Ashwalker

The cryopod hissed open with a burst of vapor, and Kaiell sucked in his first breath of filtered air. His body jolted—stiff, weighted, but honed. Six months of grueling training lived in his muscles now. Six months of sleepless nights slicing Nightfell through resistance steel. Of Lunge hammering lessons into his bones, shaping water into blades under pressure until he could command it like breath.

Now he was on a ship.

And Sector Twelve waited.

He rose from the pod, crimson transit lights fading into soft white. A steward drone hovered outside the cryochamber.

"Kruger Kaiell. Proceed to Observation Deck Seven."

The corridors were silent. Not a single cryopod beside his opened. No echo of boots. Just the hum of deep-space grav-fields and the skeletal outline of Orbital Sen turning slow above a frozen world below.

It wasn't a station—it was a warning.

Sen orbited a dead world like a ring of judgment. White metal, obsidian plating, surveillance monoliths spinning slow as prayers.

When Kaiell stepped into Observation, five other Krugers were already waiting—blindfolded. Matte-black armor, sealed visors, weapons magnetized to their backs. None of them spoke. None of them twitched.

Only he could see.

At the front of the deck stood a Kruger officer, his helmet under one arm. His voice was dry, factual.

"You've all been selected not for skill. Not for loyalty. For genetics. The vX5 signature. One in a million."

The words hung in the silence like a weight.

"This isn't a mission. There are no logs. What you are about to enter doesn't exist in records. Only in the bloodlines of those who survived."

The deck vibrated faintly.

"Secure yourselves."

The floor locked their boots in place. A hollow tremor passed through the air—and the descent began.

A space elevator, buried into the dead world's crust, dragged them downward at terminal speed. The blindfolds stayed on the others. Not Kaiell.

He watched the clouds crack.

Beneath them, nestled in a basin of shattered glass and volcanic ash, was the Shrine.

Not a structure. Not a ruin.

A scar.

Twisting veins of obsidian wound from the mountains into the base of the shrine, circling it like a skeletal crown. Towering statues surrounded it—weathered, faceless warriors kneeling in chains. The ground glowed faintly with Rift-burn.

The elevator touched down.

A hundred Krugers waited in disciplined silence. No ranks. No salutes. Just readiness. Cargo drones brought out cases of pulse munitions, warbinders, and Viora-fed weapons.

This wasn't a ceremony.

It was an execution site.

And at the obsidian gate—he stood.

General Karna Voco.

A man carved from scars. His war-spear rested on the ground beside him, nearly twice his height. Viora markings crawled up the side of his face like warpaint burned into the skin. His armor bore no rank—only the etched sigil of Kargal's first wars.

He had fought something no Kruger dared name aloud.

An Emperor-class Voidling.

And lived.

Karna didn't speak at first. He just watched them step out.

When his eyes landed on Kaiell, something passed between them.

A thread of understanding.

Not invitation.

Command.

Then, Karna finally spoke—quiet, measured, unshakable.

"Welcome to the Final Threshold."

Behind him, the gate pulsed. The shrine was waking.

He turned to it. Ritual-techs began the activation sequence. Symbols carved during the Rift Wars illuminated beneath the stone, one by one. A chorus of silent voices echoed through the air. They weren't chants.

They were warnings.

"This shrine was uncovered in the last year of the Rift Wars by Kiro, the first ruler of Kargal. A mistake. Or fate. No one could tell. He realized what it was far too late."

Karna touched the stone. It pulsed again—this time brighter.

"A gate. Not to a new world. To the old one. To the place the Void was born."

He stepped back.

"Kiro sent Krugers through. Not scouts. Not prisoners. Operators. With bombs. With fire. They mapped nothing. They survived only by destroying what they found—Voidling nests, ritual sites, factories for things no language can hold."

A tech called out.

"Gate is primed."

The obsidian seal cracked open with a guttural groan. The light beyond was not light—it was pressure. A Rift.

"Only vX5-bearers can enter for long without warping. That's why you're here. The blindfolded won't remember if they fail. But you—"

Karna looked to Kaiell.

"—you are built for it."

A ripple passed through Kaiell's Viora interface. Every sense sharpened. The air smelled of burnt ozone and ancient blood.

Karna's voice lowered.

"We built a base inside. One of the few. Deep within the Void. It floats between layers of Rift-time, surrounded by war. You'll be stationed there. You'll strike out from there."

He pointed to the crackling gate.

"The Void is a kingdom without a king. But it remembers. It builds. It reclaims. Every ritual we destroy buys the real world time."

Karna turned fully.

"The first wave died. All except one."

His eyes narrowed.

"And you'll meet her soon."

He stepped aside.

"Lock in weapons. Seal armor. We move as one. And once you're through..."

The gate shrieked.

Not with sound—but intent.

"…your new commander will explain the war."

Kaiell didn't move.

Not right away.

He stood at the edge of the Rift, the hum of his interface syncing with something ancient behind the veil.

His blade pulsed on his back.

Nightfell remembered too.

And when he stepped forward…

He felt the Void watching.

Waiting.

And this time…

He wasn't afraid to stare back.