Under the cover of cloaking, the Mercurian ships glide forward—
like a flock of shadows severed from the light.
No jolts. No noise.
They don't fly—they merge into space, as if they've become part of the cosmos itself.
Around them—viscous silence.
The vacuum holds its breath. Everything is frozen, waiting… for something irrevocable.
**
Ahead—lies the border of death.
The Platform fills half the tactical screen.
A giant. Angular. Cold.
Its surface pulses, like veins beneath armor.
In front—its defensive field.
Blindingly pale, like a searing scar carved into the flesh of space.
It breathes. It shimmers.
It lives.
This is no simple barrier.
It's the titan's spine—bristling with sensors, traps, drones.
All dormant. For now.
**
The Platform's coordinators suspect nothing.
The flow of cargo ships continues steadily—
they crawl into the central airlock,
the needle's eye carved into the beast's body.
The first ship from the Shadow Group separates from the background.
It glides like a drop of oil across glass,
creeping toward a transport,
slipping into its gravitational wake,
merging with it. And vanishes.
"Clear. He's in."
No flare. No signal.
He becomes a shadow within a shadow.
Just another link in the caravan.
**
The rest follow.
Like wolves, step for step.
One after another.
Invisible. Silent.
Into the enemy's den.
Last comes the *Skiff*.
The command vessel.
The heart of the operation.
On board—Vikhar.
He should be furthest from the fire.
Where the risk is lowest.
Where he can see everything… and not die first.
**
Inside the bridge—silence like a chapel before execution.
Manuel grips the armrests.
Fingers squeak against the metal.
His eyes—locked on the holographic airlock.
Markers move. Data streams.
The system trembles. Senses the intruder. Senses danger.
In the half-light—Vikhar.
Motionless.
Like a blueprint of a storm.
But his presence is physically felt.
"If he says 'advance'—I'll lead. Even into the abyss."
Manuel feels it in his skin. Everyone on the bridge does.
"What's the status?" Vikhar's voice is steady, but there's already a chill… a premonition of blood.
"Proceeding as planned," Manuel doesn't blink. "Our ship is observing…"
Suddenly he freezes.
On the screen—a flare.
Markers scatter like disturbed ants.
Signal. Ping. Scan. Activity.
"Alert!" Manuel's voice cuts through the silence. "Enemy cruisers have activated! Drones deployed!
One of ours—compromised at the airlock!"
Vikhar leans forward. His voice is armor shattered by a fist.
"Abort the operation! All units—retreat!
Get me a channel to the one who's stuck!"
Pietro dives for the console. Fingers race across the interface.
**
"Captain, do you hear me?" Vikhar's voice is quiet, but every word is a nail through the chest.
The reply—crackle, static, and smoke.
"I… hear… you… yes…"
"You're trapped. Drones inbound.
You have two options.
Surrender… or die."
Silence.
"If they capture him, they'll extract everything. All the codes. All the routes. Hanaris's name."
"We can't allow that."
"Any chance of escape?"
"No… the airlock is shut… exit blocked…"
A pause. Heavy, like a stone in the lungs.
And then—the voice changes.
Clear. Steady.
Like breath before a leap into fire.
"If they take us… they'll know everything.
Farewell, brothers. We'll meet… in the next cycle."
**
The connection cuts.
On the screen—the marker vanishes.
No flare. No explosion. Just… emptiness.
As if a chunk of reality had been cut away.
"Minus one," Manuel whispers.
"He detonated the power core.
The ship… evaporated."
The bridge falls still.
Pietro lowers his head.
Maria turns away. Her lips pale with tension.
Julia closes her eyes.
Her palms together—not in prayer, but something colder.
Alex—an obelisk. His face unmoving.
But his eyes… glassy.
Vikhar steps to the terminal.
Runs a hand across it.
His voice—a howl of war. Hoarse. Dry. Real.
"To all ships.
This is Chairman Vikhar speaking.
With sorrow, I report: we've lost one of our own.
Our brother gave his life.
The veil is torn.
The enemy has increased security.
This is no game. This is no raid.
This is—rebellion against the gods."
He pauses.
"The operation is canceled.
All units—immediate retreat.
Check your cloaks.
Fade into shadow.
Await new orders."
**
The link severs.
The room falls silent again.
But now—not shock. Focus.
Manuel leans back in his chair.
His face—blank.
Maria looks at Alex—anger churns, but she holds it down.
Julia watches Vikhar. Fire in her gaze.
Vikhar stands.
Like an eternal sentinel.
No tremble. No regret.
"This is failure," he says.
Quietly. Like a stone into water.
"But not the end.
Now they know we're close.
Old paths won't work anymore."
He looks at them all.
His eyes—quanta of flame.
"We have twenty ships left. With the *Skiff*. That's all.
But it's enough.
If… we find the strike point."
He sits.
The quantum calculation system comes alive.
Inside—a storm.
Billions of trajectories.
Betrayals. Probabilities. Sparks.
"Somewhere in here lies the key. Or… the end of everything."
**
Darkness embraces the fleet once more.
But now—it pulses with resolve.
And everyone in Shadow Group knows:
Now—they are not just surviving.
They are choosing who will turn to ash.
And who… will become a god.