The stars stretched infinitely as the undead destroyer glided through the black ocean of space. Silence ruled the halls of the ship—if not for the low groans of its mechanical bones being patched and welded by undead hands, it would’ve felt as if the vessel itself was holding its breath.

  Vermond sat on a raised platform near the bridge, eyes locked on the distant void ahead. His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest, the number “45” glowing faintly in his irises. He hadn’t summoned anyone new. Not yet. But the thought always lingered—how many more souls was he willing to spend?

  Below, Ereie sat hunched near the corner of the command deck, clutching a steaming food container like a lifeline. The food wasn’t warm from any heater—the undead had absorbed just enough power from salvaged parts to jury-rig a temporary heating system. It worked. Somehow. Ereie still didn’t ask how.

  "You really eat on this thing...?" Ereie asked, staring up at Vermond like someone watching a legend move in silence.

  Vermond didn’t answer immediately. He stood, eyes reflecting a distant glimmer.

  "I’m going back," he said. "To where it all started. My old salvager ship... it’s still out there. Floating."

  "You mean..."

  Vermond nodded once. "Yeah. That place."

  Ereie looked uneasy. "Is it safe? I mean.. that's when we almost got annihilated.."

  "No," Vermond said, a shadow of a grin tugging at his lips. "That’s why I want to go back."

  The undead destroyer adjusted its course without a single verbal command. It felt Vermond’s intent. As if the ship itself wanted to return with him. Even Ereie noticed it—the way the vessel shifted and creaked as if it remembered that place too.

  Behind them, undead crew in faded suits walked the halls with strange coordination. Their helmets obscured any facial features, but something about their posture made them feel... too human. Too recent.

  Ereie could barely stand to look at them.

  "They don’t talk," he muttered.

  "They listen," Vermond replied.

  The ship continued into the unknown, toward the quiet metal where an old man once lived, laughed, salvage.

  Toward the memory of a life before the number “45.”

  And in the shadowed corner of the bridge, unnoticed, a small camera blinked once—red light

  flickering faintly—then went dark.

  The undead destroyer drifted toward the dark edge of space, slowing as if recognizing the sector. Debris floated like frozen insects— The stars dimmed here, swallowed by forgotten echoes. It was silent… almost too silent.

  "This is it," Vermond muttered. "Where the cleanser almost destroyed my ship."

  Ereie stood beside him at the viewing deck, eyes wide. "How long have your ship been working?"

  "Decades.. I don't know, my grandfather gave me this ship... The one who took care of it.. our home.."

  The destroyer approached Vermond’s salvager ship.

  Tilted to the side. Lights long dead. A small home buried in rust and memory.

  "Grandpa..." Vermond whispered, voice caught between awe and sorrow.

  The undead destroyer halted on its own, as if paying respect.

  Suddenly, one of the undead crew approached—helmeted, slow, but determined. It didn’t speak. Instead, it handed Vermond a small, cracked tablet—old tech.

  The screen blinked to life. A pre-recorded video began to play.

  A log. A face.

  The same face as one of the undead crew.

  The voice spoke in a choked whisper:

  "This is Lieutenant Kalena. I served under the Necromancer King. This ship… this destroyer… was once one of many. We were his army. His shield. His wrath. Now only this vessel remains. The others? Lost. Forgotten. Maybe waiting. Maybe… watching."

  The screen glitched, then resumed. Screams in the background. Flesh tearing. Gunfire.

  "He betrayed our trust. And turned us. One by one. Not through death, but by binding our souls..."

  The video ended with static and a final phrase:

  "If you're watching this, you've become what we feared."

  Vermond stared in silence.

  Ereie shivered. "That… was real?"

  "I think so," Vermond said. Then turned back to the floating salvage ship, his expression unreadable. "But right now, I need to see what’s left of him."

  The docking clamps groaned. The undead destroyer prepared to send a boarding party.

  And in the silent dark… something moved behind the ship.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  The undead crew drifted silently from the destroyer to the salvage ship, space suits creaking with age yet moving as if freshly worn. Their heads tilted as they approached the hull of Vermond’s old vessel, like hounds remembering the scent of home. Rust clung to the seams of the airlock as one undead placed a skeletal hand on the door.

  Suddenly—

  “YOU’VE FINALLY COME BACK!”

  The voice echoed through the ship’s comms—rage, madness, and something else… anticipation.

  A bright lance of fire tore through one of the undead, slicing it in half before it could even react. The rest turned, rifles and blades raised, but it was too late—the Cleanser leapt from the wreckage, wrapped in crackling red energy, eyes glowing like coals starved of air.

  “Burn, filth! Burn like the stars themselves!”

  It ripped through the boarding team, tearing limbs and armor alike. But the undead didn’t scream. They didn’t retreat. They kept moving, dragging themselves forward, even as their bodies fell apart.

  Aboard the bridge of the destroyer, Vermond saw it unfold through grainy camera feeds.

  He didn’t flinch. He didn’t scream.

  He laughed.

  A low, twisted laugh full of rising madness and purpose.

  “So you’re still alive… Perfect.”

  He raised his hand—and the pods hissed open again. More undead descended, like wolves from the heavens. They surrounded the Cleanser, firing coordinated volleys, forcing it back into the airlock. The Cleanser roared, its weapon discharging wildly—but the destroyer itself responded.

  With a metallic groan, the airlock tore open.

  The Cleanser was pulled inside.

  Landing hard against the cursed black flooring of the destroyer, it tried to rise—but dozens of undead swarmed, pinning it with inhuman strength. It thrashed, spat, burned—but it was too late.

  The door sealed with a thud.

  Inside the destroyer’s prison wing, the walls pulsed with sickly green veins of energy. One chamber stood apart—reinforced, etched with unholy runes no living mind could understand. They threw the Cleanser inside.

  It howled.

  “You think this stops me?! You think a coffin can hold the wrath of purity?!”

  Vermond approached, standing just outside the cell. His eyes dimmed from their flicker of light—but the number still shone.

  45.

  He stared coldly at the Cleanser. “What are you?”

  The creature only snarled. “We are the purge. The flame. The judgment that burns away filth like you.”

  No further answer.

  Vermond turned. “Then rot in your prison.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  Six undead guards remained at the door, motionless. Silent.

  The green glow of the prison dimmed… until only shadows remained.

  Ereie watched from the hallway, pale and speechless. “What… what even was that thing…?”

  Vermond walked past him slowly. “Something old. Something angry.”

  He paused.

  “And it’s not the only one out there.”

  The cold embrace of space wrapped around the salvager vessel like a forgotten tomb. Vermond drifted toward it, his boots scraping gently against the hull as he touched down. Even now, the shape of the ship felt like home—twisted, broken, but familiar.

  Inside, dust floated weightlessly in the stale air. The walls bore old scuffs and burns, memories of salvages gone wrong, of desperate escapes. He stepped over scattered tools, the same ones he and his grandfather used years ago.

  Then—

  A soft green glow.

  The moment his boots touched the command deck, the ship responded. The console lights flared back to life, flickering like something waking from a long slumber. Monitors buzzed. Panels hummed. The salvage ship recognized him.

  But more than that—the orb on his chest pulsed.

  A deep hum. Low. Ancient.

  Vermond froze as the orb's glow intensified, leaking black and green tendrils into the air around him. And then—

  The entire ship was consumed.

  Not in fire. Not in destruction. But in absorption. Every panel, every wire, every memory of the ship twisted upward in a slow cyclone of light, feeding directly into the orb like it had been starving.

  Then—darkness.

  And a voice.

  “Vermond…”

  His breath caught. That voice… Kiana.

  But she was gone, she is.. the orb.

  “Be careful…” her voice whispered again, faint but unmistakably hers. Like a recording? A message? A psychic echo?

  “Your power… it’s not what you think. It’s more terrifying.”

  Silence followed.

  Vermond staggered back, the orb now dim again… yet heavier, somehow. More aware. He could feel something inside it—like an eye had opened. Watching. Waiting.

  The salvage ship was gone—completely devoured.

  Only fragments remained: a wrench, one of his grandfather’s tools, untouched, floating beside him.

  He clenched it.

  Outside the viewport, Ereie watched from the destroyer’s window, pale as ever.

  Vermond returned silently.

  “The ship…” Ereie began.

  “It’s gone,” Vermond muttered. “But I think it gave me something.”

  Ereie raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

  Vermond looked at his hand. The orb on his chest pulsed again.

  “I don’t know yet… but Kiana warned me.”

  He paused, staring out into the abyss.

  “…That this power is worse than I thought.”

  The inside of the undead destroyer felt colder than before.

  (Ereie's the pilot's real name, but Vermond prefers to call him 'Erie.)

  Erie sat with his arms crossed in the corner of the command deck, the flickering lights overhead casting ghostly patterns on the walls. The quiet groan of metal echoed faintly through the ship’s bones. Every now and then, the sound of undead footsteps would pass just beyond the corridor—heavy, deliberate, inhuman.

  He looked at Vermond, who was standing in silence, watching the stars slip by through the panoramic glass.

  “So... what do we do now?” Erie asked at last, breaking the stillness.

  Vermond didn’t answer right away. His eyes glowed faintly as he stared at the shifting map of the stars. Finally, he spoke.

  “We’re going to a space station.”

  Erie blinked. “What? With this thing?” He motioned to the grotesque metal walls around them. “People will scream the second they see it. They’ll blast us before we can even hail them.”

  Vermond turned to him, calm and unreadable. “That’s why we’re not going there yet.”

  “Then where?”

  Vermond tapped a hollowed-out region of space on the console, where a scattered field of shipwrecks floated in tangled orbits. “We’re going to the graveyard of ships.”

  Erie squinted. “That... thing’s real?”

  Vermond nodded. “My grandfather talked about it. Said it was where ships went to die, and where salvagers like us found treasures no one dared to look for.”

  Erie stared at the map again, the massive, unregulated dead zone filled with wrecked ships from wars no one remembered. “You plan to... what? Fix this place up with junk?”

  “Not fix it. Disguise it.” Vermond looked around the bridge. “This destroyer… it’s too recognizable. Too terrifying. But if we make it look like a stitched-up salvager vessel, maybe we’ll slip by unnoticed.”

  Erie shook his head, still overwhelmed. “That’s... insane.”

  Vermond smiled faintly. “That’s survival.”

  Erie didn’t speak again. The hum of the ship deepened as they adjusted course. Outside, the stars shifted—and ahead, the vast, rotting field of the graveyard opened like a mouth.

  The stars dimmed as they entered the region.

  Before them stretched a vast field of floating corpses—metal twisted, torn, and forgotten. Thousands of derelict vessels drifted in silence, their hulls scorched from ancient battles, their insides long pillaged or swallowed by darkness.

  Vermond stood at the viewing platform, breathing slowly. This… this felt familiar. Not the death, but the silence. The stillness of a place meant for salvagers. He had been here once, long ago, as a boy beside his grandfather—watching old ships crumble apart like dust.

  The undead destroyer hovered, casting a long shadow over a crumbling frigate. Vermond’s fingers twitched.

  Erie watched from behind. “This place is a graveyard…”

  Vermond stepped forward. “And every grave has something left in it.”

  He raised his hand slightly—not a command, but a thought. And like they’d been waiting, pods on the destroyer hissed open. Undead soldiers emerged wearing blackened, old-model space suits, their visors dim, their movements unnervingly human.

  They floated out into the vacuum, silently. No instructions. No orders. Yet they moved with purpose—cutting into the derelict frigate, breaching its old airlocks, and spreading out inside.

  “They’re reading your mind,” Erie said in disbelief. “They’re… moving like they know exactly what you want.”

  Vermond didn’t answer. He was staring at a half-torn scanner array jutting from the wreck.

  The undead crew started collecting it. Carefully. Methodically.

  They brought out crates—food containers, small machines, weapon racks. Vermond’s mind flickered to his grandfather’s lessons: always grab what lasts. Always check the auxiliary compartments. And again, the undead responded, entering those compartments like his memories had summoned them.

  Inside the destroyer, Erie sat quietly, watching them drift in and out through the open docking bay. One of the undead passed by with a salvaged radar core, its broken helmet visor cracked just enough to show an empty skull beneath.

  Vermond returned to the bridge. “They’ll bring what we need. Then we’ll start covering the hull.”

  “You really think we can hide this thing?” Erie asked, voice low.

  Vermond didn’t answer at first. Then, he smiled. “We’re salvagers. We make monsters look like machines.”

  "I'm a pilot, you're the salvager."

  Outside, more undead exited the pods. They were silent, tireless, efficient. And when the work was done, they would return—not because they were told to, but because Vermond wanted them to.

  Something deeper was happening, and even Vermond was starting to feel it. He was becoming more than a commander.

  He was becoming a part of them.

  The Graveyard of Ships stretched out like a cemetery of metal bones, thousands of broken vessels drifting in silence, each with its own forgotten story. Vermond stood at the edge of the undead destroyer’s viewing chamber, arms crossed, eyes glowing dimly. Beneath the void, scavenged hulls of once-glorious warships and cargo freighters floated without purpose.

  “Let’s make you look normal,” he muttered.

  Without needing words, his undead crew began their work. Space-suited corpses floated out from the ship’s hatches, moving like shadows in vacuum. Some carried heavy plating, others hauled radar dishes, scrap wings, rusted insignias—parts from different ships pieced together like patchwork armor.

  Vermond took a small shuttle to a nearby derelict with Erie. The younger pilot was quiet, glancing at the dozens of undead moving with purpose. “They… don’t even look dead from a distance.”

  “That’s the point,” Vermond replied, landing on a crumbling deck. “Come on, help me find parts. This ship had decent shielding tech from the looks of it.”

  Back on the destroyer, its hull began changing. The bone-like surface was now layered in old alloy plating, broken insignias covering the true nature of what lurked beneath. The hull’s jagged silhouette was dulled by boxy freighter panels and deceptive cargo ports.

  Inside the ship, the prison chamber sat cold and still. The cleanser was there—chained by bone-like tendrils, glowing eyes shut, head down like it was asleep… or waiting.

  Vermond passed the chamber once without speaking.

  Erie stared at it through the reinforced glass. “Why does it just sit there?”

  “It’s thinking,” Vermond said. “Or plotting.”

  “Creepy…”

  At the mess chamber, the stolen food containers were opened. The taste was synthetic, Federation-made, but it kept them fed. Erie chewed quietly while watching the undead work outside through the camera screen.

  “You really don’t command them, do you?”

  “They move with me. I think, they act,” Vermond said, gaze distant.

  Erie stared a moment longer. “This isn’t normal... but it’s not evil either. It’s like they know you. Trust you.”

  Vermond didn’t answer.

  Later that cycle, in the dim light of the ship’s bridge, Vermond watched the disguise take shape. From a distance, they were becoming just another salvager vessel. A floating wreck held together by desperation and spare parts.

  The undead moved tirelessly.

  And deep in the ship’s prison… the cleanser slowly opened its eyes, a faint smirk appearing on its cracked lips.

  The Graveyard of Ships grew distant behind them, a massive trail of debris slowly fading into the black sea of stars. The newly disguised destroyer drifted silently, now bearing the appearance of an old, retrofitted salvage hauler—rusted plates, mismatched engines, and artificial Federation markings burned into its sides.

  Vermond sat on the bridge, one hand hovering over the console. He hadn’t touched anything, yet the ship moved. Responded. It was alive… but not quite.

  Erie stood behind him, arms crossed, still wary of the thrumming silence that filled the corridors. “So… space station next?”

  Vermond nodded, but didn’t turn around. “Yeah. Need supplies. Civilian tech. New identity codes.”

  “And the ship?” Erie gestured toward the console. “People will still see through it, won’t they?”

  “That’s why we don’t fly straight into a hub. We’ll dock quietly.”

  Erie raised an eyebrow. “You’re turning into a real smuggler, y’know.”

  Vermond allowed a half-smile. “No. Just surviving.”

  Below deck, the undead crew was still adjusting interior systems—rewiring salvaged tech, blending newer parts into ancient necromantic infrastructure. Panels flickered. Voices whispered from comm units that weren’t powered.

  It was then that Vermond felt it again.

  A pressure in the back of his head. Not painful… just present. Watching.

  He turned his eyes to the hallway outside the bridge. One of the undead was standing there. Still. Silent. Not moving until Vermond thought: Why are you standing there?

  And it walked away.

  Vermond swallowed hard.

  “Is everything alright?” Erie asked, clearly unnerved.

  “I saw it again…” Vermond murmured.

  “Saw what?”

  “…Nothing. Just keep watching our heading.”

  Erie didn’t push further. But his eyes lingered.

  In the belly of the ship, deep near the prison, the cleanser still sat. Motionless. Unblinking. But if one listened closely… the chains creaked. The bones that wrapped around its limbs were shifting, adjusting, like they could sense something coming.

  And behind the wall of that cell, faint static crackled.

  A monitor—one that hadn’t worked since the ship rose from the ground—flickered to life.

  It showed a recording. A video file. Dated long before Vermond’s time.

  The destroyer’s original crew. Engineers. Officers. Pilots.

  They were screaming. Running.

  Darkness flooded the halls. A red glow pulsed from the command center. Something unseen took them, one by one. Their bodies twisted. Voices cracked into inhuman shrieks. A figure stood at the helm—a robed being with no face, arms raised as if in prayer.

  The Necromancer King.

  His voice echoed through the file, distorted but clear:

  "To command death is not to end life… it is to rewrite its purpose."

  Then, silence. The screen went black.

  Vermond stood in front of the monitor, staring.

  Erie joined him, pale and wide-eyed. “…Is this what you are now?”

  “I don’t know,” Vermond said. “But I won’t end up like them.”

  And far in the distance, buried among the stars, other shapes moved—faint outlines of long-dead ships that may not have been so dead after all.

  Space stretched in still silence as the disguised undead destroyer drifted toward the nearest orbital trade station, its hull now cloaked with salvaged plates, antennas, and fragments of abandoned civilian crafts. From afar, it looked like just another beat-up salvager—a flying patchwork of ancient space debris.

  Inside, Erie paced, tension in his every step. “This thing still gives me the creeps, Vermond…”

  Vermond leaned back against the bulkhead, arms crossed. “Get used to it. She’s ours now.”

  Suddenly, a sharp alert echoed through the bridge. One of the salvaged radar panels flickered to life.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Federation patrol—three ships—closing fast.”

  Two destroyers. One frigate. Small force, but sharp enough to smell something wrong.

  “Can we cloak?” Erie asked quickly.

  Vermond shook his head. “No cloaking system. Not yet. Let’s just play the part.”

  The destroyer drifted naturally, undead crew maintaining their positions in eerie silence. None moved unless Vermond willed it. Through a salvaged visual feed, they watched as the frigate angled closer, scanning.

  A voice buzzed over the open comm:

  “Unregistered vessel. Identify yourself. You are entering a restricted vector. Prepare for inspection.”

  Vermond tilted his head. His voice came out calm, rehearsed. “This is a salvager vessel. Civilian registry lost during last nebula burst. We’re heading for station repairs. I can transfer the logs.”

  A pause. Silence stretched.

  Then, a second voice—not Federation, but barely a whisper. Erie froze.

  “Did… did you hear that?”

  The scanner ship hesitated. The Federation ships didn’t dock or attack. Instead, they hovered—like they weren’t sure what they were looking at.

  “We’re detecting… inconsistencies in your heat signature. Engine reads dead. How are you propelling?”

  Another pause.

  Vermond’s fingers curled against the railing. He slowly activated the external hull lights. They flickered, matching a standard civilian pulse pattern. He even kicked on a pre-recorded salvage beacon—one from the derelict ship they'd previously looted.

  Back on the Federation side, the patrol wavered. No weapons fire.

  Erie held his breath.

  The Federation voice returned.

  “Continue to the station. But your ID will be flagged for secondary scans.”

  Vermond smirked. “Copy that.”

  The patrol fleet slowly peeled away, their destroyers still trailing just long enough to make their suspicion clear.

  As they disappeared into the stars, Erie slumped into his seat. “We’re so dead if they look harder.”

  Vermond glanced at the slowly blinking logs, then at the walls around him—the ancient bones of a ship meant for war, death, and darkness.

  “Let them look,” he said. “They won’t find anything they can understand.”

  Far behind them, in the sealed prison chamber, the captured cleanser sat cross-legged, head tilted down.

  But its lips curved into a small smile.

  The space station loomed ahead—a titan of metal and light cradled in the void. Countless vessels orbited it like metallic insects, docking and departing in precise rhythm. Cargo haulers, personal shuttles, and battered salvagers slid into the docking arms without pause.

  Inside the bridge of the undead destroyer, the pilot Erie stared at the traffic with growing unease. “That’s… a lot of ships. And even more people.”

  Vermond stood behind him, arms folded, unmoving. His eyes locked on the drifting ships beyond the window. “Yeah. That means more eyes. More questions.”

  “And docking without a full scan is impossible,” Erie added.

  They both stared at the glowing tower of the station. If their ship were exposed—its cold core, its unholy power, its undead crew—they’d be surrounded, fired upon, and likely torn apart before anyone asked questions.

  Vermond stepped away and moved toward the ship’s internal terminal. His fingers hovered above the panel. He hadn’t used the interface like this before—it was old, encrypted in a strange language only his mind seemed to understand.

  He whispered, “Let me see…”

  The interface bloomed with a faint greenish hue. Symbols twisted into something readable. Hidden protocols. The destroyer had old salvage credentials—fake registries, rotoscanned tags, and even docking clearance codes. Was this planned?

  A memory flickered in his mind—not his, but something the ship gave him. The past Necromancer King’s fleet used these codes to slip among the living undetected… back when the world still feared them.

  “It has fake IDs built in,” Vermond muttered. “It was made for infiltration.”

  Erie blinked. “You mean—this thing pretended to be normal before?”

  Vermond nodded, his tone dry. “Looks like we’re not the first to do this.”

  A series of override commands were embedded in the system, disguised to fool automatic maintenance scans. When activated, they’d mimic a salvager ship with a broken engine—requiring no outside inspection. The ship would dock using an isolated arm, far from the main bays.

  Vermond activated it. A pulse transmitted toward the station.

  Silence.

  Then:

  “You are cleared for Docking Arm 7-B. Automated berth allocated. No maintenance assigned due to flagged system faults. Proceed with caution.”

  Erie exhaled, wide-eyed. “We’re actually doing this.”

  As the destroyer adjusted its heading, the external lights flickered to mimic standard status signals. Within minutes, the station grew massive in the viewport—steel scaffolding, blinking lights, and repair drones zipping past.

  The undead crew still moved quietly in the background, maintaining systems, following thoughts Vermond hadn’t spoken. Their presence, though silent, filled the corridors like shadows lingering too long.

  As the docking clamps locked into place with a thud, Vermond turned to Erie. “We’ve got what we came for. Food, fuel, parts… but only what we can carry ourselves.”

  Erie nodded. “No questions. No visitors.”

  “Exactly,” Vermond said.

  Still, as the airlock sealed and the fake credentials held strong, one thought gnawed at the back of Vermond’s mind—

  This ship was built to walk among the living.

  And somewhere, perhaps in another corner of the galaxy, its siblings might be doing the same.

  The airlock hissed open, and warm recycled air from the space station washed into the corridor. The sterile hum of commerce echoed beyond—voices, footsteps, the constant clatter of machinery, and the ever-present buzz of trade.

  Vermond stepped forward first, his dark cloak concealing his faintly glowing eyes. Erie followed beside him, clearly uncomfortable but trying to hide it. Behind them, the airlock slid shut, hiding the undead ship once more within the shadows of Docking Arm 7-B.

  They blended in easily enough. Salvagers were always a strange bunch—ragged clothing, mismatched armor, and blank stares from long shifts in the black.

  “We’ll need food,” Vermond said as they stepped into the station’s crowded bazaar. “And some parts. I don’t know how long this quiet will last.”

  Erie hesitated. “Yeah. About that…”

  They reached a market stall packed with nutrient packs and hydration flasks. Vermond scanned the display—grabbed what they needed, then paused.

  He turned to Erie, brow furrowed. “How do I… pay?”

  Erie’s face dropped. “Wait. You don’t have any credits?”

  “I was stranded on a planet, Erie.”

  “Right…” Erie looked away, rubbed his temple, then pulled something from the inside of his uniform—a small metallic card with a blinking Federation emblem. “Take this.”

  Vermond stared at it like it might explode.

  “It’s my account,” Erie explained. “Use it. Just… don’t spend too much. It’s all I’ve got.”

  “You’re giving me your entire credit line?”

  “I mean… you spared my life. And, well… I’m apparently living in a haunted spaceship now, so I guess that makes us roommates.”

  Vermond gave a dry chuckle. “You’re weird, Erie.”

  “Says the guy commanding zombies.”

  The exchange was awkward but sincere. Vermond took the card and paid for the food. The stall’s scanner accepted it without question. A moment later, they moved on—carrying rations, silent between one another.

  But as they walked past an old parts vendor, something caught Vermond’s eye. A box. No, a scanner module—half-broken, but the right model. One that could be wired into the destroyer to mimic civilian radar signatures.

  “This,” he said, picking it up. “This’ll help us stay invisible.”

  Erie raised a brow. “Do I even get a say?”

  “Nope.”

  They laughed, lightly—just enough to ease the tension.

  But far behind them, a pair of station guards were looking at Docking Arm 7-B. One of them frowned, holding a dataslate. “Hey… did this berth get cleared?”

  “Supposedly. Old salvager ship flagged for isolation.”

  “Huh. Weird…”

  The camera feed showed nothing. Just darkness.

  But something… felt off.

  Docking Arm 7-B remained cloaked in silence, bathed in flickering lights and half-functioning systems. The station rarely used it anymore—it was isolated, meant for outdated salvage crews or decommissioned vessels too large or dangerous to dock near the central arms.

  Two guards leaned against the railing overlooking the lower decks, sipping lukewarm caf from thermal mugs. Their armor bore the faded blue and white of Federation station security, but boredom made their posture lazy.

  One of them—a grizzled officer named Merek—tilted his mug and squinted at his dataslate.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” he muttered.

  The younger one, Voss, glanced at him. “What now?”

  “This docking bay. It’s registered under a salvage ID, but that ship... I got a glimpse of its hull on the cam before the feed glitched.” He tapped the screen. “Way too big for a standard salvage vessel.”

  “You sure it’s not a refitted cargo ship?”

  Merek shook his head. “No. I’ve been on destroyers. That silhouette, that hull configuration… it's old military. Destroyer-class, minimum. You don’t just slap a ‘salvager’ sticker on something that massive and call it a day.”

  Voss leaned over the railing. “Still no movement on the bay?”

  “None. No maintenance requests, no crew registration. It docked clean, which is weird enough, and now it’s just sitting there. Quiet.”

  “Maybe they’re sleeping?”

  Merek chuckled dryly. “In a haunted ship that wasn’t even listed on long-range scanners until it appeared out of nowhere?”

  He tapped his comms. “I’m flagging this. Doesn’t feel right.”

  Voss hesitated. “You sure? I mean, could just be an old salvager. You know how those frontier types are—grimy, weird, paranoid.”

  “I know salvagers,” Merek said grimly. “They dock with half a ship and three lies in their paperwork. But this one’s too clean… and too dead.”

  He looked at the dark feed again.

  “No maintenance crew’s getting near that thing,” he added.

  Meanwhile, deep in the station’s vendor alleys, Vermond and Erie sat in a small booth at the edge of a noodle stall. Steam coiled upward as they slurped quietly, blending in with the other patrons.

  Vermond, eyes downcast, muttered, “You think they’ll suspect the ship?”

  Erie set down his chopsticks. “I’d be surprised if they didn’t.”

  “But the disguise—”

  “Will only work for so long. We need to be fast, quiet, and forgettable.”

  Vermond’s eyes flicked with faint light.

  “They’re going to notice something’s wrong eventually,” Erie continued. “Especially if that destroyer draws too much attention.”

  “Then we better not stay long.”

  As they stood and walked off into the crowd, neither noticed a pair of guards pass by in the distance—talking softly, glancing in their direction, suspicion growing in every step.

  The eerie silence of Docking Arm 7-B was broken by the soft hum of concealed machinery.

  Within the shadowed interior of the undead destroyer, something ancient stirred. Rusted wires twitched, bone-fused steel groaned, and faint pulses of forgotten necro-tech scanned the station through unseen sensors.

  Intrusion.

  Federation personnel proximity increasing.

  Triggering internal alert system.

  In the dimly lit corridors of the space station’s merchant district, Vermond froze mid-step.

  His breath hitched. A cold pressure clawed at the back of his mind—not painful, but insistent, like a whispering echo in a chamber with no source. Images flooded his head: two guards, walking down toward the sealed Dock 7-B. One of them held a datapad. They were suspicious. Curious. One had even drawn a stun baton.

  Erie noticed him pausing and turned, concerned. “Vermond? You alright?”

  “The ship... it’s warning me,” Vermond whispered. “It’s watching them.”

  Erie’s expression tightened. “Guards?”

  Vermond nodded. “They’re going to investigate.”

  Erie’s hand went instinctively to his side, where his Federation ID still rested. “Alright,” he said quickly. “We need to intercept them before they try to force anything. I still have enough clearance to bluff.”

  Docking Arm 7-B.

  The two guards stood near the locked blast door, exchanging glances.

  “Still no response,” Voss muttered, pressing his gloved palm against the side console. “I don’t like this.”

  Merek tapped a few override keys. “I’ll crack this door open. Just a peek.”

  A hiss escaped the console.

  Suddenly—CLACK! The wall-mounted comm unit beside the door screeched to life. Not with static—but with a low, guttural voice. No words. Just... growling metal. Breathing? Laughing?

  Both guards jumped back.

  “What the hell was—”

  “Excuse me, officers.”

  They turned sharply.

  Erie stepped forward with confident ease, dressed in a simple black coat (changed his clothes earlier), but with his Federation pilot badge clearly clipped to his belt.

  “I’d appreciate it if you stepped away from this dock,” Erie said calmly. “This vessel is undergoing private inspection—under classified clearance.”

  Merek’s eyes narrowed. “And you are?”

  “Lieutenant Ereie, 17th Recon Division. And I don’t appreciate your breach of restricted salvage protocols. That ship’s registry may not look familiar to you, but it’s under special authority.” He tapped his badge. “Do I need to call command?”

  Voss blinked. “A lieutenant? On a salvage ship?”

  Erie smiled coldly. “You’d be amazed what gets reassigned during wartime.”

  Merek muttered something under his breath, but stepped back.

  “Fine,” he said. “But if that thing twitches, we’ll be the first to report it.”

  Erie nodded. “You do that.”

  As the guards disappeared into the corridor, Erie exhaled, then turned to Vermond. “That won’t work twice.”

  Vermond looked distant, still hearing the destroyer whisper. It was quiet now… for the moment.

  “The ship’s… alive, somehow,” Vermond said. “It knew they were a threat. It wanted to protect me.”

  Erie looked uneasy. “Let’s not push it any further. Grab what we need and get back. Quickly.”

  Inside the destroyer, far below in its prison chamber, the captured Cleanser chuckled in his cell.

  “The Federation came knocking, didn’t they?”

  He tilted his head toward the dark, rusted ceiling.

  “Let’s see how long your little disguise lasts, necromancer…”

  The flickering neon lights of the space station's lower market shimmered across crates of salvaged tech and dusty supplies. Vermond and Erie moved with purpose now, having barely avoided a confrontation with the Federation guards. They didn’t speak much. They knew time was thin.

  “What we need,” Erie muttered, scanning the rows of junk vendors, “is something to hide your crew.”

  Vermond’s eyes locked onto a corner stall—a decrepit canopy held up by scrap rods, selling outdated and worn space suits. They were mismatched, patched, and clearly cheap, but more importantly… they still looked human.

  “These,” Vermond said with a quiet intensity, “these are perfect.”

  The old vendor scratched his beard, squinting at Vermond. “You buying all that, kid? They smell like mold and regret.”

  Vermond handed over Erie's credit card without hesitation.

  Erie sighed. “This better be worth it…”

  Back at Dock 7-B, the silence felt heavier than before.

  As the cargo ramp of the destroyer hissed open, the blackness inside greeted them like an open maw. One by one, the undead stepped forward from the shadows—dozens of them—still and lifeless.

  Vermond stared at them. “Put these on,” he said, lifting one of the suits.

  No words were spoken. Yet the undead obeyed. They moved with jerky precision, taking the old suits and slipping into them. The result was surreal—hollow visors, stiff postures—but from a distance, they looked… human. A crew.

  Erie nodded slowly. “Alright. That’ll work.”

  Together, they stowed the goods—food packs, old tool kits, wire bundles—inside the destroyer's side compartments.

  But just as the hatch was sealing shut—

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Seven figures approached fast.

  Station guards.

  Vermond felt the ship tingle again in his mind—ready to protect him. But he exhaled, calming it. “Not yet.”

  Erie stepped out with him, hands at ease, face neutral. Behind them, five of the suited undead followed in staggered formation, appearing like tired salvage workers, silent and masked.

  The lead guard spoke, visor down. “This ship. We’ve been getting reports of… strange readings. Multiple lifeforms. No log of docking permissions.”

  Erie immediately stepped forward. “That’s on me, Officer. Lieutenant Ereie. Federation Recon.” He showed his badge again. “The ship's old, unregistered, and heavily modified, yes. But she’s clean. Salvager class. Registered under the name Void Widow.”

  Vermond almost smiled. He hadn’t even named it yet.

  The officer glanced at the suited crew. “They don’t speak?”

  “Radiation accident,” Erie replied quickly. “Severe throat damage. That’s why I wear the badge. I do the talking.”

  The guard stared a moment longer… then finally nodded.

  “Get your ship logged properly next time. And keep it away from primary docks. You’re spooking the other crews.”

  “Understood,” Erie said, bowing lightly.

  The guards turned and left. The moment they were gone, Vermond finally breathed again.

  Inside the ship, the cargo closed, and the suited undead stood in perfect silence, unmoving.

  Erie sat on a nearby crate and looked at Vermond.

  “That was close.”

  Vermond walked slowly to the main corridor and touched the wall.

  “They didn’t even notice,” he whispered.

  “The masks work,” Erie replied.

  Vermond turned toward him, half-grinning, half-exhausted. “Then we keep moving.”

  The undead wore their masks of flesh and thread. The destroyer played its part. But something beneath its metal hide pulsed with power… and memory.

  The cold metallic hum of the destroyer’s prison wing echoed with unnatural rhythm. Vermond stood before the sealed cell, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Inside, the cleanser sat hunched and silent, eyes closed as if meditating—or plotting.

  But as the heavy doors creaked open, the creature stirred.

  Vermond stepped closer, a wicked idea sparking in his mind. “You’ve been pretty quiet,” he muttered. “And I’ve been thinking…”

  The cleanser’s eyes flicked open, glowing faintly.

  Vermond smirked. “This station has an underground auction house, doesn’t it?”

  The cleanser narrowed his gaze.

  Vermond tilted his head. “What if… I sell you there?”

  The cell bars rattled as the cleanser lunged forward, snarling. “You bastard! I am no prize to be sold!”

  Erie, standing just behind Vermond, raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Well, you're not exactly good company either. Maybe someone out there wants a glowing, angry mystery wrapped in rags.”

  Vermond turned to him. “We could use the credits.”

  Erie shrugged, arms behind his head. “Better than you spacing him.”

  Moments later, the two had the cleanser restrained in a reinforced containment cage—arms and legs bound in salvaged cuffs, mouth muzzled just enough to silence his roars but leave his expression visible.

  They covered the cage with a cloak and wheeled it down the destroyer’s ramp with eerie calm. Five of the undead, still wearing old space suits, followed in a quiet procession.

  As they entered the deeper district of the station—a rusted corridor with flickering lights and thick crowds—the stares started.

  Dozens of scavengers, smugglers, and mercenaries turned their heads as the strange procession passed. Murmurs filled the hall.

  “What's in the cage?”

  “Another beast for auction?”

  “Looks Federation…”

  Erie leaned close to Vermond, whispering behind his gloved hand. “We’re drawing too much attention.”

  “Good,” Vermond replied calmly. “Let them look.”

  The auction gate loomed ahead—an old metallic arch with a retinal scanner and a thick steel door behind it. A cloaked man waited, flanked by two guards in scavenged armor.

  The cloaked man eyed the cage. “Another entry for tonight’s bidding?”

  Vermond nodded. “Something rare. Still alive.”

  The cloaked man gestured with his hand. “Bring it in.”

  As the doors opened and swallowed them into the shadows, the cleanser growled, his voice muffled by the restraints.

  Vermond leaned in, smiling just enough for the cleanser to see.

  “I hope they bid high.”

  The auction hall was dimly lit, smoke trailing across the ground from hidden vents, giving the place an overly dramatic air. A metallic voice echoed from speakers above:

  > “Welcome, esteemed guests, to tonight’s Special Auction Lot. Please remain seated, keep your weapons holstered, and enjoy the show.”

  Vermond stood near the back, leaning against a rusted pillar, arms crossed. Erie was beside him, fidgeting slightly, whispering, “This is… illegal, right?”

  “Very,” Vermond replied, deadpan.

  The stage lit up with a sudden spotlight. The auctioneer, a flamboyant-looking man with a glittery coat two sizes too big, took the mic.

  “Tonight’s rare offering is something never before seen in this sector! Found drifting, alive, and angry—we present to you… a living Cleanser.”

  Gasps echoed across the crowd. A group of black-market scientists in white coats nearly jumped to their feet. The cage was wheeled onto the stage, the cloak dramatically pulled off.

  The cleanser snarled, fighting against his restraints. His eyes glowed with fury, and one of the scientists immediately raised his bidding device.

  “Starting at 500,000 credits!” the auctioneer shouted.

  “550,000!” yelled the scientist.

  “600,000!” said a shady-looking merchant with glowing tattoos.

  “800,000!” shouted another in a lab coat who was visibly sweating.

  The cleanser howled.

  Erie whispered, “Are they bidding for research or for torture?”

  Vermond muttered, “Hopefully both. We need the credits.”

  “950,000!” came a voice from the balcony. A woman in a black veil with crimson lipstick waved a small fan, her voice silky. “I want him alive and very, very awake.”

  The cleanser thrashed harder.

  “One million!” shouted a nervous bald man with an eye-patch. “He’ll look great in my collection!”

  Vermond raised an eyebrow. “Collection?”

  Erie gulped. “Maybe don’t ask.”

  “One-point-two million!” cried a scientist in panic, clenching his fists. “I NEED to poke him!”

  The auctioneer clapped like a maniac. “SOLD! To the gentleman in the nervous sweat for 1.2 million credits!”

  The crowd clapped. The cleanser stared at Vermond from the cage, his eyes promising future murder.

  Vermond simply smiled and waved as they wheeled him away.

  Back at the destroyer, Erie tossed the digital credit chip in the air. “So… what are we spending this on first?”

  Vermond shrugged. “Probably more suits. Maybe armor plating.”

  Erie sighed. “I was hoping for a new bed…”

  “You can get a blanket. Let’s not spoil you.”

  The vendor district near the edge of the space station buzzed with noise—traders shouting deals, parts clanking, neon lights flickering above displays of weapons, ship armor, and exotic tech. Erie walked beside Vermond, flipping the credit chip between his fingers.

  “So we’re buying armor and weapons first, right?” Erie asked.

  Vermond nodded, scanning a display of sleek plasma turrets and reinforced hull plating. “Yeah. We need to make the ship look more legit, functional. Salvager disguise has to hold up in a scan.”

  “Exactly. No creepy vibes. No black aura. Just metal and bolts.”

  But Vermond had already stopped. His attention was drawn to the far end of the vendor street, where a large object rested on a raised platform, covered in soft light and encased by protective glass. He walked closer, Erie trailing behind.

  “Vermond?” Erie asked. “We passed the guns. You don’t need a—”

  Vermond stood frozen in front of it.

  There it was. A sleek, brand-new Salvager Drone, almost the size of a small fighter. Polished white hull, deep-blue trimming. Its body bore multiple ports: high-definition scanners, thermal cameras, radiation analyzers, and a high-strength gravitational puller arm, designed for hauling massive debris. A built-in cargo bay was visible underneath its chassis, complete with a pressurized lock system.

  Its name was printed on the side in silver letters:

  HawkEye XR-7

  Erie blinked. “Okay. Big… uh… impressive. But unnecessary.”

  Vermond didn't hear him. In his mind, a memory surfaced.

  He was younger, sitting beside his grandfather on their old salvage ship, watching a broadcast on a cracked screen. The XR-7 gleamed on the broadcast, and his grandfather leaned in close, eyes shining.

  > “That’s the future of salvaging, kid. That drone? Could cut our time in half. Reliable, tough, doesn’t ask for lunch. Maybe one day…”

  The memory faded. Vermond stepped forward.

  “How much?” he asked the vendor.

  “Original price?” the vendor said. “Two million.”

  Erie choked. “Two—”

  “But…” the vendor eyed them both. “You seem like a man with sharp instincts. Let’s say… one point one.”

  Erie leaned in. “Vermond, we need armor, guns—shields. This is just a drone. One drone.”

  Vermond didn’t reply. He simply placed the credit chip on the table.

  “One point one,” he said firmly.

  The vendor grinned wide and began prepping the delivery protocols.

  Erie sighed and muttered, “Well… goodbye armor.”

  As the drone was loaded into their docked destroyer later, Vermond stood beside it silently, running his hand across the polished hull. Erie joined him after a moment, arms crossed.

  “You better be happy,” Erie said. “I was going to buy coffee with that extra credit.”

  Vermond glanced at him with a small grin. “It was worth it.”

  In the reflection of the drone’s metal, for just a second, he thought he saw his grandfather smiling

  The hangar bay inside the undead destroyer wasn’t made for elegance. Its interior was dark, damp in places, and lined with pipes that pulsed with eerie energy. But now, it held something new—something that shimmered like a relic out of time.

  The HawkEye XR-7 Salvager Drone hovered slightly above the floor, just powered up. The moment it activated, blue light pulsed from its sensors, scanning the bay like it was stretching after a long sleep. The undead, still wearing their old but now upgraded space suits, worked around it, prepping tools and integration cables—each move silent, coordinated without need for orders.

  Vermond stood with Erie near the drone, holding a tablet they salvaged from the station. It had been wiped and repurposed to serve as the drone's control panel.

  “You really gonna fly this thing yourself?” Erie asked, arms folded.

  “I’m not flying it. I’m syncing it,” Vermond replied, placing his hand on the drone’s surface.

  The orb around his neck pulsed faintly, as if acknowledging the drone.

  The XR-7’s systems responded.

  > [Neural Sync Detected.]

  [Processing...]

  [Pilot Signature: Unknown Biological Pattern.]

  [Override Accepted.]

  [XR-7 Linked to Command Core.]

  The drone's lights turned purple for a moment—briefly matching the eerie hue of Vermond’s powers—before reverting back to blue.

  “Of course it links with your creepy magic,” Erie muttered.

  One of the undead crew, this one still wearing half a Federation engineer uniform, walked over and handed Vermond a tool. Its helmet shifted slightly—acknowledging him, waiting for command.

  “We’re going to test it,” Vermond said, turning to Erie. “I want to see what this beauty can do.”

  The destroyer’s rear bay door opened, revealing the stars.

  The XR-7 floated forward, its engines humming softly. A console extended from the floor—made from salvaged parts—and displayed a view from the drone’s cameras. It moved like a ghost—smooth, silent, yet deliberate.

  Vermond tapped the console. The drone activated its gravitational puller, aimed at a drifting hunk of ship metal outside. With a focused pulse, it yanked the debris straight into its cargo hold.

  “Damn,” Erie muttered. “That thing’s strong.”

  The drone moved on, scanning distant wreckage. Its radar lit up—revealing several small derelict satellites, containers, and unmarked cargo boxes drifting in a nearby debris belt.

  Vermond grinned. “Time to get to work.”

  Within twenty minutes, the XR-7 returned, its cargo bay full of stripped materials—electronics, intact panels, and even an old Federation beacon still blinking red.

  Back in the hangar, the undead offloaded the drone with precision. The materials were sent into the workshop area, where other undead were already upgrading the destroyer’s systems. New plating was being fused to the hull, electrical systems reworked, and the bridge consoles began to show cleaner readings.

  As Vermond leaned against a wall, watching it all unfold, Erie approached.

  “You know… for something dead, this ship’s becoming more alive than most.”

  Vermond nodded, eyes following the drone.

  “It’s not just a ship anymore,” he said. “It’s part of me now.”

  And somewhere deep within the destroyer, the orb pulsed—quietly feeding on energy, watching... waiting.

  The artificial sun of the station’s upper ring beamed faint light over the sprawling docks as Vermond and Erie stepped out once again. The buzz of commerce, chatter, and low whirring machines filled the air. Above, transports and frigates drifted in and out of the hangar fields like great mechanical whales.

  Vermond checked the terminal on his wrist. 100,000 credits left. Not bad, considering they’d just walked away with a drone that would’ve made any salvager drool.

  As they made their way down the station's metal corridors, their path crossed with a strange, almost comedic sight—the scientist who had won the auction for the cleanser was now overseeing the loading of the creature into a small, specialized Federation frigate.

  The cleanser was bound, still inside its cage—but its eyes locked onto Vermond. The moment it saw him, it began to thrash, growling in some language Vermond didn’t understand.

  Vermond tilted his head and gave a slow, amused smile.

  “Bastard!” the cleanser roared, its voice muffled by the shock collar.

  Then the scientist—an older man with a long, lab-stained coat and a datapad clutched in his trembling hand—pressed something.

  ZZZZZT.

  The cleanser screamed, jolted violently by a sudden burst of electricity coursing through its restraints. It collapsed, twitching.

  “Calm, calm... don’t ruin your price tag,” the scientist muttered, waving to the guards. “Get it on board. We're going to have fun learning what makes you tick.”

  Erie glanced at Vermond. “You really just smiled at that thing?”

  “It started it,” Vermond replied with a casual shrug.

  They moved on, walking past colorful vendor stalls—mech parts, data chips, second-hand armor, synthetic food packs—and eventually stopped at a corner café on the lower commercial deck. It was cramped, built into the side of the station like it had been welded there in a hurry, but it served hot coffee, and that was enough.

  Erie took a long sip and sighed. “Finally... a warm drink.”

  Vermond took a seat across from him, his fingers wrapped around a steaming cup. For a moment, the chaos of necromantic ships and auctions faded into the hum of station life.

  Then Vermond leaned forward.

  “Erie,” he said, voice calm but curious. “Would you like to join me?”

  Erie blinked, confused at first. “What do you mean? Join you again?”

  Vermond tilted his head. “Yeah. For real this time.”

  Erie grinned. “I already did. Hours ago.”

  There was a pause.

  Vermond smiled. “Welcome to the fleet, Erie.”

  They shook hands over the table.

  A group of station miners sitting nearby glanced their way. One of them squinted at Erie’s badge—a Federation pilot insignia still clearly pinned to his jacket.

  “Hey... you think that salvager-looking guy made a deal with a Fed?” one of the miners whispered.

  “Maybe,” another replied, biting into a protein wrap. “Or maybe that Fed switched sides.”

  Back at the dock, the destroyer sat silently, watching, waiting. Its shape had been altered—less monstrous now, more industrial. But its heart hadn’t changed.

  Inside, the undead worked tirelessly, repairing, upgrading, obeying the thoughts of their silent commander.

  The fleet was beginning to take form.

  And the stars waited.

  The rich scent of coffee still lingered between them when Vermond suddenly stiffened in his seat. A dim glow pulsed from the center of his chest—subtle, barely visible under his dark jacket. Erie noticed it and raised an eyebrow.

  “You good?” he asked.

  Vermond didn’t answer immediately.

  A whisper drifted through his mind like smoke through a ruined corridor—"I'm still watching you..."

  The voice.

  The Watcher.

  Vermond didn’t flinch. He stared into his coffee, letting the warmth fill the silence between him and the whispering presence. He knew better now. He understood what it wanted.

  And he would give nothing.

  He slowly took another sip, then stood. “Let’s go. The destroyer’s still too recognizable.”

  Back in the bustling market levels, Vermond scanned through vendor terminals and storage databases until he found what he needed—a cheap, sturdy hull. Old cargo ship plating, enough to coat the skeletal frame of his undead destroyer and change its silhouette.

  "Only 40,000 credits," the merchant said, surprised someone actually wanted it.

  Vermond transferred the credits. 60,000 remaining.

  Before long, station personnel brought in the stacked hull panels on hover carriers, guiding them carefully through the cargo lanes to the edge of Dock 9, where Vermond’s destroyer loomed like a sleeping beast.

  As the workers approached, they paused.

  One of them muttered, “That’s a... destroyer?”

  “Doesn’t look right,” another added, rubbing his arms. “Gives me goosebumps.”

  Then, the airlock hissed.

  Five figures stepped out of the destroyer.

  They wore mismatched, bulky space suits, faces hidden behind darkened visors—but something was off. Their movements were too synchronized. Too… dead.

  The workers froze, but the suited figures didn’t stop. They moved with purpose, grabbing tools and welders from the dockside crates and beginning to attach the hull plating.

  Before long, more undead exited the ship—ten, fifteen, maybe more. All clad in old, tattered suits, their steps mechanical. There was no need for commands. They simply knew what Vermond wanted.

  And above them all, the new salvager drone floated through the air, its scanners blinking and manipulator arms moving efficiently as it carried heavy panels to the proper locations, assisting the undead like a loyal machine companion.

  Vermond and Erie stood back, watching the transformation unfold.

  Erie shook his head, a mixture of awe and discomfort on his face. “They really don’t need orders?”

  “No,” Vermond said quietly. “They listen to thoughts… feelings.”

  “And the Watcher?” Erie asked, not looking at him.

  Vermond glanced at his own chest, where the glow had faded. “Still watching.”

  And somewhere, in the corners of the void, something unseen smiled.

  The screech of welding tools and the low hum of servos filled the dock.

  Undead in faded space suits swarmed the destroyer's outer hull like mechanical ants, their movements smooth, eerie, and precise. Panels clanged into place, sparks flashed, and the salvager drone glided through the air, carrying metallic pieces with a quiet loyalty.

  Everything was coming together.

  But Vermond, for once, was thinking about comfort.

  He slipped away from the docks, walking alone into the market’s quieter section. Erie had gone to check the inventory on spare energy cells, so Vermond wandered—almost aimlessly—until something caught his eye.

  A couch.

  Big. Soft. Old but sturdy. The fabric was worn, but clearly well-kept, with a muted green tone that reminded him of something… perhaps his grandfather's little rest spot inside their salvager ship. It could seat five people, maybe more if they squeezed.

  “Only 1,000 credits,” the vendor said, raising an eyebrow. “You sure? It's a little bulky for—whatever it is you’re flying.”

  Vermond just nodded and paid. “Send it to Dock 9. Near the destroyer.”

  The vendor didn’t question it. Just shrugged and flagged two station personnel.

  Minutes later, the delivery crew wheeled the couch on a low hover-sled through the docking zone. As they neared the massive ship, they slowed down.

  One of the personnel blinked. “Are those… people? Or…”

  The other muttered, “Just… just put it down. Right there.”

  Vermond emerged from the shadow of the ship’s belly, nodded once, and without another word, two undead walked calmly from the airlock. Still wearing their battered suits, they grabbed the couch without effort and carried it inside like practiced furniture movers.

  Inside the bridge, past the dim lights and cracked walls of the command deck, the undead placed the couch right behind the command seat, facing the main viewing window. They adjusted it slowly. Perfectly.

  Vermond entered the bridge and sank into the seat.

  He leaned back.

  For the first time since everything began… it felt oddly like home.

  Not warm.

  Not safe.

  But his.

  Then time passed.

  The artificial lights above flickered weakly as Vermond and Erie walked deeper into the underbelly of the station. The usual buzz of vendors and echo of loud negotiations faded behind them, replaced by the quiet, hollow sound of footsteps.

  “Vermond,” Erie called, glancing around. “This part of the station… it’s practically abandoned.”

  “I know,” Vermond said, pausing to observe the dark, rust-lined hallway ahead.

  And then, they saw them.

  Huddled in corners, sprawled against cold metal walls, a group of people lay motionless—starved, dehydrated, forgotten.

  Some still breathed. Barely.

  Others just stared ahead, their gazes empty, flickering like candlelight waiting to be snuffed out. No cries for help. Just the slow, inevitable descent into death.

  Vermond’s steps faltered.

  His eyes flicked to the nearest wall—no cameras. No surveillance.

  Erie moved closer, voice low. “They’re suffering.”

  And then... it happened again.

  The orb on Vermond’s chest glowed faintly, as if responding to the silence and sorrow.

  A whisper, cold and intimate, crawled into his mind:

  “Take their souls. End their suffering.”

  Vermond clenched his fist. “No. Not like this.”

  But the whisper lingered, like a shadow that wouldn’t leave. His gaze wandered—their ribs visible, their eyes sunken, one clutching a thin blanket and shaking. They had nothing left. Not even hope.

  “Vermond,” Erie asked quietly, “What… are you going to do?”

  A long silence. Vermond scanned the corridor again. Still no witnesses. No movement.

  He stepped forward.

  Then, slowly, he reached out, brushing his hand across each of the 23 dying figures—marking them, his fingers glowing faintly.

  One by one, he drew his blaster, hand trembling only for a second.

  Pshhht.

  Pshhht.

  Pshhht.

  Soft sounds in the dark.

  Each one gone in an instant.

  No screams.

  Only silence.

  And when it was over, Vermond stood still, eyes heavy.

  The numbers in his gaze shifted—from 45 to 68.

  Erie was silent for a moment, staring at Vermond. Then he finally spoke, voice hollow.

  “You... you spared them the worst. I didn’t think you would…”

  “I didn’t want to,” Vermond replied.

  They turned away from the lifeless corridor, stepping quietly back toward the brighter market floors.

  But as they walked, Vermond paused—his chest tingled.

  The orb pulsed once more.

  And in the stillness, the Watcher’s voice returned.

  “I’m smiling, little necromancer.”

  Vermond said nothing.

  But his jaw tightened.

  The vibrant marketplace returned around them—full of lights, smells, and chatter—but something had shifted. Even the neon flicker of vendor signs felt dull compared to the silence they left behind.

  Vermond moved a little slower. Erie walked beside him, hands in his pockets, glancing toward his friend with a sideward look.

  “I don't have a choice,” Vermond finally muttered.

  Erie didn’t answer at first. Then he sighed.

  “You don’t need to be. They were already gone… you just made it faster.”

  Vermond nodded silently, the heavy weight of souls still pressing behind his eyes.

  As they turned the next corner toward the line of vendors, the sky above them suddenly shifted—the ceiling of the station transformed, shimmering with the flickering blue of a massive holographic projection.

  The usual station ads vanished, replaced by a bold logo of the Federation Broadcast Network. Then, a suited anchor appeared, her voice echoing across the corridors.

  “Tensions have reached critical levels—war has officially broken out between the Federation and the Folako Empire. Our fleets are mobilizing to defend border systems. Civilians are urged to remain calm.”

  Gasps rose from the crowd.

  A growing group gathered beneath the broadcast, heads tilted upward. Some clutched loved ones. Others simply stared.

  The image shifted to footage—Federation warships, hundreds of them, launching from a distant dock. Missile bays arming. Fighters swarming like flies.

  Erie tensed beside Vermond.

  “War…” someone in the crowd whispered. “Oh god, please protect us.”

  Another voice, panicked: “Isn’t Folako only four systems away?”

  More murmurs followed, building like a storm cloud of dread.

  Vermond kept his eyes on the flickering war footage.

  So much steel, so many lives. So much noise.

  And behind it, he felt it again—

  Not the Watcher.

  Not even the orb.

  Just something in his chest, burning low and slow.

  War was coming.

  And it wasn’t just between empires.

  A loud, droning hum echoed through the space station—followed by an immediate broadcast in every direction. Red warning lights flashed as a deep automated voice announced,

  "Warning: Federation warships entering local space. Prepare for docking procedures. Civilians advised to remain calm and avoid restricted sectors."

  Outside the observation glass, space shimmered—then fractured like a mirror. Massive Federation warships ripped through warp-space, emerging in elegant, terrifying formation. At least a dozen destroyers, three battleships, and a swarm of smaller escorts settled into the station's orbit. Their arrival brought panic in waves.

  Merchants packed their goods with shaking hands. Cargo bots overloaded with crates bumped into each other in a frantic dance. Civilians screamed. Parents grabbed children. Guards yelled over the intercoms, trying to keep order as Federation troops began deploying into the station’s docking rings.

  Erie stood beside Vermond, his hand unconsciously reaching for his badge, his face pale.

  "That’s... the Second Fleet. They're not just passing through—this is war deployment," he muttered.

  Vermond narrowed his eyes, his senses twitching. The Watcher was quiet, too quiet. But his orb pulsed softly, like a heartbeat syncing with the tension around him.

  "This is worse than I thought... they brought the war here."

  Below them, people began flooding the terminals and exits. Evacuation had already begun. Shuttles queued in long lines outside the docks. Some desperate merchants shouted to sell their wares for any amount of credits. Others simply abandoned everything.

  "Look at them," Erie whispered. "They're all terrified. The Folako Empire must've struck harder than we thought."

  A loud curse from a vendor nearby cut through the noise.

  "Dammit! I’ve been here twenty years and now they bring this hell to us?!"

  Others joined in, yelling, throwing boxes, some even breaking their own stalls.

  Meanwhile, on Dock 9—the disguised undead destroyer sat quiet, cloaked behind salvaged hulls. The undead crew inside paused only briefly before continuing their tasks. The couch on the bridge shook slightly as more Federation ships warped in—another full squadron, their engines rumbling like thunder.

  Vermond turned to Erie, eyes narrowing.

  "We need to finish our preparations. The war is spreading—and the Federation’s grip is tightening."

  Erie nodded. “Then we better vanish before they figure out what ship we’re really flying.”

  Vermond glanced back one more time at the chaos. His fingers brushed the orb under his shirt.

  "This place won’t be safe for long."

  As the last shuttle roared out of the station’s upper dock, leaving a plume of exhaust and frightened whispers in its wake, Vermond’s eyes narrowed.

  Merchants had run.

  Panic always opened doors.

  He tapped a soft signal on the command panel hidden in his coat sleeve. Far below in the docking bay, the disguised undead destroyer pulsed faintly. Five undead, still dressed in mismatched old combat and civilian space suits, stirred silently in the darkness.

  Without a word spoken, they stepped off the ship.

  No one noticed them—everyone was too busy screaming, fleeing, or arguing at security checkpoints.

  The undead moved like shadows, heading straight to the abandoned market stalls. Many were overturned or half-looted, but dozens of crates still sat untouched beneath vendor tables, hidden under tarps or forgotten in the rush.

  Erie watched them from behind a pillar, shaking his head. “This is messed up... and efficient.”

  Vermond crossed his arms. “This is what we do. Salvage.”

  Within minutes, the undead returned with boxes stacked high—crates filled with canned synth-food, nutrient packs, bottles of water and emergency rations. One of them carried two pulse rifles, clearly looted from a deserted guard booth.

  “Just two rifles,” Erie said, taking one and checking its battery level. “Still loaded. Lucky.”

  Another undead staggered in with a stack of ration bars nearly his height. The others carried what they could. Vermond’s drone hovered nearby, beeping and helping transport the heavier cargo back to the destroyer.

  By the end of it all, they had salvaged enough food to last them months. A silent harvest in the middle of the chaos.

  As the last undead entered the ship with their arms full, Vermond smiled to himself.

  Let the Federation worry about the war.

  He had just won a battle in silence.

  The station’s calm had twisted into knots.

  More Federation warships had warped in—six of them, all lined in the high orbit above the station, with fighter patrols now sweeping the docking lanes. The local guards, replaced by Federation security personnel in blue-white armor, now inspected every ship, every manifest, every face.

  Vermond stood still at the destroyer's entrance, arms crossed, watching.

  The disguised hull held—no one looked twice at it yet. But their time was short.

  Erie stepped beside him, holding his Federation pilot badge like a shield. “I’ve got this. Just follow my lead.”

  Moments later, two officers approached, their helmets tucked under one arm, their expressions sharp with suspicion. One of them locked eyes on Erie and stopped.

  “Pilot Erie,” the officer said, glancing at the badge. “You’re listed as MIA. Status?”

  Erie straightened, gave a crisp nod. “Recovered. Temporary civilian assignment under emergency salvage duty.”

  The other officer narrowed his eyes. “That your ship?”

  “Yes,” Erie answered quickly. “Modified for salvage. Nothing illegal.”

  The two officers exchanged glances, clearly unconvinced. Vermond kept quiet, every inch of him radiating calm. The undead behind the ship’s sealed hatch waited motionless, unseen.

  Erie then saw his chance.

  “Also,” he added, lowering his voice, “I want to report something urgent. High-level concern.”

  That caught their attention.

  “Aboard the Verdict Fang, Carlos de Fallen attacked Vice-Captain Yurell. Direct insubordination. I don’t know his current location... but he’s dangerous.”

  The officers froze for a moment. One of them tapped into his wrist console immediately, murmuring something low.

  The other stared hard at Erie. “And what of the corvette explosion?”

  “I wasn’t near it,” Erie replied, half-truth in his eyes. “I escaped during the ambush. That’s all I can confirm.”

  The officer didn’t press further. “We’ll log the report. And we’ll be watching.”

  They moved on.

  Erie exhaled.

  Vermond looked sideways at him. “Nice play.”

  “I just bought us more time,” Erie muttered. “And maybe started the fire under Carlos’s feet.”

  From the upper levels of the station, new alarms rang—more inspections, more restrictions. But as they walked back into the ship, Vermond grinned.

  Because now, one hunter just became the hunted.

  The sound of welding sparked through the station’s docking bay.

  Undead in worn space suits clung to the disguised destroyer, hammering metal plates into place. The salvager drone hovered nearby, extending long limbs to fasten the last of the massive hull cover. The illusion was nearly perfect—it looked like a derelict cargo hauler now, not the undead horror that had torn its way across the void.

  Vermond and Erie stood by one of the station’s open viewports, watching the massive holoscreen that hovered above the plaza.

  The news broadcast flickered to life with a cold Federation insignia.

  > "Breaking: Sector 12 through 16 have fallen under coordinated Folako Empire assaults. Civilian evacuation is underway. Fleet resistance remains ongoing."

  The screen shifted to distant footage of ships in battle—Federation destroyers turning in tight arcs, firing volleys of plasma and railgun slugs into streaking Folako cruisers.

  Then, the tone changed.

  > "Federation High Command has deployed MOTHER SHIP: The Celestial Judicator. Mobilizing from Luna’s shadow."

  The screen shook.

  A camera feed locked onto The Celestial Judicator, rising from Saturn’s orbit—an immense black titan shaped like a blade piercing through the void.

  Ten times the size of a standard battleship.

  Its hull glowed with blue lines of energy, and its surface bristled with dozens of massive gun batteries and fighter hangars. From a distance, it looked like a moving space station—a city built for war.

  Erie’s eyes widened. “That’s the mother ship... I’ve only heard rumors. They actually moved it.”

  Vermond stepped closer, his voice quieter. “It’s like a floating continent…”

  His gaze followed the enormous vessel as it began to warp, disappearing into a rift of light, followed by escort fleets.

  The crowd watching around them stood still—silent awe and fear wrapped around their breath.

  The war wasn’t coming.

  It was already here.

  Behind them, the final piece of hull clamped into place, and the salvager drone buzzed, letting out a confirming chime. The destroyer was now completely disguised.

  “Guess we’re part of this now, huh?” Erie said, still staring at the fading light where the mother ship had been.

  Vermond didn’t respond.

  But in his chest, the orb pulsed—slow and steady.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  The station shook faintly under the weight of tension. Crowds scattered, and military patrols increased—but aboard the disguised destroyer, silence reigned.

  Vermond stood near the command seat, his eyes narrowing.

  “We need a better map,” he muttered.

  He didn’t even finish the sentence before the undead moved.

  One by one, they peeled away from the walls like shadows. Fifty of them—suited in old Federation space suits, mismatched and rusted—filed silently out of the docking bay like a phantom crew on a mission.

  Erie glanced over. “Uh... you ordered that?”

  Vermond shook his head. “Not really…”

  Time passed. Ten minutes. Then twenty.

  The undead returned.

  Most were empty-handed. One was holding a dented ration pack. Another carried what might’ve once been a vendor’s lamp.

  But then—one figure stepped forward.

  In its gloved, unshaking hands… was a sealed, high-security Federation datacore. The kind only authorized officers had access to.

  Vermond blinked. “Wait… is that...?”

  The undead dropped it onto the console.

  A quiet thunk.

  Erie leaned in, brows furrowed. “No way that’s what I think it is.”

  The interface shimmered—lights running across the panel. Then the bridge dimmed as a massive holographic map unfolded above them, stretching across the ceiling, floor, and walls like a planetarium from another reality.

  It was alive.

  Not just sector routes and coordinates.

  But empires.

  Massive, swirling empires with their colors, flags, fleet strength projections, and active warzones.

  The Federation marked in blue. The Folako Empire in red. Dozens of others, then hundreds… then thousands.

  The map zoomed out further—still expanding—until the known galaxy became a mere sliver.

  Vermond staggered back.

  “What the hell…” he whispered.

  It just kept going.

  Over one hundred thousand recognized empires—some small as systems, others vast as regions. All tangled in politics, war, silence.

  Erie checked the datacore again. “This kind of map… is restricted to high command level. The cost for one of these is more than a hundred million credits. Only command centers on mother ships or fortress stations have access to it.”

  They both turned to the undead that had brought it.

  It stood motionless.

  Expressionless.

  “How… did you even… get this?” Erie asked aloud, though knowing he’d never get an answer.

  The undead said nothing.

  Vermond leaned back into the command seat, staring at the swirling cosmos above them.

  “I thought I knew space,” he muttered. “I was wrong.”

  The orb in his chest pulsed slowly.

  As if amused.

  The space station shook again—not from weapons fire, but the howl of sirens.

  “ALERT: FEDERATION HIGH-LEVEL INTEL THEFT DETECTED.”

  “ADVANCED SECTORIAL MAP—MISSING.”

  “ALL DOCKING BAY ACTIVITY LOCKED. SECURITY LEVEL RED.”

  The alarm echoed through the station halls. Soldiers marched, drones scanned, officers shouted into comms. Panic returned—different from before. This time it wasn’t war—it was theft.

  Inside the undead destroyer, it was strangely quiet.

  Vermond stood with his arms crossed, watching the map shimmer in the center of the bridge. The undead crew handled it with uncanny care, placing the core and projectors like sacred relics, embedding them directly into the floor panels around the command seat.

  This was no ordinary map now. This was the heart of the ship.

  “...We’re not giving it back,” Vermond said at last, his voice calm. “We’re keeping it.”

  Erie gave a dry laugh. “You think?”

  “I mean it.” Vermond looked out the viewport. “They can throw fleets at us if they want. But this map… This is our edge.”

  The destroyer was nearly finished—patched, covered with salvaged hull, lined with hidden scars. If someone stared too long, they’d know something was wrong, but from a glance, it looked like any other hauler-turned-salvager.

  “All systems docked and sealed,” Erie reported. “Engines are hot, the drone’s secured, and your couch is somehow still intact.”

  Vermond smirked. “We’re moving out.”

  But then he paused. His eyes turned back to the map—and zoomed in.

  “There,” he pointed. A glowing sector buzzed to life. “That station. The Black Spire. Capitalized by traders, smugglers, even ex-Federation officers. No law, just commerce.”

  “And danger,” Erie added.

  Vermond nodded. “Yeah. But if we want an advanced cloaking system—that’s where we’ll find it.”

  The sirens wailed again outside. Federation search parties were combing the docks, inspecting each ship.

  Inside, the destroyer’s lights dimmed.

  The undead manning the core interface turned toward Vermond silently, as if waiting for a command.

  Vermond clenched a fist. “Prepare for launch. Take us to the Black Spire.”

  As the engines thrummed, and the last undead clicked the final piece of the map into place at the bridge center, a low pulse rippled through the ship—as if the destroyer itself understood what was coming.

  A new adventure had begun.

  And Vermond’s fleet was now far beyond anyone’s understanding.