Dust and Ash

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Dust fell slowly onto the surface of Zeta-7, called Tarros by the locals. Dust storms ravaged the land, and only the strongest survived. The dust mixed with ash that fell from the sky, covering the terrain in a suffocating haze. Small but hardy plants called sootgrass waved in the air—named so because of their dark purple leaves, which appeared black from a distance. They had evolved to absorb as much energy as possible from the planet's red sun.

As the storms passed, insect-like arthropods, similar to those on humanity's homeworld of Terra, emerged from the sand, indifferent to the dust clinging to their shells. They scurried toward the sootgrass, digging beneath it in search of its bulbous roots, which stored water and starch. A few unlucky ones were snatched up with a satisfying crunch by a nearby hexapedal creature, no larger than a cat. The creature used four of its legs—each bent and lined with microscopic hairs—to glide effortlessly across the sand, while the other two grasped anything edible it came across.

As the creature searched for more food in the harsh landscape, it was suddenly crushed beneath the wheels of a moving vehicle. The machine sped toward a walled city in the distance, its destination clear on the horizon.

A youth with pale skin and silvery hair—hastily tied into a bun at the back of his head—ran through the city of Taronaan. His sharp gray eyes flicked toward the occasional alleyway, where men lay passed out, lost in their usual seratin fix.

This was the strategy of the Human Imperium: land on a planet, establish first contact, and begin trade. Once the locals grew comfortable with the outsiders, they would introduce seratin—a product marketed as healthy, enjoyable, and pleasurable—never speaking of its staggering addictiveness. That, too, was by design.

By the time the populace realized the truth, it was too late—the planet was already theirs. However, the Tarovian people were different. A warrior-religion guided them, and they were skeptical of outsiders. The moment they caught a whiff of seratin's true nature, the war for their planet began. They fought fiercely—so fiercely that the Imperium deployed its Zeniths to force them into submission.

And that was the problem. They had been forced into submission.

Now, the once-glorious kingdom was nothing more than a hollow shell—a shadow of the Imperium. The mere thought of it made the youth's face twist in disgust.

He slipped into an alleyway where more people had gathered. As he arrived, they turned to face him. Their eyes, silver like his own, shone in the dim light. But their skin was darker, their expressions grim. One of them spoke.

"The last one is here."

He was speaking to a man sitting on a crate nearby. Slowly, the man rose, an air of authority radiating from him.

"All right. Hand them out."

One by one, the others nodded. A leather bundle was unwrapped, revealing several black knives, each glinting ominously with silver engravings. They were distributed carefully. The youth took one, his fingers curling around the obsidian blade.

I will show them all. For my mother. For my baby sister.

The youth gritted his teeth. Beside him, another asked hesitantly,

"Roshren, will this be enough? It's true only those wretched sorcerers can use their witchcraft to its fullest potential, but even normal outsiders can use it with those bags they carry on their backs."

The man named Roshren turned to him, his voice firm.

"So can we."

On a crowded street, where countless people walked past without a second glance, a young boy—barely older than six—stood with his arms outstretched. His face and head were wrapped in cloth, his small frame trembling as he begged at the feet of strangers for even a morsel of food.

A man with a kind face and the characteristic silver hair and gray eyes of the Tarovian people stopped, his gaze softening as he studied the boy's eyes. With sympathy, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a few rectangular pieces of metal. The boy's face lit up with hope, his hand reaching out eagerly.

But just as the man was about to give them, the cloth covering the boy's head shifted slightly—revealing a small tuft of pure black hair.

The man's face blanched. In an instant, his expression twisted into disgust.

"You…" he hissed.

His fingers trembled before he tore the cloth away, fully exposing the boy's black hair.

"A half-breed."

Panic surged through the boy. He scrambled to cover his head again, but the man had already raised his foot.

The first kick sent him reeling. The second came down harder.

"You dare beg from me?" the man spat, punctuating his words with another vicious strike. "You should beg that you and your filthy blood die early—so that the great Centaur may have pity on you and not rip you to shreds!"

The boy curled in on himself, shielding his head as best as he could.

Then, suddenly, it stopped.

The man straightened, dusting off his robes before walking away, muttering curses under his breath.

Even after such a beating, not a single tear fell from the boy's eyes. He did not cry. He did not scream. He simply picked himself up, straining his aching body, and started walking again.

The slums were alive with misery.

Sickly locals emerged from their shacks to vomit into the nearby river. Others relieved themselves in the open streets. Coughs—wet and hollow—rattled through the air, each one threatening to be someone's last.

The boy walked through it all, unaffected. He entered a rundown shack, ignoring the stench of diarrhea, vomit, and refuse that clung to the air like a curse.

Inside, on a bed that was barely more than a wooden frame, a woman lay motionless.

The boy approached. He did not speak. He simply touched her hand.

It was cold.

He stood there, unmoving. Fear rooted his feet to the floor. He clung to something—some shred of hope he had convinced himself was still there.

Then, finally, he let go.

Without another word, he turned and left the shack.

The boy wandered the streets again, searching for a place to beg.

Then, a loud screech caught his attention.

He turned, eyes widening as he saw a group of pureblood Tarovian youths running—knives in hand, the other gripping injuries they had sustained. One of them, a youth with darker skin, glanced at the boy before gesturing for the others to hide in a nearby alleyway.

He looked at the boy with obvious disdain.

Bringing his fingers to his throat, he made a silent cross over his Adam's apple—a signal to stay quiet.

The boy nodded, wide-eyed, as the group disappeared behind crates.

For a moment, he stood frozen, fear and uncertainty locking his limbs in place.

Then, slowly, he forced his legs to move.

But as he turned to run, he crashed into something—something harder than a wall, something more unmovable than a mountain.

The impact sent him sprawling to the ground.

Dread coiled in his stomach.

Slowly, he looked up.

A towering figure loomed over him, clad in black armor—plates layered over plates, each fragment interlocking like an impenetrable shell. A translucent visor concealed its face. A blunt sword, its tip stained with fresh blood, rested in its grip, while a psi-pistol hung from the belt at its waist. Everything connected to a strange bag on its back, where a spinning globe emitted a faint, ominous hum.

More of them appeared.

Terror gripped the boy's heart.

The figure before him tilted its head slightly. Then, in a voice devoid of warmth, it spoke.

"Half-breed. Did you see anyone run through here?"

Here's your corrected text with grammar, punctuation, and clarity improvements while keeping the original tone and flow intact:

The boy stood still, not moving, not letting anything show. It was his specialty after years of experience as a half-breed street urchin. The translucent visor the lawkeeper wore didn't reveal any emotion, but the boy could feel it radiating from him. The sword in the lawkeeper's hand began to vibrate impossibly fast, scorching the blood on it to ash. As the ash slowly fell away, the lawkeeper raised his weapon.

"Hm? What are you doing?"

A calming, almost soothing voice interrupted the lawkeeper. He turned back, irritation evident in his stance.

The lawkeeper spoke, not bothering to conceal his annoyance. "What are you doing here, Navigator?"

The man, his hood concealing most of his features, simply chuckled. "Watch yourself. I'm also a Zenith, you know."

The lawkeeper grimaced before pointing his blade at the boy. "I was going to cut off his arm and force him to tell me if he saw those rebels run through here."

At this, the Navigator only laughed. "You're new to Zeta-7, aren't you?"

The lawkeeper shrugged. "I fail to see how that changes things. Everyone feels pain. Everyone can die. It depends on who and what they die for."

The Navigator said nothing at first, then spoke. "The people of this planet survive in a harsh environment without modern amenities, and they follow a warrior religion. Cutting the boy's arm won't tell us anything."

He stepped forward toward the boy. "Instead, one must prey on their desperate minds."

He reached into his pouch and jingled it. The boy eyed it with skepticism. The Navigator merely smiled, opening the pouch and pulling out a rectangular piece of metal inscribed with writing.

The boy's eyes widened.

The Navigator's smile deepened. "Did you see anyone?"

The boy hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground, as if lost in thought.

He grit his teeth as the Navigator shook the bag of money. Slowly, he raised his hand and pointed toward the crates in the alleyway.

The Navigator's grin widened. "There you have it!"

The lawkeepers' swords vibrated as they stepped toward the crates, slicing through them. Loud screams erupted, followed by the sounds of blades striking walls and psi-pistols firing.

The boy turned his head away as the sickening noise of flesh and bone being torn apart filled the alley.

The Navigator, clad in blue robes, crouched down and placed the pouch into the boy's hands.

The boy looked at him for a brief moment before turning and running away.

The boy ran, clutching a vial in his hand.

This was the first glimmer of hope he had seen in a long time.

He ran with hope—hope of a long-lost memory, perhaps. Maybe it was foolish, but at this moment, it was all he had. He didn't know what would happen if he lost this hope.

He reached a small shack and hurried inside. Approaching the bed, he used a stool to climb up next to the woman lying there. Gently, he lifted her head, his fingers brushing against her face—it was rigid and cold.

The boy uncorked the vial and poured its contents into her mouth until it was empty.

He set the vial aside and watched. He waited for something to happen.

Minutes passed.

He continued waiting.

This had to work.

It had to.

Suddenly, the door crashed open.

The boy's head snapped up as a Tarrovian youth stepped in. His hair was tied back into a messy bun, and his face twisted in rage.

"You half-breed SCUM!" the youth snarled.

He lunged, grabbing the boy and hurling him against the wall. Then, his gaze shifted to the woman.

"This… is this your mother? This wit—"

The youth stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening slightly as he looked at her.

"…A corpse," he whispered, realization dawning.

Then his expression twisted again.

"You traded the lives of people who could have made a difference for a goddamn CORPSE?!" he roared.

The boy desperately reached for his mother's hand again.

The youth kicked him away. "She's dead!" he spat. His teeth clenched in fury. "Let me show you."

He raised a black knife and turned toward the woman.

A sickening sound filled the room as steel met flesh and bone.

The boy struggled to push himself up, blood dripping from his mouth. The sound stopped. Something rolled toward him.

His breath caught in his throat.

His eyes widened.

The severed head of the woman who had raised him—the one who had nursed him, the only reason he had fought so hard—lay before him.

The youth continued shouting, but the persistent ringing in the boy's ears drowned out all other sound.

There was no hope.

He had lost everything.

He wanted to breathe. He wanted to scream.

But the breath caught in his throat.

He couldn't breathe.

He clutched his throat, gasping, as tears streamed down his face.

The youth raised his weapon, intent on finishing the half-breed traitor.

He brought the knife down—

The boy screamed.

Light exploded from his body.

The scream echoed through the room, shaking the walls. The youth was thrown backward, crashing against the floor.

For a brief moment, the shack was consumed by blinding radiance.

Then it collapsed.

When the boy finally opened his eyes, he couldn't move.

His body burned from the inside, as if countless needles pierced every cell.

Through blurred vision, he saw the youth, a gaping hole in his chest. The youth struggled, trying to rise—

But before he could, a lawkeeper appeared.

They studied the youth for a moment.

Then, with a swift stroke, they severed his head.

The lawkeeper turned to the boy, stepping forward—

But once again, the mysterious Navigator intervened.

The Navigator spoke to the lawkeeper, though the boy couldn't hear the words.

Then, he approached and placed a hand on the boy's chest.

Air rushed into the boy's lungs.

The pain was gone.

The Navigator lifted him into his arms and pulled back his hood, revealing a sharp face, black hair, and piercing blue eyes.

"What's your name?" the man asked.

The boy mumbled weakly.

Yet, somehow, the man understood him.

The Navigator stroked his chin. "No, no, that won't do. No one will take you seriously with that name."

Then, he smiled.

"Let's call you… Victor for now."

This version keeps your narrative intact while improving grammar, punctuation, and readability. Let me know if you'd like any additional changes!

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author here !! please be reminded that im only doing this as a hobbie!!