The warship groaned like a dying leviathan, its steel bones protesting as alarms shrieked through the corridors.
**"Breach! Hostile incursion on deck seven!"** The AI's warning echoed through the smoke-filled passageways.
Then—**cataclysm.** The reinforced bulkhead detonated inward in a storm of molten metal. Through the acrid haze marched an army of golden-clad warriors, their sunburst armor radiating. At their vanguard stood the dreaded Trojan Order, their very presence palpable power,
bending reality around them.
Their leader's voice shook the ship's foundations:
**"Clark Terror, Hammer-Bearer—you will relinquish Devastation to the Trojan Order. This is your only warning."**
Clark's laughter was colder than the cosmic void. **"Come try,"** he challenged, baring pristine teeth. **"Let's see if your god-like reputation’s match your arrogance."**
The Solar Priests reacted as one—**Clark's body snapped upward**, and was violently pinned against the wall by invisible forces. His muscles corded as the air was crushed from his lungs, veins bulging against his skin.
Nytheris the Eclipse materialized from the smoke, her movements liquid grace. She retrieved his fallen shades with deliberate slowness, sliding them onto his face with mocking precision.
**"You'll learn respect, Terror,"** she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. **"Even gods can bleed—we'll teach you how."**
**"Enough!"** Soltheron's command shattered the moment. The pressure vanished, sending Clark crashing to one knee—but his defiant glare never wavered.
The High Radiant turned his burning gaze to Princess Samantha. **"Your father's... unfortunate demise has destabilized the Federation,"** he intoned, watching her flinch. **"Your mother's treachery spreads like cancer through our Order."**
His armored finger pointed at Clark's bloodied lip. **"See how even the mighty fall? The fading of Krull's light weakens us all. Your Immortal Reapers—once invincible—now crumble like sandcastles."** Golden flames wreathed his fist. **"Help us reignite the Emerald Sun’s glory, purge the Empress's corruption... or watch civilization burn."**
Clark spat crimson. **"I bow to no sun. Stars live, stars die—that's the universe's only constant."** His eyes swept the circling warriors. **"Your faith isn't proof. Why so desperate for my hammer?"**
Veylis's gauntlets crackled with stolen starlight. **"Because Devastation can open the Dark Zone,"** she hissed. **"And free what we sealed away."**
**"Not happening,"** Clark growled.
Soltheron's patience shattered. Golden lightning erupted from his palms—only for Clark to absorb the blast, his eyes igniting like twin supernovas. The sevenfold amplified energy **scythed through Trojan ranks**, sending armored bodies crashing through bulkheads.
The Princess staggered back, realization dawning: **This was no negotiation—this was annihilation.**
"You brought this upon us!" she accused, dodging energy fire.
Clark tossed her a pulse rifle with pinpoint accuracy. **"You kidnapped me, Princess. Take some responsibility."**
"We are not allies!" She clutched the weapon like a venomous snake. **"The Order rules the Federation—they want you, not me!"**
Clark understood her fear—she believed him her father's killer, and the Order's wrath was legendary. He couldn't fault her survival instinct.
A solar lance meant for Clark nearly took her head. His hand snapped out, yanking her to safety while his other fist **pulverized a warrior's helmet into shrapnel.**
"Why did you save me?”she gasped.
"Even annoying royals don't deserve to die," he grunted, hurling an attacker into three others. The quip cost him—Pyrion's flaming uppercuts **smashed him through a reinforced display case**, sending molten glass spraying.
Clark rose from the wreckage, blood sizzling where it struck the deck. **"Still hate that guy."**
**"ENOUGH!"** Soltheron's roar shook the ship. His burning hands conjured nightmares—the Klytarians. Towering entities of shadow and flame **warped reality** as they materialized, their mere presence melting steel.
**"Submit or be erased!"** Soltheron thundered.
Clark wiped his mouth. **"Moon-manure.”**The words barely left his lips before a concussive blast **slammed him through three bulkheads**.
Gasping, he unleashed his winter breath, freezing the Klytarians momentarily. Devastation flared—a portal ripped open just as Pyrion came streaking in, fists blazing.
**"Next time, zealots,"** Clark vowed, vanishing into the void.
The Order turned as one to the Princess. In that heartbeat of judgment, she saw her future—then they were gone, leaving only echoes and wreckage.
Alone in her cockpit, the Princess set course for Armageddon. Clark's words, Soltheron's threats—**nothing was as simple as it seemed.** The truth, she realized, might burn worse than any sun.
New World Same Troubles
Clark exited the portal and walked straight into a tangle of limbs and curses, depositing him in the shadow of The Verdant Empire of Sylvanor’s
towering bioluminescent trees. The air hummed with the pulse of living wood, the great organic city breathing around him. Somewhere beyond the emerald canopy, the Trojan Order would be hunting—but for now, he needed a drink.
The **Green Bastion** tavern pulsed with warm light, its walls grown from interwoven boughs that pulsed faintly with sap. Clark shouldered through the crowd—a mix of plant-fused Thornborn warriors and off-world traders—and claimed a shadowed corner.
**"Dark Ale. The strongest you've got,"** he growled to the barkeep, a gnarled sylvan with bark-like skin.
He'd barely taken his first swallow when the scent hit him—something floral and sharp beneath the tavern's earthy musk. A woman slid into the opposite seat without invitation. Her eyes glowed faintly green in the dim light, vines threaded through her braided hair.
**"You bleed starlight, stranger,"** she murmured, nodding at the dried golden blood on his knuckles. **"That's a Trojan Order wound if I've ever seen one."**
Clark's grip tightened on his tankard. **"What's it to you?"**
She smiled, all thorns. **"I'm Nyssa. Eyes and ears for the Crown."** Her fingers traced the table's living grain. **"King Oberon likes to know when war walks into his taverns. Especially war dressed in a legend."**
Outside, the great trees shuddered—whether from wind or something hunting, Clark couldn't tell. He drained his ale. **"I’m just passing through."**
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Nyssa leaned closer. **"The Order's special agents are already here. Offered quite the bounty for a hammer-bearing fugitive."** Her vine-wrapped wrist flicked, and suddenly the tavern's patrons seemed very interested in their drinks. **"But Sylvanor remembers old debts. The Reapers saved our world once."**
Clark studied her—no weapon, but the air around her hummed with latent power. **"And?"**
**"And Her Majesty suggests you might want this."** She slid a seed across the table. It pulsed faintly, veins of gold threading its shell. **"Grows into a portal directly into a private room within the royal palace. One-time use. Plant it when you're ready to meet with our rulers.”**
A crash echoed from the street. Distant shouts—the cadence of Trojan battle cant.
Nyssa stood smoothly. **"Of course, if you'd rather stay and fight..."** She nodded toward the door, where shadows too angular for Sylvanis's curves now loomed.
Clark pocketed the seed with a grim smile. **"Tell your Queen thanks."**
**"Tell her yourself,"** Nyssa whispered, already fading into the tavern's greenery. **"If you survive the night."**
As the first golden-armored figure kicked in the door, flanked by several special agents of the order, Clark cracked his knuckles. The ale had been good.
Pity about the aftertaste.
The tavern door exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood. Three figures strode through the wreckage—two clad in the gleaming gold-and-crimson armor of the Trojan Order’s elite agents, the third a towering Thornborn Sentinel with bark-like skin and glowing emerald eyes, clearly acting as their local liaison.
The patrons of the Green Bastion didn’t flee. They didn’t even move. They simply *watched*, their hands drifting toward hidden weapons. The air grew thick with the scent of ozone and crushed leaves.
The lead agent, a man with a face like chiseled marble and a voice like grinding stone, slid into the seat across from Clark without invitation. His companion, a woman with a scarred lip and cold, calculating eyes, remained standing, her fingers resting on the hilt of a pulse-blade. The Thornborn loomed behind them, its wooden joints creaking.
**"Clark Terror,"** the man said, folding his hands on the table. **"You’ve led us on quite the chase."**
Clark took another slow sip of his ale. **"And you’ve ruined a perfectly good drink."**
The woman’s grip tightened on her blade. The man ignored the jab, his gaze never wavering. **"This doesn’t have to be difficult. The Order isn’t unreasonable. Surrender *Devastation*, and you walk away."**
Clark snorted. **"Funny. Last time I checked, the Order doesn’t let anyone walk away."**
**"Times change,"** the man replied smoothly. **"The Emerald Sun weakens. The Federation fractures. The Empress’s treachery spreads. We need warriors like you, Clark. Not as an enemy—as an ally."**
Clark leaned back, his eyes flicking to the Thornborn. **"And what does Sylvanor think of this little recruitment pitch?"**
The Thornborn’s voice was the sound of rustling leaves. **"We do not interfere in the affairs of gods and fools."**
The scarred woman finally spoke, her voice a razor’s edge. **"You’re outnumbered. Outgunned. And frankly, *tired*. Look at you—bloodied, bruised, running on fumes. How much longer do you think you can keep this up?"**
Clark grinned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. **"Long enough."**
The man sighed, as if disappointed. **"Then you leave us no choice."**
The Thornborn took a single step forward—and the tavern *erupted*.
Patrons overturned tables, drawing weapons grown from living wood. The agents moved in perfect sync, the man lunging for Clark while the woman’s pulse-blade flared to life. Clark kicked the table into them, sending drinks and dishes flying, and rolled backward just as the Thornborn’s fist cratered the spot where he’d been sitting.
**"Should’ve taken the deal!"** the woman snarled, slashing at him.
Clark ducked, driving his elbow into her ribs. She grunted but twisted with the blow, her blade grazing his side. He barely felt it—adrenaline burned too hot. Clark grabbed her forcefully by her long hair, wrapped within his balled fist - as he held her there he looked at the other two males and his eyes blazed with power, and the two males exploded into smoke and ashes.
The crowd erupted in awe as Clark led the woman back to his table and sat her down in the seat across from him. Taking his seat across from her he said,” I could have easily destroyed you along them. Don’t make me do it!” He said meeting her gaze that was still reflecting the schock at what he had done to her associates.
The tavern fell deathly silent.
Smoke curled from the scorched floor where the two agents had stood moments before. The Thornborn Sentinel was gone—whether fled or reduced to cinders, no one could say. The only sound was the woman’s ragged breathing as Clark forced her into the chair, her pulse-blade clattering to the floor.
Her scarred lip trembled, but her voice held steel. **"You’ll burn for that."**
Clark leaned across the table, his eyes still glowing faintly with residual power. **"Probably. But not today."** He released her hair, watching as she instinctively reached for the empty space where her weapon had been. **"What’s your name?"**
She hesitated, then spat, **"Veyra."**
**"Veyra."** Clark nodded, as if filing the information away. **"You’re good. I felt that blade of yours."** He touched his side where her strike had grazed him—the wound rapidly healing itself shut. **"But you’re not *Trojan Order*. Not really. Your armor’s new. Your stance is Imperial military. So who bought you?"**
Veyra’s eyes flickered—just for a second—but it was enough.
Clark smirked. **"Empress Gahdiva’s private guard, then. The Steel Magnus *Venomblades*."** He leaned back, crossing his arms. **"Funny. The Order’s recruiting from the Empress’s personal killers now? Or did she send you to make sure they *didn’t* cut a deal with me?"**
Veyra’s fingers twitched toward a hidden dagger at her thigh. Clark’s supernatural senses allowed him to see her actions through the table and his boot came crashing down on her foot, pinning it to the floor as she yelped in pain. **”Don’t."** Clark shook his head negatively.
Around them, the tavern’s patrons had returned to their drinks—mostly. A few still watched, their hands resting on weapons.
Clark lowered his voice. **"Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to walk out of here. You’re going to tell your Empress that the Order’s on to her. And you’re going to *remember* that I let you live when I didn’t have to."**
Veyra’s jaw tightened. **"Why?"**
**"Because I don’t kill messengers. At least not unnecessarily.**Clark’s grin was all teeth. **"And because the look on your face when you realize that I’m right will be *priceless*."**
He released her foot.
For a long moment, Veyra didn’t move. Then, slowly, she stood, retrieving her pulse-blade. The crowd parted for her as she strode toward the door—but at the threshold, she paused.
**"The Order’s not the only one hunting you, Terror,"** she said without turning. **"The Death Scourges stir in their prison. And they *remember* who helped lock them away."**
Then she was gone, swallowed by Sylvanis’s emerald night.
Clark exhaled, suddenly aware of every ache in his body. He reached for his ale—only to find the barkeep sliding a fresh tankard toward him.
**"On the house,"** the sylvan rumbled. **"For the show."**
Clark raised the drink in mock salute. **"Next round’s on the Trojan Order."** He said meeting his gaze, both sharing a smirk and a smile.
Clark drained his ale in one long pull, slamming the tankard down as golden embers flickered in his irises. The barkeep's smirk faded when he saw those eyes—eyes that had just vaporized two armored agents without lifting a finger.
**"I'd take the back exit if I were you,"** the sylvan muttered, nodding toward a vine-choked archway pulsing with bioluminescent sap.
Clark pulled out the royal seed and looked at it momentarily before putting it back in his pants pocket, its golden veins warm against his thigh. **"How far to the Whispering Glades?"**
**"Far enough that you'll want to run."**The man said with a nod as he walked away from Clark.
The tavern's walls trembled. Distant shouts echoed through the streets—too many voices, too organized. The Order had sent reinforcements.
Clark moved. Swiftly.
Sylvanis's night air hit him like a slap, thick with the scent of blooming carnivores and electrified ozone. He sprinted through winding alleys where the very cobblestones shifted underfoot, the city itself seeming to guide him away from the golden-armored squads sweeping the thoroughfares.
The Whispering Glades lived up to their name. Ancient trees towered like cathedral pillars, their canopies filtering moonlight into emerald shafts. The moment Clark stepped into the clearing, the seed in his pocket *burned*.
He barely had time to plant it before the ground erupted. Golden vines shot upward, weaving into a swirling portal that hummed with the same frequency as Devastation's dimensional rips.
**"Well that's not ominous at all,"** Clark muttered, stepping through—
—and into a throne room grown from living wood.
Queen Titania's voice floated down from the dais, sweet as poisoned honey:
**"We do so love dramatic entrances, don't we, husband?"**
King Oberon watched closely as he leaned forward. **"Clark Terror. You smell of Trojan blood and bad decisions."**
Behind them, the Thornborn Sentinel from the tavern stood motionless—its emerald eyes tracking Clark's every twitch.
Clark's fingers brushed Devastation's haft. **"Let's skip the floral greetings. Why'd your spy really give me this pass?"**
Titania's smile could have frozen stars.
**"Because the Death Scourges are waking and some in powerful positions long to either gain their loyalty by any means necessary to wield their terrible power for themselves while others want to allow them to totally purge the universe. Because the Emerald Sun *is* dying. And because..."** She gestured to a viewing pod where the entire star system floated in miniature. **"...we know what the Order isn't telling you about your hammer."**
The model shifted—revealing the Dark Zone. And something *stirring* within it.
Have you enjoyed the journey thus far?
