Vermond and Erie stepped out from the shadowed hangar of the undead destroyer, into the Black Spire’s belly.
The massive docking bay spread out like a city unto itself—metallic catwalks, multi-tiered stalls, and looming freighters docked alongside sleek stealth crafts. Steam hissed from exhaust vents, and neon signs blinked in dozens of alien languages. Overhead, skywalks crisscrossed like spiderwebs, crawling with all types of life: traders, mercs, engineers, nobles, even bounty hunters.
The Black Spire was alive. More alive than any place they’d walked into since this war started.
Vermond adjusted his coat, hood low, watching the crowds. The undead didn’t follow—they waited inside the destroyer like shadows coiled in silence.
Erie exhaled beside him. “It got bigger.”
“Or we just got smaller,” Vermond muttered, scanning the towering skyline inside the Spire’s core structure.
Massive holo-panels blinked above, showing headlines in rapid succession:
> “Federation advances toward Folako borders.”
>“Civilian planets demand peace.”
>“Criminals captured—bounties doubled.”
>“Black Spire trade peak surges.”
The smell of ozone, oil, and spice filled the air. A woman in chrome-plated armor brushed past with glowing vials strapped to her belt. A towering four-armed merchant shouted in a language Erie didn’t understand, tossing spools of cable onto a hover-cart.
And through all of this, Vermond walked silently, eyes sharp. Every second, he could feel it—eyes watching. Spies, informants, desperate souls. This place was opportunity, but also a trap waiting to snap shut.
Erie leaned closer. “Where first? Cloaking device vendor?”
Vermond gave the faintest smirk. “Yeah. Then maybe… we buy some peace before this whole sector burns.”
As they made their way toward the vendor district, weaving past cargo crates and crowds thick with tension, something shifted in the air—a ripple, almost like the hum of static before a storm.
Vermond’s steps slowed.
A man blocked their path. Not tall, not wide—but there was something wrong with him. His body was shrouded in a simple traveler's cloak, but it hung unnaturally, like the fabric didn’t quite agree with the laws of gravity. His face was hidden under a smooth black mask with no mouth, only two vertical slits for eyes. Behind him, two more figures stepped from the crowd, same cloaks, same silence.
Erie instinctively reached for his concealed blaster, but Vermond subtly held out a hand—wait.
The masked man tilted his head. Then, he spoke, voice muffled, but eerily calm:
“You carry something... ancient. Something that doesn’t belong to you.”
Vermond’s gaze narrowed. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
The man didn't move, didn’t flinch. “The orb. It was not made for you. And now the dead follow your voice.”
Erie tensed, whispering, “How the hell does he know about the orb?”
The crowd gave them space now, stepping back as if sensing something was about to explode.
Then the masked man slowly raised a hand—not to attack, but to offer something. A small, glowing triangle of crystal, pulsing softly. “There is more than one way to control death,” he said. “We are not enemies... yet.”
He dropped the crystal onto the ground between them.
Then, without another word, the three cloaked figures turned and melted into the crowd, vanishing as if they’d never been there.
Erie crouched and picked up the crystal. “What was that...?”
Vermond stared at the direction they vanished into. His heart thumped once, slow and heavy. The orb on his chest pulsed—not warmly this time, but like it had just been threatened.
“…Trouble,” he muttered. “But not now.”
And then he turned back toward the vendor alleys of the Black Spire, where the cloaking device—and answers—awaited.
Vermond and Erie stood in front of the vendor’s neon-lit stall, a sleek, obsidian Cloaking Drive rotating slowly above the counter in a display cage. Its surface shimmered with energy, like it was constantly vanishing and reappearing in fragments. A sign blinked in glowing letters:
“Advanced Destroyer-Class Cloak – 400,000 Credits – No Haggle.”
Erie tried his Federation card again.
[TRANSACTION DENIED]
“Of course…” Erie muttered.
The vendor leaned forward, a wrinkled old cyborg with half a plasma jaw and a monotone voice. “No credits. No cloak. Go sell your bones somewhere else.”
Vermond gave a fake chuckle, eyes already drifting behind the stall, toward the thick crowd pulsing through the market district of Black Spire. His hand brushed the edge of his coat, where the orb beneath his chest gave a low pulse… almost encouraging.
Then an idea sparked in his mind—dark, quiet, and efficient.
He turned to Erie. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Stay here, watch the vendor. Don’t move.”
Erie raised an eyebrow. “What are you gonna do?”
Vermond didn’t answer. He simply turned and walked back toward the docking bay.
Ten minutes later…
The market district bustled as usual. But beneath the crowd, hidden in plain sight, several undead wearing patched-up civilian suits and mismatched cloaks slinked between people. Silent, discreet, disturbingly coordinated.
They moved like ghosts.
One bumped into a merchant—apologized in a cracked, distorted voice—and slipped away. Another brushed past a group of traders, swiping chips from their belts. One even reached into a passing patrol officer’s coat, lifting a fat leather credit pouch with surgical precision.
No one noticed.
The undead disappeared into the alleys like oil into water.
Back at the vendor stall, Vermond returned, hands in his pockets.
The vendor didn’t even look up. “You again. Still broke?”
Vermond didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out a satchel, heavy with credit chips. “400,000. In Federation silvers.”
The vendor looked up sharply. “How the hell did—”
“Do you want to question it,” Vermond said coolly, “or do you want to make a sale?”
There was a beat of silence. Then the vendor nodded, input the transfer, and slid the cloaking device into a black storage cube.
“Pleasure doing business,” he muttered.
Vermond smirked and turned back toward Erie, who just stood there blinking.
“You didn’t kill anyone, right?”
“No,” Vermond said. “They’ll just feel lighter than usual today.”
Erie just stared. “You’re terrifying.”
“And efficient.”
As soon as Vermond handed off the cloaking device, a pair of undead silently took it, like shadows blending back into the crowd, synchronizing with his thoughts. No spoken word, no hand signal. They just knew what to do.
Erie glanced at Vermond as they walked. “Still creeps me out, man.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Vermond said. “They’re more obedient than any crew you've worked with.”
They turned a corner, and that’s when Vermond’s eyes locked onto something—a massive vendor stall draped in matte-black cloth, glowing signage above that read:
“BLACK OPS SURPLUS – CLEARANCE EVENT”
Inside, lined up like elite soldiers frozen in time, stood a hundred matte-black bulked space suits. Sleek, reinforced, with integrated stealth plating. These weren’t your average suits. These were ex-special ops gear—probably salvaged from a warfront.
Original price: 100,000 silvers bulk.
Now: 50,000 silvers.
Vermond blinked. “That’s... ridiculously cheap.”
Erie looked over them. “That’s almost a steal.”
Then Erie paused. His eyes widened slightly. “Wait. The cleanser. In the prison.”
Vermond smirked. “Auction it.”
They shared a look—and sprinted.
They navigated the twisting layers of the Black Spire station, following neon signs and scummy murmurs, until they found the underground auction house, buried in one of the station’s lower levels—a smoky, high-ceilinged place filled with traders, crime lords, and cloaked strangers.
A sign flashed at the entrance:
“LIVE AUCTIONS – Exotic Goods, Captured Tech, and Rare Specimens”
Vermond cracked his knuckles. “Let’s turn this captured pain into profit.”
The heavy bulkhead doors of the undead destroyer hissed open, releasing a thick fog from the internal pressure vents. From within the metallic shadows, four armored undead soldiers marched out in unison, dragging a large reinforced stasis pod. Inside, the cleanser twisted and growled in containment, glowing faintly in chains bound with necrotic energy.
Erie walked beside Vermond, glancing at the stasis pod.
“You sure this’ll work?”
“It’s worth 900,000 easy,” Vermond muttered. “We just need 50,000.”
Erie laughed. “Then let’s bankrupt some fools.”
Auction House — Lower Levels of Black Spire
The crowd buzzed with whispers and curiosity. The auctioneer, a sleek humanoid with four cybernetic eyes, tapped his crystal cane against the marble floor.
“Next item,” he crooned, “a live Cleanser—unspoiled, caged, and still radiating power. Brought in by… an unknown salvager crew.”
Eyes turned to Vermond and Erie, who stood in the shadows, masked in salvager gear.
The stasis pod rolled into view. The cleanser growled, shaking against its bonds. The crowd gasped.
“Starting bid at 900,000 credits.”
A slender Folako noble raised his card.
“900,000.”
A grizzled war veteran barked, “950,000.”
An alien trader laughed, “One million!”
Vermond watched silently, unmoved, as the numbers surged.
“1.3 million!”
“1.6!”
A figure cloaked in red leaned forward, voice low and oily. “2 million credits.”
The auctioneer laughed with delight. “Do I hear two-point-one—”
Erie leaned to Vermond. “We’re gonna own that bulk suit.”
The auction was already intense, bids flying left and right like a heated laser duel.
Then—Vermond stepped forward.
No one expected it. He raised a hand slowly.
The crowd hushed.
He cleared his throat dramatically.
Erie blinked. “Oh no.”
Vermond spoke, voice echoing across the grand chamber:
"A beast of void, a hunter by trade,
Chained in silence, its fury unswayed.
One sniff can erase a galaxy’s sin,
Why settle for less? Just bid and win."
The crowd stared.
Someone in the back yelled, “Did he just poetize a cleanser?!”
Another shouted, “That’s deep, man!”
Some noble’s monocle shattered.
“3 million!” the alien trader screamed.
“3.5!” barked the war veteran, shaking.
“FOUR MILLION!” shrieked a random junk lord, dramatically collapsing in his chair.
Vermond slowly bowed, hand on chest. “Its rage is a melody. Its hunger? An investment.”
Erie facepalmed.
The red-cloaked bidder stood up and roared, “FIVE MILLION, AND A MOON!”
The auctioneer banged his crystal cane, almost falling from excitement.
“SOLD! To the passionate poet bidder in red!”
The crowd erupted. Vermond just calmly stepped back beside Erie.
Erie: “You good?”
Vermond: “I rhymed my way into five million credits.”
Erie: “…We’re buying that damn space suit.”
The crowd was still murmuring in awe as the winning bidder approached Vermond, practically bowing.
He handed over a shimmering credit sphere—compact, glowing, and loaded with 5 million credits. Along with it, a slick black data chip, with golden etchings on the side.
Vermond raised a brow. “What’s this?”
The bidder beamed. “Coordinates to your moon. It's mostly volcanic and slightly cursed, but it’s all yours!”
Erie blinked twice. “We now… own a moon.”
Vermond smirked. “And five million credits.”
Erie let out a sigh-laugh hybrid. “All that for a damn suit…”
Cut to: The vendor stall.
The seller, a bulky insectoid creature, stared at the pair. “A hundred black space suits… you sure?”
Vermond tossed the credit sphere into the air, caught it coolly. “We’re very sure.”
Erie nodded. “It was always the plan. Obviously.”
The vendor hit the confirm button, and a hover-pallet of sleek black bulk suits slowly hovered out from the backroom, humming as it rolled past rows of stunned customers.
Vermond turned to Erie, smirking. “Mission accomplished?”
Erie: “Yeah. Except now we have 4.95 million credits… and a volcanic cursed moon.”
Vermond: “Sounds like a Tuesday.”
The cargo bay echoed with the hiss of pressurized crates opening. One by one, the undead stood silently as the new black space suits were distributed. Each suit, polished obsidian with thick reinforced plating, fit them like it had been made for them centuries ago.
Vermond stood on the upper walkway of the bay, arms crossed, watching them suit up.
Erie returned with a small crate under his arm, popping it open with a grin. Inside, a hundred salvager badges gleamed.
“They're not just monsters now,” Erie smirked, tossing a badge to one of the undead. “They’re licensed monsters.”
The undead moved in perfect synchronization, affixing the badges onto their chest plates like it was part of an ancient ritual.
Now lined up in formation, fully suited, armored, and identified, the undead looked less like shambling horrors and more like a ruthless elite force, like a forgotten special ops unit resurrected from the dead.
Vermond let out a quiet whistle. “Now all they need…”
“Is a proper rifle,” Erie said, finishing his sentence.
They both turned slowly… then looked at each other.
Erie: “Weapons vendor?”
Vermond: “Weapons vendor.”
The air grew thicker.
Vermond and Erie walked past the polished vendor booths and gleaming tech shops into a darker corner of the station—where lights flickered, and the floor felt sticky. A neon sign blinked above: "WEAPONS // CUSTOMS // DON'T ASK".
Inside, an old, crooked man hunched behind a makeshift counter cluttered with wires, smoking guns, and spare limbs—organic and not. His eyes scanned them like scanners themselves.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“You boys lookin’ to kill or scare?” he rasped.
Vermond just stepped forward, hands in pockets. “Something in between.”
The vendor chuckled, then pulled a dusty cloth off a crate with a dramatic flourish. Inside sat a sleek one-handed blaster rifle. But it wasn’t just the design that caught their attention—it had a small circular emitter mounted under the barrel, softly glowing blue.
“A personal beam shield,” the vendor grinned. “Activates on reflex. Charges with movement. You run, it powers up. You shoot, it deflects. Light as hell. Harder to find than a sober pilot in this sector.”
Erie picked it up—lightweight, perfectly balanced.
“Can we get a hundred?” Vermond asked, dead serious.
The vendor laughed, then paused. “Wait. You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” Vermond smirked. “And we’re paying in solid credits.”
The vendor blinked, then slowly leaned back, tapping a greasy console. “I might have… forty-eight. The rest? I’ll need a few hours.”
Vermond nodded. “You’ve got two.”
The vendor grinned wider than legally allowed. “Deal. I’ll even throw in holsters. You lads… runnin’ a militia?”
Erie smiled. “We’re salvagers.”
Back in the vendor's smoke-filled den, the deal was sealed for the rifles. But Vermond wasn’t done yet.
He turned his gaze toward another rack in the corner—grenades. Not just any grenades: compact, advanced types with multi-function toggles—EMP bursts, plasma explosions, or cryo-flash depending on how long you hold the trigger.
“How many?” the vendor asked, eyes flicking.
Vermond smirked. “Enough for a hundred soldiers.”
The vendor nearly choked on his own spit. “...You running a damn war?”
“Just prepping for salvage,” Erie replied, completely deadpan.
The vendor muttered something about “insane customers with cash” and opened a panel behind him, revealing crates stacked to the brim with those very grenades.
After loading up, they moved a few alleys down where Erie spotted a worn-out shop named:
"BACKPACKS & GLORY"
Underneath the flickering signage: “Everything looks cooler in black.”
And it did.
Simple, sleek, black backpacks—minimalist with magnetic locks and hidden compartments, but cheap. Very cheap. Perfect.
“Hundred of these too,” Vermond said.
The vendor blinked. “For a... school trip?”
Erie replied, “Field trip to hell.”
Minutes later, the undead stood in rows aboard the destroyer, each wearing:
A matte black space suit
A salvager badge
A cool black backpack
Slung one-handed beam-shield rifles
Strapped advanced grenades
They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
They looked like a ghost platoon from a forgotten war, ready to reclaim the galaxy.
Erie looked around at them, then to Vermond.
“Yeah… we were just gonna buy suits.”
Vermond nodded, eyes glowing faintly.
“Now we have a salvage army.”
As Vermond walked along the halls of the Black Spire with Erie, a feeling tugged at the back of his mind. He turned, staring at the formation of armored undead aboard the destroyer through the live feed.
Something was missing…
Their steps were too heavy. Their frames? Unprotected beneath the suit.
“Boots. Vests. Knives. Shields.”
The words spilled from his mouth like a war chant.
Erie turned. “You good?”
Vermond nodded slowly. “They need tactical boots, energy vests… energy knives. And our ship? It needs a proper energy shield drive.”
Erie blinked. “You’re building a damn undead elite unit.”
Vermond’s eyes glowed faintly. “I’m building something no one will dare chase.”
Montage time:
1. Tactical Boots Vendor –
Down a corridor lined with combat gear, Vermond found “The Iron Step”, a boot store run by a retired mercenary with half a cybernetic face.
“You want a hundred?” the vendor grunted. “These boots are reinforced, magnetized, impact-resistant. Ain’t cheap.”
“We have a moon,” Erie said flatly.
“Right. Hundred boots it is.”
2. Energy Vests & Knives –
A slick arms dealer in a trench coat opened two briefcases.
One held slim, glowing energy vests, pulsing faintly with reactive armor.
The other held hundreds of sleek energy knives, with rotating plasma edges.
“Bulk price?” Vermond asked.
“For this many? You boys running an army?”
“Field medics,” Erie deadpanned again.
3. Energy Shield Drive –
At the heart of the station's shady tech ring, they met an old ship engineer who had a compact but powerful energy shield generator, salvaged from a fallen Federation cruiser.
“This baby’ll make your destroyer tank a small fleet.”
“We’ll take it,” Vermond said.
Back on the destroyer, the undead were upgraded again:
Boots that gave silent steps and magnet grip.
Slim, responsive energy vests fitting seamlessly under their suits.
Energy knives sheathed in quick-draw holsters on their thighs.
And the ship itself began humming with an eerie violet glow from the new shield drive, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Erie looked at them—an army cloaked in darkness, walking death with salvager badges.
“Vermond…” Erie muttered, shaking his head with a smile.
“We just wanted some space suits.”
Vermond crossed his arms.
“We got purpose.”
Back at the Spire… again.
Erie sighed. “We’re seriously going back to the vendor row? Again?”
Vermond nodded with glowing eyes. “We forgot the shoulder energy shields. And… cameras. And pistols.”
“Of course we did,” Erie groaned, following.
Round Three of the Shopping Spree Begins:
1. Shoulder-Mounted Energy Shields –
A grim old vendor with a floating eye drone demonstrated a compact shield module that deploys horizontally over the shoulder like a wing, forming a curved energy barrier.
“Got 105 in stock. Ex-Federation surplus. Your boys’ll look like walking bunkers.”
“We’ll take them.”
2. Vest Cameras –
A cybernetic geek kid running a tech stall sold front-mounted tactical cams, small as coins, but packed with 360-degree feeds and squad-sync HUD overlays.
“Perfect for… uhh… field medics?” he asked.
Erie just nodded.
3. Secondary Energy Pistols –
A shady arms dealer pulled open a box of sleek sidearms, matte-black with white runes carved into the hilt.
“Fast draw, twin pulse, low recoil. Shoots just hot enough to mess up armor.”
“A hundred and five,” Vermond said.
“Damn. You starting a war?”
“No.”
Vermond smiled.
“I’m ending one.”
Back aboard the destroyer:
The undead stood lined in formation as the new gear was distributed:
Shoulder shields hissed open, forming shimmering arcs of violet energy above their arms.
Cameras blinked online, linking back to the destroyer’s bridge where Vermond could see through all their eyes.
Secondary pistols holstered neatly, ready for fast side-draws.
Erie watched it all unfold, hands on hips.
“You realize you just made the galaxy’s deadliest salvage crew.”
Vermond walked past the line of armored undead, his coat trailing, a grin playing on his lips.
“We’re just getting started.”
As they walked past another vendor, Vermond paused—his eyes catching a display of knee-mounted energy shields. Compact, sleek, and reactive. They deploy instantly when the undead crouch or kneel, offering extra protection during boarding missions or ground assaults.
He muttered, "They need to be able to brace without exposing a weakness..."
Erie, flipping through a new catalogue on his datapad, smirked. “You really turning them into walking tanks, huh?”
Without hesitation, Vermond bought a hundred sets—shields black with a faint red glow when activated.
Now the undead special forces looked like a nightmare bred in war. Fully armored, tactically geared, and perfectly synced with Vermond’s will. A silent army, cloaked in shadow and tech.
Vermond and Erie continued walking through the Black Spire’s bustling undercore market, passing stalls glowing with alien tech and vendors whispering deals behind curtains of energy cloth. Whispers trailed behind them now:
"Those two again…"
"How many crates of gear have they bought already?"
"Are they arming a private army or what?"
Vermond ignored them. Erie chuckled low, eyes scanning a stealth tech vendor. "They’re starting to talk, Vermond."
“Let them,” Vermond replied calmly. “Whispers are a good distraction.”
Then they stopped at a specialized shop—Voidwalk Systems. Here they found what they were looking for:
Advanced Space Mobility Packs: Black thruster units that attach to the back and lower legs, allowing for rapid space movement, hovering, and magnetic surface walking.
Adaptive Stealth Coating Kits: Liquid tech that hardens on armor, granting light distortion fields and partial radar dampening. Works better when the user remains still.
Erie whistled. “This’ll make them ghosts in space…”
Vermond nodded, buying one hundred units of each. The vendor didn’t ask questions—he was too busy smiling at the number of zeros on the credit transfer.
Back on the undead destroyer, the undead stood silently in formation, waiting. The moment the new crates were loaded aboard by drones, they began equipping without a word, syncing with Vermond’s mind.
From the bridge’s observation panel, Erie watched them with awe. “We didn’t just build a crew,” he said. “We built a force.”
Vermond’s eyes glowed faintly as he looked on. “They’re not done yet.”
Vermond’s eyes caught a faint glint from a vendor's stall tucked between two towering crates of contraband tech—almost hidden.
A sleek, black wrist-mounted energy shield.
Compact, smooth, and elegant. When activated, it projected a small, half-dome shield from the forearm—perfect for tight corridors or last-second deflection. Silent, fast-deploying, and reinforced with dark alloy casing that matched the undeads' new armor.
Vermond approached the vendor, who looked up with a wary grin.
"Only a few of these exist. High-intensity pulse absorption. You're looking at serious protection here, stranger."
Vermond didn't speak. He simply raised a finger. One hundred.
The vendor froze. "O-One hundre—sure. Yes. Yes. It'll be delivered to your ship... w-what ship do you command again?"
Vermond’s smile was thin. "The one they whisper about."
He turned, coat swaying behind him, Erie trailing with a smirk. Behind them, whispers grew louder.
A few people began counting—backpacks, boots, grenades, rifles, energy vests, now shields. Some even started recording them from a distance.
“They think we’re preparing for a war,” Erie muttered.
“We are,” Vermond replied. “They just don’t know which one yet.”
The undead destroyer would soon look more like a silent black ops fortress than a salvager’s vessel.
BEEP!
Both Vermond and Erie froze mid-step as their wrist credit device flashed a giant red “0 CREDITS REMAINING.”
"...No way," Erie said flatly, blinking. "We just had five million."
Vermond didn’t even turn. “You bought grenade packs for undead that can’t even blink.”
“And you bought wrist shields like we’re storming a capital station!”
They looked at each other for a moment in silence. Then Erie crossed his arms, looking at the ground like a sulking kid.
“…I wanted a cool suit too…”
Vermond raised a brow.
Erie continued, “I mean—look at them. They’ve got tactical boots, backpacks, energy vests, shoulder shields, grenades, rifles, even knife holsters and knee guards. I’m walking around in borrowed pilot gear like a background NPC!”
“…You're not wrong,” Vermond said, eyeing him from head to toe.
They both slowly turned toward the vendor selling advanced recon suits.
The price tag read: 350,000 credits.
They both sighed deeply.
Erie muttered, “We need another auction.”
Vermond gave a half-grin. “Or find something else to sell.”
Erie perked up. “…Another cleanser?”
The station lights flickered slightly as Vermond and Erie trudged their way back to the undead destroyer, empty-handed and creditless. The weight of all their purchases made the silence oddly satisfying—but it didn’t change the fact that they were flat broke.
Inside the bridge, the undead stood neatly in formation, now looking like an elite private army. The suits gleamed under the flickering red lighting of the ship. Their tactical gear—rifles, shields, grenades, boots, energy vests—made them look like war ghosts from a lost empire.
Erie dropped into the command chair. “Okay, so…” he waved his hand in circles, “how do we get another cleanser?”
Vermond crossed his arms, thinking. “We’ll need bait. Something they’d want. Something… that smells like necromancy.”
Erie slowly turned his head. “You?”
“Exactly.” Vermond smirked.
Erie paled. “Wait, you’re serious?”
“We lure one out. But this time, we don’t just capture it. We prepare for it. Full trap.”
He walked to the console and started typing. “There are known patrol paths. Cleanser movement is logged by bounty hunters sometimes. They exchange notes. We just need to slip into one of those paths, leak necromantic energy, and wait.”
Erie leaned in. “Or… we pretend there’s a fight between undead. Stage something so dramatic a cleanser has to come intervene.”
Vermond grinned. “Brilliant.”
Erie stood up, energized. “Let’s make it flashy. I’ll write the script.”
“…Script?”
“You’ll be the rogue necromancer,” Erie said dramatically, pointing. “I’ll be the ‘fallen’ Federation hero. And the undead? Background actors. Dramatic poses only.”
Vermond groaned, walking away. “This is going to be ridiculous.”
“So is not having cool armor.”
“Fair.”
The undead destroyer slowly undocked from the Black Spire, its hull now disguised with salvaged plating, making it look more like a wandering hauler than a monstrosity forged from death. No one dared question its departure, not with the recent memory of Vermond auctioning off a screaming cleanser echoing through the station’s gossip rings.
Inside the bridge, Erie double-checked the coordinates.
“Derelict moon, huh?” he muttered. “Cold, cracked, lifeless… perfect place for a trap.”
Vermond nodded, his arms crossed, watching the stars stretch as the ship warped. “The first sighting of the cleanser was there. It attacked a group of scavengers, left no survivors. But they sent a distress ping. That’s where we’ll set the scene.”
The destroyer emerged from warp space moments later—before them was the moon.
Its surface was split with glowing cracks, a broken exosphere draped in drifting dust. Jagged mountains cut the horizon, and above, a shattered orbital ring floated in silence like a broken halo.
“All right,” Vermond said, turning to the undead. “Hold position until I call. Erie, prep the fake battleground.”
Erie grinned, pulling out a crate labeled Explosive Props – Definitely Not Real.
“We’re going actors on this moon.”
A shuttle detached from the destroyer and descended toward the moon's surface. Vermond and Erie stepped off as it landed, boots crunching on the brittle dust.
They looked around. The derelict ruins of an old mining station loomed nearby—perfect for hiding gear, fake corpses, and plasma scorch marks.
Erie slapped a “blown-up” Federation banner on one wall. “This is gonna be gold.”
Vermond smirked, feeling the orb on his chest pulse faintly.
The trap was set.
All they had to do now… was wait for the cleanser to take the bait.
The derelict moon was dead silent. Not a whisper of wind. Not a flicker of life. Just endless dust, cracked ground, and two increasingly bored weirdos camped on top of a fake battlefield.
Vermond was lying on a pile of fake debris, chewing on a synth-burger he wasn’t sure had meat in it. Erie was lounging inside a broken mining crate, feet kicked up, munching on spicy noodles straight from the packet. Both had eaten way more than the mission called for.
"How long has it been?" Vermond asked, stuffing fries into his mouth.
Erie lazily checked his wrist device. "Six hours. Thirty-seven minutes. And twenty-two seconds of absolutely nothing."
Vermond threw his arms up. “Are we sure the cleanser even comes here?”
“Well, it did once. A week ago. Maybe it’s busy? I mean, cleansing things takes time.”
“Should’ve brought cards…” Vermond muttered.
They sat in silence for a moment. Then a low groaning crack echoed through the rocky valley.
Both jumped up.
“…Is that it?” Erie whispered.
A rock slid off a cliff and hit the ground with an anticlimactic thud.
“...Nope. Just the moon farting again.”
They sat back down, defeated.
Soon Erie was trying to stack fries on Vermond’s head while Vermond, half asleep, was sketching dramatic cleanser encounters in the dirt with a stick.
“This one’s got eight arms. And two jetpacks.”
“Mine’s got a blender for a face.”
“Nice. We call him… Blendser.”
Laughter echoed across the dead landscape, their ridiculousness swallowed by the endless emptiness.
They heard a beep from the scanner. Both snapped upright.
The screen flashed: Proximity alert… false alarm. Dust storm incoming.
Vermond sighed. Erie let his head fall back onto the crate with a thunk.
And then…
The scanner beeped again.
But this time—no dust storm.
A ship… fast, sharp, and cloaked in heat suppression signatures… approached from behind the shattered orbital ring.
Vermond slowly rose, brushing crumbs off his coat. He looked at Erie.
“Okay… real cleanser time?”
Erie narrowed his eyes, pulling on his helmet. “Finally.”
They tapped the comms. Even when the undeads already know what to do.
"All units, standby."
Hundreds of undead aboard the destroyer jolted to attention—ready, armored, and very very hungry for action.
The cleanser had taken the bait.
And this time, there would be no auction escape.
The derelict moon shuddered as the cleanser’s sleek ship pierced the dusty sky, engines whispering like death itself.
Vermond peeked out from behind a pile of fake debris, holding a pair of binoculars that looked way too childish to be tactical.
“Target acquired,” he muttered.
“Can we call it ‘Captain Blendser’?” Erie whispered beside him.
“No.”
The ship landed slowly, hissing steam and eerie silence as the landing ramp extended. A single figure walked down—cloaked in armor black as voidlight, its helmet shaped like a bird’s skull, eyes glowing dim white.
It turned its head, scanning the battlefield.
Right toward Captain Crispy, lying dramatically in a pool of sauce.
The cleanser tilted its head.
Then, something clicked in the distance.
The trap had sprung.
Suddenly, normal undead—shabby, crooked, broken-boned ones—erupted from the craters like zombie popcorn.
“BWAHHHHHH—”
“AAURRRGH.”
One literally threw its arm like a spear. Another tripped over a fake leg.
Erie was wheezing. “This is the worst opening wave I’ve ever seen.”
“They’re distractions,” Vermond said proudly.
The cleanser didn’t even flinch. With one flick of its hand, a glowing blade erupted from its gauntlet and sliced—undead limbs flew in comedic arcs.
Then…
Silence.
The cleanser stood in a pile of mangled corpses, some still twitching pathetically.
Then came a thud.
Then another. And another.
From the ship above—hundreds of footsteps echoed through the valley.
Lined in rows. Perfectly timed.
The destroyer’s loading bay opened, revealing them.
The serious ones.
The real undead.
Black armored, each carrying advanced gear—energy rifles, shoulder shields, advanced visors, grenade belts, and sleek black backpacks. Salvager badges glinted on their chests. Energy knives strapped at their thighs, sidearms at the ready. Tactical boots clicking in unison.
They didn’t march.
They stalked.
Like wraiths in formation.
And the cleanser… stepped back.
Vermond grinned wide and stood, arms outstretched.
The wind picked up, dramatic as ever.
“Cleansers... always the same. You think you’re alone. But we... we never are.”
The first undead raised a hand—signal received.
A dozen grenades flew through the air.
The cleanser dashed, blade spinning, dodging between blasts—but too many, too fast.
Explosions lit up the moon’s surface.
The cleanser tried to leap for cover—only to be intercepted mid-air by three undead, grappling it down like a rugby team from hell.
Another thirty piled on.
Then sixty.
Until only a single hand stuck out from the undead dogpile—sparking and twitching.
“ALIVE!” Vermond shouted. “We want it alive! I mean, semi-alive! Not fully dead!”
The undead pulled back instantly, leaving the cleanser twitching, faceplate cracked, energy armor sparking.
One undead tied a pink ribbon around its wrists like it was a birthday present.
Erie walked over and stared down at the barely-conscious enemy.
“So… auction tomorrow?”
Vermond smirked. “Auction tomorrow.”
They high-fived as the undead saluted in perfect formation.
The moon smelled like fried wiring and spaghetti.
Back aboard the undead destroyer, it was chaos. Glorious, stylish chaos.
The captured cleanser was locked inside a reinforced glass cell, still twitching, glaring at everyone like it wanted to burn the whole ship down. Again.
But Vermond? Vermond was in full prep-mode.
“I need velvet ropes. Like, auction-worthy ropes,” he declared, walking briskly through the ship’s hallway with Erie behind him, arms full of random auction junk.
“Why the hell do you need ropes?” Erie groaned. “You’ve got a hundred armored undead!”
“Yes, but do they look exclusive?”
“...They look like they’re about to invade a planet.”
“Exactly. Now they’ll guard a glass box with a rare cleanser inside. Prestige.”
Meanwhile, in the mess hall, the undead were doing... rehearsal.
Literally.
An undead stood with a pointer stick, gesturing at a chalkboard that said:
“Auction Poses & Buyer Intimidation.”
Another undead held cue cards:
STARE INTENSELY
MOVE ONLY WHEN VERMOND THINKS IT
HOLD THE RIFLE UPSIDE DOWN = BAD
DO NOT WAVE AT CHILDREN
Erie poked his head in, blinked, and muttered, “We’ve created a militia of actors.”
An undead turned, gave a thumbs up, then returned to adjusting the spotlight for tomorrow’s dramatic entrance.
Later, Vermond stood before a mirror, trying on capes. Long ones. Flowing ones. One that was just a blanket from the infirmary.
Erie walked in with a cup of synth-coffee and nearly spat it out. “You’re dressing up for this?”
“This isn’t a raid. This is theater.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m profitable.”
Behind them, a dozen undead were gently polishing the cleanser’s holding cell. One of them stuck a sticker on it that said: “50% Off Soul-Killer!”
The cleanser, finally able to speak, hissed through the mic:
“You will regret this mockery…”
Erie walked by, tapped the mic, and said, “Yeah, yeah. Start practicing your angry growls for the bidders.”
That night, the destroyer hovered near the station, lights off, cloak half-engaged. Undead lined the cargo bay in perfect formation, armor gleaming. Erie sat by a console, sipping his coffee, watching Vermond rehearse his speech for the fiftieth time.
“‘Once feared... now for sale!’ or... ‘Get your very own Federation nightmare!’—no, too cheesy?”
Erie groaned, “Just don’t write a poem again.”
“Too late.”
He held up a scroll. “Cleansed but not clean, a blade once unseen, buy this beast, and reign supreme!”
Even the undead paused.
Erie facepalmed. “I miss when you were scary.”
“So do I.”
He gave a smirk, cloak swishing behind him, while outside, the moon spun slowly, waiting for the greatest auction act of all time.
Docking clamps hissed and locked, the ramp of the undead destroyer descending with mechanical grace onto the Black Spire’s gleaming platform.
Out walked Vermond in his cloak, swishing like a drama instructor with a flair for explosions, Erie right behind him, adjusting his belt and sighing dramatically like he hadn’t signed up for this—but absolutely had. And behind them…
Four figures.
Pure black. Tactical. Silent. Their armor shimmered subtly under the station’s lights. Helmets expressionless. Each had a salvager badge on the chest, a beam rifle on their back, a shield unit on the shoulder, grenades clipped at perfect intervals, and a slick, black backpack like some kind of interstellar ninja rucksack.
Everyone on the walkway stepped aside.
Whispers followed them.
“Elite mercs?”
“Are they Federation?”
“No way, look at that armor—looks Folako.”
“Maybe assassins?”
“Maybe stylists. That’s clean.”
They walked in unison. Not a step off. Not a twitch.
Erie leaned close and whispered, “This is so extra.”
Vermond smiled. “It’s performance art.”
Location: Black Spire Central Auction Hall
The hall glowed with floating holo-ads, shimmering bidding platforms, and rows of alien and human merchants alike, dripping with credits and ego.
Vermond strutted in. Spotlights tilted. One even broke.
People turned.
“Is that…?”
“Wait—no. Look at the cape.”
“He brought an entourage.”
“They're beautiful.”
“They’re scary.”
“They’re both.”
At the center stage, the auctioneer—an eight-limbed, oily-skinned Atragon in a velvet suit—adjusted his mic.
“Next item—donated by Salvager Unit V.”
Spotlights flared.
Boom.
The cleanser’s cage descended on a hovering platform, slowly rotating, steam hissing for unnecessary drama. It snarled, thrashing—but looked surprisingly photogenic.
A hush fell.
Vermond stepped onto the stage, holding a scroll longer than his dignity.
He unrolled it with flair and cleared his throat.
Then began.
“Ode to a Cleanser: Buy It Now, Cry Later”
(By: A Guy with a Cape and No Shame)
“Behold this beast! So angry! So loud!
Captured from fire, now boxed for the crowd!
It once burned cities, consumed the poor—
But today it’s for sale! Through this shiny door!
It vaporized ships, it screamed at the stars,
It’s the reason old men now drink in dive bars!
It can crush a moon, melt a fleet with one frown,
But now it just paces in a cage wearing a gown!
No batteries required, no refunds or screams,
Just thirty percent nightmares, and seventy dreams!
Are you lonely? Need a pet? Want to own regret?
Then bid now, dear friends—this cleanser’s the best bet!
> It snarls for fun, it can smell your lies,
But treat it with love… and it still might despise.
For five million credits or a small mining moon,
This death-drenched darling can be yours by noon!
So place your bids fast, don’t be slow or you’ll weep,
Before I go back to my ship and let it eat sheep.
And remember this offer is hot and brand new—
Because even nightmares need homes like you.”
Silence.
Then—
“Six million silvers!”
“Six-point-two!”
“Seven million silvers and a crate of cloaking tech!”
People screamed. Two merchants fainted. One alien began crying and whispering, “It’s beautiful. It’s... so poetic.”
Vermond bowed. Erie didn’t know whether to applaud or arrest him.
In the end, a giant lizard in a suit won the bid with 7 million silvers and tossed in a small asteroid as a bonus. A signed contract was slapped into Vermond’s hand. Erie caught the moon deed before it floated away.
The audience stood and applauded. The cage was lifted and loaded away, guards escorting it with trembling hands.
As they left the hall with their credits transferred and pockets full, the four undead followed silently behind. One of them adjusted its belt. Stylishly.
Erie looked at Vermond. “You know what this means?”
Vermond, flipping his cape, replied, “Yes. We can finally buy more grenades.”
“...I was going to say food.”
“Both.”
The crates of cloaking devices were heavy—each one humming with stealth tech so advanced it practically whispered “I’m not here.” The undead moved them without a word, lifting and stacking with that perfectly eerie coordination that made the Federation lose sleep at night.
Vermond stood on the ramp of the destroyer, arms crossed like a commander who just got promoted by accident but rolled with it.
Erie wiped sweat from his forehead and tossed a credit chit onto Vermond’s chest. “Alright, you drama captain. What now?”
Vermond, adjusting his cape with flourish, grinned. “We shop. Just grenades and a few essentials. No more theatrics.”
Erie deadpanned. “That’s what you said last time, and somehow we bought a tactical neverending gears.”
Vermond shrugged. “An excellent investment.”
They both stepped back into the station. The undead stayed at the destroyer—standing silent, glowing faintly under the hall lights like a poster for “Space Ops: The Musical.”
Location: Black Spire Market District – Section Zeta Boom
Here the aisles smelled of oil, fried snacks, and high-grade explosives. Vendors shouted in every language known to man and alien, waving grenades like they were candy.
Erie walked faster. “Alright, quick in, quick out. Just grenades.”
Vermond held out a list.
Erie stared. “This isn’t a grenade list. This is a war crime shopping list.”
Vermond nodded solemnly. “Tactical distinction.”
Items purchased (with questionable restraint):
Advanced Fragmentation Grenades – 200 units
EMP Bubble Bombs – 150 units
Cryo Clutch Grenades – 100 units
Tactical Explosive Smoke Pods – 250 units
Mini Blackhole Grenade (prototype) – 1 unit (Erie whispered “Why?” – Vermond said “Because.”)
Next up: Equipment lane.
Erie groaned as Vermond happily pointed out:
Auto-Reload grenade belts – 100 sets
Magnetic weapon holsters – 100 units
Tactical belt clips with snack compartments – “For morale,” Vermond said.
“Dude,” Erie muttered, “You’re making the undead more fashionable than me.”
Vermond raised an eyebrow. “They’re the face of our salvage operation. We’re a brand now.”
As they paid for everything and watched more crates being hauled to the destroyer, Erie sighed. “We’re not done, are we?”
Vermond smirked. “Not until every undead can strut into a warzone and get asked for autographs.”
They returned to the ship, passing whispers and side-eyes from merchants who were both terrified and impressed by how much gear had been bought by two oddly stylish men and a bunch of quiet, armored “employees.”
The crates clamped in, inventory uploaded, and as Vermond looked over the deck filled with shiny new toys for his silent army, he simply muttered:
“Next… maybe we need hats.”
Erie groaned in the background. “Don’t you dare.”
Vermond stood in the middle of the cargo bay, surrounded by crates full of explosives, energy shields, tactical gear, and enough stylish accessories to outfit a galactic rock band disguised as a black ops unit.
He tapped his chin.
“…Forget about hats.”
Erie let out a very relieved breath. “Finally. Sanity.”
Vermond turned slowly, a glint in his eye. “Because I just found something better.”
Erie froze mid-step. “That tone. That’s your we’re going to become space pirates or worse tone.”
Vermond didn’t answer. Instead, he walked across the deck, opened a crate that had nothing to do with grenades, and pulled out a crumpled, high-security data chip marked with a red seal:
FEDERATION ENGINEERING DIVISION – TOP TIER ACCESS ONLY
“Advanced Modular Space Station – Self-Sustaining Variant V.6.2”
Erie blinked. “Where the hell did you get that?”
Vermond just grinned like a child with stolen candy. “Apparently one of the high-ranking engineers from the Federation dropped it during the auction. Probably panicked from my poetry. I stepped on it, thought it was gum, and now we own a space station.”
Erie rubbed his face. “We don’t even have enough funding to buy hats, but we have blueprints to build a military-grade station?”
“Exactly,” Vermond said, holding up the chip like it was the key to a kingdom. “Do you realize what this means?”
Erie threw his hands in the air. “That we attract chaos like a magnet in a spice mine?!”
“No,” Vermond corrected. “It means… we can build a hidden stronghold. A black market haven. A salvager’s dream. A place to stash undead, loot, and moon contracts. With a coffee corner.”
Erie stared.
“And grenades,” Vermond added.
“…Of course.”
Erie slowly turned toward the cargo bay exit. “I’m going to pretend this is a fever dream until we accidentally build it in the middle of a Federation convoy.”
Vermond shouted after him, “I’m naming it Necrospire!”
Erie didn't stop walking.
Vermond sat cross-legged on the bridge of the undead destroyer, surrounded by floating holo-screens showing the Advanced Space Station Blueprint data in full detail. Energy conduits, modular farming bays, self-repairing alloy walls, an entire black-market vault system… It was magnificent. It was perfect.
And it required 1.2 billion credits to even begin material acquisition.
Vermond blinked. “Oh.”
Erie peeked over his shoulder with a mouth full of synth-snack. “What’s that? Did the ‘dream of building a hidden lair where you can laugh maniacally’ hit a funding wall?”
Vermond showed him the number.
Erie choked. “I—cough cough—that’s more zeroes than my dating life!”
Vermond ignored him, eyes narrowing. “So… we need more money.”
As if in response, a soft, pulsing hum echoed from deep within the ship.
Both of them froze.
They turned to the glowing triangle orb—tucked away inside a reinforced chamber in the core of the destroyer. It hadn’t moved or emitted anything for days… until now.
Its surface shimmered with translucent sigils. The hum turned melodic, almost whispering. Not in words—but in intent.
Vermond stepped toward it. “It’s reacting again.”
Erie crossed his arms, cautiously staying behind. “Let me guess. It wants us to follow some mysterious trail to ancient tech worth exactly enough to fund a space station?”
The orb pulsed once—as if saying: Exactly that.
“…Of course,” Erie muttered.
Vermond turned, smiling faintly. “This could be a shortcut to our own Necrospire, Erie. Maybe the triangle wants to invest.”
Erie raised an eyebrow. “Great. Now we’re crowdfunding a fortress through ancient artifacts.”
Vermond stared at the shimmering triangle, then checked the ship’s balance.
Credits Remaining: 6,394,291
He looked up.
“We have enough for the trip. Let’s follow the orb’s guidance.”
The interior of the destroyer hummed with activity. The undead were already reorganizing the ship’s storage—packing crates of grenades, power cells, energy rations, and black tactical gear. Their movements were seamless, efficient. Not a single groan, not a single word.
Erie adjusted the straps of one of the newly purchased energy vests. “Alright, alright. We’ve got cloaking systems loaded, grenades for days, enough tactical gear to outfit an empire—”
“An undead empire,” Vermond added, smirking.
“—and the ship looks like a nightmare swallowed a commando squad. So, we’re good to follow the weird glowing triangle to its mysterious death pit now, right?”
Before Vermond could answer, the lights in the bridge flickered.
A cold breeze swept through the command center.
Erie froze. “Don’t tell me you left the airlock open again—”
A figure stood in the corridor entrance.
Cloaked in shadow, masked, unmoving. The same one who gave them the glowing triangle. A presence like gravity, silent and ancient.
Erie jumped behind a console. “Okay nope, we’re getting haunted again.”
The masked man stepped forward, the glow from the triangle crystal intensifying as if acknowledging him.
He spoke, voice as calm as a drifting asteroid:
“You’re preparing to follow it.”
Vermond nodded slowly, calm. “We are.”
The masked man tilted his head slightly. “Be careful. What you’re following… was sealed for a reason. It remembers. It hungers.”
Erie peeked out. “Oh great. That’s always what you want to hear before an adventure. ‘The thing you’re chasing has dietary preferences.’”
The man chuckled lightly. It was worse because it felt… kind.
“You’ll understand why it was buried. But you must walk that path regardless.”
He turned away, cloak shifting like a ripple in black space.
Just before vanishing down the corridor, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder.
“You’re walking into the shadow of a dead god, Necromancer. Try not to wake him angry.”
Then, he was gone.
Not a door opened. Not a whisper followed.
Erie stood up and dusted himself off. “Is it just me or do his warnings get more theatrical every time?”
Vermond smirked and walked to the command console. “He’s dramatic. I respect it.”
He pressed a key. The triangle's pulse synced with the navigation chart. A path formed—twisting through long-forgotten asteroid fields and ancient wreckage.
A red icon blinked at the destination.
Unknown Zone: Gravemind’s Orbit.
“Let’s prep the elites,” Vermond said, already turning toward the armored undead squad. “We’re walking into the dark.”
In the dark, the watcher smiled once again.
The undead destroyer hovered just beyond the outer ring of the Black Spire station, its hull freshly disguised with salvaged plating, hidden tech, and the cloak field quietly humming to life. With the cruiser-class shield drive now fully operational, the ship gave off a presence both haunting and untouchable—like a ghost ship fused with a fortress.
Inside, Vermond stood on the bridge, gazing at the ever-shifting maps. Behind him, the fully geared undead elites stood at attention, like statues. Tactical vests, energy rifles, shielded boots, black visors, even salvager badges pinned with eerie pride. To any outsider, they were just another terrifying mercenary unit—no soul would guess they were, in fact, without souls.
Erie sat with one foot on the console, flipping open the encrypted, hundred-million-credit illegal Federation map. “Alright, let’s see what death trap we’re walking into today…”
Vermond placed the glowing triangle crystal beside the map’s console. The moment it connected, the systems shuddered—and a massive, previously unseen sector unfolded before them.
A path carved through darkness, its endpoint pulsing a dim, angry red: Gravemind’s Orbit.
Erie whistled low. “That’s far. Like ‘no one's dumb enough to go there’ far.”
Then the map updated itself again—this time showing the expanding Federation territory. Their grip had tightened in just a few weeks, swallowing up rogue systems and pushing Folako’s resistance further back into the void.
“…They’re losing,” Erie muttered. “Folako’s getting swallowed whole.”
Vermond didn’t say anything. His fingers tapped once against the console.
They’d already chosen their path.
He turned to the undead. No words were needed. The crew simply nodded—one raised a fist in salute, another adjusted its visor. Even their backpacks looked prepared for a war that hadn’t been declared yet.
Erie cracked his knuckles. “Alright, off we go. Into outlaw space. Full of pirates, merc hunts, black-market kings, and probably some floating toilets.”
Vermond smirked. “Sounds like home.”
With one last look at the station they’d left a legacy in, the destroyer engaged its drive.
The cloak activated.
The stars stretched.
And the necromancer ship slipped into the void.
Outlaw sectors awaited.
And somewhere far ahead, the dead god's orbit pulsed.
