Marco sat at the table, a languid smile stretched across his lips. He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head, lifting his face toward the sun.

The encampment was a day’s journey from Greentaque, where representatives of three clans were to convene for negotiations concerning a newly discovered planet in an annexed spiral galaxy. The discovery itself had been accidental. The region contained barrades—those stellar bars formed when gravitational waves funnel dense gas toward the galactic core, fuelling star formation. The gas, rich and volatile, was an invaluable resource—vital to the Empire’s industrial matrix. Entire fleets of probes scoured the galaxies in search of such sites. And thus, the planet had been found—wrapped tightly in the lucrative embrace of barrades.

Though Marco would never admit it aloud, he knew little of this new world. His task was logistical: to prepare the summit at which the planet’s fate would be decided. His attendants moved with precision, finalising every last detail. Yet his thoughts wandered far beyond the realm of protocol.

“I’ll make a fortune off this place, Syberia,” he muttered, casting a glance at the great cage beside him—inside, the massive form of a slumbering Trorex. “Did you know the Trorex shares direct lineage with the Neandro Rep? Are you even aware of your race’s evolutionary history?”

The towering reptilian beside him said nothing. Syberia’s expression remained unreadable, his eyes cold.

“Never mind,” Marco waved a hand dismissively. “What’s the point? Too much knowledge only clouds the mind. Life should be simple. Look at you—formidable, fused with the Orb Artifact, bred for war. You were born to fight, not think.”

The giant’s silence remained unbroken.

The evolution of Syberia’s species had been an artificial design, orchestrated by the Empire itself. Marco knew the history of their planet—Repo—intimately. In Umeryan archives, it was chronicled as the Repo Transformation: a concise yet spectacular tale of bioengineering revolutions, radical evolutionary protocols, and a decision that birthed a new form of life. One figure in particular fascinated Marco—Diva, a legendary warrior, bearer of the Orb like Syberia. Once enslaved by General Bortus, now a symbol of rebellion, sung in verse across the stars.

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice—deep, clipped:

“Transport is ready, my lord. The WLS62 dock is prepped. The freighter awaits to carry the Trorex to Corso.”

“See to it, Grecia, that word of this little hunt doesn’t echo through the city. And especially—make sure that witch Olivia remains unaware.”

Grecia bowed low and departed toward the landing platform.

Marco’s jaw clenched at the mere thought of the Armonia Clan. Like most within Corso’s general staff, he held no affection for them—in fact, he would admit to loathing. Armonia held the Emperor’s ear. It was they who developed the infamous algorithm demonstrating that slavery produced more harm than gain—an algorithm that led to the abolition of all trade in living beings across the Empire. Officially, that is. In practice, black markets flourished, and entire planets thrived under the shadow of clandestine bondage.

Damn that algorithm and all it wrought, Marco thought, fists tightening.

He rose, heading for his vehicle, his mind already on the summit ahead. The mission: formulate a strategy for first contact with the newly detected civilisation. The signal had caught the Empire by surprise, and contingency was now paramount.

His strategy was clear—aggression and force—the time-honoured creed of Clan Corso. He braced for confrontation, particularly with Olivia, the Armonian diplomat. Rimdal would pose less trouble. But Olivia… she was called the Golden Tongue for good reason. Her words could reshape even the most stubborn convictions.

He entered the transport and sank into the cushioned seat, clenching the armrests. A servant handed him a greenish drink. Marco took a sip, staining his lips, not noticing—his mind already deep in calculation.

Preliminary reports on the planet indicated that the resident civilisation was no more advanced than the Corsans had been prior to Imperial contact. Homo sapiens, or Earthlings, as they styled themselves, were weak—ideal prey for Corso’s battle-hardened warriors. If handled correctly, they would fetch an astronomical price on the slave markets.

Already, the gears turned in Marco’s mind—profit projections, risk assessments. He had a plan, as any strategist of worth must, and the final uncertainties were falling into place.
RicSoft, the algorithmic mind of Clan Tech, had confirmed: Homo sapiens were entering their first age of technological bloom. Their history, like Corso’s own, was blood-soaked—conflict-ridden. Marco would argue to Rimdal, first adviser to the Emperor and delegate of Clan Umerium, that these beings posed a future threat. That unchecked, they might one day challenge the Empire’s dominion.

Controlled evolution is the solution, Marco reasoned.

He smirked, took a long draught from his drink, and licked his lips like a predator well-fed. Then, with mock humility, he would offer his clan to shepherd the development of Earth—under Imperial doctrine, of course. His past triumphs on Repo were ample evidence of Corso’s capability. Besides, the new galaxy was nearest to Corso territory. It was only logical.

This plan is too perfect to fail, he assured himself, still sipping the green elixir, as the vehicle carried him ever closer to the theatre of political war.