[= Establishing Urban Link... =]

  [= Location Data Initialized =]

  **New Vothar**

  Industrial Hub, Kelthar-3, Trelos Rift System

  **Standard Galactic Date**: 2739, Cycle 07

  **Local Time**: 21:00 Rift Standard

  [= City Access Verified =]

  The doors opened, and I stepped in like I belonged, which I absolutely didn’t.

  Vantablack floors so dark it felt like walking across the surface of a damn black hole. The ceiling stretched so high I could’ve flown the Valkyrion sideways through it and still not clipped a beam. Every surface gleamed like it had never been touched. Everything else either floated, glowed, or looked like it cost more than a small warship.

  First thought?

  I wonder how much I could pawn all this shit for.

  Probably enough to buy my own moon. Two, if I sold the chairs.

  Half the table was already filled with guests, and none of them looked normal.

  Starting on my left was a Xyrelian woman with sapphire skin, lounging like she owned the galaxy.

  She reminded me of a Xyrelian that escorted me here, same glow, same curves, same eyes that looked right through you.

  But this one had status.

  The other one was a sweet girl. Great with her hands. But still not much else in common.

  She was draped in fine-chain beads that shimmered when she breathed, half her face veiled, the other half already bored. Probably some minor royal or planetary baroness who enjoyed crushing economies between breakfast and lunch, just a little portfolio adjustment over eggs and genocide.

  Next to her was textbook villain from an old arcade game.

  Last time I saw one of these big scaly bastards was on Rykka-9, in the bar with Zara.

  He was massive, armored in a black scale-cloak that probably came from whatever cousin he strangled last week, and wore a bone-carved mask that looked ceremonial, which didn’t make it any less ugly.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  I never remembered what they were called. Always defaulted to something easy like lizards, crocs, gators. But no, these scaly fuckers had a proper name. Khuvrin.

  I looked it up on the flight here when I got bored. That’s about as far as the knowledge stuck. Something about their planet, forget the name, but it had this massive chasm running across half the damn thing, lined with metallic rock and fossilized bones like God took one look at these dinosaurs and to hit delete.

  Sure, God flooded Earth because humanity was drinking, screwing, lying, killing, probably stealing grapes or whatever pissed Him off that day, but at least we got rainbows and puppies out of it.

  The Khuvrin? They got a cataclysm so brutal it nearly wiped them out.

  It didn’t purify them. Just made them meaner.

  Now that canyon’s a holy site. They call it the Scar of Varr’khal, supposedly named after some ancient star-god of blood and Armageddon. Apparently, Khuvrin warriors fight to the death down there to earn their names, bless their weapons, or get noticed by whatever death-spirit they think is watching.

  Always kinda wanted to see it. Maybe I’ll hit it up one day if I’m ever in the mood for a scenic death pit soaked in lizard blood.

  Last but most certainly not least, sitting across from the dinosaur was something that might’ve once been human. Technically still was, I guess, depending on your definition. Now he was Exodite.

  One of them.

  His frame was skeletal, limbs sheathed in chrome, with exposed circuitry running down his arms like twisted veins. Light pulsed at his temples. Sync waves probably. Faint but constant like my old router. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just sat there like someone who’d traded in his soul for processing power and the ability to bench a thousand pounds.

  Every so often his head would tilt a few degrees, cybernetic eyes flickering like a corrupted sensor sweep, and the movements, subtle as they were, sent little ripples down the line. Like he was wired into the room itself. Or worse, watching the simulation from somewhere else entirely.

  He must’ve been a representative of Exodum their cold little machine cult born out of the Time of Splintering. Back when the Republic still believed in democracy and toothpaste, some high-ranking officer named Varin saw the writing on the wall and decided humanity needed a hard reboot. Broke away, took a bunch of soldiers and civilians with him, and started forging people.

  Literally.

  Metal limbs, hive mind, no jokes allowed.

  Now they follow Hephaestus, also known as the Overseer. A half-mythic AI “god” supposedly born in the fires of their cataclysm. Part savior, part operating system. Maybe a sentient war machine. Maybe just a metaphor that got too clever and booted itself into reality.

  No one really knows. The Exodites don’t talk. Not to outsiders, not to diplomats, not even to their victims.

  But from what little intel we have, they don’t worship Hephaestus. They sync with him. Serve like obedient code. No devotion, no emotion—just pure, brutal efficiency. Like ants in a colony, except the queen is a god-tier neural processor and you don’t get to die unless it tells you to.

  They call it evolution.

  Everyone else just calls it creepy.

  Still, something felt... off. He didn’t move like a drone. His head tilted at precise intervals, eyes flickering, but the more I watched, the more I realized he didn’t seem to be syncing with anything.

  He was more like a marionette mimicking life after the strings were cut.

  Maybe he wasn’t synced at all. Maybe he’d gone rogue.

  Which only made it worse.

  Because if Hephaestus didn’t send him… why the hell was he here?

  Guess I’d find out soon enough.