On the planet Zytherya, in a small village called Veridell nestled within a lush, verdant valley, fields of vibrant flora stretched endlessly under the deep blue glow of the sky. Lukas Voren, a tall man with sharp, angular features and piercing blue eyes that glinted with both keen intellect and weariness, lived quietly among the villagers. His worn, patched armor and the plasma pistol slung at his hip were relics of a past tied to the radiant glory of Valeria Prime.
Indeed, Lukas had once been an exceptional cadet at the Astralis Military Academy, under the command of the Astralis Legion. The academy trained elite officers for the Legion, and with his flawless marksmanship and innate tactical brilliance, Lukas was initially expected to become a distinguished commander. He had even accompanied General Cassian Varo on several missions and campaigns. But three years ago, Lukas's future crumbled when he was expelled for defying orders. He had refused to lead a hundred soldiers in an attack on an unarmed village, a task assigned as part of his graduation exam, and resisted the examining officer. As a result, he was imprisoned for two years, expelled from the academy, stripped of his Valeria citizenship, and exiled to Kharis. Even now, Lukas could often be heard muttering to himself, "Tch, a soldier killing the unarmed—how despicable."
Now, Lukas lived in Veridell, a peaceful village nestled amidst vast, vibrant forests, yet under the oppressive rule of the Valeria Republic. Each year, the village was forced to tribute 500 tons of Xylara—a staple crop unique to Zytherya. It was known that the Republic used Xylara as the primary food source for their expeditionary legions. Three years after shedding his soldier's uniform, Lukas now worked alongside the villagers, tending to the lush Sylgrain fields and embracing a pastoral life in the prime of his years. Beyond that, he was also a bounty hunter, frequently visiting taverns in nearby towns to check wanted posters issued by Valeria. Despite his strained relationship with the Republic, they maintained a symbiotic arrangement: Lukas hunted bandits and collected bounties from Valeria. No one lost anything. He also owned a spaceship named Halcón, hidden in a cave near the village, acquired from a band of space pirates.
This morning, as dawn broke and mist still clung to the towering trees of Veridell's forest, the low hum of anti-gravity engines shattered the valley's tranquility. Startled forest birds scattered in a frenzy, while the villagers quietly set down their hoes and shovels, lining up along both sides of the main dirt road leading to the granary. Everyone knew that on this day each year, the Valeria Republic's tax collection team would arrive—punctual as an atomic clock, cold as the system they served.
From the forest emerged three armored vehicles, their black alloy exteriors gleaming like steel specters. Emblazoned on their sides, the phoenix emblem of Valeria glowed a blood-red hue in the pale morning light. Twelve soldiers disembarked, clad in uniform gray-black armor, their faces concealed behind stone-like masks, plasma rifles slung across their chests, marching in perfect sync like programmed machines.
Leading them was a young female officer, tall and imposing, with short silver hair. She wore a pristine black uniform adorned with red epaulettes—the mark of a lieutenant in the Legion's hierarchy. She halted before the villagers, her mask remaining in place. Her voice, filtered through the armor's modulator, rang out cold and emotionless:
"Veridell village chief! Today is the day the Republic collects the Sylgrain quota. Report the quantity and prepare your people."
Old village chief Elren shuffled forward, trembling, clutching a ledger. The frail man hunched as if trying to vanish under the officer's impassive gaze.
"Uh… sir… this year, we harvested 504 tons in total. 480 tons are packed, and the rest is being transported to the outer warehouse."
Without a word, the female officer gave a curt nod and waved her hand. Her soldiers fanned out like a cold tide, inspecting crates, scanning codes, sealing them, and loading them onto the vehicles with magnetic devices. No one spoke. The process was mechanical, like ants hauling food to their nest—a stark contrast to the villagers' usual lively routine of farming, singing, and dancing.
Lukas stood among the crowd, one hand in his pocket, the other leaning on a hoe. He watched with cold eyes—not the fiery anger of three years ago, but far from accepting. As the officer passed by, she suddenly paused, her sharp gaze slicing toward him like a thin blade. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, stirring old memories like ashes not yet cooled. She removed her mask, revealing a familiar face—Elira Marn, a former classmate from the Astralis Academy. Her features hadn't changed much, only grown sharper, honed by time and battle. A smirk curled her lips, half-amused, half-mocking.
"I thought you were dead, Lucius Varrus. Hiding out in this backwater, huh?" she said, chuckling.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried enough for nearby villagers to overhear and lower their heads. Lukas tilted his head slightly, his calm gaze unwavering, not responding immediately. Lucius Varrus was the name the Valeria Republic had given him when he was a citizen of their regime. Elira took a step closer, leaning in, her voice lowering to a private, taunting whisper.
"So, how's it feel? Throwing away a shot at promotion in the Republic to play farmer? You know the Republic was ready to fast-track you after graduation. Was it just a moment of weakness? You could've been wearing gold epaulettes by now… if not for that little act of righteousness."
Lukas gave a faint smile, but it wasn't a joyful one. He plucked a wild blade of grass growing near his foot, holding it up as if examining something precious, then let out a soft sigh: "You're still as sharp and beautiful as ever, Elira. Your tongue's just as biting. But I don't regret it. Killing an unarmed man just for a promotion? No, I'd rather be a lowly farmer than wear those filthy gold epaulettes."
Elira's eyes darkened briefly, but she kept her smile. She snapped her mask back into place, her voice suddenly devoid of emotion: "Collection complete. Be on time next year, like this. Or else… well, you know."
Without another word, Elira turned to leave, but as she passed Lukas, she tilted her head slightly, her voice just loud enough for him to hear through the filter: "This world has no place for kind people, Lucius. We both know that."
Lukas didn't respond. He watched Elira's figure fade into the thin haze of dust. In the deep blue sky of Zytherya, a few armored birds took flight, leaving faint streaks across the heavens—like traces of something yet to be resolved.
As Valeria's armored convoy withdrew, leaving behind a dusty clearing in front of the granary marked only by deep ruts from anti-gravity wheels, the villagers of Veridell dispersed to their homes in silence, as if nothing had happened. But Lukas lingered a moment longer, his grip on the hoe's handle so tight his knuckles turned white. The brief encounter with Elira Marn, though just a few words, had stirred layers of memories he thought he'd buried deep in his heart. That voice, that gaze—not just mockery, but a mirror reflecting his own choice: to stand with humanity, or with the war machine.
He said nothing, only tossed the hoe lightly to the ground and turned toward the path leading out of the village. Today's trip to the tavern wasn't just about bounties—he needed to calm his mind, and perhaps an old, familiar name on the notice board could point him toward a target… instead of the past.
The Forest Fish Tavern sat at the crossroads between the road to Ormuth town and the canal feeding water to the southern farms—a spot far enough from the authorities to loosen up, yet close enough to catch news early. Outside, weathered wooden planks bore a patchwork of knife-carved graffiti, stained with old, darkened blood. Inside, the air was thick with the mingled stench of pipe smoke, sweat, and homemade liquor, a chaotic scent the locals had long grown accustomed to. Lukas pushed the door open, his sweat-dampened hair clinging lightly to his forehead. The barkeep, old Gulnar—a hunched man with a mechanical arm replacing his left shoulder—looked up and gave a slight nod in greeting. Without a word, he slid a glass of liquor down to the end of the counter, where Lukas always sat.
In no rush, Lukas headed straight to the tavern's corner, where the bounty board was nailed to the brick wall. Fresh notices had been posted that morning, still smelling of glue and anti-termite chemicals. His eyes scanned the faces printed in bold black ink: A rebel group called the Black Brigade had attacked the Xylara collection station west of Zythera—15,000 Valer units for their capture. Another name made him pause: Rogan Ironthroat, a deserter ex-commander now leading a resistance force—25,000 for his head. But what truly caught Lukas's attention was a bounty with no name, just a sketch of a woman and a terse line beneath: "Find, do not kill. Priority Level 1. Informants will be granted an audience with the Strategic Council."
Lukas narrowed his eyes. Since when was Valeria so merciful as to issue a bounty but forbid killing? "She's no ordinary rebel, that's for sure. And the reward's high, too," he muttered. Though outwardly calm, his mind was already spinning with calculations. Part of him felt a spark of excitement—it had been a while since a target made his blood run hot like this. But what he didn't know was that this woman… was the leader of Zythera's resistance, the force quietly fueling recent uprisings across the planets.
Lukas settled into his usual corner table, tucked away by the window with his back against the wall—a soldier's habit, never leaving his rear exposed. He raised a hand, signaling. Old Gulnar, the barkeep, shuffled over with a clank. The old man, once a soldier in the 4th Expeditionary Regiment of the Cryon Corps stationed on Thaloryn and other icy planets, now ran the tavern in retirement—a chatty codger who could smell trouble from a mile off.
"Voren," Gulnar rasped, his voice like gravel mixed with smoke. "Same as usual?"
"Yeah. Strong. Less ice," Lukas replied.
A moment later, a glass of deep red wine was set before him—its wild, fermented berry scent sharp and heady, much like the tavern itself: quiet, weathered, but always simmering with the threat of violence.
Lukas said nothing, just took a slow sip. The sharp burn hit his nose, sharpening his senses.
Outside the window, the sun dipped behind the dense trees surrounding Veridell. The sunset cast a gentle orange-red glow over the layered foliage—a rare warmth on a planet strangled by tributes, war, and the looming shadows of warships hovering in the sky.
This afternoon… it was oddly peaceful. And that very peace, to a man honed by gunfire, put Lukas on edge.
"Maybe it's time to fire up the Halcón again," he thought briefly, reaching for the bounty notice about the girl. His eyes flicked over the text, scanning it like data:
WANTED TARGET – PRIORITY LEVEL 1
DO NOT KILL – PRIORITY CAPTURE ALIVE
REWARD: 75,000 Valer Units – plus an audience with the Strategic Council
Codename: Nightingale
Gender: Female
Estimated Age: 24–28
Height: ~1.68m
Identifying Features:
Long black hair, tied neatly or hidden under a hoodSmall crescent-shaped scar near the left eyeSoft voice with a Zytheran accentHighly dangerous. Advanced military training.Do not engage directly without combat experience.
Status: Possibly operating alone or with a small group. Suspected ties to Zytheran Resistance (unconfirmed).
Last Seen: Ormuth town, two days ago.
Lukas finished reading and folded the paper, tucking it into his jacket. His eyes lingered on the 75,000 Valer figure—enough to cover a sixth of the debt hanging over Veridell like a Damocles sword.
Last year's prolonged drought had ravaged two-thirds of the harvest. The Valeria Republic didn't care for excuses—if the quota wasn't met, the village had to take a forced loan from the Legion's Treasury. 500,000 Valer units, with interest climbing each cycle, and the collateral was the villagers themselves. If they couldn't pay by next year, they'd be shipped to labor camps or sold to the dark mines of distant worlds, never to return. Elren, the village elder with ash-white hair, had nearly fallen to his knees before the tax officers. "We'll pay. Even if we sell every inch of land. I swear, don't harm anyone. I stake my life on it." His words echoed in Lukas's mind.
The officer's response was brutally cold: "Your life? You think that pathetic life is worth 500,000 Valer?" He'd laughed, a savage sound, before pinning the elder to the muddy ground. "No! 500,000 for fifty laborers to the mines. If you don't have the money by the deadline, start picking your fifty." Those heartless words were seared into Lukas's memory, every syllable.
So the whole village buckled down. Adults doubled their labor in the Sylgrain fields, hands calloused and bleeding under the sun. Children stopped schooling to haul water and carry loads, their small shoulders buckling under the weight of survival. And Lukas—once a soldier for the Republic—picked up a gun again, this time for his old enemy. He became a bounty hunter, not out of choice, but for Veridell. From petty bandits to wanted deserters and low-level rebels, Lukas hunted them all—anyone, as long as they weren't villagers and deserved to be caught.
"Don't thank me," Lukas told Elren when he brought back his first bounty, a modest 5,000 Valer that still helped. "I'm just repaying the debt I owe the village."
Mathia, voice rough, said, "You don't have to do this, Lukas. This isn't your burden."
"What, you don't see me as one of Veridell's own?" Lukas asked, challenging the elder.
"That's not what I meant. Of course you're one of us. Always will be. But you're young, strong, skilled. You don't need to risk your life in this dangerous trade, wasting your youth in this village," Elren said gently.
"Then I have to pitch in. This village took me in when I had nowhere else to go. Don't make this hard for me," Lukas replied.
His memories drifted back three years, after his expulsion from the Astralis Academy and the stripping of his Valeria citizenship. Sentenced to three years in the C-12 prison outpost on the southern border, he served his time. Then the Republic dumped him on Zytherya, a secondary military colony. But on the way to his new home, the public transport carrying Lukas was attacked by space pirates aiming to free one of their own. The ship was torn open, the crew slaughtered. Lukas, alone, managed to commandeer the pirates' damaged vessel, crash-landing it on Zytherya.
Lukas crashed onto Zytherya in a torrential downpour, landing in the wet, desolate Sylgrain forest. His body was battered, starved, blood crusted at his ears, mud caking his shattered armor. He had nothing—no status, no name, no citizenship. Only life, fragile as a dying flame in a storm. For two days and nights, he lay motionless among roots and rotting leaves until Myra, the village elder's daughter, found him. Without a word, she hoisted him onto her back and trekked three miles through dense forest to Veridell. Mathia bandaged his wounds himself. Children quietly left bowls of water by his bedside. No one asked, "Who are you?" They only said, "In this village, if you're human, you deserve to live."
From then on, Lukas stayed in Veridell. Not because he couldn't leave, but because it was the first time someone saved him without needing a reason. He became a farmer, then a bounty hunter—not for wealth, but to keep fifty villagers from the Republic's threatened mines.
Each time Lukas left the village, carrying his old rifle and a heavy heart, he looked back at the ramshackle thatched roofs, the sprawling Sylgrain fields, and the weathered but warm faces of Veridell. He told himself, "Just one more bounty, one more job, and I can help them." But deep down, Lukas knew this path had no end. The Republic would never stop demanding, and Veridell would remain prey in their cruel game.
Still, Lukas didn't give up. Because Veridell hadn't given up on him. And because, among the ruins of a broken life, he had found a place to call home.