The air was light and cool inside T?ten’s private chamber, where his enormous, muscular body—covered in short, dark-purple fur—rested face-down on a padded table. Two of his subjects—young, voluptuous purebred hound females, typically Dobbers (often also his mating partners)—were massaging him, easing the tension that clung to the upper layers of his muscles, along with a faint pain typically caused by long sessions of radiation exposure. The ruthless dictator submitted himself to these sessions daily (and sometimes even twice a day), firmly believing they increased his strength and endurance.

  "A leader must be strong," the Emperor always said. "An Emperor must be unbreakable!" he would justify—unnecessarily so, as no guard, subject, or servant would dare question him anyway. His intolerance and impatience were infamous, even beyond the Empire’s borders, for countless cycles.

  “Leave me,” T?ten ordered curtly, as usual, commanding the hounds to leave.

  T?ten moved toward his enormous bathtub, ready to enjoy a bath—of course, previously prepared. He removed his swim trunks (the last piece of clothing left on his body) and slowly, comfortably lowered himself into the tub, causing several liters of lukewarm water to overflow onto the slate-tiled floor of the massive bathroom.

  About ten minutes later, the wall-mounted video communicator in front of T?ten notified an incoming call—from the captain of a probe squad sent to investigate the southernmost edges of the Empire. T?ten, already annoyed and convinced that whatever information they had would be too irrelevant, considered it an act of insubordination that they hadn’t first contacted the on-duty sergeants or even the colonels.

  “I will determine your squad’s punishment based on how relevant your information is—because for you to feel entitled to use the direct frequency to my quarters, you must be unspeakably insolent.” T?ten answered the call with calm and composure, but his tone was threatening and traumatizing—something he never held back.

  “Your reign of terror, death, torture, violence, and abuse is coming to an end, you miserable wretch. You’re going to pay, and you’ll pay dearly for every atrocity you’ve committed or ordered, you cursed worm!” shouted the captain, helmet off, his eyes glowing like starlight. He wiped his blade on the bloodied sleeve of his uniform. Behind him, his five squadmates—four soldiers and a corporal—agonized, backs leaning against each other in a pyramid of bodies. The Emperor could hear their choked, bloody gasps, pouring from deep cuts or severed limbs. Their ship burned in pieces in the desert behind them.

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  As he finished speaking and sheathed his razor-sharp scythe, the captain pulled a plasma grenade from his vest and yanked the trigger.

  “YOU’LL BE DISMEMB—” T?ten’s reply was cut off by the powerful explosion that abruptly ended the transmission.

  T?ten was unaccustomed to this feeling that suddenly overtook him. Still wet, naked, and trembling, he activated a call to his trusted major:

  “Baylon, come to my quarters, IMMEDIATELY! Do you hear me? IMMEDIATELY!”

  The captain’s final words echoed and reverberated in T?ten’s mind. He was stunned.

  Less than three minutes later, Major Baylon—now aged—burst into the room, shoulder-slamming the massive doors open. His ears were alert, projectile weapon in hand, breath heavy, body in battle stance. In a split second, he scanned the entire room with eyes and ears, only to find T?ten (now dressed), sitting slumped on the edge of the padded bed, legs spread, arms pressed down at his sides. His enormous hands dug their sharp black claws into the soft mattress, tearing the high-quality silk sheets. Saliva dripped from T?ten’s flabby bulldog cheeks—he was foaming with rage.

  “Emperor! What happened? Please, tell me! What is going on?” Baylon asked, kneeling before him. Baylon had never seen T?ten breathe like this—short, irregular. As if, for the first time… he needed help.

  “I want the flight plans, every coordinate, and every detail of the T-212 mission—used by squad S-14. Do you understand me, Baylon? I want the exact number of fleas each unit carried. I want to know if they made their beds when they woke up that day. I want to know how many times each of them chewed their last meal—and on which side of their mouths. I want EVERYTHING. Do you understand?” T?ten scowled, clenching his teeth as he spoke. Baylon listened closely, nodding at every detail.

  “Immediately, Emperor,” Baylon replied, turning quickly to leave.

  As he approached the door, Baylon considered whether to risk it and attempt a more personal conversation with T?ten—but decided it would be wiser to simply carry out the orders he'd just received.

  “And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” Myles asked.

  “You’ll go to the North Zone of Rhakotis and find this address,” said Elder Jenson, pulling a crumpled, yellowed piece of paper from one of the pockets of his poncho. It read: ‘Housing 23-D/Central-North RK’. “And most importantly—don’t tell anyone. Look for Paul Roax and Endo Nishida. We’ll have a meeting and share the coordinates,” Jenson instructed.

  “Get yourselves some new clothes,” the old aged man added, tossing a small leather pouch with a few credits inside. “There’s enough to get you to the city’s northern face by train.”

  Myles gripped the paper tightly, slowly and powerfully crushing it in his hand as he thought: “This is it. This is the change I’ve been waiting for all this time. THIS is my legacy.”

  Myles nodded and watched Alek slowly rise and finally open his eyes. He grabbed his still-soaked backpack off the cave floor, waved goodbye, and headed toward the train station.

  “Am I really the person they say I am? What if they just WANT me to be? Will I be able to do it?” Myles stared at his own feet, one step after another—careful not to let Alek notice.