The control room buzzed with frantic energy, the tension thick enough to suffocate. Commodore Jazz stood at the center, her sharp eyes fixed on the flickering monitors as the elite squadron moved into position. Dragon engines, sleek and deadly, readied their firepower while battle suits wielding spears and swords hovered, waiting for the signal to strike.
“Commodore Jazz,” one of the junior officers called, his voice cracking with nerves. “The elites have reached the visual range of the target.”
Jazz nodded curtly.
“Activate the tactical overlays,” she ordered. “I want real-time data.”
The screen flickered as the tactical display illuminated, showing the precise movements of the ships and suits as they closed in on the Perfect Spawn. For a moment, everything seemed to be going according to plan. The spawn’s slow, lumbering movements made it seem like an easy target.
Jazz allowed herself a small breath of relief. This would be a victory—another notch in her belt, another reason for Gregor to eat his smug words. But even as the thought crossed her mind, a strange sensation settled in her gut.
Something wasn’t right.
The spawn—massive and grotesque—began to twist in on itself. Its tentacles, previously floating languidly, now coiled inward, folding as if being pulled by some unseen force.
A high-pitched, deafening screech tore through the control room, sending officers reeling, hands clamped over their ears.
“Status report!” Jazz demanded, her voice cutting through the chaos.
The screen flickered wildly, the image of the Perfect Spawn distorting as it began to collapse like a ball deflating. Tentacles writhed, the central eye stretched grotesquely—and then, without warning, the creature imploded.
Space itself bent toward the spawn’s center as though a black hole had formed within it.
When the video feed cleared, Jazz saw something none of them were prepared for. The Perfect Spawn was gone, sucked into the void, but in its place, something far worse was emerging—a tear in the fabric of space.
From it, a new entity slowly materialized. It was incomprehensibly massive, its size dwarfing anything they had ever encountered. At the center of its body swirled a gigantic black hole, rotating with terrifying speed beneath a single, monstrous eye.
Silence gripped the room.
Stories and urban legends from pilots spoke of this: front-runners and heralds giving way to the real monster. Jazz had seen it before—on the day her home planet was destroyed.
“Report!” she barked.
The scientist’s voice trembled:
“Classification: Apex. Behavior: unknown. Size: supermassive… Suggested designation: VoidRipper.”
The name itself seemed to press down on the room.
The black hole pulsed, consuming debris and light itself. Ships and battle suits tried to escape, but one by one, they were dragged in and crushed.
“Commodore Jazz, what are your orders?”
Jazz hesitated—but only for a moment.
“Attack the eye. All units, focus fire on VoidRipper’s eye.”
Weapons lit up the void. But the attacks only drew the monster’s attention. Its pull intensified. One after another, Nova 7’s forces were annihilated.
“There’s nothing left,” an officer whispered. “The fleet… it’s gone.”
Captain Stratham’s voice cut through the tense silence.
“I informed Chancellor Gregor of the situation. The order to retreat was given.”
Jazz’s eyes blazed.
“You went behind my back—while they were fighting for their lives?”
Before Stratham could answer, the main screen flickered to life, revealing Gregor Hartford himself. Calm. Cold. Detached.
“Commodore Jiroshi,” he said smoothly. “It appears we have a situation on our hands.”
Jazz reported the fleet’s destruction. Gregor barely reacted. Instead, he leaned forward.
“We’ve lost the battle… but perhaps we have untapped resources. What about utilizing the Cadets?”
Jazz’s blood ran cold.
“You can’t be suggesting—”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Gregor interrupted. “I’m simply presenting an option. They’re young, yes. Inexperienced. But they’re our future.”
The horror of it weighed on her—sending cadets, some as young as five, into battle.
“They aren’t ready,” Jazz said.
“None of us are ever truly ready,” Gregor replied, his voice like silk. “Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”
Around her, terrified officers looked on. The monitors showed VoidRipper drawing closer. There were no reinforcements coming.
Jazz’s voice wavered.
“And what do you suggest I tell them?”
Gregor’s lips curled into a faint smile.
“Tell them the truth. Tell them they are Nova 7’s last hope.”
She closed her eyes, letting the fear, grief, and fury wash over her—then locking it all away behind command steel.
When she opened her eyes again, her voice was steady.
“Very well. I’ll prepare the cadets.”
