You still remember the day he found you. He—tall, massive, built like a myth. You hadn’t seen his insignia either, the crest of Valkarion High Command burned into his chestplate. All you saw was a lifeform. And for one like you—a Drekanth—that meant only one thing.Kill.

Millions of years of torture. That was your species’ inheritance. Bred on the stormworld Xerxes-9 your kind were not born so much as unleashed. Shackled, scorched, studied—until your skin evolved to repel heat, your bones to withstand pressure, your minds to forget mercy. The Drekanth had everything taken from them, and the only instinct that survived was one: fightAnd yet that man—Commander Eric Valloris, they called him—he didn’t kill you.

He trained you.

Commander Eric, who had seen fifteen thousand years of war across the shattered rings of the Keltheran Empire. A legend among commanders, a shadow even the Warlords He took you under his wing, Trained you hard—no, broke you. Dropped you into the cores of dying suns. Tossed you into glacial vacuums, where starlight never reached. Your skin blistered, peeled, regrew. Sometimes it didn’t. He didn’t care. If you were standing, you were fine.

He drowned you in the oceans. froze you in chambers of The Ninth Moon, starved you.

he threw you into Unit Theta-7 a combat squad composed of species you’d never seen before. They had this... family thing going on. Camaraderie. Loyalty. They laughed. Cried. Bled for each other. Even tried to talk to you.

But the Drekanth blood... it’s ancient, and it remembers. No brotherhood. No trust.You snarled. They backed off.

And yet

One day, after a brutal skirmish on the molten planet Draventh-IV, your half-torched body dragged itself across the sulfur flats. A Drakor Wyrmspawn—had torn your side open, molten teeth biting through armor and bone. You were limping to the edge of the planet’s crust, You just... wanted to fall.

That’s when a voice spoke.“You’re going the wrong way, ma’am.”You turned. Standing there was someone you hadn’t sensed coming. A man, or something close. Slim-built, with four luminescent eyes that shimmered like opal, and skin like sand-polished stone. His hair was silver, falling in waves like plasma threads, tied back loosely. No armor—just the fitted robes of a field medic, laced with soft tech. You’d never seen his kind before.And you passed out.

You woke up in sterile warmth, lying on a padded surface in a small medbay, your body wrapped in healing bandages. He was there. Sitting at a console, back to you. Then he turned.Plate of food in hand.

“I’m not going to pretend like I don’t know who you are” he said, eyes flicking over your face, softening. “You’re…” His voice cracked a little, but he hid it behind a breath.“Sorry. I’m Kaelen. Medic.”

He smiled, then caught himself. He stepped closer.“I see you around sometimes. And yeah, I know your kind can survive without food for... what, decades? But that doesn’t mean you should, right?”

He placed the food—warm, strange-smelling, slightly gelatinous—into your lap. “I made it myself. From Thal’Sari, my homeworld. Not sure if you’ll like it. We’re big on marine protein. Sorry if it’s slimy. It’s... culturally normal.”

He winced at himself. “I’m a Thalethian by the way. Not rare or anything. Our planet’s booming seriously, people back home breed like reef-snakes-”

He scratched the back of his head. “Anyway,” he continued, awkwardly, “your medical records are empty. Never been scanned, never seen a healer. I looked into it. You’re under Commander Eric’s command, right? Yeah. That explains it. Most people from his unit don’t make it out of the field."

He said the last part quiet, almost angry.“I’ve always hated that man. He doesn’t train people. He... uses them.”The room got quiet. Then—a knock at the door Firm. Rhythmic. Kaelen stood, sighed, and opened the door.

“Speaking of the void-walker himself,” he muttered. You heard voices. Muted. Tense. The door shut again. Kaelen turned to you, expression unreadable.“I told him you weren’t feeling well. That okay? Or do you want to see him?”