[Ding. Check-in location detected: Arcturus—White Night Ruins.]
Do you wish to check in?
Silas Vire—still examining the alien frescoes—smirked as the system interface blinked to life.
"Confirm."
Check-in complete. Congratulations—reward acquired: Super Soldier Serum, Panther-Class Combat Armor.
His brows lifted slightly.
Two rewards?
From the system space, he retrieved a translucent vial filled with shimmering amber fluid. The readout hovered beside it:
[Super Soldier Serum – Gen IV Variant]
System-modified combat enhancer. Instantly augments biological performance. Zero rejection. No side effects.
Without hesitation, Silas injected the serum.
A wave of heat coursed through him—sharp and thorough, like a forge igniting in his bones. He gritted his teeth, feeling every muscle fiber tighten, strengthen, realign. Neural speeds increased. Joint strain vanished.
[Serum Integration Complete. Strength +50. Constitution +50.]
He flexed his fist. Power. Raw and newly tamed.
He opened his techband and scanned his updated vitals:
[Name]: Silas Vire
[Race]: Human (Solar Descent)
[Energy]: 100/100
[Strength]: 62
[Constitution]: 60
[Spirit]: 20
[Ship]: S-Class Battlecruiser – Hyperion
[Skills]: Starship Command (A), Engineering (A), Tactical Warfare (A)
Still beneath the ceiling of murals, Celeste Vale traced the etched stone with trembling fingers.
"These figures," she whispered, "they're White Night Clan."
Silas turned toward her.
"I've read about them," she continued. "In the Jupiter Archives. They were psychics—some of the strongest recorded in the outer regions."
Her fingers hovered over one section of the wall. The figures there bowed before a shattered star, arms raised in defiance. Celeste's voice dropped.
"They broke a taboo. No one knows what. The Starsea condemned them. Wiped them out. But this… this must be where they fell."
Her eyes gleamed. "There might still be spiritual artifacts here. Spirit Seeds."
Silas narrowed his gaze.
He'd heard the stories too. The White Night Clan were more than just telepaths or seers. They'd claimed the ability to manipulate higher dimensions, anchor realities, collapse minds without touch.
If even fragments of that legacy remained…
They wouldn't just fetch a price.
They'd shift power.
[Potential Asset: High-Yield Spiritual Creation Detected Nearby]
Elsewhere – Eastern Approach to the Ruins
Across the vine-choked landscape, another doorway opened.
A pressure-sealed portal hissed outward, and armored boots crunched ancient soil. Eleven figures entered, each clad in hunter-grade void suits marked with the jagged glyph of a howling skull.
The Treasure Hunters.
A rogue mercenary corps. Infamous along the fractured borders of the outer systems. Loyal to no empire. Bound by no charter.
They hunted only two things: artifacts and profit.
Their leader stepped forward—avian features partially hidden behind a gleaming mask. His wings were folded beneath a sleek exosuit rigged with plasma capacitors. Crimson lightning flickered from his gauntlets.
Reynolds the Stormwing.
A psychic avian. Lightning-born.
"This is the place," he muttered, eyes scanning the glyphs embedded along the stone.
Behind him, his lieutenants whispered eagerly.
"The fall-site of the White Nights… are the rumors true?"
"If there's even one Spirit Seed left…"
Reynolds raised a hand. Lightning crackled across his fingers.
"Silence."
The others obeyed instantly. His command was law. His temper—infamous.
Without another word, he approached the central seal and withdrew a flat, humming disc from his satchel. It pulsed with residual spirit energy—a genuine relic, one of few left from the scattered spiritual races.
He pressed it to the stone.
The vault opened.
Cold air poured out—ancient, dry, unwelcoming.
"Mission is simple," Reynolds said flatly. "The client wants the White Night Altar Scroll. We retrieve that, we're paid."
He turned, expression unreadable behind his mask.
"Everything else is ours."
Excitement surged through the squad. They entered, weapons drawn, scanners active. Each step echoed off the stone—soundless for millennia, now disturbed again by greed.
In the rear, one of Reynolds' men looked around uneasily.
"Captain… I think we're not alone."
Reynolds paused. His wings twitched.
He stared at the walls.
His psychic sense flickered.
Something… watched.
But then it faded.
"Hallucinations," he said coldly. "Focus."
Within the Core Vault
Silas passed deeper into the ruin with Predators flanking every angle. Celeste trailed close, her torchlight trembling slightly as it revealed more glyphs—interwoven spirals, neural diagrams, consciousness maps.
A fusion of science and sorcery.
"Something's down here," she whispered. "Something important."
Silas didn't answer.
He could feel it too.
Not just treasure.
Purpose.
But what neither of them knew was that a second team had entered the tomb.
And the deeper they went, the closer the collision.