Ch 4: Retriving the Mother Key- Part 1

Nova stood at the terminal, arms crossed, watching as the last diagnostic feed faded from the cracked display. 

Behind him, Nyx rested in her recharging pool—still rebooting, her body slowly regaining full function. Tubes pulsed with soft light around her, and her vitals returned one by one with methodical precision.

With her stable, it was time to move.

He turned his attention to the data Nyx had compiled during her fragmented operation. Most of it was standard—power grid failures, torn conduits, broken subsystems. 

The aether absorption unit was still the primary concern. Without it, the mothership was barely holding on.

But something else caught his eye.

A blinking notification at the top of the list: Master Key Missing.

Nova's expression darkened.

The Master Key wasn't just a security token. It was the central controller of the mothership's systems—used for full access overrides, control alignment, and most importantly, synchronized movement with the ship's deeper systems. 

Without it, Nova would have to burn an unsustainable amount of his own aether just to keep things running.

He tapped the console.

Nyx's voice came online, filtered and faint. 

[During your seal, the security feed registered a merchant group scavenging this section. They didn't breach the Core Nexus… but they took the Master Key before the defense grid activated.]

"Who?"

Nova asked.

[Merchant Group: Clavacis. Planet-based, low orbit. Not far. According to intercepted communications, they're holding an auction for rare salvage soon. The Master Key is among the listings.]

Nova's eyes narrowed. 

"Then that's our first stop."

Nyx paused. 

"The jump is short, but the core isn't stable. There's a risk."

"I'll handle the strain."

He stepped to the command interface, laid his hand on the panel, and channeled his aether through the battered systems. 

Light flickered down the hallway, power rushing into dormant circuits. The mothership groaned, then shuddered as its engines stirred awake.

With one last pulse, the ship lurched forward, and the jump sequence began.

The jump wasn't smooth.

Reality warped, tearing briefly at the edges of the ship's fractured hull. Nova kept his palm pressed to the core stabilizer, sharing his energy directly to anchor the transition. The ship hissed and screamed, sparks flying from exposed conduits—but they made it.

The jump ended with a sharp jolt.

Nova opened his eyes and gazed out the viewport.

Below them- 

Clavacis.

A floating fortress of excess and contradiction. The planet-sized ship shimmered with gold-tinted spires, cascading towers, and reflective domes, all orbiting above a lifeless crust below. 

No real terrain—just a massive fabricated trade station built from layers of junk, tech, and greed.

He pulled up the feed.

Clavacis was divided sharply—between the wealthy aristocrats above and the market-worn poor below. 

A subdivine culture, as Nyx put it. They mimicked divine hierarchy: the wealthy treated as god-chosen, while the laborers lived in dust and shadows.

Even their buildings copied the architecture of dead civilizations—stone pillars, vine-laced facades, arches with no structural need. 

All a performance of false humility beneath staggering wealth.

At the center of it all floated the command district. And at its peak—

"Clavacis III. Captain. Merchant King. Vault holder." 

Nova muttered, scanning the records. 

The man was the key to the auction. And, likely, the key to the Key itself.

Nova didn't bother debating strategy.

He didn't need to blend in or play politics. That wasn't his language.

He stepped back from the terminal and summoned his blade—half-formed, pulsing with restraint.

His next move was simple:

Find the highest room in the tallest tower and take the king off his throne.

The mothership coasted into low orbit, its battered hull groaning under the strain. Nova stood on the side-shutter platform, eyes narrowed as Clavacis came into full view—golden towers glinting beneath a desert-hued haze.

"Nyx, status on the side-shutter cloaking?"

He said, fingers tightening on the rail.

Her voice echoed in through his comm, calm as ever.

[Camouflage systems are offline. Auxiliary channels are fried. I cannot engage stealth protocols at this time.]

Nova clicked his tongue. 

"Then get us low. As close to the surface as possible."

[That will expose the mothership to long-range scans.]

"I'm not asking to be hidden. Just close enough to jump."

A pause. Then: 

[Acknowledged. Bringing you in now.]

The ship dipped, descending through the smog-draped upper layers of Clavacis. Heat shimmered across the metal plating as winds whipped against the hull. 

Nova crouched, pressing his hand to the edge of the shutter, aether pulsing under his skin.

When the ship neared the surface, he flared his power.

Aether rippled from his body, masking the shutter for just long enough—bending light, muting sound, cloaking the metal in a translucent veil.

Then he leapt.

The force of the jump cracked the railing behind him.

He landed hard on Clavacis's outer wing, the surface scorching and dry like a synthetic desert. 

Granules of processed dust scattered around his boots, the air thick with filtered sunlight and static heat. No guards. No welcoming party. Just silence.

Good.

He had no plans to enter politely.

Beneath the golden towers, deep within the heart of Clavacis, laughter and music spilled from the opulent inner chamber. 

A vaulted room of crystal chandeliers and velvet-lined walls pulsed with noise and light, as nobles draped in silk and metal drank themselves numb on vintage liquors imported from collapsed planets.

At the head of the room lounged Clavacis the Third.

Obscenely large, wrapped in layers of embroidered robes, he sat on a floating dais shaped like a lion's maw, goblet in hand, skin gleaming with oil and indulgence.

A ring of servants surrounded him—oiling his arms, offering fruits, massaging his shoulders.

He raised his cup high. 

"Bring in more food! And the new slaves. I want to see their faces."

The nobles clapped. A few whistled.

Moments later, the grand doors opened with theatrical flourish, and a line of servants marched in. 

Behind them came the slaves—chained together, wrists bound, necks collared, forced forward in a line under the watchful eyes of armed guards.

The nobles cheered, raising their glasses as if they'd won a war.

Clavacis III leaned forward, smirking at the bound figures.

"Behold! Proof of our dominance. This is what success tastes like—power over bodies, over futures." 

He waved lazily. 

"They'll serve, they'll obey, and they'll remind us how far above we truly are."

The crowd roared in approval.

But in the line of bowed heads, one girl did not drop her gaze.

Anna—young, no older than twenty—stood straight even as the chains dug into her skin. Her knees trembled but did not buckle. Her eyes didn't look down.

They burned.

She clenched her jaw as Clavacis passed by her, never once sparing a glance. Her fingers twitched, aching to move, aching to do something.

'One day I'll get out of this.'

She swore.

Not just for herself—but for all of them.

And when she did, she'd tear this empire down brick by brick.

Even if it killed her.

As the crowd roared and music blared, Anna tightened her fists behind her back, nails biting into skin. 

The chains rattled, but she refused to flinch. No one noticed her defiance—yet. But she'd remember every face here. Every cheer. Every laugh.

'Let them celebrate. Their time is coming. I can feel it.'

She thought. 

___

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