The one retrieved from The Void

Outside the asteroid housing the notorious prison of Nu, darkness cloaked a room where a lone man sat in silence. His face was obscured by the dim glow of monitors reflecting an ominous red light.

"Sir," a voice pierced through the shadows, sharp and urgent. "Everything is ready. We can commence the attack on Nu."

The man leaned forward, his face still hidden in the dark. "Good," he said, his voice low and deliberate, carrying an undercurrent of malice. "Begin."

As his command reverberated through the room, the void outside the asteroid seemed to tremble. From the darkness of space emerged a massive ship—a colossus of engineering shaped like a perfect sphere. Its surface was studded with pulsating lights, cold and unyielding. The ship dwarfed the asteroid, an artificial predator poised to strike. One by one, the lights blinked to life, an unspoken countdown to chaos.

From the spherical behemoth, swarms of drones spilled out like a metallic plague. They moved with eerie precision, their collective hum a chilling prelude to destruction. The drones launched their assault on Nu's force field, battering it relentlessly. Explosions rippled across the shield's surface, casting the asteroid in a kaleidoscope of deadly hues. Yet, for the moment, the force field held strong, a fragile barrier against overwhelming odds.

"The attack has begun, sir," the voice confirmed, tension bleeding into the words.

"Good," the man replied, though his satisfaction was tempered by urgency. "We must finish this quickly. Reinforcements will arrive soon, and when they do, we cannot afford to be unprepared."

Before his words had time to settle, a thunderous explosion echoed through the void. A second vessel emerged from hyperspace with a blinding flash. Its sleek, crescent-shaped hull shimmered like liquid metal, reflecting the starlight with an almost ethereal quality. Plasma lances lined its surface, glowing ominously as they prepared to unleash devastation.

The figure's subordinate gasped, their voice trembling. "That's... a command ship. The Army is here!"

"No," the man interrupted sharply, his tone laden with frustration. "That isn't the Army. That's Kadmon." His hands clenched the edge of the table, his knuckles white. "I would know. The gates haven't activated, and no signals have come through the official channels. Kadmon operates independently, and their base is rumored to be near Caelum. No one else could have responded this quickly."

"But... sir, how can you be so sure?" the voice asked hesitantly.

"Because," the figure growled, hunched over the table, "only Kadmon would act with such precision and autonomy. Deploy the net. We need to stall them at all costs. And start making preparations. It won't just be Kadmon—soon, the Army, the SCD, and who knows what other forces will descend upon us."

Obeying the command, the drones changed tactics. Instead of continuing their futile assault on the force field, they shifted their formation, moving with chilling synchronicity. Lines of energy connected them, forming a vast, glowing net that stretched across the void between the Kadmon ship and Nu. Its presence was oppressive, a tangible barrier locking Kadmon's ship in place and daring it to advance.

Inside the Kadmon ship, a large observation dome offered an unobstructed view of the unfolding battle. Standing at its center was Kadmon Primal, an enigmatic figure of authority and power. His piercing gaze scanned the battlefield, unyielding as steel. Beside him stood two of his trusted operatives.

Kadmon Veritas was a man of sharp contrasts, his cold, hawk-like green eyes exuding intelligence and ruthlessness. His pale skin contrasted starkly with his jet-black hair, cropped neatly to emphasize his precision. He exuded an air of quiet menace, his movements deliberate and controlled. The crescent-shaped tattoo behind his ear was subtle yet unmistakable, a mark of his allegiance. His dark, tailored suit and long trench coat gave him the air of a calculating predator, his gloved hands betraying faint scars from years of fieldwork.

Umbra, by contrast, radiated raw strength. Her cropped auburn hair, streaked with gray, framed her chiseled, warrior-like visage. Her piercing hazel eyes seemed to see through the chaos as though she could already calculate every move the enemy might make. The sleek cybernetic implant over her left eye glimmered faintly, a testament to her advanced combat capabilities. Her dark, armored coat was crisscrossed with concealed weapons and gadgets, each tailored for her lethal efficiency.

"This is getting tiresome," Primal muttered, his voice measured but laced with irritation.

Umbra smirked, her tone laced with dry humor. "We could force our way through. That net wouldn't hold us for long."

Primal shook his head. "That would be reckless. We can't risk exhausting our resources just to break through an obstacle. The situation inside Nu is still unclear, and conserving energy is paramount."

Veritas interjected, his voice calm yet cutting. "Our agents are already inside. I'll contact them and instruct them to gather as much intelligence as possible. If there's anything critical we need to know, they'll uncover it."

Umbra leaned back, her stance relaxed but her eyes sharp. "Doesn't matter. That net won't last. We'll break through soon enough."

Primal gave a curt nod, his focus unwavering. "Deploy our drones to dismantle the net. We'll break their formation and proceed cautiously. This operation is too critical to rush."

As the order was given, Kadmon's ship unleashed its own drones, sleek and angular. They moved like hunting falcons, their plasma weapons cutting through the enemy net with surgical precision. The battle intensified, the void now alive with the deadly dance of energy and metal. The air inside the observation dome grew tense, each passing second heightening the stakes. They weren't just fighting for control of Nu—they were battling against time, the unknown, and the unseen forces that might yet descend upon them.

While Kadmon's ship engaged with the enigmatic attackers of Nu Prison, at the Sanctum of the Twelve, preparations for a decisive intervention were underway. The vast chamber, illuminated by an ethereal light that cascaded from unseen sources, hummed with a weighty sense of purpose. Shadows danced across the intricately adorned walls, where murals of celestial gods locked in eternal struggle loomed like silent judges over those below.

At the center of this sanctum, two figures commanded the scene with commanding presence.

The first, Lysander Aelric, the Captain General of the Knights of Nexus, stood resolute, his form encased in interwoven silver and black plate that shimmered as if invisible threads wove themselves across its surface with every movement. The joints and edges of his armor glowed faintly, casting a soft, almost spectral light that matched the luminous crystalline web design etched into his chestplate. Draped over his shoulders was a cloak of midnight blue, its silver embroidery depicting constellations in mesmerizing detail. At his hip rested a slender longsword, its blade sheathed but emanating a quiet menace. His helm, smooth and reflective, bore a fractal-patterned visor that concealed his face, rendering him an enigma to all but his closest allies.

Beside him stood Cyra Venna, Captain General of the Knights of Chronos. Her polished steel armor gleamed with embedded clockwork mechanisms that moved subtly with her every motion, an intricate symphony of precision and purpose. Her insignia, a stylized clock face, adorned her chestplate, marking her as a harbinger of time's unyielding flow. She wore a black cloak with metallic silver trim, its spiraling embroidery reminiscent of temporal loops. Her weapon of choice, a rapier with a clockwork hilt, clicked faintly with each shift of her stance. Her helm was stark and minimalistic, a single glowing band across the visor that evoked the image of a sundial, as if her every gaze marked the passage of time itself.

These two were the chosen leaders for the operation: a purge of the heretics daring to assault Nu Prison. Yet their orders carried an additional, darker purpose—a covert directive to ensure the elimination of the students present at the prison. Neither Lysander nor Cyra questioned the decree.

"I don't see why the students need to die," Lysander muttered, his voice laced with casual detachment.

"They claim it's due to a revelation," Cyra replied, her tone equally unbothered.

Lysander shrugged, his armored shoulders clinking softly. "If the Gods will it, who are we to argue? We're merely their instruments."

A faint smirk curled Cyra's lips. "Collateral damage. That's all they are. You can't walk through a forest without crushing a few ants beneath your boots."

"Ants?" Lysander scoffed, his voice edged with dry sarcasm. "That's generous. Specks of dust, perhaps?"

Cyra chuckled, her laugh a sharp contrast to the ominous weight of their conversation. "Yes, that sounds more appropriate."