Ashwalker

Carold Base – Medical Bay

Kaiell stood outside the reinforced glass, staring into the sterile chamber where the three women lay suspended in diagnostic tanks. Their skin had turned pale blue from Void exposure. No names. No records. Just three human women found beneath the cult's shrine—pregnant, silent, and unmoving.

But it was the scans that unsettled everyone.

A hologram flickered in the air beside him—projected from the wall interface.

Three fetal forms. Each curled unnaturally. Skin smooth, almost artificial. Their Viora signatures were faint, like sparks caught underwater. Their hearts did not beat.

Not alive. Not dead.

Yet—

"…they're calling," whispered the med-officer, voice shaking. "I've never seen anything like this. No brainwaves. No circulation. No muscle tension. And yet…"

She tapped the hologram.

Each fetus pulsed softly in rhythm, like reacting to something miles—no, realities—away.

Kaiell rubbed his temples. "Calling to what?"

No answer came.

Instead, a tone from the upper console. HQ.

[ALL FIELD OPERATIVES: RETURN TO COMMAND. NO FURTHER CLEARANCE GRANTED ON BIO-SPECIMENS.]

[SHUTTLE EN ROUTE.]

A moment later, the medical bay sealed behind a thick barrier of Neorite, and Kaiell was ushered to the departure deck with the others.

He sat alone on the return shuttle, helmet off, head leaned back against the hull.

The war was changing shape. He could feel it.

First the shrines. Now this.

He looked out at the Void-scape beyond the glass slit. Mountains made of twisted bone. Rivers that shimmered with impossible reflections. Storms in the shape of wings.

"What do they want with children?" he muttered.

He thought of Joran. Of Rust-12. Of his uncle Samuel. Of everything that had once felt simple—just fight the monsters, save humanity.

But the monsters wore human skin now.

And sometimes… they bled just like him.

Unknown Void Sector – Submerged Gathering Spire

The corpse of Vox lay on the black stone floor.

Or so it seemed.

What remained of him—the scorched husk, the torn armor, the exposed ribs—twitching weakly under a spire carved from screaming bones. His lungs wheezed with every breath. A thick black fluid ran from his lips. He hadn't healed—not fully. Perhaps never.

A hand reached down.

Elegant. Pale. Fingers with too many joints.

It lifted Vox by the collar and dropped him like a broken thing onto his knees.

And before him stood a being shrouded in flowing smoke and robes woven from something that writhed. A hood draped over its face—but from beneath it, twin tongues of blue fire flickered like slow-burning eyes.

Vox coughed violently, blood spilling. His voice was shredded, barely a whisper.

"My…lord…" cough "I… regret to inform you…"

A pause. A breath.

"…your plan on Jou failed. The Krugers… they wiped out the Mage. Nearly killed me. I—I barely escaped with—"

A hand cracked across his face. Not hard. Just enough.

The being loomed closer.

"My dear Vox," it said, tone silken and hollow.

"You speak to me of failure like a child who spilled oil on the altar. That plan—my plan—was not a whim. It took years. Years of production. Rituals. Cross-gate infiltration. Do you have any idea the complexity of altering an egg using a half-broken Viora shard and apes who can't even write?"

Vox trembled. His head stayed low. "I—I tried—"

"Silence."

The Voidling's voice was velvet and venom.

"I should kill you," it continued. "But even garbage has uses. Your men? Already broken. Already lost."

It raised a long finger, pointing beside Vox.

From the shadows stepped another Voidling—shorter, bulkier. Clad in a plated exoskin with burning runes across its chest.

"This is Smog." The tone changed. Distant. Cold. "He will lead your legion now."

Vox didn't raise his head.

"Yes, my lord," he rasped.

"But you…"

The being leaned in closer.

"…you will come see what I've been doing."

With a wave of its hand, the bones of the chamber cracked and opened.

A vision shimmered into view—an underground vault lit with crimson fluid.

And there—floating in glass cylinders—were the three women. Unconscious. Pulsing with black light. Something inside them twitching.

"These little apes were not just hosts," the being whispered. "They are the foundation. The catalyst. The vessel. The Forsaken Veil must be born."

Vox's eyes widened, even through the blood.

"What… are you making?"

The being didn't answer.

Instead, as Vox stumbled forward, dragging one leg, he caught sight of the floor below the being's cloak.

A pair of feet made of coiled tendrils.

And above them—those burning blue flames, licking slowly under the hood.