<<Alpha Log –

6952 SFY — Third Era, 10 standard months since Planetfall.>>

The brass will complain. They always do. I can already hear their voices, the endless committee chatter: "Unauthorized deployment." "Deviation from protocol." "Unnecessary risk to the integrity of experimental assets." The chorus never changes. They didn't like the D.U.C.K. system when I first pitched it. They hated it more when I proved it worked.

Not for any of the reasons that might matter. Not for the ethics. Not for the lives risked in field trials. No — the Federation has filled whole graveyards with its own "super soldier" projects, and they'll keep doing it long after I'm gone. Their outrage has always been of a different kind.

They're afraid.

The D.U.C.K. project never needed their costly gene-editing programs. It never required their labyrinth of conditioning and training camps, their endless drills designed to break men down before rebuilding them. No, mine was simple — terrifyingly so. A framework that could take any civilian, any child pulled from the gutter or farmer pulled from his field, and lift them into the same stratosphere as the Federation's best. No pedigree required. No investment but the willingness to accept implantation.

And that, to the bureaucrats, is the true sin.

In theory — had I been fully unshackled — I could have raised an army in weeks. Equal to, perhaps even superior to, the Federation's elites. From scratch. From nothing. That is the nightmare that keeps admirals and ministers awake at night. Not the fear of what the enemy might do with such technology, but the fear of what I might.

But I am not so foolish. Not anymore.

I learned the lesson the hard way. Jackson taught it to me in fire and blood. Private First Class Adrian Jackson, the so-called Mad Tyrant of the Duck God. The brass gave me a green soldier for the tests, and in less than six months, he carved his name across four occupied worlds. He tore warframes apart with his bare hands, flattened whole cities in his "holy crusade," and did it all while claiming my system had chosen him as its prophet. It took orbital bombardment and half a fleet to bring him down, and even then, the cost was obscene.

Yes, the brass will complain. They will remind me of Jackson. They will tell me that I've repeated my mistake.

But Jonah is not Jackson.

Where Jackson burned with ambition, Jonah shies away from it. Where Jackson reveled in the power, Jonah recoiled. He doesn't want to be a soldier. He doesn't even want to be strong. His only desire — his only need — is to keep safe the people he calls family. That, ironically, makes him more stable than any volunteer the Federation ever handed me.

Maybe it will change. Power reshapes people, slowly or quickly, but always. Which is why I won't leave Jonah untended. I will shape the growth. Guide it. Ensure he bends the way I need him to.

And how do you ensure that someone who suddenly finds themselves with unimaginable strength doesn't wander? Doesn't stray? Doesn't dream too loudly of what they might do with it?

You strip away the horizon.

You take every other possibility, every other avenue of resistance, and you burn it to ash. You make the scale of the galaxy plain — the fleets, the machines, the weapons that could scour continents in hours. You show them that whatever they think of as powerful, whatever titles they cling to on their fractured little world, means nothing in the face of the Federation. And once they see it, once they understand the sheer imbalance of it, the only sane choice left is to cling to my thigh. To the only figure who might shield them from that storm.

I won't pretend it's not cruel. But it is efficient.

It's a method I've used before. Again and again, across centuries of campaigns. Entire civilizations have bent the knee without a shot fired when they saw the true scale of what loomed behind me.

The goblins, the adventurers, the sects of this world — they require a lighter touch, yes. Whispered myths. Half-truths. A curated theater of mystery to keep them wary but pliable. But that's not the only way to do things.

Overwhelming force saves lives. Conquest by awe leaves far fewer bodies on the ground than conquest by fire.

There's always blood at the start — but far less blood than the alternative.

Jonah is the balance I needed. A test case that may yet prove the system viable even under shackled conditions. So when I finally get off this bloody wreck of a world and make it back to proper civilization, let it be known that, whatever comes of this, I did my job.

And more importantly, I did what I thought was best to save as many as I could.

The Federation's flag will fly here, whether this world realizes it or not.

The only real question is how red the ground underneath it will be.

——————————————————

The alley reeked of stale rain and rotting scraps, a narrow cut of stone hemmed in by leaning walls. Lantern light from the street beyond barely touched the entrance, leaving the interior cloaked in shadow. Two men stood there regardless, broad-shouldered and ragged, their smiles stretched too wide to be kind.

"Long way from the square, eh?" one drawled, voice syrup-sweet as he leaned on the wall and let the words hang.

"Yeah," the other chimed in, feigning concern. "Easy to get turned around in this part of town. Lucky for you, we know the streets. We'll get you where you need to go."

Their tone said help, but their eyes said something else. Teeth gleamed in the dark like knives.

The man cornered between them pressed back until his shoulders scraped brick. His clothes were worn thin, shoes scuffed to nearly nothing. His breath came fast, chest rising and falling in shallow jerks. Wide, bloodshot eyes flicked from one face to the other, then darted toward the alley mouth, searching for an opening.

The two thugs shifted, almost lazily, each taking a step sideways until the way out was blocked by their bodies.

"No need to hurry," the first one said, grin widening.

The cornered man's chest heaved. His gaze darted again, this time past them. Something sharpened in his eyes, and they went wide.

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The taller thug chuckled at the sudden spark of terror in their quarry's eyes. "See? He's so grateful he doesn't know where to look."

But his friend frowned as the realization dawned. He wasn't looking at them. Slowly, unease pricked at the back of his neck.

"What're you staring—"

He cut himself off, head turning despite himself. The smile slid from his face.

A figure stood at the mouth of the alley.

No detail could be made out. No face, no features, nothing but height and the dark weight of a presence that seemed to swallow what little light lingered on the street. The figure filled the passage, tall enough to make both men look small.

The first thug's throat went dry. He slapped his friend's arm once, twice, urgent.

"Knock it off," the second man muttered, shrugging him off. "We've got business."

Frustration spiked. The first seized his companion's shoulder and wrenched him around to look.

The second's words died. His mouth worked, then clamped shut, jaw clenching as if holding back a curse.

"Oi!" he barked, forcing bluster into his voice. "You hear me? This one's ours. You don't want trouble with Icefinger's people. Turn around."

The figure didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched.

The second thug's lip curled. "Fine. Have it your way."

Copper light rippled across his skin, aura flaring in a sheen of metallic bronze. Spirit energy hummed in the narrow space, low and threatening. Respectable enough among street toughs. Enough to make most folk run.

But the figure didn't run.

Instead, thin lines ignited along its body — sharp, angular strokes of azure that cut through the dark like runes carved into glass. They glowed steadily, cold. Not spirit energy. Not anything the thug recognized.

The sight sent a shiver crawling down his spine, but pride and fear pushed him forward. "Hah. Tricks. Let's see how you like—"

The words never finished.

The figure blurred. One heartbeat it stood across the alley, the next it loomed inches away, too close to see clearly. A hand clamped around his throat with iron strength and lifted him clear off the ground. His legs kicked uselessly, boots scraping against stone.

He struck out, fists crackling with spirit-infused blows that should have crushed bone. His knuckles cracked against that grip again and again, but the figure didn't budge. He might as well have been striking the wall itself for as much as the shadow seemed to respond.

Then the air charged.

Blue-white light surged down the shadowed arm and into the thug's body. Electricity arced across his skin in jagged forks, lighting the alley in a violent strobe. His scream caught in his throat, drowned in the crackle of power. Muscles seized, body jerking like a puppet with tangled strings. The stink of scorched fabric filled the night.

The first thug snapped out of his daze with a shout, stumbling back, arm thrown up to shield his eyes. The flash seared through his vision, leaving spots of color.

When the light finally died, the second man lay crumpled on the stones, twitching, smoke curling from his clothes.

The figure stood over him, silent, unmoved.

Slowly, it turned.

Azure eyes burned to life in the dark, twin coals smoldering cold and inhuman. The glow fixed on the first thug.

His breath caught in his chest.

The figure tilted its head. A grin pulled across what should have been its face, wide and terrible.

The thug's knees buckled. His eyes rolled white. He dropped like a sack of grain, out cold before he hit the ground.

The alley fell silent, broken only by the faint hiss of smoke rising from the twitching body on the stones.

The shadowed figure lingered a moment longer, azure eyes cutting through the dark. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, it vanished, leaving nothing but silence and the stench of fear behind.

At the far end, the man they had cornered huddled against the wall, knees drawn up, his body pressed tight as though he could fold himself into the stone. His breath came in quick, ragged bursts. Wide eyes stared past the twitching thugs to the place where the shadowed figure had stood. He didn't blink. Didn't move. Only the tremor in his shoulders betrayed that he was still alive.

At length, courage — or perhaps desperation — forced him upright. His legs wobbled beneath him as he shuffled forward, every step angled and cautious, as though expecting the darkness to reach out and seize him. He stopped at the fallen men, clutching his walking stick in both hands. With the wary precision of someone poking a snake, he prodded first one thug, then the other. Neither stirred.

The man glanced once over his shoulder, scanning the alley mouth as if expecting those cold blue eyes to return. When the shadows held, he dropped to a knee. His fingers worked quick and practiced, sawing free the heavy purses from their belts. The coins inside clinked softly, a promise too rich to ignore. He stuffed them deep into the folds of his tattered coat.

He rose with a low grunt, shot one last look at the smoking man at his feet, and drove a sharp kick into his ribs. The thug groaned faintly, but did not rise.

Without another glance, the man turned and hurried off into the night.

——————————————————

Jonah burst into the narrow lane in a stumble, his sandals slapping hard against stone slick with last night's drizzle. His breath came ragged, tearing at his throat as though he'd run for miles. He lurched sideways, shoulder slamming into the wall. Sweat poured down his face, streaking through the dust and grime clinging to his skin. His chest heaved, ribs rattling as though each breath might be the last.

A flicker of motion cut through the shadows. A [Wasp] drone glided down from the rooftops, its wings humming a thin metallic whine. It landed with precise balance on a broken crate, antennae twitching as the crimson glow of its eyes fixed on him.

"Easy there," Alpha's voice rasped through its mandibles, smooth despite the distortion. "Your body might be stronger now, but that doesn't mean you can push it without consequence."

Jonah's hand scraped down the wall, nails biting into the mortar. He squeezed his eyes shut, gulping down air until he managed to grind out a hoarse question. "Why — why is this so hard?" His knees nearly buckled. "In the courtyard, I… I fought a Golden Spirit cultivator. Supposedly. I—" His voice cracked, disbelief curdling into desperation.

The [Wasp] tilted its head, wings clicking once before folding tight. "Because that wasn't you," Alpha said simply. "That was the ACP using your body."

Jonah's eyes snapped open. "The… what?"

"Automatic Combat Protocols," Alpha clarified, voice patient, almost amused. "The AI knows how to use your new strength with ruthless efficiency. It doesn't worry about trifles like pain. Or torn ligaments. Or what happens when the strain pushes your heart into arrhythmia. It pushes until you break — then lets the nanites knit you back together. Convenient… when you're unconscious and can't feel a thing."

Jonah swallowed, the bile rising sharp in his throat. "So then—" he panted between words, "—why not just use it again?"

The [Wasp]'s mandibles flexed in what might have been a smirk. "Oh, we can. If you're content being driven around like a puppet on strings."

The blood drained from Jonah's face. His stomach turned.

Alpha's tone sharpened. "The ACP is an emergency system. A stopgap. It might be stronger than you are now, yes, but it's limited. It doesn't learn, Jonah. It doesn't adapt. Not in the way a real soldier with real experience can."

Jonah sagged back against the wall, chest still heaving. His fists clenched, then loosened again as the weight of it sank in. "…I get it," he muttered, voice barely audible. "I just…" His eyes flicked toward the ground. He sighed.

"You'll get there eventually. But you have to learn to walk before you can run," Alpha said lightly. "Nice touch with the smile, by the way. Really put the fear into that poor sap. And here I thought I would have to teach you that one."

Jonah's ears turned red. "I wasn't trying to scare him!" he protested. "That first attack nearly drained me. I thought maybe I could… de-escalate or something. Maybe bluff my way out. Didn't expect him to just faint like that!"

Alpha laughed, then shrugged. "Hey, if it works, it works. Now, catch your breath. We've still got plenty of ground to cover before the night's out."

Jonah groaned, dragging a sleeve across his sweat-streaked face. "You've got to be kidding me."

The [Wasp] gave a soft buzz, its optic gleaming. "Wouldn't dream of it."

——————————————————

The horizon burned pale gray when Jonah finally clambered back to the temple. His legs trembled with each step, and every muscle screamed protest. The courtyard's gates were still barred, guards shifting drowsily in their posts. He slipped instead through an open window, easing it shut with the care of a thief.

The familiar hush of the dormitory wrapped around him. He staggered to his bed, collapsed face-first into the thin mattress, and let the exhaustion swallow him whole. Sleep claimed him before his head had even sunk into the pillow.

Outside, Halirosa's streets stirred awake. Whispers skittered across taverns and markets, born from trembling voices that swore they'd seen a shadow in the alleys. A figure with eyes like burning ice. A predator who struck without a sound, leaving only smoke and fear behind.

The stories spread with the dawn, and with each telling, the shadow grew.

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