. Don't… —[static] —the core is going to fail. The containment won't hold. DON'T TOUCH THE—"
The file corrupted and ended, leaving only a buzzing silence that filled the cabin like water filling a sinking ship.
"Why the hell did it cut off right there!" Dorian protested, punching the console with his fist. The impact rang off the metal, and the amber indicator flickered more weakly, as if about to go out forever.
Frustration boiled in his chest like a living animal, clawing from the inside. He was so close to knowing, so close to understanding, and the universe denied him with a fucking corrupted file. With a bad connection, with time devouring the information before he could hear it.
"Always the same shit," Dorian repeated, annoyed, and rightly so. "At the important moment, the part that deserved to be heard never came through. Always. It's like the universe has a twisted sense of humor."
He spat on the ground, more a gesture of frustration than anything else. That cut-off at the most important moment had bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
"It's like I'm in a movie, and they're playing with me," he said, his voice laden with resentment. "Stupid drama to reveal information. How idiotic."
Dorian clenched his teeth, his jaws working the rage like food. He understood, with a clarity that physically hurt, that he was not the only Helion to have set foot on this hostile planet. He was not the first. There had been others before him. Seven, to be exact. And none had returned.
The question was: why would he be any different?
Recommendation: immediate withdrawal. Omega's voice was urgent now, losing all trace of calm, all pretense of professionalism. Biological signatures approaching the crater. Multiple Predators. At least seven, maybe more. They are moving in a coordinated formation.
Dorian went on guard, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. This time it wasn't one or two. The signatures on his visor—which he had reactivated without realizing it—moved quickly along all the walls of the crater, descending like spiders, like shadows with claws. Seven red dots, moving in sync, surrounding him.
"Full sword mode," he ordered, his voice regaining its combat tone. "Preparing Helion pulse."
The sword hummed in his hand, the blade shifting from a pale blue to a much brighter blue, almost white. The buzz intensified, and Dorian could feel the energy building in the weapon's core, ready to be released. Every fiber of his being prepared for what was coming.
He took a breath, squared his stance, and waited.
The signatures on his visor drew closer. Ten meters. Eight. Five.
And then, the first claws detached from the wall.
When the first Predator leaped, Dorian closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Not from fear—fear was for the weak, for the untrained—but to focus. To become one with the moment. So his body would remember what his mind already knew.
And when he opened them, he executed a single perfect movement.
A vertical downward slash, fast as lightning, that lit up the crater with a trail of blue energy. The blade met the Predator mid-leap and split it in two halves as if it were a sheet of paper.
The halves fell on either side of Dorian, their black blood evaporating before hitting the ground, creating a curtain of foul vapor that for a moment hid the rest of the crater.
But more were already coming.
The second leaped from the left. The third from the right. The fourth straight from above.
Dorian dodged the first with a twist of his hips, feeling the air displaced by the claws pass centimeters from his face. Without stopping the motion, his sword traced a horizontal arc.
Tchk.
Two legs flew through the air, cleanly severed at the joints. The creature fell, tried to get up, but the left side of its body no longer responded. Its mandibles opened and closed uselessly, biting at nothing.
Dorian had no time to celebrate. He tilted his head back on pure instinct, and the second Predator's claw grazed his face. He felt the wind whistle, felt the cold of biological metal, and then a red line drew itself on his cheek.
The pain came a second later, sharp and burning. He had been cut.
He stepped back quickly, putting distance between himself and the attackers. His free hand touched the wound, and when he pulled his fingers away, they were stained red. His blood, not theirs.
"Shit," he murmured, as his mind processed the situation. "I hope it doesn't have toxins. That would be a real problem."
Do not worry, sir, Omega reported quickly, its sensors analyzing the wound in real time. I detect no toxic substances in your blood. The wound is superficial. Nothing the nanites cannot repair in minutes.
Dorian sighed. A sigh of "thank goodness" that came from his very soul.
"What a relief to hear that," Dorian said, and despite everything, a smile formed on his bloodied face.
And then he moved among them like a dance, his sword tracing impossible arcs, his body spinning and dodging with a grace that bordered on supernatural. Every cut was precise, every movement calculated, every breath measured. The Predators fell one after another, but there were always more to take their place.
Another managed to graze him, its claws opening a gash in the shoulder of his suit. Alarms sounded in his inner ear: Outer layer damaged. Integrity compromised by 12%. Dorian ignored the alarms. There was no time for that. No time for anything except the next movement, the next cut, the next breath.
Another Predator lunged from his left. Dorian met it with a horizontal slash that opened its chest from side to side, its black viscera spilling onto the crater floor. A third came from behind; Dorian spun just in time to drive his sword into its neck, feeling the resistance of the vertebrae before they gave way.
But as he did so, while his sword was occupied in one's neck, a fourth struck him in the side with the force of a… meteor.