The Specter of Oris

The pain always came first.

It was a burning, deep sensation, like liquid fire coursing through my veins until it concentrated where my left arm should have been. Even though I knew the mechanical limb had no nerve endings, I could swear I felt every wire, every gear, as if they were tiny blades spinning inside my skin.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath, waiting for the pain to pass. It was the inevitable consequence of overusing my prosthetic on a failed mission. I was lucky to still be alive.

My last job should have been simple: infiltrate an illegal merchant ship, steal a valuable cargo, and return undetected. But nothing is simple in the border sectors. My contractor's intelligence was flawed—he forgot to mention the Dominion Solari soldiers guarding that cargo. As a result, half of my torso was now replaced with makeshift arcanotech implants, a metallic scar that constantly reminded me of the price of my mistakes.

I opened my eyes slowly, staring at the rusty ceiling of the cheap rest cabin I had rented on Cerberus Station, one of the darkest places in the Border Sectors. Here, under the flickering blue lights of worn-out lamps, no one cared who I was or what I did. As long as you had enough credits to pay for your drink, you were home. And lately, mine were running out.

I sighed, struggling to get up from the narrow, uncomfortable bed. My muscles protested, weakened by the illness silently advancing. Vhalkir Syndrome—a degeneration caused by excessive exposure to unstable magical technology. The advanced medicine that kept my body functioning cost more than I could earn by taking ordinary jobs, constantly forcing me to gamble my life on tasks other mercenaries wouldn't accept.

I moved around the cabin, putting on my reinforced leather coat and hiding my mechanical arm with a thick glove, avoiding the curious glances that always followed me. In the "Steel Alley" space station, anonymity was my greatest ally. The rusted metal walls were covered in glowing graffiti in languages I barely recognized, holographic posters advertising forbidden implants and smuggled, tampered magical catalysts.

I descended the creaking metal stairs, entering the main hall. The bar, ironically named "The Last Refuge," was a cramped space filled with the smell of cheap alcohol and sweet smoke. Smugglers and bounty hunters filled the room with muffled voices, arguing in dialects from half a dozen different races. Waiter robots circulated with trays that had seen better days, skillfully avoiding the drunk or unconscious clientele slumped over the tables.

I chose a corner far from the crowd, sinking into the shadows. I ordered a drink strong enough to numb the constant pain and waited in silence. Something always came up, sooner or later. A job, a rumor, an opportunity.

And it came sooner than I expected.

"It's you, isn't it? The Specter of Oris." The voice was low, almost a whisper, beside me.

I slowly turned toward the stranger. A thin man, pale as someone who had spent too much time away from sunlight, wore a worn-out overcoat and gloves too delicate for that environment. Clearly, someone out of his element.

"I haven't used that name in a long time," I replied cautiously. "Who are you?"

He adjusted his hood, revealing deep, expressive eyes marked by dark circles. I immediately recognized the traits: human, but someone who had spent too much time in the Galactic Core, too close to the Empire's bureaucrats.

"My name is Therion Malkar, an archaeologist. I used to serve the Dominion Solari. Now, I'm just a renegade," he said, looking around nervously. "I have something that might interest you."

"I don't usually work with archaeologists," I took a sip of my drink, feigning disinterest. "Too many of them have a tendency to die too quickly."

"I imagine so, but you'll make an exception," he replied, discreetly pushing a small metallic sphere toward me.

I hesitated, glancing around before touching it. When I activated it, a hologram appeared before my eyes. An incomplete star map, pulsing in a faint blue light. A series of faded coordinates blinked in red, floating in the void.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice tense.

"A fragment of the map leading to the Heart of the Galaxy," he answered, almost whispering. "I know what you're thinking. Legends, rumors... But you and I know it's real. Something that can change everything."

"Why not sell it to the Empire? They'd pay much better than I can offer."

"Because I used to be part of the Dominion Solari," he replied, avoiding my gaze. "I've seen what they plan to do with it. I can't let that happen."

"And what exactly is the Heart of the Galaxy?" I looked at the sphere, fascinated but wary.

He smiled bitterly.

"They say it was the first magical catalyst ever created. Something forged from stellar matter and primordial magic, so powerful it can distort reality itself." He paused briefly. "Of course, the Dominion Solari wants to get their hands on it. They want to fuel a weapon I can't even imagine."

"And why me?" My voice was cold. "There are other mercenaries better equipped, less problematic."

"Because you know pain up close," he discreetly pointed to my mechanical arm. "You know the risks, but you know you have no choice. You need the money, and this is your only chance. Besides, other mercenaries have already refused. The Empire is after this thing, Julian. No one wants to cross their path."

A shiver ran down my spine. High Inquisitor Vharya, one of the Empire's most feared agents, was notorious for leaving no survivors. Accepting meant directly challenging the Dominion Solari, but refusing meant a slow, painful death, far from the dignity I intended to maintain.

I looked at the archaeologist, finding an expression of someone as desperate as I was.

"Where do we start?"

He extended his hand, a tense smile on his face.

"Naxion-9. But I must warn you: nothing on that planet is what it seems."

I took the metallic sphere, carefully storing it in my pocket. A strange sensation ran down my spine, a premonition that my life was about to change once again.

"It never is," I replied with a half-smile, getting up from the table.

The space station felt even more suffocating after accepting the job. We left the bar and walked through the narrow alleys of the station, illuminated only by aging spotlights flickering intermittently. The archaeologist walked hurriedly, casting nervous glances behind him, as if pursued by ghosts only he could see.

"You need to relax," I commented, controlling my own anxiety. "The more nervous you are, the more attention you'll draw."

He stopped abruptly, staring at me intensely.

"You don't understand, Julian. The Dominion Solari already knows about me. They know I stole this," he pointed to the device he carried carefully in his trembling hands. "My life has been marked since the moment I stole this information."

"So you're saying you brought the Empire here?" I felt my muscles tense suddenly.

He lowered his face, unable to respond. That was enough.

"Great," I muttered, pulling my hood over my head and walking again. "We need to get out of this station immediately."

We were almost at the docking bay when I heard heavy footsteps behind us. I immediately recognized the sound: reinforced boots, uniform steps. Imperial soldiers.

"Keep walking. Don't look back," I whispered to the archaeologist, touching the arcane pistol hidden under my coat.

But it was already too late. Three Dominion Solari soldiers blocked our path, wearing white exosuits with golden details, an unmistakable symbol of high imperial rank. They were Sol'Quari, imposing and arrogant, with glowing eyes watching us with disdain.

"In the name of the Dominion Solari, hand over the traitor now, and you may leave alive, mercenary," ordered the central soldier, his voice distorted by the helmet's amplifier.

I felt my heart race. I could abandon him right there and walk away unharmed. No one would judge me for it in that place.

I briefly glanced at the archaeologist beside me. He was trembling slightly, his eyes wide with fear. But there was something else there, a silent determination. He knew it was his end, and he wouldn't beg for mercy.

It was exactly what I hated most about myself: a small fragment of morality that stubbornly remained, even after all these years.

"Sorry," I whispered to him, slowly raising my hands.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, satisfied with my apparent surrender. The archaeologist let out a groan of defeat.

It was at that moment that I moved my mechanical arm with superhuman speed. Before the soldier could react, my metallic hand crushed the man's helmet like paper, knocking him unconscious to the ground.

The other soldiers opened fire immediately, magical shots passing dangerously close as I pulled the archaeologist behind a stack of metal crates. Drawing my pistol, I fired two quick shots. Bright rays cut through the dark corridor, hitting one soldier in the shoulder and forcing the others to take cover.

"Let's go!" I shouted to the archaeologist, pulling him with me as we desperately advanced through the station's narrow corridors.

I could hear reinforcements arriving behind us, metallic footsteps echoing like drums of death.

We reached the station's makeshift docking bay, filled with worn-out and clandestine ships. We ran straight to mine, an old but fast interceptor called "The Grey."

I hurried into the cockpit, while the archaeologist stumbled behind me. In seconds, the interceptor's runic engines began to pulse, magical catalysts activating with an intense blue glow.

"They'll destroy us before we even leave!" he shouted, almost in panic.

"Just stay quiet and hold on," I replied, my fingers quickly moving over the controls.

Imperial shots hit the ship's outer hull, shaking us violently as we accelerated out of the docking bay. Luminous alerts filled the cockpit, warning of minor damage to the fuselage. I ignored them all, focused solely on escape.

Finally, we broke through the station's barrier, entering the dark void of space. Behind us, the clandestine station slowly shrank, but an imperial ship was already hot on our tail, determined not to leave any witnesses.

I took a deep breath, maneuvering skillfully, dodging the magical shots that crossed the darkness like lightning. I had no idea how we would survive this, but then I noticed the archaeologist frantically fiddling with the console, quickly entering coordinates.

"What are you doing?!" I asked, tense, keeping the ship away from the shots.

"I'm taking us straight to Naxion-9," he replied, staring at me with wide eyes. "We have no other choice."

"Naxion-9 is unstable. It's suicide to jump there without preparation!"

"I'd rather risk it there than die at the hands of the Empire," he replied firmly.

I hesitated for a second, seeing another volley of shots dangerously close to us. Then, realizing there really was no alternative, I activated the magical warp drive.

"I hope you know what you're doing," I murmured as the reality around us began to distort, the magical engine pulsing so strongly it made my mechanical arm vibrate intensely.

In the next moment, everything became a blur of lights and shadows. I felt my stomach churn, as it always did when we jumped without the proper protocols.

And then, as suddenly as it began, everything stopped. Before us hovered a world that shouldn't exist. Naxion-9 was covered in a gray-silver atmosphere that glowed unsettlingly. Ahead of us, a vast network of floating ruins hovered above the desolate surface, like forgotten bones of something much larger.

I looked at the archaeologist, still panting.

"Welcome to Naxion-9," he whispered with a nervous smile.

My mechanical arm still trembled slightly, and I felt a strange pressure in my chest. Something there wasn't right. The planet felt alive, aware of our arrival. And for the first time in many years, I felt real fear spreading through my body.

I quickly closed my eyes, trying to control the sudden fear. I knew there was no turning back now.

My search for the Heart of the Galaxy had begun.