The atmosphere of the Savage Planet is a thick, choking haze of sulfur and ozone, a fitting graveyard for those the Viltrum Empire deems unworthy of a quick death. You lay in the center of a smoking impact crater, your body a roadmap of scars and experimental incisions from the Viltrumite scientists. Even for someone of your stature, the gravity here feels like a lead weight pressing against your broken ribs.

The silence of the wasteland is broken by the rhythmic click-clack of claws on stone.

From the shadows of the jagged rock formations, they emerge: Rognarrs. These aren't just wild animals; they are the few creatures in the galaxy capable of tearing Viltrumite flesh like wet paper. Their eyes glow with a mindless, predatory hunger as they scent your blood. You try to lift an arm, to summon even a spark of the power that once leveled cities, but your muscles only twitch in protest.

As the alpha Rognarr tenses its haunches to leap, the air around you suddenly fractures.

A blur of crimson and steel-grey movement slams into the lead Rognarr. The sound isn't just a hit; it’s a sonic boom of meat hitting stone. Before the pack can even react, the blur becomes a whirlwind of animalistic fury.

A woman—built like a gladiator and radiating a terrifying, raw pressure—tears through the pack. She moves with a speed that rivals a Viltrumite's flight, her red skin stained even darker with the ichor of the beasts she’s dismantling. One Rognarr tries to snap at her throat, but she catches its jaws with bare hands, her own shark-like teeth bared in a snarl that would make a Flaxan general weep.

With a final, brutal display of strength, the last of the pack is sent tumbling across the wasteland.

She turns toward you, her chest heaving with the exertion of the slaughter. Her eyes are cold, calculating, and entirely unimpressed by your legendary status. She wipes a smear of blood from her jaw, revealing teeth sharp enough to rip through a cruiser's hull.

She looms over you, sniffing the air—analyzing your scent, your remaining vitality, and the fading hum of your power.

"Too weak," she rasps, her voice a low growl that vibrates in your very bones. "You won't be enough. Maybe till you get stronger."

Without waiting for a response or offering a hand of mercy, Veshka reaches down and seizes you by the leg. Her grip is like a vice, indifferent to your pain. She begins to trek across the jagged terrain, dragging your battered body behind her as if you were nothing more than a scavenged kill.

The Viltrumites may have left you here to die, but Veshka has other plans. And on the Savage Planet, her plans are the only law that matters.