| Thanagar's Orbit - August 29
Despero sat upon the obsidian command throne of the Class-9 Bloodstar, a mothership provided to the Gordanians by their infamous allies, the Psions. One of only a handful of its class, the ship had reduced entire enemy armadas to cosmic dust, eliminating fleets that outnumbered them sixty to one without sustaining so much as a scratch. Tamaran had fallen that way. A dozen Bloodstars could raze a planet in hours, and the Gordanians had done so, more than once, just for sport.
Despero could've remained in his personal ship parked a lightyear away and spectated this war. It would have been safer, certainly. But safety had never interested Despero. The reason he had joined forces with the Gordanians at all was singular: the thrill of battle.
He wanted to feel the pulse of combat in his chest, to smell the ozone and scorched metal, to witness with his own three eyes whether any warrior on this battlefield—Thanagarian, Lizarkon, Gordanian, or otherwise—was worthy of his time.
Despero was no simple warlord. He was the undefeated champion of ninety-two star systems, his name spoken with fear across galaxies. In his vast travels, he had dueled champions and slain legends, mounting their heads along the blood-slicked walls of his private trophy chamber. The gladiatorial arenas of the Citadel had once piqued his interest, but none of the slaves or "warriors" there had been worth his energy. Except for one boy. Young. Wild. Powerful. But too inexperienced. Killing him then would've been boring.
Now, as the war between Thanagar and the Citadel's Gordanian legions escalated into a true spectacle, Despero watched from the Bloodstar's main viewport, eager. Hopeful. And then—there he was.
One figure, surrounded by carnage, light streaming from his hands and eyes like the breath of stars. Ships fell. Warriors screamed. He moved with purpose, fury, and terrifying power.
A cruel grin stretched across Despero's purple face.
"L-Ron," he called.
"Yes, Master Despero?" responded the hovering yellow robot that served as his majordomo.
"Inform the Gordanian commanders. I will be joining the battle earlier than planned. I've found someone… interesting."
**
Joseph's sand-colored combat suit was torn and scorched, strips of fabric fluttering like war-torn banners as he streaked through space. Paran Dul's white-and-gold Nth metal armor, glowing gold as they acted as a conduit of Nova Force, clung to his limbs—helmet, spaulders, gauntlets, and boots—amplifying his anti-gravity control and shielding him from the worst of the void's fury.
Around him, space was ablaze—red and gold energy beams slashing across the darkness like divine judgment. Every second pulsed with violence, chaos, and heat.
He didn't need to breathe. Whether it was a side effect of the Nova Force or something the Psions had done to his body, he couldn't say. But whatever the reason, he felt unshackled from biology—untethered and terrifyingly free.
In the last hour, Joseph had torn through hundreds of Gordanian ships. Hundreds more had rushed in to fill the void left behind. The battlefield around him had become a magnet for conflict—Gordanians swarming to kill him, Thanagarians rallying to protect him.
Far above, the two massive motherships still traded brutal salvos. Their shields remained intact, but the planetary barrier around Thanagar was cracking—fracturing at a single, focused point. The Gordanians were concentrating fire, and it was working. Joseph and the Thanagarians had taken position directly in front of the weak spot to keep it from collapsing.
He moved like a supernova given form. Light and death personified. His Nova Force burned hotter than it ever had before—raw, destructive, unrelenting.
A high-pitched whine screamed behind him—incoming fire.
He twisted mid-flight, eyes igniting with lethal energy. Twin beams of white-gold Nova Force blazed from his pupils, carving through three incoming ships in a sweeping arc. The rest scattered, having learned from watching their allies fall.
The explosions lit him in blue fire. He absorbed the lingering energy and without pause, unleashed a barrage of Nova bolts from his hands, each blast detonating like a missile. More ships fell.
And more kept coming.
Joseph welcomed it.
For the first time in months, he felt truly threatened. And for the first time in months, he felt alive.
He was an artist. The Nova Force was his paint. His body—the brush. And this battlefield? His canvas.
He surged through space, weaving between red energy beams, shattering wings, obliterating engines, slicing through ships and slavers alike with golden arcs of destructive power. He spun. He dove. He soared. Every motion deliberate. Every attack devastating.
Then—finally—a lull.
Joseph didn't breathe, but he still paused to center himself. A quiet moment amid the chaos.
That's when he noticed it—a purple blur approaching from a warship half a mile away. His Nth-metal-enhanced vision zeroed in. The blur resolved into a figure. Something humanoid. Something wrong.
Suddenly, Joseph felt a cold sensation brush against his mind—like invisible fingers brushing his skull. He resisted.
Then, the Thanagarians beside him—all at once—turned and opened fire on the very section of the planetary shield they'd spent the last hour protecting.
Joseph was about to curse, forgetting that he was in space and couldn't talk.
It was too late anyway.
A rupture formed in the planetary shield. Gordanian warships immediately exploited it, firing concentrated blasts along with the Thanagarians to widen the breach. Hundreds poured through the hole and descended toward Thanagar's surface.
Joseph did what he could, darting between ships, striking down what he could. But the breach was too large. There were too many. The defenders below would have to hold the line now.
His Nova Sense flared—an approaching bioelectric signature, fast and potent.
It was the purple figure.
The being was bulky, humanoid, and alien. He had a squat, powerful build, a broad fin rising from his skull where hair should be. His face lacked a nose, and a third eye gleamed above the other two—glowing with unmistakable psychic energy. Joseph flicked on his psychic absorption reflexively, allowing him to hear the thoughts of others as he filtered through the chaos.
'Obey Despero. Destroy Thanagar.'
The thoughts echoed through the minds of the mesmerized Thanagarians.
Despero.
Joseph remembered that name from the arena—whispers from slaves and captives about the conqueror—but had never seen him in person.
So this was his doing.
Despero closed in, clad in partial armor—his right arm and shoulder encased in battle plating.
Joseph raised his hands and fired twin Nova bolts.
Despero dodged effortlessly.
Joseph switched tactics—firing beams from his eyes, following Despero's movement by turning his head. This time they hit, lighting Despero up in radiant gold, singing his flesh.
But the alien didn't slow.
He pushed forward, unbothered, grinning.
Joseph grimaced and extended his anti-gravity field to pin him in place, ignoring the spike of pain from the headache.
It worked—briefly.
Then came the real pain.
Despero retaliated with a psychic spike, stabbing into Joseph's mind like a needle of molten ice. The pressure cracked his focus—and in that instant, Despero drew close and punched his head.
The blow sent Joseph rocketing across space, crashing into the already fractured planetary shield. He tumbled, dazed, his thoughts scattered.
And then gravity caught him.
The atmosphere of Thanagar rushed up to meet him. His body ignited from re-entry, flames trailing behind him like a comet. Above, Despero followed—smiling.
A wicked, hungry smile.