The harbor of the faraway planet felt like a relic of a forgotten era. Outdated atmospheric scrubbers hummed with a grinding rattle, and the tech used for the docking clamps looked like something from a pre-Accord scrapyard. It was a backwater world, a place where the reach of the Heliocore felt thin and the air tasted of salt and rust.
Inside a small, roadside restaurant overlooking the water, Gale Amanar sat across from Jess. The place wasn't packed, but a few local fishermen and dockworkers lingered over their drinks, their faces weathered by a sun that wasn't as kind as Friton's.
Jess was currently attacking a plate of local fruit-cake with focused intensity. Gale watched her, a soft smile playing on his lips, but his hand stayed close to his bag. Ever since their last encounter with the Accord's "peacekeepers," he had been on edge. Jess had moved things, heavy things without touching them, a feat impossible for someone who hadn't even reached her fifteenth birthday for the Awakening. To Gale, she was a miracle; to the Accord, she was an unregistered anomaly that needed to be "contained."
A heavy, rhythmic thudding began to vibrate through the floorboards. Gale's military instincts flared before his mind could catch up. He shifted his seat, physically moving his large frame to block Jess's view of the large window facing the harbor road.
Outside, a long caravan was being marched toward the docks. Rows of Kalamoran prisoners, their iridescent scales dulled by grime and exhaustion, were shackled together in heavy magnetic chains. Beside them were other races from water-rich planets, their gills fluttering desperately in the dry air of the harbor. They were being herded like livestock by Legion troopers who used their blaster rifles as goads.
Despite Gale's efforts, Jess leaned to the side, peering around his arm. She didn't have to see them clearly to feel the cold, metallic resonance of the shackles.
"Are they the same bad guys?" Jess asked, her voice innocent but carrying a weight that made Gale's heart ache.
Gale looked past her. Among the white-armored Legion, he spotted several figures in mismatched gear, mercenary Solars, hired as additional muscle. The Accord was bringing in outside contractors. That was never a good sign.
"There are only two types of beings in the universe, Jess," Gale said, reaching across the table to pat her hand gently. "Beings who do bad things, and beings who do good things. Sometimes people who are supposed to be good forget which one they are." He squeezed her hand. "You have to try... try to do good, okay?"
Jess nodded seriously, then took a massive bite of her dessert. A dollop of cream ended up smeared across her cheek. Gale smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing for a fraction of a second as he grabbed a napkin and wiped her face.
As the end of the prisoner caravan passed, a waiter walked by their table with a tray of empty glasses. Gale caught her eye.
"Excuse me," Gale said, keeping his voice casual. "The harbor seems busy today. Are they moving to a local prison?"
The waiter stopped, looking out the window with a sigh. She saw Gale's concerned look and assumed he was worried about Jess's safety. "Oh, don't worry, sir. There's no prison near here. I heard they're here for a special mission. Lately, some of the deep-sea trenches have been getting polluted, and the Accord brought those prisoners in to help clean the sea bed. Isn't it great? They're finally doing something for the environment."
She leaned in a bit closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I heard a high-ranking General came along just to oversee it. Must be a very important cleanup."
Gale's blood ran cold. 'A General? For a cleanup mission?'
Just then, the waiter pointed toward the road. "There, that's the last platoon."
Gale's eyes widened. Rolling slowly behind the prisoners was an armored transport vehicle, open-topped. Seated within was a man in a crisp, deep-green, Accord Army Major General's uniform, his chest covered in medals that caught the afternoon light. But it wasn't the General that made Gale's breath hitch.
Surrounding the vehicle were troopers in vibrant, blood-red armor. The Red Legion.
They weren't just standard soldiers; they are elite guards assigned only to high-ranking officials on missions of extreme sensitivity or high lethality. They didn't move like the regular Legion; they moved like predators.
Gale realized the "sea cleaning" story was a blatant lie. You didn't bring a Major General and the Red Legion to Nexus-Prime's backwater harbors just to scrub pollution. This was a meticulous, high-stakes search operation. They were looking for something… or someone.
"Jess, finish up," Gale said, his voice quiet and urgent.
He didn't wait for her to swallow. He threw enough credits on the table to cover the meal twice over, grabbed Jess, and hauled her into his arms.
"Thanks for the food," Gale called out to the bewildered waiter as he bolted for the back exit, his mind already calculating the fastest route to the hidden freighter.
If the Red Legion was here, the planet was already a cage, and the bars were closing fast.
…
For Kasavin, working on the narrative for Hades was the easiest job he had ever held in the cutthroat game industry. Usually, being a writer was a constant battle of mediation. He'd spent years at larger studios trying to bridge the gap between overworked programmers who couldn't care about "feelings" and art departments that wanted to design characters that were impossible to implement. Most of his career had been spent making sense of nonsense, trying to find a way to weave a cohesive story through a mess of clashing mechanics and disjointed visuals.
His previous work on the opening chapters of Legion Duty 2 was considered a minor miracle in the industry. He was the one of few who had managed to tie the incoherent mess of the early levels to a semi-meaningful ending, a feat that served as the game's only redeeming quality.
But at Round Table Studios, it was... different.
Every time Kasavin brought a tweak to the table, Logan and Bem would nod and explain exactly how the combat physics would shift to match the "weight" of the character's dialogue. Lin Liseli, the lead artist, would chime in, already sketching how the color palette of a room should bleed into the mood of the conversation.
The guide Arthur had given them was so meticulous that Kasavin sometimes felt like he was just a glorified translator. Arthur knew these characters. He knew their voices, their flaws, and their divine arrogance as if he had lived among them.
The concept of "Gods" was a strange one for the modern Accord resident. To a society that spanned galaxies, where different races had their own planetary histories and the Heliocore provided near-limitless power, the idea of ancient, squabbling deities overlooking a single, primitive planet felt laughable, almost quaint. It was a primitive narrative.
And yet, Kasavin felt a deep, resonant weight behind Arthur's notes. The setting was "The Underworld after the Trojan War." It was a fresh, almost jarring perspective. Most games in the industry would have put the player right in the middle of the Great War, making them the conquering hero on the surface. But this project chose to start after the tragedy. It chose the shadows. It chose the ghosts.
Kasavin paused, his fingers hovering over the glowing keys of his terminal. He turned his head to look at a physical picture frame sitting on the corner of his desk, a relic in a digital age. In it, Kasavin stood beside a woman, both of them smiling with a radiant, uncomplicated happiness.
He reached out, his fingers tracing the woman's cheek on the glass.
"Should I try one more time?" he whispered to the empty room.
He turned back to his second monitor, where a modded instance of Stardew Valley was running. In the center of his pixelated farm stood a custom NPC, a mod he had built himself. The character looked exactly like the woman in the photo. He watched the sprite walk through the virtual garden, a ghost of a life he had lost, preserved in Arthur's code.
Kasavin let out a small, weary smile. Arthur's engine didn't just allow for games; it allowed for memories. It allowed for hope.
"Maybe I should try one more time," he repeated, his voice gaining a sliver of resolve. "For you, yes?"
He let out a soft chuckle and opened a fresh, blank document on his primary screen. He didn't title it with a corporate project code or a version number. Instead, he typed out the header Arthur had mentioned in the world-building lore.
New File: 'The Trojan War' – A Novel Draft – Placeholder Title: House of Hades.Original Manuscript by: Arthur Pendragon.
Kasavin began to write, feeling ready to give the "Gods" of the past a voice in the future.
…
Nazir Kal stood before the towering glass facade of GoldClick Records in the heart of Sela. By the galaxy's standards, GoldClick was barely a mid-level label, yet the building was a monument to stolen success. It was sleek, polished, and intimidating, a fortress built on the backs of people like him.
He looked at his reflection in the tinted glass. He wasn't "industry standard." His hair was a bit too wild, his frame too lean, and when he caught his reflection, his upper teeth were slightly crooked, pushing forward in a way that had made every manager he'd ever had sigh in disappointment.
"I could be in an ad for toothpaste, surely," he muttered to himself, trying to find a spark of humor. "The 'before' picture, at least."
He sighed, the cold reality of the day settling back into his bones. Today was the end. His ten-year contract was finally expiring. Ten years of being a "trainee" who was never allowed to debut. Ten years of writing melodies in a windowless room, only to see those same songs stripped of his name and handed to the label's "standard beauties."
GoldClick had reached its mid-size status on the strength of Nazir's soul, but they had never given him a cent of the credit. He had been an idiot, a desperate kid who had signed the fine print without realizing "ownership in perpetuity" meant he was effectively a ghost in his own life.
As he walked through the sliding doors, the atmosphere shifted. The air was climate-controlled and smelled of expensive synthetic lilies, but the looks he received were toxic.
"Is that him? he still here?" a junior manager whispered, not bothering to lower her voice. "The ten-year failure? I heard he's finally getting the boot."
"Good riddance," another replied. "It's embarrassing just seeing him in the hallway."
Nazir kept his head down, walking toward the lift. He passed a group of "juniors." Young, beautiful men and women who hadn't even started their training when he first arrived. They didn't exchange greetings. They didn't even look at him.
He stepped into the lift, alone. Just as the doors were closing, a group of trainees approached, but when they saw Nazir inside, they suddenly found interest in their heliopads and stepped back, pretending to wait for someone else. They didn't want to share the air with a "jinx."
The lift began its smooth, silent ascent to the CEO's floor. From the speakers, a bright, upbeat pop track began to play. Nazir closed his eyes. 'That's my bridge,' he thought. 'That's the chord progression I wrote when I was nineteen and hungry.'
It felt bitter. It felt like hearing a recording of his own heart being sold back to him.
By the time the lift reached the top floor, Nazir had wiped the moisture from his eyes. He straightened his worn jacket, trying to find some scrap of dignity. He was a singer. He was a writer. And today, he was finally going to be free of this slavery.
The assistant, a man named Kex who looked like he was perpetually smelling something foul led him toward the massive obsidian doors of the CEO's office.
Kex didn't knock. He just ushered Nazir in and stood by the door.
Pidaco sat behind his desk, surrounded by flickering screens showing the Zenith charts, specifically the Number 1 spot where Percival still mocked him. He didn't look up as Nazir entered. He just kept typing, the smoke from his cigar thick and oppressive.
"This fucking wet rat," Pidaco muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Sit down!"
Nazir sat in the stiff leather chair, his hands resting on his knees. He waited in the heavy silence, the Unease crawling up his spine like cold water. He had come here for his freedom, but looking at Pidaco's face, he realized the "wet rat" was being called in for a reason that had nothing to do with a simple goodbye.
Pidaco finally finished with the data on his screen, his eyes lingering for a final, hateful second on the Zenith chart before he stood up. He walked toward the plush velvet sofa with the heavy, rhythmic gait of a man who owned the air he breathed. He gestured to Kex.
"Teebu," Pidaco barked.
Kex moved instantly, pouring a cup of the steaming, amber liquid. He handed it only to Pidaco, ignoring Nazir entirely as if the singer were a piece of the furniture. Pidaco took a long, slow sip, letting the silence stretch until Nazir's skin felt like it was crawling.
"So," Pidaco said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "You're here to renew, right?"
Nazir was caught completely off guard. He had expected a lecture or a dismissive wave. Instead, Pidaco pulled a folder from the coffee table and slid a document toward him. Nazir scanned the first page. It was the same predatory terms; no debut date, low royalties, and full intellectual property transfer. Pidaco wasn't even trying to entice him; he was offering him the same cage he'd been in for a decade.
Nazir felt a cold spark of indignation. He let out a dry, hollow scoff. "CEO... is this a joke?"
Pidaco's eyes narrowed. The persistent presence of Percival at the top of the charts had left his patience razor-thin. He didn't try to coax or negotiate. "Hah. What else did you come here for? Be a good 'singer' in the back like you always do. Ah, I remember a young man's words once..."
Pidaco leaned back, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "'As long as it's my lyric and melody, I feel like I'm the one singing it.' Ring a bell?"
Nazir couldn't even face him. He looked down at his trembling hands.
Those were his own words. He remembered the first time one of his songs, a piece of his heart he'd written while starving in a cold dorm had been handed to a polished, handsome 'Visual' artist. Nazir had been invited to the first live show. In the interview afterward, the artist had looked into the cameras and talked about how hard he had worked to find the melody and write the lyrics for 'his' masterpiece.
Nazir had felt a crushing weight in his chest, a sense of deep, bitter disappointment. But then, Pidaco had walked up to him backstage, stopping for the first and only time to acknowledge him. 'Thank you for doing this for the company,' Pidaco had said. 'I feel so grateful.'
And Nazir, the pushover he was, had just smiled through the pain. 'As long as it's my lyric and melody, I feel like I'm the one singing it,' he had said. He'd believed it back then. He'd used it as a shield to survive the theft of his soul.
Nazir's hands shook as he gripped the fabric of his trousers. He looked up, his voice cracking but firm. "I'm here to say goodbye. I will not be renewing my contract."
Pidaco stopped his Teebu sip mid-air. A small, violent twitch of irritation flickered in his temple. He set the cup down with a sharp clack.
"Hooo? And what exactly are you going to do without a label, Nazir? Let's be honest. You're living comfortably in Sela right now, aren't you? Do you think you can pay your rent for even a week after you're done with us?"
Nazir forced a thin, trembling smile. "I'm sure I can. After all, my songs have debuted half the artists on your roster."
The reaction was instantaneous. Pidaco grabbed his cup and splashed the scalding Teebu directly into Nazir's face. Before Nazir could even cry out, Pidaco lunged across the table, grabbing the singer by his collar and hauling him upward.
"Your songs?" Pidaco hissed, his breath smelling of expensive cigars and spice. "Do I need to call our lawyers and sue you for defamation against our artists? Those are our songs. We gave them to the artists because they are our talent. You were just a tool, a pen with a pulse."
Pidaco leaned closer, his eyes cold and predatory. "You have two choices, rat. Sign the contract and live comfortably in your little bubble, or be a beggar on the streets. And don't even think about being hired by another agency. I'll send letters to every label in Sela about your 'untrustworthy' nature. No talent. Washed out. A liability. Choose."
Pidaco let go, shoving Nazir back into the sofa.
Nazir slumped back, gasping for air, the hot Teebu dripping from his chin and soaking into his shirt. He looked at the contract. He looked at Pidaco. Then, his gaze drifted behind the CEO, out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the vast, shimmering cityscape of Sela. It was a beautiful view, but from here, it looked like a graveyard of dreams.
...
Twenty minutes later, Nazir Kal stepped out of the GoldClick Records building. He was drenched in amber liquid, his hair matted, and he smelled of scorched tea. People on the sidewalk gave him a wide berth, assuming he was a drunk or a madman.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his gold-trimmed artist card, the pass that granted him entry into the building where he had spent a decade being invisible.
He looked at it for a moment, the sunlight catching the embossed GoldClick logo. He didn't cry. He didn't shout.
He simply walked to the nearest waste bin and dropped the card inside.
"I guess it's time to live for myself," he whispered.
As he walked away into the crowd, he didn't look back at the building. He just started to hum a new melody, one that belonged only to him.
…
Inside the quiet sanctuary of his Friton studio, Dorian leaned back in his chair, the glow of the holographic list provided by Ratik illuminating his face. The file was meticulously organized, filled with the "top-tier" male vocalists currently circulating in the Sela and Accord mainstream.
He swiped through their profiles, playing snippets of their live shows.
Swipe. A perfect high-tenor, crystal clear. Swipe. A soulful baritone with a manufactured rasp. Swipe. A pop sensation with a million-credit smile.
Dorian's expression didn't change. He felt a familiar, nagging boredom.
"They're all singing past the audience, Leo," Dorian muttered, tossing his stylus onto the desk. "It's like they're just regurgitating things they memorized in a vocal booth. There's no blood in the notes. No dirt under the fingernails."
"Standard industry practice," Leo's voice chimed from the docking station. "Calculated perfection yields the highest probability of broad-market acceptance. Authentic emotion is... statistically messy."
Dorian scrolled to the very bottom of the file, past the 'Recommended' and 'Rising Stars' sections. There was a small, red-flagged folder titled: DISCARD / LEGAL COMPLICATIONS.
He tapped it open.
His eyes scanned many names, one of the names at the top of the 'Nightmare' list: Nazir Kal.
Ratik had attached a small, aggressive warning note in bright red text: DO NOT ENGAGE. This list is for your own curiosity ONLY. High risk, zero marketability.
Dorian read the note twice, then started to chuckle. The sound grew into a genuine laugh that echoed in the high-ceilinged room.
"I told her not to filter anyone," Dorian said, shaking his head. "Well, I guess she technically gave me the list, just with a little 'stay away' sign attached."
He looked at the small, low-resolution thumbnail of Nazir, a young man with slightly crooked teeth and eyes that looked like they had seen too many long nights.
"Legal... illegal..." Dorian mused, his fingers hovering over the play button on Nazir's restricted demo file. "I've jailbroken many Compadres, spoofed Accord hyperspace signatures, a wanted man still being searched by the BSO, and materialized crops that shouldn't exist in this sector. Hehe... high risk, high reward."
He leaned forward, his eyes sharpening with a sudden, intense curiosity.
"Let's see what this zero market man actually sounds like, shall we? hehe."
Dorian pressed play.
**A/N**
A bit of a rant: why the fuck do I need to give them a two-week notice if they can just fire me on the spot? That's right, my superior felt generous with his late April Fools' joke and just fired me on the spot. I asked for what reason, and he just said that upper management wants more efficiency. Well, shit. It's been two days already, and it feels weird to not go to work. I don't even know how I feel. I was mad, but at the same time, I knew this would happen eventually. Mostly, I'm just afraid/scared. I've seen the job applicant landscape, and it scares the living shit out of me. I've seen people with better GPAs, more work history, and who are better than me on paper still trying to get a job. This is just a rant; like with my novel, I like to put my shit into my writing. I guess it is what it is. But hey, I got more time to make more chapters, am I right? :)
**A/N**