Chapter 6: ...Of a Cutthroat

Year 1795, Planet Acurite, Capital City of Doorin

The battlefield was drenched in fire and metal, the air thick with the scent of burning flesh and smoldering alloys. The young Primordial moved like a phantom through the smoke, his rifle humming with each well-placed shot. Every round found its mark—each a precise execution, no hesitation, no remorse. The bodies of his kin fell around him, their armor still gleaming under the flickering embers of the dying warships overhead. Plasma fire still crackled in the distance, but here, in the wake of the slaughter, only silence remained. The young Primordial moved through the wreckage, stepping over fallen kin, his rifle humming with each well-placed shot. Every round was a clean execution—no wasted movement, no hesitation. He advanced with the precision of a predator, his visor scanning for life signs. When he found them, the rifle spoke in sharp, controlled bursts, the bodies slumping lifelessly into the mud. His kin had once stood beside him in battle, but they had chosen the wrong side.

Year 1805 Crypterian Warship Cerberus's Lease

The corridors of the abandoned war vessel were painted in shadow and blood. His boots crushed spent shells as he advanced, rifle raised, his visor scanning the motionless forms sprawled along the walls. They had tried to retreat. It didn't matter. His rifle barked twice more, the last echoes of a failed resistance silenced in an instant. The soft whir of his weapon cooling down was the only sound that followed him deeper into the ship. The flickering emergency lights casting eerie shadows against the blood-slicked walls. The ship had once been a stronghold, a testament to the strength of their kind. Now, it was nothing more than a floating tomb. His boots crushed spent shell casings as he moved, the distant whir of cooling plasma cells the only sound accompanying him. The bodies of the fallen were scattered along the passageway, slumped against bulkheads and sprawled across the grated floors. Some had died fighting, others had tried to flee—none had made it far. The young Primordial halted before a fallen officer, the dying glow of their visor flickering with static interference. A final, shuddering breath escaped them before his rifle spat its judgment. The sound of the shot echoed through the hollowed-out husk of the ship

Year 1815 Planet Dooriu, Capital City of Ture

A lone survivor dragged themselves across the ruined battlefield, their arm twisted at an unnatural angle, pinned beneath the wreckage of a collapsed war mech. Their armor was shattered, their helmet fractured, the visor barely clinging to its frame. They reached for a discarded weapon just beyond their grasp, fingers trembling, blood dripping between the cracks in their gauntlet. The Primordial approached slowly, the hilt of his knife smooth and familiar in his grip. The wounded soldier choked out a ragged gasp, something between a plea and a curse, their voice crackling through damaged comms. He said nothing. The blade gleamed under the firelit sky as he knelt beside them. With practiced ease, he slipped the steel between the gaps in their armor, driving it deep into the space beneath their ribs. The warrior convulsed, their breath hitching once—twice—before finally stilling.

Year 1825 Planet Genia, Capital City of Graya

The city had once been a fortress, its towers built to withstand the might of entire fleets. Now, it was nothing more than a charred skeleton of its former glory, crumbling brick by brick beneath the weight of destruction. The streets were rivers of shattered glass, reflecting the eerie glow of plasma discharges still burning in the distance. The Primordial moved with calculated precision, stepping over the bodies of those who had once been his brothers-in-arms, those who had once called themselves warriors. They had fortified themselves here, made their final stand in the shadow of collapsing structures. It had been valiant. It had also been futile. His rifle discharged once, twice—a sharp, punctuated rhythm cutting through the hollow air. A final holdout, slumped behind the remains of a supply crate, exhaled sharply before their body went still. No last words. No prayers. Just the silence of inevitability.

Year 1835 Planet Primia III, Location Restricted

Inside the war chamber, the scent of ozone and scorched circuitry clung to the air. High-ranking Primordials—commanders, strategists, leaders—clutched at their wounds, their once-proud figures slumped against consoles displaying nothing but static. The warrior stood before them, his armor slick with their kin's blood, the remnants of those who had fallen before. The elder among them, a once-formidable tactician, lifted his head with effort, blood pooling beneath his shattered chest plate. He tried to speak, to summon one last order, one last defiance, but the barrel of the Primordial's sidearm was already leveled with his skull. The shot rang out, final and unrelenting. One by one, the chamber fell silent, the weight of their legacy reduced to echoes in the void.

Year 1845 Planet Ricene, Location Restricted

The ice-covered plains stretched infinitely in all directions, the battlefield frozen in time beneath layers of snow and fractured metal. The winds howled, carrying the whispers of the dead. The battle had long since ended, but the execution was not yet complete. His breath came in slow, controlled exhales, his visor analyzing the last survivor—a warrior too wounded to fight, yet too stubborn to surrender. They knelt in the frost, their breaths coming in shallow gasps, their body shaking from both cold and blood loss. He approached, the crunch of ice beneath his boots the only sound in the vast emptiness. The Primordial knelt beside him, pressing the muzzle of his rifle against the fallen's chest. A single shot, muffled shot rang out. The wind swallowed the sound before it could carry.

Year 1855 Blaterian Warship Jahday's Finest

Deep within the warship's maintenance bay, the clang of metal and dying moans echoed through the empty halls. The air was thick with the scent of burnt circuitry and blood. The metallic clang of shifting wreckage echoed in the space, the occasional spark from damaged conduits casting brief flashes of light. A warrior of some kind moved with purpose, stepping over the still bodies of engineers and combat personnel alike. At the far end of the room, a figure slumped against the wall, their breaths shallow and labored. The methodically made his way over until he stood over her, her chest heaving, her grip on her weapon weak. Her voice rasped through the broken visor, calling his name in disbelief. He only tilted his head in silent acknowledgment before his fingers squeezed the trigger, reducing the voice to nothing more than a static-laced gasp.

Year 1865 Location Restricted

The underground bunker had been built to last, its reinforced walls designed to withstand orbital bombardments. But defenses meant nothing when they became tombs. The bunker was now filled with the scent of ozone and burnt circuits, the remains of automated defenses still sparking at his feet. The warrior kicked aside the rifle of a fallen Primordial, their body twisted against the bunker wall. The dim red lighting flickered overhead, casting ghostly shadows that moved with each dying pulse of electricity. He turned, his visor catching the reflection of his own bloodstained form against the dark steel. Another mission complete. His orders had been carried out. And yet, as he looked upon the wreckage of what had once been a hidden bastion of strength, there was no victory to be found—only the weight of execution.

Year 1875 Planet Chameleon Space Station

The stars stretched infinitely overhead, distant and cold, their light barely reaching the ground below, as he wiped the blood from his blade against the lifeless form at his feet. The battlefield had long since gone quiet, the last remnants of struggle fading into the void as Primordial warrior let out a slow exhale, his breath fogging against the chill of the void-exposed hangar before his visor slid back closed. The weight of what he had done did not rest on his shoulders. It was not his burden to carry. The bodies around him were proof of that—each one had fought, each one had lost. The mission had been absolute. There was no alternative. He sheathed his weapon, stepping over the dead without pause. Another battlefield, another necessary purge. The mission was all that remained.

Year 1885 Planet Primia, Location Restricted; 3 Months before the Ambush

The twin moons of Primia loomed high in the obsidian sky, their pale light carving jagged shadows across the silent battlefield. Smoke curled in slow, ghostly tendrils from the ruins of what had once been a fortified outpost—one of many that had once stood defiant against intruders. Now, it was nothing more than scorched earth and shattered bodies.

Kneeling amidst the wreckage, the unknown Primordial exhaled, a slow, controlled breath filtering through his helmet. His armor, blackened by plasma burns and streaked with crimson, bore the scars of countless battles, yet it remained unmarred—unbroken. He had moved through this place like a phantom, cutting through his kin with the precision of a force that could not be stopped, would not be stopped. No hesitation. No second thoughts. The lifeless warrior before him had been the last. Their body still held onto the last remnants of warmth, the soft hum of failing servos whispering their final death rattle into the night air.

His boot pressed against the fallen's shoulder, rolling them onto their back. Their visor was cracked but not fully shattered, the faint glow of dying optics still flickering within. Even in death, there was defiance.

It didn't matter.

The Primordial knelt lower, reaching down with the same clinical efficiency he had displayed throughout the entire battle. His fingers worked swiftly, unlatching the locks of their helmet. The soft hiss of depressurization filled the cold night air as the protective shell came free. The face beneath was young—too young. A soldier barely into their cycle, fresh to war. Yet, they had fought, they had bled, and now, like all the others before them, they would serve a final purpose.

He drew his knife.

The blade gleamed under the twin moons, its edge honed to a perfect, brutal sharpness. It had tasted the blood of many before this moment, and it would drink again. He pressed the tip against the warrior's forehead, just above the bridge of their nose, and with deliberate precision, he began to carve.

The Mark of Dominion.

A symbol of conquest. A relic of the old ways. Long before the grand fleets, before the great wars, before the Empire stretched its grip across the stars, there was the Mark. It was not inherited, not granted by birthright—it was taken. It was the sign of those who seized their strength, those who carved their own names into history with blood and steel.

The knife cut effortlessly, slicing through flesh and bone as though it had been designed for this alone. The warrior's body twitched involuntarily, the last remnants of reflexive movement fading as blood spilled freely, running in slow, winding streams down the side of their temple. The metallic scent thickened in the air, mixing with the cold, sterile scent of Primia's lifeless soil.

But the Primordial did not hesitate.

He worked with purpose.

With ritual.

By the time he finished, the shape was unmistakable. The Mark, intricate and sharp, carved deep into the warrior's flesh, their once-defiant gaze now void of meaning. Blood pooled beneath them, darkening the earth, another name added to the silent ledger of the dead.

He exhaled once, wiping the blade clean against the fallen's armor before sliding it back into its sheath. Then, with one final motion, he reached into a small satchel strapped to his waist and retrieved a simple, metallic insignia. A coin-like medallion, weighty and cold, pressed between his fingers.

A claim.

A trophy.

He pressed it into the freshly carved wound, embedding it deep into the flesh. The wet sound of flesh parting around the object barely registered to him. He twisted it slightly, ensuring it was secure. And then…

He waited.

The wind howled through the ruins, whipping through the battlefield like a phantom's wail. The silence stretched. Then—A flicker.

Two crimson-like eyes ignited from within the carved Mark, glowing with an eerie, unnatural light. They pulsed once—twice—before stabilizing into a steady, burning gleam.

The claim had been completed.

The Primordial allowed himself a small, satisfied exhale before he stood, his cloak shifting in the cold wind as he gazed down at the marked corpse. The bodies of his kin lay scattered in the moonlight, each bearing the same mark upon their foreheads, each claimed in the same manner.

He had spent the night moving through this outpost, cutting them down one by one, carving his place into existence.

The Mark of Dominion was not just a symbol. It was a declaration.

To take a Mark was to own the strength of the fallen.

To take enough… was to become something more.

Something greater.

The cold wind carried the distant echoes of war across the battlefield, rustling the edges of his cloak as he turned, stepping over the dead without a second glance. His work was not yet finished. There were more to find. More to carve. More to claim.

And when the time came—when the weight of the Marks he carried became undeniable—when the Primordial High Command was forced to acknowledge him—He would ascend.