LOCATION: Hallways of Sector A, Frigate Blitz.

  TIME: 15 Minutes Before the Encounter Between Zarbac, Lunaria, and Krzytof.

  "Zarbac..." the masked man said into his comms, walking at a leisurely pace down the corridor. "Do you have the files yet?"

  "Oh, my Lord..." the voice on the other end replied, dripping with submission. "I am still on it."

  The masked man fell silent.

  In front of him, blocking the hallway, stood three figures.

  They weren't wearing standard uniforms. They were clad in full-body armor, smooth and white, made of a glossy polymer that resembled an insect's carapace. Their faces were hidden behind pristine helmets with a single black, rectangular visor.

  On their shoulders, a small golden emblem: a dragonfly.

  "Don't waste time," the General said, stopping dead ten meters away from them. "The three branches raised by the Black Cradle are on board."

  The three soldiers reacted in unison, raising their assault rifles in a perfect tactical stance.

  "Oh... it would be regrettable to face them," Zarbac's sarcasm came through the line.

  "Hurry up and don't get overconfident."

  The General took his fingers off the transmitter, cutting the call.

  Zarbac clicked his tongue before the line went dead.

  "Received."

  The masked man sighed.

  White? he thought, analyzing the armor.

  Without making any sudden movements, he slipped his right hand inside his white lab coat.

  The gesture was enough. The three soldiers disengaged the safeties on their weapons.

  Click-clack.

  "Freeze!" the one in the center ordered, his voice thick and distorted by the helmet. "Show your hands and identify yourself."

  The masked man let out another sigh, longer than the last.

  "With pleasure..." he began to slowly withdraw his hand. "I am..."

  He paused deliberately.

  "Identify yourself or we open fire!" the soldier shouted, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  "I am..."

  He pulled his hand out completely. Between his fingers shone three polished steel spheres, no bigger than industrial marbles.

  "Last warning!" they bellowed. "Drop that and identify yourself!"

  "Sure," the General replied with absolute calm. "If you insist."

  The soldier on the left collapsed.

  It was instantaneous. He fell like a sack of cement, without a scream, without a spasm.

  The other two quickly turned their heads toward their fallen comrade. In the center of his helmet, right on the forehead, was a deep, circular, smoking dent. The steel had punched through the reinforced polymer as if it were cardboard.

  They turned their gaze back to the masked man in terror.

  "You damn...!" they tried to aim.

  Before they finished the word, the second soldier fell just the same. The dry sound of the body hitting the metal echoed in the hallway. Another perfect dent in the forehead.

  The last soldier, the one who had given the orders, tried to back away. His right leg buckled, useless, and he fell to his knees. Not out of fear, but because something had shattered his kneecap before his brain could register the pain.

  He looked up, trembling, at the masked man.

  "What... what the hell are you?" he asked, stuttering.

  There was no verbal answer.

  "I am..." the General repeated, toying with the last sphere remaining, rolling it over his knuckles.

  In a blink, the soldier saw it.

  He didn't see the arm move. He only saw a silver flash growing in his vision. A small glowing sphere that was already in front of his eyes before he could close his eyelids.

  Crack.

  The soldier fell backward, silenced.

  "I suppose it doesn't matter who I am anymore," the masked man murmured, stepping over the bodies without looking at them. "Rest for a while."

  He resumed his path, hands in the pockets of his lab coat.

  I hope there aren't more of them... there isn't much time, he thought, checking his mental clock.

  Unlike the bloody and amusing party Zarbac left in his wake, the General's advance was silent. Clinical.

  There were no prolonged screams or macabre games. Whoever crossed his path simply slept for a while. A movement, a blow, and silence returned to the hallway. It was brutality without passion. Pure efficiency.

  Shortly after the encounter with the imperial soldiers, the General stopped. He seemed to know the ship better than its own crew. Without hesitating at any intersection, he arrived in front of a door located next to a long observation window.

  The door bore the number 347.

  But what made it stand out wasn't the code, but the decoration: colorful handprints of children painted in the center of the metal, and a low sign that read: NEONATAL WARD.

  "So it was true..." he muttered to himself.

  A metallic sound was heard on the other side. Someone had dropped something.

  "Now what?" he sighed.

  He entered an access code into the panel. His fingers moved from memory.

  The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss.

  "DON'T COME IN!" a woman screamed.

  She was at the back, shaking, holding a reaction pistol with both hands. She wore a lab coat stained with coolant.

  "I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU!"

  The General didn't stop. He entered cautiously, but without fear.

  "Put that down," he said calmly.

  BANG!

  The woman pulled the trigger out of pure panic. She was a few meters away. The bullet sped toward the intruder's chest.

  For anyone else, it would have been the end. For him, it was a formality.

  Exactly forty centimeters from his chest, the projectile stopped dead.

  The General had raised the back of his left hand in a fluid motion. A blue glow emerged from his wrist: the same hexagonal shield Zarbac used.

  The bullet flattened against the invisible energy barrier and fell to the floor, turned into a deformed lead coin.

  Clink.

  "It can't be..." the woman's pulse trembled, lowering the weapon. "Are you... a traitor?"

  Her eyes were fixed on the bracelet. She recognized the technology.

  The General looked around the room, ignoring the question, and deactivated the shield with a flick of his wrist.

  "Get out of here," he ordered.

  The woman dropped the weapon. The metal hit the floor. She stood motionless, paralyzed by confusion and fear.

  The room was a technological sanctuary. It was full of aligned incubators, vital signs monitors blinking in silence, and medical robots in standby mode, arched over the empty cribs like white plastic gargoyles. On one side, a glass wall displayed data on an almost invisible touch keyboard.

  "Aren't you leaving?" the General turned his gaze back to her.

  The sterile light of the room reflected in the lenses of his mask, hiding his eyes for a second and momentarily blinding the woman.

  She blinked, trying to focus.

  Then, she saw it.

  Through the opaque glass of the mask, a shift in light revealed one of his eyes. The left one.

  It was a rare, magnetic iris. Deep green, but broken by an irregular splash of honey color covering a section, like an ancient wound in the soul.

  There was no hatred in that eye. Only weariness.

  Without saying a word, the masked man tilted his head slightly. He did it slowly, never taking his eyes off her.

  The scientist, inexplicably, felt the tension leave her shoulders. Seeing that strange and beautiful iris through the glass, the fear dissipated. Her heart, which had been hammering against her ribs, recovered a normal rhythm.

  "Sorry for the scare..." the General said, walking toward the glass wall. "But I need you to leave."

  The woman watched him walk, blinking, and nodded several times, as if in a mild trance.

  "Thank you," the masked man said without looking at her, stopping in front of the panel. "Let's hope we don't meet again soon."

  The scientist left the room in silence, leaving behind the weapon and the panic.

  "Right..." the masked man murmured, looking through the glass. "And what curse were you given?"

  On the other side of the wall, rows of transparent cribs shone under a bluish light. Each had its own breathing system. Around them, mechanized nurses moved with hydraulic smoothness. Their appearance was eerily human, but their movements were too perfect.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The masked man typed on the glass wall.

  Several pop-up windows of information unfolded in the air. General data for each crib: subject, weight, age, sex, traits, parental genetics. All normal.

  Until he got to the point.

  He typed three letters into the search bar: PDM.

  "Access denied," said the flat female voice of the lab's AI.

  He typed it again.

  "Denied," the voice repeated.

  He typed it a third time.

  "Access denied. Only biological parents and Rank 1 officials of the Blitz have authorization."

  The masked man sighed. He touched his bracelet and pressed his wrist against the glass panel.

  "Commencing hack," he ordered his own interface.

  A small electric discharge ran through the glass. The information windows flickered, distorting for a second before stabilizing.

  Then, a new window, much larger and red, emerged over the others. Hundreds of lines of code and encrypted data began to scroll at breakneck speed.

  "Hostile AI detected," the wall's AI warned, shifting to an alert tone. "Initiating security protocol."

  "So fast?" the masked man whispered. His fingers flew over the touch keyboard, countering the lockout. "I'll help you a little."

  Tick.

  The sound was minuscule. Almost nonexistent. Barely a brush of metal against metal.

  Tick.

  It sounded again.

  The General stopped typing. His hands froze over the panel. He looked up slightly, sharpening his hearing.

  Tick.

  The third one was definitive.

  He turned his head toward a vital signs monitor located to his right.

  "Could it be...?"

  He walked over to it.

  Tick.

  He popped the monitor's casing open with a sharp tug, sliding the cover aside.

  Inside were thousands of microcircuits and fiber optic cables. At first glance, nothing out of the ordinary.

  Tick.

  The small sound guided his eyes toward a hive of memory cards the size of fingernails, hidden at the base of the device.

  "Interesting..." he crouched slightly to observe the hive up close. "No evidence. Understood."

  Tick.

  The red light of a small diode inside the device blinked, reflecting in his lenses.

  The illumination now revealed his right eye.

  It was the absolute opposite of the left. A blood-red iris, intense, but marred by a fragment of milky white covering the lower part, like a cataract or a birthmark.

  In his black pupil reflected the digital numbers blinking on the memory card.

  Numbers running backward.

  00:05...

  00:04...

  At the same time, the silence of the outer hallway broke.

  "We just have to secure this zone," echoed a female voice, muffled by the metal door. " Taking the sector was quick."

  The General didn't move. His ear caught the weight of the footsteps. They were military boots, approaching at a steady rhythm.

  "I hope the others are doing okay..." another voice replied, softer and laden with concern.

  00:03...

  00:02...

  The footsteps grew louder, passing right between the observation window and the door of the neonatal ward.

  "Are you okay?" the first voice asked.

  "Yeah... well," the second voice hesitated. "Truth is, I'm not."

  00:01...

  The General raised his left arm. A blue glow began to hum at his wrist.

  Outside, the voice continued, oblivious to the death beating a meter away.

  "I'm a little worried about Cedr..."

  00:00.

  The world turned white.

  The explosion wasn't a noise; it was a physical pressure that burst eardrums and shattered the wall. Fire and shrapnel swept the hallway, silencing the sentence mid-name.

  Dense black smoke filled the corridor instantly. Flames began to lick the ceiling, feeding on the oxygen.

  Inside what remained of the neonatal ward, amidst rubble and broken glass, the General leaned on one knee.

  The hexagonal shield on his wrist blinked twice, weakened, and died with an electric hiss.

  Surprisingly, and without much visible effort, he stood up.

  He walked through the flames toward the ragged hole the bomb had blown in the wall. From his left arm, the one he had used for cover, drops of thick blood fell, marking the floor at the same rhythm as his calm steps.

  He stepped out into the hallway.

  The heat was suffocating. At his feet, thrown against the opposite wall and covered in dust and debris, were the owners of the voices.

  Selene and Lyana. Unconscious, but alive.

  "Hmm... Interesting," the masked man said, observing the soot-covered armor. "Foxes."

  He looked around, assessing the structural damage coldly. The fire was spreading fast toward the ventilation systems.

  "Now I have to put out the fire..." he sighed, like someone who has to clean up a coffee stain.

  He took a step toward the extinction panel but stopped.

  On the floor, Selene moved. It was an unconscious spasm, a moan of pain.

  The General looked at her. Then he looked at the dark hallway he had come from.

  "Or maybe not...?" he murmured.

  He looked back at the disaster.

  "They have time," he decided. "Even so, Zarbac loose with a dose is more dangerous than the fire."

  The instant he finished the sentence, the General turned on his heel.

  He walked toward the darkness, moving away with a firm step, leaving the two injured Foxes behind in the middle of the fire that, perhaps, they themselves had started.

  Or had they?

  LOCATION: Remainder of the Frigate Blitz.

  TIME: 15 Minutes Before the Encounter Between Zarbac, Lunaria, and Krzytof.

  "Any complaints?" asked a female voice, firm and icy.

  The sound of drops hitting the metal floor filled the silence. The woman's body was soaked in stasis fluid, dripping and forming puddles at her bare feet.

  "None." Victor observed the motionless figure. He showed no fear, but rather a reverent caution. "I will go immediately."

  The officer turned toward the door and left the room without looking back.

  Barely crossing the threshold, he heard behind him the hiss of pressurized air from another pod opening, followed by the wet sound of viscous liquid spilling onto the floor. It wasn't just her.

  "Damn it!" Victor exclaimed to the air as he ran down the hall. "What the hell is going on?"

  He reached the command deck. The double doors slid open with a hum.

  Chaos hit him head-on. Alarms, screams, rotating red lights.

  "Major!" he exclaimed, breathing heavily.

  Matsumoto didn't even turn around. He was leaning over the holographic tactical table, his face illuminated by the battle map.

  "What do you want, Victor?" he barked without paying attention. "Right now I'm busy keeping us from being turned into space dust."

  The atmosphere on the deck was frantic.

  "Load the main railgun again and fire on my signal!" Matsumoto ordered his subordinates. "Prepare every ship that can fly!"

  The deep hum of the weapon charging vibrated through the ship's floor.

  "Aim at whatever we have within range of the docked ship!"

  "Anti-shield charge ready," a gunner reported.

  "Fire!"

  The entire cabin shook violently. The rumble was dull, internal.

  "Impact failed, an escort ship took the shot," a soldier with headphones shouted. "Sir, we have more enemies covering the rebel corvette!"

  Matsumoto slammed his fists on the table, frustrated. He turned his head toward the entrance, looking for whoever was interrupting him.

  "What is it you want, Victor?!" He looked at him with disdain.

  Victor took a second to calm his breathing. He looked through the large window of the cabin: flashes of explosions and plasma trails illuminated the void.

  Then, he looked his Major in the eye.

  "The Oprichnina has awakened," he said. His tone was low, but it cut through the room's noise like a knife.

  Matsumoto froze. He swallowed with difficulty, as if he had sand in his throat.

  The silence spread to the nearby officers who heard the name.

  "They want to speak with you," Victor added.

  Matsumoto straightened up, smoothing his uniform nervously.

  "Sergeant Major Thosiro," he called, looking at the man beside him, an officer of impeccable bearing. "You are in charge of the Blitz."

  All the personnel exchanged looks of disbelief. Abandoning the bridge in the middle of combat?

  "Let's go, Victor," Matsumoto said, walking toward the exit with a stiff gait.

  "FIRE AT WILL!" they heard Thosiro shout just as the door closed behind them. "Let our escort ships make an opening!"

  For a few minutes, Matsumoto and Victor walked briskly down the hallways.

  The chaos of battle felt different there: emergency lights blinking, scorch marks on the walls, dark stains on the floor. But there was no one. Only the echo of their boots.

  "Who is left to awaken?" Matsumoto asked without stopping.

  "This is the last of the three branches of the Black Cradle that were on board," Victor replied, trailing in the Major's wake. "Everyone is awake now."

  The Major sped up, visibly anxious, leaving Victor a few meters behind.

  "Wait, sir!" Victor exclaimed, jogging to catch up. "Don't go alone!"

  They arrived in front of a door, the same one Victor had run out of minutes ago.

  It bore the number W-42.

  It was a smooth surface, unadorned, but it radiated a cold that seeped through their boots.

  Matsumoto clicked his heels, squaring his shoulders, and opened the door. He entered immediately, crossing the threshold decisively.

  Victor, for his part, stood rigid in the hallway. He lowered his gaze, locking his eyes on the floor, refusing to enter. As if crossing that line were an offense.

  "Good morning, Major," said a female voice, with a strangely relaxed tone. "Or is it evening?"

  The woman tilted her head, looking at the ceiling as if calculating stellar time.

  "It's a pleasure to see you awake," he continued. "You wanted to see me?"

  The voice fell silent for a moment, assessing the scene.

  "Officer Victor..." she said, softly. "Look up."

  The name hit him like a whip crack. Victor shuddered, but obeyed slowly.

  How does she know my name if I didn't tell her? he thought, terrified.

  The room was different from the others. There were only two open hibernation pods, still dripping cryogenic fluid, forming viscous puddles on the floor. In the center, a metal table with two chairs, one at each end. In the back, a complete wall of reinforced glass revealed the infinite darkness of space and the distant flashes of the battle.

  The owner of the voice was standing next to the table.

  She wore armor similar to the Foxes' that defied the era: matte black plates, with a design reminiscent of medieval times but with technological finishes. A red scarf fell over her shoulder. She held a black helmet with an opaque visor under her right arm, resting against her hip.

  She was beautiful in a dangerous way. Long blonde hair, falling almost to her waist. Pale skin, of someone who has slept too long in the cold. Her irises were electric blue, and her lips, thin, had a natural reddish tone, curved in a playful half-smile.

  "Take a seat, Major."

  The woman dragged a chair with a metallic screech and sat down, placing her helmet on the table delicately.

  Matsumoto took the opposite chair.

  "Well...?" The Major rested his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers, trying to maintain composure. "What can I do for you?"

  "Be silent," said a new voice.

  It was male. Dry. And it came from nowhere.

  Matsumoto didn't jump, but his eyes swept the room quickly.

  First, he looked at the woman in front of him. Then, at the dripping pods. Nothing. He turned his gaze to the side walls. Nothing.

  "Here I am..." the voice said again, calm, almost bored.

  Matsumoto squeezed his interlaced fingers until his knuckles turned white. He looked back at the woman. She hadn't stopped looking at him, smiling.

  Tack.

  A slight sound, like polymer hitting glass.

  Matsumoto turned his head to the right, toward the window facing space.

  Something was obstructing the stars.

  A visual distortion, like an oil slick on water, floated next to the glass.

  Little by little, the "smudge" began to correct its refraction. The pixels of reality adjusted.

  First, it was a blurred silhouette. Then, the optical camouflage deactivated in a cascade of colors, revealing a standing figure, leaning against the glass.

  He wore the same black armor as the woman, but he had his helmet on. The red fabric, in his case, wasn't a scarf, but a hood covering the metal of his head.

  He had been there the whole time, being part of the void.

  "Opri..." Matsumoto locked eyes on the hooded figure. "And Chinna."

  He returned his gaze to the blonde woman.

  "If I'm not mistaken, this is a colony ship," she said, recovering her playful smile, as if they were having tea. "It is regrettable to know it was the only ship available on planet Gindward."

  The Major frowned upon hearing her and lowered his elbows from the table, losing his relaxed posture.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Luckily, this ship was destined for the Tartan system," the woman looked up, observing the ceiling lights while crossing her arms. "And luckily for us... you will be blamed for several crimes against the Empire."

  Matsumoto slammed his hand on the table dryly and stood up immediately, knocking the chair backward.

  She didn't even flinch. She just let out a small puff of air, almost a contained laugh. She lowered her gaze instantly, locking it on him with that same amused smile.

  "Do you deny your treason?" she asked, with a sweet tone distilling poison.

  "I deny it!" Matsumoto clenched the fist he had struck the table with. "I would never betray the Emper..."

  The woman burst out laughing.

  It was a light, crystalline laugh that interrupted his patriotic speech like a slap. She was laughing at him. Laughing at his indignation, at his loyalty, at his simple existence.

  Matsumoto knitted his brows, offended, and looked at him with contempt.

  A few seconds later, the laughter ceased abruptly. The smile vanished. Her face became a mask of ice.

  "THEN HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN TRANSPORTING REBELS!"

  The woman exploded. With a brutal movement, she kicked the metal table. The heavy structure flew to the side, crashing against the wall with a deafening boom.

  Matsumoto stepped back by instinct.

  "WERE YOU TAKING THEM TO TARTAN...?!" she advanced toward him, invading his space. "OR TO ELYTOR-III?!"

  Matsumoto clenched his fists, cornered. Victor, in the hallway, lowered his head even more, trembling. The woman's partner, this Opri, remained motionless, leaning on the glass, indifferent to his companion's outburst.

  "I know I am not guilty," the Major said, trying to keep his voice firm, though the sweat betrayed him.

  The woman let out a brief, dry chuckle.

  "But I'm not, Major."

  She walked toward him. Matsumoto tried to maintain his position, but her murderous aura pushed him back until his back hit the cold wall.

  "Consider this a warning..." she said, trapping him with her gaze. "It would be abhorrent to know that a respected member of the White Cradle has been corrupted."

  The woman got even closer. She broke the personal barrier, stopping millimeters from his body. She rose slightly on her tiptoes, bringing her lips close to the Major's ear, in an intimate and lethal parody of a kiss.

  Matsumoto swallowed. The sound was audible in the silence of the room. He held his breath, feeling her body heat mixed with the cold of her armor.

  "So, for the moment..." the woman whispered, never taking her eyes off him; her blue irises were two needles. "I don't want to hear your bullshit excuses."

  Just as she finished the sentence, a sharp beep broke the tension. It sounded in the woman's transmitter and, simultaneously, in her partner's.

  The hooded one, who had been like a statue, peeled himself off the glass and tensed slightly.

  The woman lowered her heels, recovering her normal height. The fury disappeared from her face as if it had never been there, replaced by professional indifference.

  "Get out, Major," she said, turning her back on him to look at her partner. "Only this time will I overlook your lack of respect."

  Matsumoto exhaled all the air in his lungs. His face tensed. He raised his hand in a quick, sharp movement: a military salute that wasn't a salute, but a bow of submission, a tacit acknowledgment that she was the predator and he the prey.

  Seconds later, he turned to his right without saying another word. He left the room with a quick step, ignoring Victor, who was still pinned to the floor.

  "Retreat, you too," the woman ordered without looking at the hallway.

  "At your command," Victor replied with a broken voice, and disappeared in his superior's wake.

  When they were finally alone, the oppressive atmosphere dissipated. The woman relaxed, stretching her neck.

  "Clifford..." she said, flashing her singular smile at the hooded figure. "Take care of the problem on the ship."

  "And you?" he replied with a deep voice. "What will you do, Fer?"

  The woman turned toward the door and walked with an elegant gait.

  "I will go do my job as Chinna." She stopped for a second before crossing the threshold, looking sideways. "Ah... one more thing. Don't take long, K."