After World: Sunrise of the Beginning

Aren drifted in and out of sleep, cocooned in his cloak under the dim glow of the single lamp. Outside, the wreck began to pale into early morning light.

Without warning, something passed overhead, stirring the air with a subtle hum.

BP stirred.

A low, urgent beuuuup—beep sounded as the droid activated its scanners, glowing faintly. Panels shifted, sensors rotated, searching.

Beep—beep.

Then:

Beep-peeb!

---

Aren half-woke. "Five… more… minutes…"

BP's dome slammed closer, and sharp sparks emitted as current arced. A small electric shock jolted him.

Aren bolted upright. "What the—BP! Quit it!"

The droid beeped insistently, scanning the sky again.

"What is it?" Aren squinted upward through the open wreck above the hull.

Above the battered Flytra,… sleek shadow cut across the sky. A new model of Flytra—polished, silver-blue—claimed the skyline. Its engines whispered distant power, its hull intact and vast.

Aren's stomach plummeted.

Camp Solace.

That was the direction. Just several ridges away.

His breath caught.

The Empire's employment transport. But that was three weeks away…

He pushed himself up. Heart pounding, hands shaky. "BP—check the route. Is it heading to Camp Solace?"

BP's sensors spun: "Peeb-beep…" confirming flight path data.

Aren's voice rose: "We have to move. Now!"

He extinguished the lamp. Carefully folded his blankets, stashed relics and blade, and slung his pack on. His boots found the Cytra's footrests; he toggled ignition.

BP whirred to life.

Together they lifted off just as the distant craft disappeared behind a ridge.

---

The Cytra shook with strain as Aren kicked the engine's power into high. Within seconds, he was racing across the dunes after the Empire vessel's projected ground route, hoping to intercept or at least track its arrival.

Dust plumes trailed behind.

Suddenly, a low growl, then a sharp bark sounded from the side.

Aren glanced—too late.

A massive Dubok, the size of an elephant with ebony fur rippling, lunged from the dunes. Its eyes gleamed, teeth bared, claws extended. Behind it, more shapes emerged: family pack members, equally monstrous and swift.

BP beeped warnings: "Beep…beep…dubok group detected ahead."

Aren cursed. Throttled Cytra forward.

The dunes turned into a treacherous chase landscape. The pack bolted, closing ground fast.

Aren and BP dodged between dunes and wrecks, trying to eke distance.

One Dubok leapt, impacting near the rear thrusters with a heavy crunch—Cytra rocked, sparks flying. Aren yanked handlebar, correcting balance.

Two more surged in front, body blocking path. Aren swerved abruptly, narrowly avoiding a collision.

BP projected a pale drone-like flare ahead to disorient them. Duboks faltered briefly, but advanced unrelentingly.

Aren's heart hammered. He realized—they were surrounded.

He leaned low, voice strained: "BP—any weapons salvage from Flytra we could use?"

BP's internal storage hummed as it scanned memory banks: "Found handful of relic-emitters: plasma shard, energy cell, old pulse grenades—but only shards larger than thumb size. Functional stress unknown."

Aren exhaled. No easy solutions.

His mind raced: Duboks live in fearsome packs. An angry group could topple a caravan. These beasts are territorial, cunning, relentless.

He flicked a switch on the Cytra, activating the engine shield—an overloaded power surge that spilled light in pulses.

That startled at least one Dubok; the others hesitated.

That gave them a fraction.

BP beeped quickly, a single word: "Now."

Aren gunned the Cytra into a lowered steep scrub hill, attempting to use elevation for a better vantage.

Two Duboks dove under, scraping the rear hull. The impact shook the craft, nearly flipping it.

Aren yanked it upward.

His mind screamed: They can't outrun them.

He made a sharp turn as the pack circled. Another Dubok tried to leap atop them. Aren used the last of engine power to spin sideways and smash it aside with the thrusters' pressure. The beast screeched and tumbled into the sand.

But more were behind.

One rammed hard into the left stabilizer, sending sparks and grinding metal.

Aren tapped the plasma blade hilt on his belt. It glowed faintly, unpowered, but still....

He leaned forward and shouted, "BP—ready emission pulse!"

BP's lights flickered, current arced from the blade conduit. Then—a short arc across the hilt, sending a shimmering shockwave in front.

A Dubok skidded back, snarling.

Aren saw his chance.

Foot down, throttle to max.

They soared up another dune and launched off into midair for a moment—dust swirling beneath.

For a beat, he thought they might escape.

And then—

A massive weight struck the rear thruster mid-air. They spiraled. But the hill gave them momentum to right themselves.

Wheels across broken terrain now, the pack rebounding.

Aren grit his teeth. He realized—they needed more than escape.

He looked back. The pack of four giant Duboks, each towering like elephants, were still closing in.

Group fighters: intense, coordinated.

He needed a plan.

He tapped a button on the Cytra's console—routing power to the headlight sprayers and shock nozzles. Maybe enough to stagger one.

They leveled the next dune crest.

As dawn turned the sands to pale gold, Aren kicked the Cytra into a full sprint.

He aimed for a ridge with fractured debris—hoping to lose them in wreckage.

But the large Duboks followed, claws rattling on metal scraps as they pursued—the ground trembling.

Aren spied a buried slab—an old ruin jutting out like a ramp.

Desperation.

He aimed straight for it.

---

They sped up the ramp, launched over the debris field—spinning as they landed.

One Dubok tried to leap onto them midair, but crashed into the ramp instead, colliding with concrete and metal.

Others skidded to avoid it.

That gave Aren just enough time.

He veered sharply left, tearing through broken machined frameworks and collapsed support beams. The pack skidded behind him but lost cohesion.

Aren plunged the Cytra into the cover of a battered Flytra wing section, whirling beneath its shadow where engines and rusted plating blocked line of sight.

He shut down the engine.

BP immediately dimmed its sensors.

Aren's heartbeat pounded.

For a long moment—silence.

Then faint growls echoed. Heavy weights moving. They circled the scrap.

Aren pressed his back flat against a twisted support beam, breathing shallow.

BP pulsed softly with a "beep…peeb…"—reassuring.

He swallowed. Slow exhale.

They'd made it.

---

The pack, confused, moved off just out of sight—still growling, searching—but the dense debris hid them.

Minutes passed.

Finally, Aren whispered: "Thanks for not letting me sleep forever."

BP gave a soft one-beep.

He exhaled, adrenaline dimming into exhaustion.

He reached and retrieved the plasma blade, its hilt cold but intact. A fragment, but still—a weapon.

He slung his pack with relics—just a few more grams of hope.

He glanced skyward; the silver-blue Empire Flytra soared off in the distance, toward Camp Solace.

Three weeks…

It was supposed to be three weeks.

But now, time was running out.

He mounted the Cytra once more.

Silently, he tapped power to engine.

The dunes lay ahead, empty and treacherous.

But he had one thought:

He had to reach Erina.

---

The Arrival

The air was still, heavy with the lingering dust that clung to the cracked earth. Morning heat hadn't risen yet, but already, a foreboding weight pressed down on the hearts of Camp Solace's inhabitants.

Then, it happened.

The sky shimmered.

A distant hum turned into a deafening, thunderous roar as the silhouette of a massive spacecraft pierced through the pink and gold hues of dawn. The insignia of the Bright Light Empire glinted coldly on its side—sleek and predatory, like a sword aimed at the heart of the wasteland. The arrival was silent at first… then chaos erupted.

Children were snatched up by their mothers and dragged into tents. Old men cursed and stumbled into corners. Eyes widened. No one was ready. No one was prepared.

"It's three weeks early…" someone whispered.

"Why are they here now?"

"Hide the girls—quick!"

All around, the usual rhythm of survival had shifted into something more frantic, unhinged. Like rats hiding from fire. The echoes of footsteps filled the camp, joining screams and the metallic groans of makeshift gates being closed in vain.

At the tallest tent on the south ridge—the one stitched from red canvas and rusted metal poles—the ruler of Camp Solace emerged.

Duke Kamaro.

He limped as he walked, his right leg replaced with a thick, mechanical prosthetic that hissed with every step. He claimed once, long ago in front of a crowd near the burn pit, that a Dubok tore it clean off when he was just a scavenger. Whether true or a tale, the fear in his eyes now made him look less like a duke and more like the old scav he once was.

Larisa held onto his arm tightly. Her pale cheeks were flushed from worry, her dark brown eyes locked on the approaching ship. She adjusted the loose scarf that covered part of her braided hair, shielding herself from the storm of sand the engines kicked up as they descended.

"Duke," she said, her voice barely audible over the wind, "you don't have to go down there. Let me speak first."

Kamaro raised one hand, stopping her. "No. If I hide, they'll tear the camp apart. We need to face them… calmly."

He squinted against the wind, lifting one arm to shield his face as the spacecraft's landing thrusters scorched the cracked ground. His cloak flapped furiously, revealing the glinting steel of his leg.

His thoughts raced. Three weeks. It wasn't supposed to be for another three weeks. Weren't they always precise? Always on schedule? Why now?

He gritted his teeth, holding his composure. They must have changed plans. Maybe something happened at Central. Maybe they found out someone was trying to escape.

The last thought sent a flicker of unease through his heart. Aren…

Larisa's grip on his arm tightened, and only then did Kamaro realize his fingers were clenched into fists. He exhaled slowly, nodded once to her.

"I need you to stay close. Don't let them see you shake," he muttered.

"I'm not shaking," Larisa lied.

Together, they stepped down the slope as the dust began to settle. The ship—immense, silver, humming with unnatural energy—lowered a ramp. Bright blue lights lined its edges. No words came from it. No announcement. Just silence, and the sound of wind brushing across broken stone.

Around them, dozens of eyes peeked out from tents. People watched. Trembling. Waiting. Hoping not to be seen.

The Duke stood tall—taller than most, though the years had begun to bow his back and dull his sharp gaze. But today, he summoned everything he had left. Pride. Power. Authority.

He whispered to Larisa, "If I fall… run."

She didn't answer.

The ramp of the spacecraft finally hit the ground with a mechanical hiss.

The Collectors of the Empire.

Kamaro's breath hitched. The same ritual always occurred every few months—young girls "employed" by the Empire for service in Central World. A choice only in name. Today, it came early. Why? he thought again. What changed?

A loud thunk echoed as the first armored foot touched the ground.

The Collector stood like statues, their heads covered with sleek helmets that revealed no expression. But it was clear they meant business.

Kamaro stepped forward alone, his voice hoarse as he raised his hand in greeting.

"Welcome to Camp Solace," he said, with a voice loud enough to reach the surrounding tents. "We were not expecting you this early."

There was no reply.

The frontmost soldiers raised a hand, scanning the surroundings with a long, glass-like device. Larisa pulled her scarf tighter, avoiding their gaze.

Kamaro turned his eyes to the horizon. Behind him, the camp remained still.

As if the entire world held its breath.

The ground of Camp Solace trembled beneath the sheer weight of the Bright Light Empire's spacecraft.

Dust exploded outward as the massive ship descended, its smooth obsidian hull reflecting the dull morning sun. The whine of anti-grav engines echoed across the camp, casting an unnatural silence over the crowd of survivors who gathered at the edge of their tents. Some knelt in fear, others clung to each other, eyes wide with dread. This was not the day they expected. The employment was supposed to occur in three weeks.

Even Duke Kamaro himself was confused and furious. Dressed in a long coat stitched together from relic fabrics, he hobbled down the dusty slope of the command tent with Larisa by his side. His right leg—mechanical and clunky—dragged heavily in the sand. It was once flesh, but now a memory of a brutal encounter with a Dubok. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the swirling debris, his teeth clenched as he saw the enormous ship settle into the sand like a giant insect.

Larisa gripped his arm tightly. "This wasn't scheduled, my Duke."

"I know," Kamaro muttered, voice coarse. "I know damn well."

The people around them were silent, tense. Mothers held their children close. Young girls, those at the right age for the Empire's entertainment employment, tried to hide their faces behind rags and hoods. Camp guards stood alert, though their rifles were useless in reality. Everyone felt the same thing—dread. The Bright Light Empire was here.

Then the main hatch opened.

Out stepped towering figures—Empire soldiers. Seven feet tall, gray-skinned, encased in glimmering obsidian armor laced with green pulsating veins. Their helmets bore no visors, just long slits like insect mandibles. Behind them came the true collector. But not just a collector. A legend.

Opera.

Standing at nearly four meters tall, the half-breed figure emerged slowly from the ship. He was regal and terrifying. With four alien eyes arranged symmetrically across his pale, human-like face, he radiated both calm and carnage. His golden-white robes billowed, unaffected by the breeze. Opera was neither fully human nor fully alien—but something in-between. He looked down at the mortals before him with an expression both blank and ancient.

Kamaro stepped forward. Every muscle in his body told him to retreat, but pride pushed him on. "This employment was not scheduled… Why have you arrived early?"

Opera stopped mid-step. His expression didn't change. Silence.

The moment stretched like metal under heat.

Then Opera spoke. His voice was low, guttural—layered as though multiple voices echoed behind the main one. "Where. Are. The candidates?"

Kamaro stiffened. Larisa gripped his arm tighter, but even her strength was faltering.

He opened his mouth, trying to find a balance between diplomacy and desperation. He couldn't say they had hidden many of the girls and boys scheduled to be taken. That would mean execution.

"They are… not all prepared," Kamaro said. "Three weeks were agreed—"

Opera raised his hand.

A single motion.

Suddenly, Kamaro and Larisa were hurled backward by an invisible force. The camp's sand spiraled outward from the impact zone as they crashed into the ground meters away. The guards moved forward—but none dared fire. They had heard the stories. Opera was more than a collector. He was a weapon.

Kamaro grunted, coughing out blood. He wasn't surprised. This was the power of a half-breed. The same kind that had turned the tide of Earth's invasion centuries ago. This wasn't just about policy. This was domination.

Opera turned to his soldiers and waved.

The silent command was clear.

Search every tent.

The armored figures stormed through Camp Solace with calculated precision. They ripped open tents, pulling girls and boys from hiding. Mothers screamed. Fathers begged. But resistance was met with swift, brutal restraint.

Unlike previous employments—where the Empire chose the best candidates—this time, they took everyone within the age window.

Kamaro lay on the ground, watching helplessly. Larisa crawled to her knees beside him, gripping his coat.

"They're taking everyone," she whispered.

He knew. And he couldn't stop it.

Then came the cries. Familiar ones.

"Erina! No!"

Larisa turned in horror as she saw a soldier dragging the red-haired girl away. Erina kicked and fought, but it was no use. The grip of the alien was too strong. Larisa sprang up, charging toward them.

"Let her go!" she screamed.

The soldier twisted and delivered a swift motion—Larisa was immobilized. She dropped to the sand, chest heaving.

Erina's pale face turned to the center of camp as she was taken toward the spacecraft ramp, struggling all the way. She looked for someone—anyone.

Then a voice echoed above all else.

"ERINA!!!"

It came from the outer ridge. Aren.

His voice cut through the wind, the crying, the screams, and even the low thrum of the Empire ship.

He stood frozen, his body still coated in dust from the desert, eyes wide as they dragged his sister away. He did not move—not yet. But his scream echoed through every broken soul watching.

And somewhere inside Opera, one of his four eyes narrowed slightly.