The Vulcan Dockyard Square had turned into a furnace of chaos.
Alien traders, scavengers, mercenaries, and engineers gathered from a dozen sectors were now packed together in uneasy clusters, all staring skyward—or desperately trying not to.
Descending from the ash-streaked clouds above, the vessels of the Night Empire cast long shadows over the forge world. An A-Class cruiser, two B-Class war frigates, and ten nimble C-Class raiders—each vessel bore the black insignia of the Dark Elves: a silver star impaled by a burning blade.
In the crowd, Lyra Caelis observed silently, her eyes narrowing. So it was true. The Night Empire had moved openly.
"What in the Void are they doing here?" she muttered.
Just then, all hell broke loose.
Dark Elf soldiers, clad in bone-forged exosuits and armed with monomolecular cutters, swarmed the docks like locusts. With brutal efficiency, they tore open hulls, ripped through access panels, and dragged out protesting crews.
A roar erupted from a nearby docking lane.
"You bastards! That's my ship!" bellowed an alien crewman, his furred face contorted in rage as he sprinted toward a dismantled B-Class frigate.
He raised his sidearm—standard kinetic rounds—and aimed at the Dark Elf officer standing before the wreckage.
The officer turned, expression hidden beneath a chrome-tinted visor. His voice, amplified by his suit's comm array, rang with mocking authority.
"This vessel has been requisitioned by order of the Night Empire. Compensation: 10,000 starcoins."
The crowd gasped. Even the poorest knew such an offer was a deliberate insult.
"Fire!" the crewman shouted.
Bullets screamed forward—only to freeze mid-air.
A translucent blue shield shimmered to life in front of the Dark Elf captain. With a contemptuous snap of his fingers, the hovering rounds dropped to the floor like metal rain.
He gestured.
His troopers responded.
Searing beams of ruby light lanced out from their rifles. The kinetic weaponry of the alien crew might as well have been water guns—useless against magnetic shielding and plasma armor.
In seconds, bodies hit the ground.
Blood hissed against hot alloy.
Panic exploded. The gathered crowd screamed, diving for cover as the Dark Elves fanned out. Lasers carved through metal and flesh alike. Even non-combatants weren't spared—anyone near the firing line became collateral.
High above, a shrouded figure hidden beneath a thermal cloak trembled.
Celeste Vale crouched among the alien spectators, watching in horror.
So this… was the military might of the Night Empire? This was what separated the galactic core from the outer ring?
This was slaughter.
Then—sound. A low hiss of hydraulics.
The square turned toward the source.
A single ship had responded.
The Hyperion.
Its forward hatch began to open—not by force, but by will.
A whisper passed through the crowd.
Silas Vire's ship.
The Dark Elf soldiers paused. Some raised weapons. Others glanced at their captain.
"Check it," one of them said.
But before they could breach the hull—
Reality bent.
From the hatch's shadow, a blade came down.
Clean. Surgical. Final.
An Iron Rider emerged.
Not just one. Dozens. Then hundreds.
The stealth fields dropped all at once—one thousand armored shock troopers stood silently in phalanx formation.
The Dark Elves barely had time to react.
One turned, gun raised—only to have it ripped from his grip and used against him.
A crimson bolt shattered his helmet. Another shot vaporized the torso of a lieutenant. A third pierced through layered plating and slammed into the command relay console of their forward scout tank.
Panic spread like wildfire.
"Fire!" the Dark Elf captain roared. "Kill them! Kill them all!"
Too late.
The Iron Riders moved as one.
Jetpacks roared to life. Units vaulted into the air, rebounding off scaffolds, perching on cranes, raining fire from above like vengeful shadows. Their targeting systems were flawless. Their synchronization—inhuman.
A Predator officer, masked in obsidian and marked with tactical runes, directed the attack from above the square.
Silas had spoken a single command:
"Deploy. Lethal force authorized."
And the Riders had obeyed.
Thermal imaging lit up across the Night Empire's HUDs—only to show what they feared most.
They were surrounded.
1,000 Iron Riders. Each armed with high-output pulse rifles, precision optics, and monomolecular blades.
The square became a slaughterhouse.
Dark Elf soldiers, once apex predators, were reduced to scrambling prey.
Their captain turned, trying to retreat—only to vanish in a railgun mist, courtesy of a precision slug from the Hyperion's orbital dorsal cannon.
Vulcan's sky was painted red and white.
Minutes passed.
Only ashes remained.
—
Later, Silas stood at the edge of Dock 10, watching the Iron Riders return in silence.
Behind him, the Vulcan dockmaster—his respirator fractured, blood trickling from one ear—offered a shaky salute.
"You… you saved the forge," he rasped.
Silas said nothing.
The Hyperion's lights flared behind him, casting long shadows over the scorched landing deck.
He turned to leave.
"You don't owe me," he said quietly. "You owe yourselves the courage to resist."
And with that, the Sovereign of the Dreadnought walked away, the ghost-steel echo of his Iron Riders following behind.