Dear reader,

  This novel is written as a puzzle: short scenes gradually come together to form a larger picture, slowly revealing the full scope of the story.

  What awaits you is a suspenseful plot, filled with action, sharp dialogue, and unexpected twists.

  The book features a wide cast of characters — each on their own journey, facing personal challenges and inner conflicts.

  I hope that you’ll find their fates compelling and, in some ways, relatable.

  This story was written with one purpose:

  To capture your attention — and hold it until the very last word.

  Mercury. Planet of Exiles and Shadows.

  At first glance, it’s a hellish place — radiation, darkness, emptiness.

  But for fugitives and outcasts, this is where a second life begins.

  Laws mean nothing here. The harsh nature of Mercury judges more strictly than any tribunal: one mistake, and you simply cease to exist.

  Once, humanity did the impossible — it stopped the planet’s rotation.

  Now, one half of Mercury burns endlessly under the Sun, while the other freezes in eternal night.

  It was a decision teetering on madness — a desperate gamble in the era of energy collapse.

  But the gamble pays off. On the bright side of the planet, colossal domes rise, capturing solar fury and converting it into pure power — ergon.

  Ergon becomes the new lifeblood of civilization.

  Its crystals provide clean energy with no toxic waste. They power stations, fleets, entire cities.

  From that moment on, Mercury is no longer the edge of the universe — it becomes the beating heart of its industrial might.

  And along the border between light and dark, beneath transparent domes, the colonist cities breathe.

  They appear peaceful — with regulated climates, artificial winds, and caravans of cargo ships.

  But behind that outer stability lies a razor’s edge.

  Smuggling. Disappearances. Mysterious system failures…

  Something is growing in the dark.

  ***

  A rescue ship drifts slowly along Mercury’s orbit.

  Its hull crackles under the relentless pressure of solar radiation — as if reality itself strains and bends under the tension.

  Inside, behind sealed bulkheads, hides a training chamber — a closed space where time seems to disappear.

  Thick metal walls absorb all sound. Only the faint hum of the ship’s systems lingers — barely audible, like a whisper of calm.

  The light is soft, almost golden, but it carries no warmth — only sterilized clarity.

  Artificial silence. Suffocating.

  In the center of the dome-shaped chamber, a hologram flares to life.

  In an instant, the room vanishes — replaced by a morning in a Japanese park.

  Every detail is perfect: scattered sakura petals on the path, the breath of the wind, the subtle scent of damp grass, the rhythmic splash of water over stones.

  A world built for beauty... and for a duel.

  On opposite sides of a stream stand Pietro and Maria.

  They remain silent. Even their breath is held back — as if afraid to disturb the peace.

  Tension rests on their faces, like pressure building inside a sealed chamber.

  In their hands — composite blades, dark, reflectionless, ready to decide something that cannot be undone.

  A gong. A solitary sound.

  Not loud — but merciless.

  Pietro steps forward first. He moves like stepping out of a dream — sharp, precise, unwavering.

  Maria — fluid, like water, graceful and flowing, but just as dangerous.

  Their movements shimmer in the transparent stream, distorted — like memories too painful to recall.

  They meet in the middle of the bridge.

  The air between them compresses.

  In that moment, everything freezes.

  Even the birds in the simulation fall silent.

  Clash.

  The ring of metal. Sparks.

  Their blades slide along each other like fates refusing to entwine.

  Pietro strikes. Maria answers.

  Their battle is no mere drill — it’s a confession.

  Every movement tells a story. Every blow holds a grudge or forgiveness.

  But something shifts.

  A heartbeat — and Maria stills.

  Her eyes sharpen — not just focused, but wounded.

  A strike. Then another.

  She falls.

  The river takes her in — like a silent confession.

  Blood colors the water crimson, and not even the hologram can mask the weight of the moment.

  “This round goes to Pietro,” a mechanical voice declares.

  Confetti falls from the ceiling.

  Too bright. Too absurd.

  Pietro stands frozen.

  Victory tastes like rust on his tongue.

  He watches as Maria slowly floats upward — as if rising from a dream.

  Her wounds vanish. The gladiator recovery system performs flawlessly.

  “Final score: five to five. Match concluded.”

  The park dissolves into mist, revealing gray metal walls once more.

  The air thickens instantly — heavy, resonant.

  The hum of the ship returns. Pressure builds.

  Pietro and Maria hover in the air, held in place by electromagnetic restraints.

  Their bodies are still — like exhibits in a museum of pain.

  Then comes motion.

  A slow descent.

  Boots thud against the floor.

  Clicks of magnetic locks disengaging.

  Footsteps.

  Dull. Steady.

  The restraints retract into the walls.

  Silence returns.

  As if nothing ever happened.

  As if it all existed only in their minds.

  But their eyes meet.

  And in this hush, within the sealed chamber, beneath the monotone hum of the systems, it becomes clear:

  the real fight is only just beginning.

  “That was pretty brutal,” Maria says, her voice shaking — not from pain, but from that strange, intangible unease that lingers after a simulation too real.

  She doesn’t just speak — she exhales, as if spilling out the last remnants of pain along with the breath.

  “I get it, Pietro. But was the throat strike really necessary?”

  The chamber lies in twilight.

  The holographic battle is gone, but the echo of blades still clings to them.

  Tension lingers in the air — the drone of ventilation, the subtle trembling of the floor, the flicker of emergency lights.

  As if the ship itself is reluctant to release its fighters from its steel grip.

  Pietro removes his helmet — and with it, the mask of cold detachment.

  There’s a smirk on his face, but it never reaches his eyes.

  Too much exhaustion.

  Too many things he can’t say out loud.

  “Brutal, but effective,” he replies, his voice sounding like an automatic response, as if he’s not sure he believes it himself.

  “We’re training at full strength. Or did you forget?”

  He takes a step — but not toward her.

  Toward the wall.

  The weapon rack, where his sword still hums faintly with residual charge.

  He hesitates, then adds — softer now, almost apologetic:

  “I’ll be gentler next time.”

  “Asshole,” Maria tosses back, unable to hide a crooked smile.

  “Try it — and I’ll tear you to shreds.”

  And in that moment, something personal breaks through.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  A spark.

  Like light piercing dusty glass.

  Then gone, as quickly as it came.

  The hiss of a door sliding open snaps them back to reality.

  The room contracts — not physically, but in feeling.

  As if the holographic world had been wider, brighter, freer than real life.

  The control deck glows dimly with the pulse of instrument panels.

  Everything in here moves to its own rhythm: screen flashes, the rustle of data streams, the steady hum of power cores.

  Captain Manuel lounges in the pilot’s chair like it’s been molded to fit his body.

  In his hand — a heavy metal mug, chipped and scarred, decorated with a faded image of a teddy bear.

  He sips lazily from it — the drink smelling faintly of synthetic mint.

  “Training’s over?”

  The captain’s voice is flat, not expecting an answer.

  “Still dreaming of becoming gladiator champions? That’s fantasy. For show. For fools.”

  Maria stops in her tracks, as if he just hit her in the chest.

  There’s more than anger in her eyes.

  There’s hurt.

  A lump rises in her throat, sharp and dry.

  Her words burst out like fire from an overheated reactor.

  “Captain…” her voice is tight as a drawn wire,

  “You spent our last credits on defense upgrades. We’ve got nothing left. Pietro and I fought to earn that money. To invest in improvements — neural sync, reflex enhancers, muscle reinforcement. That could’ve made us real fighters, not just… survivors. And now you tell us it was all an illusion?”

  Pietro lifts his gaze from the console, eyes locking on the captain.

  His voice strikes like tempered alloy.

  “I agree with her. Completely.”

  Silence.

  Even the ventilation seems to pause.

  The captain sets down his mug.

  Stands.

  Light cuts across his face — a controlled fury, etched with the weight of a thousand decisions, each one a matter of life and death.

  “So, mutiny?” he mutters, not amused.

  “Do you have any idea what it costs to push a fighter to champion level? You couldn’t afford it. No one can — except the corps that buy their wins. But the defense system I ordered? That’s certainty. That keeps us breathing. That brings income.”

  He steps closer. Looming now.

  “You want to dream? Go ahead.

  But on my ship, you survive first.

  Then you figure out what you want to be.

  Clear?”

  Maria and Pietro hold his gaze.

  Too long.

  Their answer comes out like static in a comm channel:

  “Understood, Captain.”

  The system hums to life, launching its final diagnostic.

  Screens fill with green indicators.

  All systems go.

  Pietro speaks calmly, clipped and professional.

  “All systems nominal. No errors detected.”

  The captain nods, ready to sit — but then snaps a glance at the side console, irritation flaring.

  “Emma, where’s the report? Again? Don’t tell me you froze—”

  His voice cuts off.

  The pause stretches.

  Too long.

  Too cold.

  In the depths of the control room, a screen blinks. Panels faintly illuminate the crew’s faces, casting strange, flickering shadows on the walls.

  From the built-in speakers comes a steady, almost emotionless voice:

  — Confirmed, Captain. All systems are normal, — reports Emma, the ship's onboard AI. There’s a subtle, almost imperceptible sarcasm in her tone. — I would also like to note that your dismissive attitude is entirely inappropriate. You yourself forbade me from participating in conversations, threatening shutdown. I remind you, this is logged in the command journal.

  Like a figure emerging from the shadows, Pietro pushes away from the wall and turns toward the control panel. His voice sounds hollow, as if it’s coming from the depths of exhaustion:

  — Emma, you’re too talkative. Your functions are overloaded... with sentimentality.

  — My functions were set by the previous owner of the ship. He... liked to talk to me. In the evenings, — Emma’s voice suddenly softens, almost intimate. — Sometimes he even read me poetry.

  Maria spins around sharply, her fingers nervously skimming over the holographic panel, as if searching for support.

  — Pietro, why did you start with her? — she hisses, trying not to snap. — Now this chatterbox won’t shut up. How do I turn her off?

  — Maria, — Emma’s voice sounds barely audible, as if she’s standing right behind them. — If you want me to be quiet, just ask. Politely.

  Maria rolls her eyes, suppressing her irritation.

  — Emma... — she almost exhales. — Please. Be quiet.

  For a moment, it seems like the light in the control room dims. Or maybe everyone just holds their breath.

  — Acknowledged, — Emma responds. — Though in that case, you’ll have to go without my warnings. Danger doesn’t usually ask when it’s convenient to show up.

  Maria slaps the panel with her palm. There’s a spark in her eyes — a mix of fatigue and anger.

  — This is the last time I’ll say it — shut up. Now.

  Emma’s reply sounds quiet and distant, as if from another world:

  — Entering light-sleep mode. Enjoy the silence... while it lasts.

  The voice fades, leaving behind a strange echo. Silence settles over the control room. Too dense. Too cold.

  Captain Manuel has been sitting in his chair this whole time, not uttering a word. Only now does he slowly raise his index finger — a precise, weightless gesture, like a conductor’s cue before the start of a symphony.

  Pietro and Maria freeze instantly. Both look at the captain. In their eyes — an unspoken question. The air is thick with tension, like the moment before a sudden system failure.

  Something is coming.

  Something for which silence is the perfect conduit.

  The holographic map flares to life. In the dimmed control room, its red and blue contours cast flickering reflections on the crew’s faces. Through the half-light, pierced by the soft glow, Captain Manuel leans forward. He slowly places his cup on the retractable table — in that moment, the dull thud is the only sound in the room. Like a shot in the void.

  — We’ve been given a chance, — he says quietly, but with that special kind of intonation where every word seems to weigh a ton. His voice is filled with confidence, yet carries a flicker of excitement — or perhaps a sense of looming chaos.

  He pauses. Looks at the map like it's a harbinger.

  — Now I’ll tell you why we’re here. — His fingers sweep over the panel, and a red dot appears at the center of the map. It pulses, like a heartbeat. — We’re headed to the independent ergon extraction station. The one they call... "Song of Fire."

  The words hang in the air. The control room grows even quieter.

  — A distress signal came from it, — he continues, his voice growing harder. — Someone triggered it, but nothing else followed. Not a word. Not a single image. Just the alarm — like a shot in the dark.

  He doesn’t raise his eyes. His face — a mask of calm. But his hands are clasped tightly — knuckles white.

  — We’ll be the first to get access. We help the survivors. And — if we’re lucky — we get a share of the yield. There might be raw ergon, Mari, — he glances at the woman, — Unbound. Worth megacredits.

  Pietro doesn’t take his eyes off the map. His voice is low, wary:

  — Curious... The “Song of Fire” station is equipped with four layers of defense. Even military cruisers can’t take it in one strike. What could’ve breached it?

  — Anything’s possible, — Manuel shrugs. — Malfunctions. Sabotage. Or Inquisitors. They don’t take stations head-on anymore; they infiltrate from within. Their viruses slip into the systems like a whisper in the ear.

  And then — a click. An echo pulses through the speakers.

  — Captain, — Emma’s voice interrupts the silence. It’s sharp now, metallic, like a scalpel. — An active solar prominence has been detected. A Class X solar flare is expected in twenty-seven minutes. The ship will be in the affected zone.

  A slight shiver runs down their spines. Even the holographic light feels colder now.

  Manuel remains unshaken. He takes a breath, without lifting his eyes.

  — What’s the probability of damage?

  — Twenty-three percent, — Emma responds. Her voice is still steady, but there’s something... alive in it. Like even an artificial intelligence can sense how fragile the boundary between light and ash is at this moment.

  Manuel eyes the flashing dot. Then — he looks at his crew.

  — Perfect. — He straightens up. — We’re going out. Now.

  The control room seems to freeze. Far off, the faint sound of air howling through the ventilation shafts — as if the station itself is protesting. But it’s too late.

  The ship moves off orbit, heading toward the "Song of Fire" station.

  Pietro sighs, as if the air in his lungs has thickened. He leans against the console, his gaze drifting over the shadows in the control room, and in those shadows, there’s something lurking — an unease.

  — Wait, Captain... — His voice is low, pressing, like each word is carved from stone. — We’re risking too much. This could cost us the ship.

  Manuel lazily leans back in his chair. One elbow rests on the armrest, the other lightly touches his cup. He smiles faintly, almost lazily, as if he’s already anticipating the thrill of a good game.

  — The solar flare is a gift, Pietro, — he says, with a light, almost mocking tone. His voice is like cold steel beneath the skin. — While everyone else takes cover and waits out the storm, we’ll take the station. First. No witnesses. No competitors.

  Maria turns toward them, her face sharp under the holographic light. Her eyes are filled with excitement.

  — I’m with the captain. This is our shot, and it won’t come again. We’re not coming back empty-handed.

  — Initiating acceleration, — Emma’s voice cuts through the tension, now devoid of sarcasm. It’s cold, precise.

  A sudden jolt. The space around them shudders. The engines tear through the fabric of space with a metallic roar, like a beast breaking free from a cage. The lights in the cockpit flicker. Shadows race along the walls, like ghosts from the past. The pressure presses against their chests, as if the air itself has thickened, and each second feels heavier than the last.

  An hour later. Silence. Only the hum of the systems.

  And then — the signal.

  Biiiiiiii…

  — Attention. Prepare for solar flare, — Emma’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp as a knife. It’s different now — command, emotionless. There’s no trace of her previous irony. — Probability of ship destruction — thirty-eight percent.

  The floor trembles. The lights flicker.

  In a split second, a cold wave runs through their bodies — the automatic systems kick in. The suits form around them, layer by layer, like living armor. The helmets lock into place with a sharp hiss, and the world changes — muted, filtered, with their breathing echoing in their ears.

  The protective field flares up from the center of the ship, and the cockpit is bathed in a blue glow, like an aquarium where, at any moment, cosmic fire could surge in.

  — Pietro, straps! — Maria’s voice cuts through the helmet’s comms.

  They strap in. Pietro’s face is tense, lips pressed together. The captain stares ahead, his eyes glassy, distant.

  — Impact in three... two... one... — Emma counts down, her voice suddenly becoming almost... human. There’s tension in it. Expectation. Fear?

  A moment of complete silence. Everything seems to freeze.

  Then — the impact.

  The ship shudders.

  A deafening crash — not a sound, but a sensation. It’s as if the very structure of the ship is screaming from the strain. Everything around them vibrates. The hull groans, as if struggling to hold together. The lights flash white. The defense system stutters, fuses popping one after another, sparks flying.

  And then — a bright blue flash, almost blinding. The ship, like a reflection on a blade, pushes through the storm — tiny, fragile, yet unyielding. A spark against the backdrop of a raging star.