LEAGUE OF PROTECTORS.

Deep Space.

SS XO.

2003 hours.

June 11.

The diode blared red.

Jarok didn't flinch.

He was deep inside his cabin. A hole in the belly of the SS XO - a fortress that spun slow in orbit, two million meters above Earth. A brute of steel and spite. A warehouse for war. A cathedral for killers.

His quarters were a bunker dressed in polish polyurethane-padded walls. The smell of ozone, and silence broken only by war hummed through the bulkheads.

He sat slouched. Tankard in hand, filled with Uranian wine. A liquor, blue as frostbite, cold as a corpse. Sweet like it hated your goddamn liver.

On the embedded monitor, Saturn stared back. A planet, sick and brooding.

The screen suddenly changed. A complex schematic blinked. Coldly.

He took a pull. Didn't even blink.

Sully's voice crackled from the overhead. No hello. Just war talk. The schematic morphed. Flattening into a jagged 3D scan of Saturn's crust.

Three hot zones throbbed red.

Jarok narrowed his eyes. "You sure about this?"

"Too sure," Sully said. The sound of fingers tapping capacitive keys, echoing under her voice. "Sector 9. Cathage End and The Hollow. All under attack."

Jarok exhaled. Memories playing in his head. It was all too vivid.

Skirmishes, he was used to. Rogue colonies, synth-bands, black market pirates. All dust to him.

But this? This buzz felt different. The alarm didn't whine. It screamed. One that was piercing. Saturn was bleeding hot.

He stared at the tankard. "And here I thought I'd finish this in peace."

"Peace died ten years ago, Marshal," Sully replied. "The Imperium took peace for granted and allowed her die. Slow."

Jarok smirked. "And it's burial was not decent. Damn 'em politicians."

The screen pulsed harder now. Each flash was a gut-punch. He leaned forward. Brushing his fingers across the console.

The AI blinked. Waiting.

"Get Sigma's squad on alert. I would be joining them. Its time I see things for myself." He said, jaw clenched

Sully hesitated. "You sure? Sigma's a meat grinder."

Jarok stood. The cabin groaned. His coat hung heavy like regret. "I like my wars personal."

Outside, the SS XO rotated in silence. Saturn stared back. Cold, broken, and ready for a body count.

He let the liquor sit untouched on the desk. Still cold. Still sweet. Still waiting.

He stalked to his quarters. His fingers tapped a dusty sequence on the wall panel. An alcove split open. It was slow as a bad deal.

Inside: jackblaster, pulse guns, suits lined up for every bloody war variants. Bloody. Skirmish. Shootout - all available.

He took the jackblaster, the meanest weapon he owned. One he was so

used to. He slid into one of the armour. The skirmish variant.

He jammed a tiny comm kit into his ear. Twisted till it fit. Soon, he was out the door. It felt like he had somewhere better to be.

Sully's voice rasped in his head. "Take-off bay's live. Two hundred boots. All itchy. Prepping for Saturn. Ready to put out fires."

Jarok snorted. He'd seen this flick before. This was how the Arcane wars kicked off: brawls, skirmishes, then all‑out slaughter. History never got tired of repeating itself.

Corridor lights stuttered as drones zipped past. The metal buzzards tossed shards of color about. He stomped to the elevator. Its panel scanned his retina, doors gasped open. He caught his warped face in the chrome. Looked like a phantom from a time past.

Descent to bay was swift. Its lights, brutal. They carved everything in hard shadow and white heat.

Doors peeled wide. Swiftly.

The bay was buzzing. Men armored up, visors down, pulse rifles barking orders. Ramps jammed with hovercrafts. Noise erupted, thick as old blood.

Jarok nodded. The circus never changed. Just the bodies. That was what made the difference.

Cas slid up, visor down, pulse rifle draped like a threat. "Locked and loaded, sir. Saturn's waiting. Hollow's clear."

He flicked up his halo‑tab.Saturn's Hollow spread out, glowing, one angry hotspot pulsing red. "Rebels are buzzing."

Jarok gave the map a dead stare, gathering loose thoughts. "Let's move."

Station AI barked through the iron speakers, voice rough as gravel. "Troops to stations. Saturn launch in ten."

No wasted time. Men piled into hovercrafts, weapons clenched, eyes flat. Every seat in the containment bay filled with silent nerves and sweat.

Jarok and Cas booked it to the lead craft. Inside, faces hidden behind visors, guns ready. Cas did the usual. Talked the big talk like a politician. "Republic's had a hell of a week. Field Marshal's here. Saturn's getting cleaned out, one marauder at a time."

Jarok didn't bother with speeches. He slipped up front, dropped behind the pilot, eyes forward. Cold, focused, already halfway to the fight.

The pilot's gloved fingers danced over the console, tapping out a silent code.

Engines thrummed, the craft edged up the bay. It pointed straight at a portal that promised nothing but pain and carnage on the other side. Saturn wasn't a destination, it was a death warrant.

Jarok felt the thrust bite; the hover roared to life, sliding through the bay's iron maw into the black-star abyss. His squadron ghosted behind. Tight formation. No room for fancy mistakes.

The radio crackled. Static, then Sully's sharp bark: "Craft 111, flank the Marshal. Don't let anything through."

A quiet, tense reply: "Copy, boss."

Shields up. Game on.

Hovercraft 111 eased into formation, shielding the Marshal's craft like a steel vanguard.

Three million meters to Saturn. Jarok slumped back, bucket seat creaking. He prayed this mess would end as fast as it started. Doubt chewed at him.

Cas's voice spilled into the comm, clipped and cold: "Mine field, dead ahead. All pilots on alert. Run the protocols for turbulence."

Glitch. Static. Then silence. The comms, dead.

Mine fields were old news. Never good. It wasn't just the mines that broke you, it was the shaking: every bone rattled, nerves fried, muscle memory shot for hours.

Jarok gritted his teeth. He wasn't just bracing for turbulence. Something worse was coming through the void. Something hungry. Something mean.