Chapter 14: The last of serenity’s light

The Hunter. 1

Lightning clawed at the heavens, a wild, electric orchestra resounding with ominous fervor as it scored the night sky. Torrents of rain lashed relentlessly against the glass panes of the highrise apartment like the drumming fingers of some great, ethereal beast. Behind them, staring out into the violent skies and over the vast, treacherous expanse of Bay City, he stood.

Watching.

From this vertiginous perch, the horizon loomed—a distant and shadowy boundary where the raging storm seemed to merge heaven and earth. Here, almost a mile above the obsucrities of the mundane life of the city, the horizon stretched out to a full twelve miles from its usual constrictive eight at ground level. It was as though the city, with its sprawling appetite for space and sky, hungered to devour distance itself.

Below, Bay City unfurled like a field of steel and neon, laid bare beneath the tumultuous heavens. The luminous glow of skyscrapers pierced the darkness, defiant spears of light striving against the encroaching darkness. Each illuminated window whispered a tale of the teeming millions sheltering from the gale, of secrets cloistered in shadows, and of lives intertwined in a tapestry as complex as the electrical storm above.

The tempest painted the metropolis in flashes of light, each finger of lightning a revelation—a fleeting glimpse of the urban jungle sprawling endlessly into the murk. Thunder reverberated like a monstrous growl, rolling over rooftops and echoing down alleys, shaking the bones of the city as if threatening to lay bare its hidden sins.

And there were plenty of sins in a place like this, hidden or not.

From his perch within this elevated sanctuary, he bore witness to the raw power of the elements colliding with human existence. There was a poetry about it, a point in time and in space where the boundary between the violence of nature and the incidious spread of humanity clashed in bright flashes, explosive booms and torrents of falling rain. The civilization below, normally looking so proud and indomitable, now appearing almost fragile compared to the power the heavens were able to unleash.

The man knew this city. He knew the people going about their everyday lives, he knew the dark underbelly of crime, violence, death and struggle that tainted every dark corner and every shadowed doorway, and he knew the points where those two worlds met. He could see the flashing lights of nightclubs, the darker lights of the Reno dens, the gambling houses, the women plying their bodies on the streets, and the gangs of men who monitored them and the territories they worked on.

It was both terrible and beautiful. But, more importantly, it was completely beneath him. He was above it, both literally and spiritually. Bay City wasn’t his home; his home was long gone, this was just a place where it was easier to remain unseen and unnoticed than other places. The authorities, fighting an unending battle with the crime lords and gangs, protecting citizens who still - for some reason - considered this place one of the jewels of the Imperium, would never think to pay attention to the man behind that glass window, even if they were lucky enough to spot him. They had bigger fish to fry, even if those fish were inconsequential minnows compared to him.

Yet, there was a beauty to the place, the thing that had drawn the first pioneers to this planet centuries ago and the thing that kept drawing people here despite the fresh blood that ran in the streets every night. Through the maelstrom, through the torrents of rain and the flashing talons of electricity, a singularly unique celestial spectacle could still be seen if he were only to turn his gaze upwards to the skies above the Planet Heredon. The planet, among the brightest jewels in the diadem of the Imperium, was watched over by its celestial sentinels—the twin moons, Caster and Pollux. They were a pair of binary moons locked in an eternal cosmic waltz, gliding gracefully across the skies, unhurried by the storms below or the storms brewing in the Imperium around them.

These moons were a phenomenon that enraptured the denizens of known space, an astronomical marvel that poets lauded and scientists studied with avid fascination. Bound inextricably to one another by the dance of gravity, they pirouetted around each other and Heredon in harmonious synchronicity, their pale effulgence barely undimmed by the wrath of the storm below. Positioned in a delicate balance, they were nestled close enough to submit to the parent world’s gravitational embrace yet distanced sufficiently to forgo any dire geological or atmospheric influence upon the vibrant tapestry of life teeming below.

Nonetheless, the pair’s existence was somehow almost without terrestrial consequence—save for a singular natural phenomenon that arose from their celestial configuration. Biannually, the moons’ conjoined gravitational pull would interlace with Heredon’s own to summon forth the monsoon—a season of rain and rejuvenation, of floodwaters that sang with the rush of life, nourishing and reshaping the landscapes beneath.

In these periods, the otherwise benign twins became harbingers of upheaval. The skies would darken, and the clouds would weep torrents as if mirroring the floods of ancient lore. And yet, even amid the colossal downpour and the furies of wind, the twin moons remained steadfast—two constant gleams amidst the chaos, their light a touchstone for the enduring and transcendent beauty of cosmic order.

Castor and Pollux bore witness to the lives and deaths that unfolded beneath them, indifferent in their planetary watch yet influential in their silent vigil. With the soft, perpetual glow of distant worlds, they etched themselves into the mythos and memories of Heredon. They gave the planet and this city the almost mythical reputation it now enjoyed.

To him, the canvas of turmoil etched across the heavens was of no consequence. His existence revolved not around the celestial dance of twin moons or the relentless lashing of rain against glass. Instead, it was a world of darkness, shadow, and unrelenting violence. The man let his eyes shift in focus, no longer looking out over the city but instead staring at his own reflection in the glass. Towering in stature, his form was an archetype of lethal potential—a physique honed and chiseled through countless acts of deliberate carnage.

He was an avatar of death, a silent reaper whose hands, sinewy and precise, had extinguished lives beyond number. Each movement he made was an ode to the grim art of close-quarters killing. The way he walked, the way he dressed, the way he ate breakfast, the way he took in his surroundings; all of it was part of his of his craft, and he was the best that there was. His presence alone was suffused with the quiet threat of a predator poised to strike, each breath a prelude to the inevitable final gasp of his targets.

His torso, an alabaster canvas, was marked with the mementos of confrontation—scars that bore witness to the visceral nature of his work. These were not the glorified wounds of grandiose warfare, the medals of valor won in the sweeping campaigns among the stars or the epic ground engagements of terrestrial forces. His eyes were - at this moment - a steely gray, his hair shaved to a fine stubble, but both his head and face bore the terrible tale of previous battles. His scars were the intimate trophies of a darker craft earned in the hushed proximity of close combat, where he could gaze into the very soul of his adversary.

In those final, intimate moments, he was the last overseer of his victims’ fates, watching the flicker of life fade from their eyes—a grim custodian ushering them into the void. The faces of those he dispatched were forever with him, even now; their names were etched into his consciousness as indelibly as the scars that laced his skin. Each mark, each line etched upon his body, was an unspoken chronicle of a deadly encounter, a silent homage to the valiant foe who had faced him and fought for life with every fiber of their being.

Yet, for all their valor, each had succumbed to his relentless blade. In this stark, solitary world of his, he stood as the arbiter of finality, the sentinel at the threshold between life and death. His very existence was a testament to the ominous truth that in the shadows of the world, there are those who walk with the quiet burden of extinguished lives—a burden he bore with a chilling sense of inevitability and the haunting specter of his lethal legacy.

It was a legacy that was not yet finished. More were yet to die by his hand and in the name of his mission.

Another arc of lightning streaked across the sky, once again sending a momentary bolt of light over the city, highlighting the sky lanes filled with hovercars, even at this ungodly hour. Enormous billboards glowed with advertisements for things he had no interest in and other people didn’t need. Still, they were big enough and bright enough to draw the eye, convincing fools that those things must be important if they demanded such attention, and the pulsing neon signs hanging over bars and clubs of the entertainment district flashed with the beat of music drowned out by the storm. That was a place teeming with life, vice, hookers, and drugs. A place where a man could lose himself to everything the virtuous would call a sin. A place where the predators and the prey of the world mingled with reckless abandon for every one of the thirty-two hours of the day. Bay City really did never sleep.

And tonight, neither did he.

He inhaled sharply and deeply, the stormy cacophony outside muted by the fortress of his own desolate calm. With a deliberate pivot, he pulled his attention from the ferocity of the night and cast his eyes downward to the holopad resting with an almost sacred significance in his grasp. Bathed in the cold glow of the display, a new assignment was laid out on its screen—a fresh soul marked by the unseen hand of fate, targeted by the whims of those who commanded his lethal talents.

The holographic image flickered with a quiet luminescence, revealing the face of a girl. Young, her features spoke of an innocence yet to be tarnished by life’s darker shades—pretty, by the subjective standards often imposed upon human aesthetics. Her hair, a golden cascade, offered a stark contrast to the grim nature of his work. She was a healer, a medic dedicated to the preservation of life within the unassuming confines of a small community clinic—a stark mirror reflecting the very antithesis of the path he walked.

Yet, for all her normalcy and the altruism that may have defined her days, she was not a nobody. She couldn’t be, not if her name, her face, was in his hands. Her existence had somehow rippled through the undercurrents of the galaxy, touching a nerve, crossing an invisible line that few knew existed and even fewer dared acknowledge. There was an importance to her, an unspoken value assigned by someone out there in the web of influence and intrigue, which had transformed her from a faceless civilian into something more worthy of his attention.

Her image, alongside the scant details accompanying it, comprised the sum total of her identity in his world—a digital specter awaiting his grim sacrament.

Her name was Emma.

She had such vibrant, glowing blue eyes.

And they would be seeing him very soon.

Elijah. 9

“Errr, Wu?” He called out, his eye twitching a little as he glanced across to the other side of the bridge to the excited-looking elder, standing next to the equally enthralled Laura, watching the ancient fleet being transferred from the Primis to the Atlas. “You have an incoming transmission on your private channel. It’s heavily encrypted.”

“Oh? Wu turned around to face him. “From whom?”

Elijah paused, focused his mind onto the incoming call for a fraction of a second. “It’s tagged as Stud four.”

Laura snorted. “You have studs? And four of them, no less. I never knew you were such a player.”

Wu shook his head, that mirthful look vanishing in an instant, and replaced with something altogether more serious. “Stud is short for student,” he said with a frown. “And this was a call I wasn’t expecting for quite some time.” He turned back toward Elijah. The spark of enthusiasm that had been dancing in his eyes only a few moments before was gone; the irreverent smirk that typically played upon his lips in the wake of Laura’s comments was conspicuously absent. Now, his countenance was the very picture of grave attentiveness. The faintest flicker of concern, maybe, that seemed to linger just beneath the surface. “Put him through.”

Elijah was about to ask if he wanted to take the call somewhere more private, but Wu had already turned his attention toward the viewscreen. Whatever this was about, he was obviously okay with Elijah and Laura being privy to it. Elijah took a deep breath. Whatever it was that had rattled his old master so suddenly was something he felt he should be taking seriously, and judging by the confused but equally serious look worn by Laura, she had come to the same conclusion.

He connected the channel.

The face of an older, distinguished, but troubled-looking man shimmered onto the holo feed a few feet in front of the main viewscreen. His hair was greying, and worry lines wrinkled his furrowed brow. The man, clearly the military type, looked like he was usually clean-shaven, but his five o’clock shadow had grown into something that could almost be called stubble. He opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes widened, taken aback by the bridge on which Wu, Elijah, and Laura were standing.

“Cornelius,” Wu said with the sort of nod Elijah had been used to receiving from his Uhmwaan master in the years before he assumed his role as Marshal. “I hope the timing of your call isn’t a sign of bad news.”

“Master Wu,” he intoned with profound respect, bending into a deep bow that mirrored the deference Elijah had always shown towards his mentor’s subtle nods. The man’s veneration was palpable, one that Elijah immediately recognized as one reserved for a student of Wu’s teachings. Age had etched lines into his face, suggesting the man was at least around sixty, a curious reminder of the passage of time and its enigmatic dance with the Guardian’s seemingly ageless existence. Looking at them both, Elijah suddently realized that the true extent of Wu’s years was a completel mystery; the Guardian had peppered conversations with veiled allusions to bygone eras, yet Elijah had never directly asked the man how old he really was.

“I’m afraid it is,” the man continued, his voice threading the air with urgency as he straightened up. His eyes darted across the unfamiliar intricacies of the bridge, collecting snapshots of reality that hinted at their mission’s fate. “We have intercepted some very disturbing news, and—” a sweep of his hand encompassed the technologically bristling expanse of the Atlas, hinting at its martial potential, “—assuming you have met with success in your recent endeavors, I believe the situation is serious enough to consider significantly moving up our timetable.”

Wu nodded. “First, let me introduce Elijah, Marshal of the Ancient fleets ... and former student, and Laura Dondarion, liaison to our new Mariner allies.”

“It’s an honor to make your acquaintance,” Crow stated, dispensing a respectful nod in their direction, with a noticeably deeper inclination of his head towards Elijah—an implicit acknowledgment of his esteemed rank. “I am Cornelius Crow, the General of the Spiral arm’s insurrection. Miss Dondarion,” he continued, his tone imbuing a hint of admiration and earnest intrigue, “I have long held a profound regard for your people. The prospect of learning how my esteemed mentor here persuaded your kin to join our cause is something I eagerly look forward to.”

Laura’s lips curled into a smile that radiated both warmth and confidence. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, General. And yes, it’s certainly a story for the books. I look forward to sharing it with you when we have more time.” Elijah, following this exchange, felt a swell of pride as he recognized her charm and natural diplomatic grace, the very reason he and Wu had wanted her to stay with them. He smiled inwardly—they both knew this wasn’t the right moment for lengthy exchanges, but she navigated the subtlety of the situation with seamless poise. Recent trials may have seemed to throw her off balance, but in moments like these, Laura showed an uncanny ability to read the room and act accordingly.

The General’s attention shifted to Elijah, his gaze filled with an expression of both curiosity and respect. “Your reputation precedes you, Brother,” he said, the endearment flowing naturally from his lips as he offered another bow, this time one steeped in the solidarity shared between students of the Uhmwaan martial discipline. “Our old Master’s teachings have a way of becoming a central part of who we’ve become. There will be much to discuss between us, I’m certain,” he asserted, his brows lifting slightly in anticipation. A momentary pause lingered before he leaned in closer, his voice threaded with a mixture of surprise and admiration. “But, did I hear him say you are a Marshal? My knowledge of your people is rather limited, but this technically puts you in command, doesn’t it?

“That I am, Brother.” Elijah returned the bow. “And, from my own very limited understanding, I believe that in military matters, it does.”

“Then, I’m even more pleased to meet you. I’m afraid this news will concern both of you.”

“Now, Cornelius,” Wu interrupted the introductions and immediately recaptured the attention of the aging General. “Why don’t you tell us about this situation?”

Half an hour later, Elijah fully understood the urgency behind Crow’s call.

“So, to summarize,” Wu said, pacing back and forth in front of the holo-projection of his former student. “The 381st were betrayed. Valdek is alive but has turned coat after discovering that a different betrayal led to the death of his son. Both of these acts were done as part of an imperial plot to drum up support for a war effort that would be needed to retake the Spiral Arm. With both of those efforts being less successful than our dearest Emperor would like, he is instead planning to destroy a civilian relief fleet ferrying some four million Orphean refugees.”

“Aside from there being no way we can intervene to stop it, even if we were willing to abandon our own colony ships, which wouldn’t be possible,” The General answered. “I think that’s about the sum of it.”

Wu nodded solemnly, flicking a glance to the half astonished, half horrified looking Laura before spinning on his heels and turning to Elijah. “Marshal, what do you think?”

Elijah and Crow both blinked but for very different reasons. The General’s visage momentarily betrayed an expression of surprise, a subtle arch of his brow indicating his perplexity at the unanticipated deference displayed by Master Wu. But this was not an indication of doubt in his mind about Wu’s capabilities; to the contrary, General Crow would have intimately understood the hierarchy that existed between a Master and a student. He was faintly aware that, in strict terms of the chain of command, a Marshal did indeed supersede a Guardian, even if that knowledge had come only from brief conversations he’d had with Wu in the distant past and Elijah’s less than detailed confirmation during their introductions.

Master Wu was a legend, even if only among the small circle who knew about him, a paragon of wisdom and strength whose reputation bordered on the mythic. His decision to readily relinquish command was unheard of, but Crow seemed to quickly grasp that Wu’s actions were bound by duty and respect for the order of things—a testament to his honor and understanding of roles within their structure. Elijah, albeit a former student, had stepped into a role that was ancient and respected: that of an Ancient Marshal. And with this title came authority that even Wu, the revered Master, would not challenge.

Despite this, it was evident that General Crow’s surprise bore no connection to any reservations about Elijah’s tender age or comparative inexperience. Crow didn’t seem to outwardly give a shit how old Elijah was. It was not often that someone met Elijah without a glint of underestimation flickering in their gaze, an unspoken question lingering in the air. Yet here stood Cornelius Crow, a man who looked past the youthfulness of Elijah’s appearance and his burgeoning command—they were mere superficialities to him. If he could do the job, then that was good enough for him. The surprise on Crow’s face seemed to be completely reserved for the speed at which Wu had deferred to him. In all the encounters Elijah had observed so far, Crow was probably the only person who seemed to gloss over Elijah’s youthful years with consummate indifference.

Perhaps this was due to Crow’s own experiences, which had taught him that age was not solely a measure of capability. Or maybe, in a more subconscious corner of his mind, he perceived the raw potential brimming within Elijah that Wu must have seen to take him on as a student in the first place - Crow himself had clearly once been in a similar position - the promising ember of greatness that could blaze into a formidable force under the guidance of a teacher. Whatever the reasoning, Crow’s regard—or lack thereof—for Elijah’s age was a refreshing anomaly amongst the expectations and prejudices of peers and subordinates alike.

Elijah just blinked. Not because of the question, not because of the audience, but because he was pulled out of an apparently automatic response to the problem put in front of him.

From the instant the General’s voice pierced the silence with a briefing of unfolding events, Elijah’s mind—augmented and interfaced with the Atlas—had become a hub of frenetic energy. Thoughts and strategies melded with the Atlas’ systems in a symphony of calculation and resolve. The predicament of the Orpheans resonated deeply with his core principles, triggering the kind of righteous indignation he had been conditioned to direct against oppressive regimes. Engaging the Atlas in their defense did not just seem like the obvious course of action; it felt like a destined calling, a clarion response to the exact brand of despotism he had vowed to dismantle.

Elijah was self-aware enough to be clear here. The Emperor was the enemy, but not just because of his potential links to the Ancient enemy–the faction that had broken away from and then subsequently torn apart their old civilization. This was more personal.

The Emperor, if Elijah understood events correctly - which he almost certainly did - was responsible for the deaths of his parents. They had been executed for the crime of simply being aware that Elijah existed. Yes, it hurt; there was an eternal pit of grief and anger in the deepest parts of his chest at the thought of it, but Elijah was a Marshal now, and that rank, that knowledge, those millennia of experience, allowed him to look at those events through a much more altruistic, strategic lense. Those orders had been given as a calculated maneuver of war, designed to cut the ties that the infant Elijah had with anyone not directly under the Emperor’s control. It was designed to make him the sole property of the Imperium. It was brutal, but it made sense.

But the ramifications of that order went further, and Elijah could not, would not, view it through the same dispassionate lens. The subsequent extermination of his childhood settlement—the annihilation of any and all who might have shared the merest connection to him or his lineage—was a different brand of atrocity entirely. Such explicit and senseless violence transcended strategic purpose and belied a chilling contempt for human life itself.

Elijah’s contemplations then shifted to the assault on the 8th Defense Fleet and the more recent treachery suffered by the 381st Division. The betrayal and the unfathomable loss of life, including that of Admiral Valdek’s son—all painted a portrait of the Emperor’s ruthless, shadowy campaign. Each action was a thread in the larger tapestry of terror the Emperor wove, both overt and insidious. It was manifestly clear: the Emperor’s reign was not just cruel—it was catastrophic and needed to be halted at all costs.

In Elijah’s mind, this decision went beyond the moral imperative of rescuing four million souls. The very essence of such morality was ingrained in his beliefs, a value so fundamental it was as ingrained as the instinct to breathe. Yet, the choice to charge into the throes of battle hinged upon more than simple ethics; it was an astute countermove in this vast, intergalactic chess game. The Emperor was poised, ready to exploit this tragedy to galvanize further backing for his war efforts. By preventing the callous sacrifice of millions, Elijah would not only save lives but also serve a crippling blow to the Emperor’s political machinations. In stopping the massacre, he would also disrupt the narrative the Emperor sought to spin, starving the war effort of its fuel—fear, and turning the tables on the tyrant who had orchestrated too many far-reaching shadows of despair. But there was even more to intervene than even Admiral Valdek had predicted.

General Crow had given them an exhaustive briefing, an encapsulation of Admiral Valdek’s thorough analysis with precision and gravity. The assessment painted a sobering picture—one of the formidable challenges in intercepting the besieged convoy and the dire ramifications of even attempting such a maneuver. Elijah had carefully weighed every word, every judicious point of concern, and found his thoughts in complete alignment with Valdek’s insights.

Admiral Valdek’s reputation had crossed paths with Elijah’s sphere of knowledge on more than one occasion. His name held weight, resonating beyond the officially sanctioned broadcasts that prematurely declared his death. Elijah’s own deep dives into the strategic methodologies of the Imperium’s naval forces had revealed Valdek as a standout—a man possessing that rare combination of strategic foresight and tactical finesse. His handling of the conflict at Signus IV, although not a textbook example of military brilliance, demonstrated calculated decision-making and a perceptive intellect, both qualities that Elijah, in his role as Marshal, could not help but acknowledge with professional admiration.

Yet, amidst the keen logic and battlefield wisdom that marked Valdek’s assessments, Elijah could see that the Admiral had missed something—a variable in the strategic equation. True, if the Ancient fleet swooped in to snatch the convoy from the Imperium’s grasp and destroy the forces poised against it—including any reinforcements sent to tip the scales—the Imperium would just use those losses to drum up public support. They would use it as another example of heroic, dedicated servicemen being butchered by the marauding rebel threat.

However, the Imperium would first need to answer one question that would inevitably arise in the public’s understanding of events. How had a rebel fleet managed to get that deep into Imperium space - undetected, unopposed, and unbeaten - in the first place? No matter which way the battle went, that would be a question that the Emperor, or at least the high council, would need to answer. It didn’t really matter which way the battle went - in strategic terms - for this question to come into play. And let’s face it, as far as the general population would be concerned, the Orphean fleet would have been destroyed, no matter the actual outcome of the battle. If the Imperium were successful, they would be scattered in a field of death and debris over the battlefield, but if the Ancients and the rebels carried the day, then what? The fleet wouldn’t just be able to continue its journey onward to their new homes; they knew too much, and he doubted anyone aboard would be willing to trust the Emperor or Council afterward. It was vastly more likely that they would choose to join the rebels in the Spiral Arm. He couldn’t blame them for that in the slightest, but it would mean that regardless of the outcome of the battle, and as far as the public was concerned, there had been a battle, and the Orphean relief fleet was gone. There was no way the council wasn’t going to spin that in the exact way they had been planning to all along.

So, the choice, in strictly military terms, was a simple one. Let the Imperium massacre the Orpheans, or stop them. Either way, their narrative would be the same. The real decider between them - and the thing that Valdek had missed - would not be the fate of the Orpheans but the fate of the fleet sent to destroy them. The rebels attacking and destroying a convoy of unarmed civilians would paint them to be monsters, but the destruction of an Imperium battlegroup defending them - not to mention any reinforcements - would turn the rebels into a genuine, undeniable threat. And, more importantly, one that would need to be explained. Not even the Council could cover up the loss of an entire carrier fleet, after all. Questions would be asked, and answers would be expected, and there was absolutely no way for those to be answered in a manner that would satisfy the public outcry. If the rebels were so much stronger than the state had portrayed, how had it been allowed to happen? How had the rebellion grown so much and become so strong in the relatively tiny amount of time in which the Imperium had acknowledged their existence? Even the most ardent supporter of the council would see that there had been a significant amount of bullshitting involved in the story so far.