FTL travel had a strange rhythm, smooth on the outside, but stretching time in ways that played tricks on the mind. There was no sense of speed, no stars racing past the cockpit like they did in the old movies. Just an unchanging blur of light.
A constant shimmer at the edges of vision that never quite resolved into anything concrete. The galaxy wasn't rushing past. It was suspended, paused around the ship like a canvas soaked in luminescent oil.
Ethan Walker sat cross-legged on the padded floor of the Obsidian Wraith's gravity training room, sweat beading on his brow, chest rising and falling with quiet control. The synthetic gravity shifted slightly around him as he reoriented, balancing on one palm, then shifting his weight to stand in a single fluid motion.
The mornings were always like this now, structured, deliberate. Without the galactic net, without real-time comm traffic, he had only Iris and the soft hum of the ship's internal systems to remind him that time hadn't frozen.
"Shower temperature set to optimal," Iris's voice chimed from the hallway.
"Thanks," Ethan replied as he walked barefoot across the corridor, his muscles warm and limbs loose. There was a routine now, and in that routine, there was sanity.
The Auto-Cooker had delivered a decent breakfast: pseudo-eggs with rehydrated hash root and spiced cured meat. It wasn't exactly five-star dining, but Ethan didn't complain. He ate slowly, a datapad resting beside his tray, scanning ship diagnostics and system reports with quiet focus. Iris had already run the nightly checks, but he liked to go over them himself.
Routine gave him direction. In the silence between the stars, even mercenaries needed anchors.
By midday, the Wraith's VR training came alive with simulated battlefield scenarios.
In one iteration, he was dropped into a canyon crawling with cloaked drones, forced to rely on sound and psionic feedback to anticipate their movement. The VR rig didn't pull punches. Every blast he took echoed through the suit's haptic frame, leaving bruises behind as reminders. Another sim pitted him against synthetic infantry with randomized movement patterns and environmental shifts. Sudden sandstorms, low-grav zones, blinding light bursts.
It was designed to keep him sharp. Not just as a fighter, but as a survivor.
Lunch followed. A perfectly portioned protein-rich curry over algae rice, courtesy of the Auto-Cooker's "Chef's Choice." He sat in the lounge bay during the meal, watching pre-downloaded tactic sims, replays of mercenary engagements across different environments.
Some were Federation sanctioned. Others were rumored to be leaked footage from the Empire's training regiments.
Evenings were for the Astral Slayer.
Ethan sat in the center of the training room, the molecular dagger resting across his lap. He focused on his breathing, then on his hearing, amplifying it through his psychic sense.
The soundscape expanded.
He could hear coolant circulating through the deck plating. The soft crackle of electrical current tracing the hull. His own heartbeat.
Then he tested kinetic redirection, manipulating pressure around his fingers to nudge a hovering sphere across the room. It bobbed erratically at first. Then, after a few adjustments… smooth glide. Precision.
The Slayer responded to him more now. Not with words or clear thoughts yet, but with presence. It pulsed gently whenever he synced his focus perfectly. Not dominating. Not draining. Just waiting.
He closed his eyes and pushed his hearing outward, listening beyond the ship.
Nothing.
Just space. The void. The eternal quiet.
Night didn't come in the usual sense. But Ethan designated it anyway.
He sprawled on the bed in the personal quarters, a bowl of dried root snacks in hand, a soft blanket draped across his lap. The holoscreen projected a series he'd been watching, Crimson Starfield: Frontier Patrols, a serialized drama set on a border station in the Galactic Republic of Virelen. It was campy but well-acted, and the alien cast always made him laugh.
"Still rooting for Captain Veinax?" Iris asked, her voice even as always.
"He's the only one with a working brain," Ethan replied between bites. "Everyone else is too busy flirting or panicking."
"I have simulated fifty-two alternate endings for the series. Only twelve result in Veinax surviving."
Ethan groaned. "Don't you dare spoil it."
"I would never, Captain."
Some nights, he played games like he used to back on Earth. Single-player story sims or tactical resource managers since he couldn't connect to the Galactic Net. Others, he read. The galactic history files from Ashen Prime's libraries were deep and riddled with contradictions.
He found himself drawn to memoirs from mercenary captains who served during the Separation War. Men and women who walked the tightrope between duty and death, identity and ideology.
Once, after finishing a particularly dense volume about the Orion Federation's early trade alliances, Ethan muttered aloud, "They never planned to make peace last. Just bought time with treaties."
Iris responded quietly. "Most alliances are temporary arrangements between temporary truths."
He looked at the dagger resting in its sheathe on the table. "That's… depressingly wise."
"I am built for function. Not optimism."
He chuckled. "Could've fooled me."
The days passed like that. Quietly. Reliably.
Ethan kept a private log, not for official reports, but for himself. In it, he jotted down thoughts. Tactical lessons. Emotional fragments. Bits of dreams.
"Tried adjusting Slayer resonance today. Felt like tuning a cello that doesn't want to be tuned. Progress, but slow."
"Still thinking about Valeris City sometimes. The skyline. Those nights in Nara's cantina. Wonder if business is booming after those renovations."
"I keep dreaming of Earth less and less. Not sure if that's good or bad."
"Three more days until the Beltrax Relay. Wraith running smooth. Systems green. Ready."
On the fifth night, he stood in the main corridor, watching the starlight shimmer faintly through the long viewport strip overhead. The stars weren't streaks anymore. The ship had dropped to sublight for cooldown checks. They floated, perfect, patient, watching.
Ethan sipped from a hot cup of thick Gellian tea and muttered, "No one here tells me what to be."
It wasn't defiance.
Just truth.
He turned and walked back toward the bridge. There were still systems to check. Paths to trace. A stealth core blueprint reward from Ashen Prime to review. A prototype to maybe install, if the time was right.
The Wraith hummed beneath his feet. Alone, but not lonely.
The journey was still long.
And Ethan planned to cherish and enjoy every bit of it.