Dirk Marshall hailed from the humble abode of a lower realm. This young, expansive world was home to your run-of-the-mill folks, with the exception of stronger gravity compared to the average planet.
Then the Alliance strolled in, heralding an era of apocalypse. His people had no choice but to wave the white flag of surrender.
That little episode unfolded a century ago.
Dirk was birthed into nobility—or, to be more accurate, a wealthy clan that had essentially purchased a VIP pass to the aristocracy.
He'd had 'huge potential' stamped across his forehead from a young age, with the career path of an Alliance officer not appearing too far-fetched.
Except he flunked.
After years of meandering through the vastness of space, Dirk swapped his failed dreams for the gig of a mercenary. Every mission sharpened his skills and bolstered his strength.
Being a native of a planet with Herculean-like gravity, he boasted a physical density that gave him a leg up in the space-brawl department.
Then, a week ago, some high-and-mighty from the Alliance summoned him and his motley crew. They threw a White Dwarf at him, with the catch being, he had to kill someone.
Apex Two.
The nitty-gritty of the mission wasn't crucial. He simply had to obliterate his target with this ludicrously overpowered weapon—hang on a second.
"Seriously? We're using the White Dwarf? In this lower, Nether-whatchamacallit realm? Just to off one guy? I mean, sure, this realm's got some hocus-pocus magic and shit, but really?"
And it was at this moment Dirk realized why they'd handed him the celestial equivalent of a sledgehammer to crack a nut.
There they were, Dirk and his band, shackled in an irksome blend of technologically advanced cuffs and irritable magic. They traipsed through a grand palace corridor, the name of which they didn’t know.
The palace itself was an architectural wonder, shifting between medieval grandeur and futuristic improvement with an ease that was unnerving.
The palace folks, a bevy of busy bees, buzzed about in a serene frenzy, their eyes ignited with a determination that would put a marathon runner to shame.
Dirk's group had pegged this as a lower realm, but their convictions crumbled faster than a cookie in hot tea.
“Your Majesty, here arrive the ones you requested,” an aide announced, ushering them into a room.
Upon entering the room, their eyes feasted on a banquet that could make a glutton weep. This wasn't a sophisticated alien soirée with a side of quantum physics. No, sir. This was a blowout of epic proportions.
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Mountains of roasted meats, rivers of decadent sauces, and a rainforest of colorful veggies sprawled across the table.
At the heart of this culinary circus was Emperor Burn, alias Apex Two—the man they were supposed to send to the afterlife.
He gnawed on a lamb thigh with a nonchalant menace, grumbling at a boy nearby who was busy decimating a pile of potato fries.
"When's she coming back? You sure she hasn't done a runner?" Burn asked.
The boy retorted, "My master won’t abandon me!"
"Your Majesty," Galahad chimed in, hoping to jog Burn's memory about the guests currently enjoying the palace's 'handcuff hospitality'. Burn swiveled around, bestowed a fleeting glance upon them, and promptly refocused on demolishing his meal and venting at Yvain.
"She's been missing since yesterday morning, hasn't she? That's more than 24 hours alr—"
"Aw, come on!" Yvain cut in. "All you've done since your return is to stuff your face! This is the third feast you've single-handedly devoured, and it's not as if you've instructed your people to search for her. If you're intent on waiting, then just wait!"
His son?
His little brother?
They didn’t look alike, but they were… similar.
“But you’re helping me, don’t you?” Burn sneered.
“I’m—I’m not gonna give them back!” Yvain protected his starchy treasures as if they were the crown jewels.
Then, they resumed their feasting with the casual air of two blokes downing pints at a pub.
The last time Dirk and his crew saw Burn, he resembled a skeleton that had been given a nasty sunburn, courtesy of the White Dwarf.
They had figured him for a lone wolf, kicking back in an opulent, but deserted, palace after a successful war. Little did they know that even stripped to his bare bones, Burn still managed to toss them around like ragdolls in a hurricane.
Post the brawl, Burn summoned his people, and Dirk and his crew were patched up, limbs reattached, and promptly shackled.
Burn, meanwhile, draped his charred frame in a fresh, plush house robe, a twin to the one he had donned before the fight.
They had expected the man to be laid up for a lifetime, nursing his wounds. But, there he was, tucking into his meal like a man possessed, looking almost...normal.
Well, as normal as a man who had just been on the business end of a cosmic smackdown could look.
Burn's short white hair was a bit unruly. His golden eyes were a captivating blend of brilliance and madness. His physique, while not exactly a bodybuilder's dream, was solid and athletic. He was thinner now, but there was no doubt that underneath that robe, his muscles were coiled like springs, ready for action.
It was clear, his magic was no joke, and the title Apex Two wasn't some random moniker plucked out of a hat. And then, it clicked.
Wasn't this the same lunatic from the backwater realm of Nethermere who had fought off the Alliance's first wave single-handedly and emerged victorious? If rumors were to be believed, then yes, yes, it was.
"We don’t know anything," Dirk finally said, breaking the silence like a rock through a glass window.
Catching wind of Dirk's declaration, Burn pushed his half-devoured plate away. A servant swooped in, hastily reassembling the food like a jigsaw puzzle, while Burn shifted his gaze to them.
"Of course, you wouldn't know. You're not card-carrying members of the Alliance, are you?" Burn drawled, dabbing at his mouth with the nonchalance of a man without a care in the world. "That's precisely why you were handpicked."
"And now," Burn sneered, "You're more valuable to them dead."
Because they failed.