The engines of our dropships roared to life as we ascended from the battered surface of their world. Smoke and flame blurred beneath us, a smoldering canvas of our defiance.
But victory was a bitter taste tonight.
We had lost too many. Too much.
As we breached the upper atmosphere, sirens echoed from the cities below. Looking down through the viewport, I saw the streets flood with thousands—no, millions—chanting against us. Their rage was a living thing, a wave of hate swelling up toward the stars.
"Murderers!""Monsters!""We will find you!"
Their words crackled even through the comms feed.They could scream all they wanted. We were leaving—and next time, we would return to finish this.
Then the alarms blared inside our ship.
"Incoming fighters!" shouted Suru from the gunner's chair.
I cursed under my breath.They weren't going to let us leave without a fight.
Enemy ships, sleek and dark as razors, tore through the clouds in pursuit. Beams of plasma seared past us, lighting the void in flashes of red and gold.
"Hard evasive!" I barked.
Our pilot, Roota, yanked the controls violently. Our ship dipped and spun, barely dodging a missile that whizzed past our hull and detonated in a flash of brutal light.
Behind us, Sonpy and the others manned the turret guns, returning fire with a vengeance.
We weaved and darted through their airspace like hunted prey. The stars blurred. The ground was a nightmare of firestorms and chaos.
Every second stretched into an eternity.
Finally—finally—we cleared their upper patrol lines and the ship's jump-drive came online.
"Coordinates locked. Ready for Earth transit!" Roota yelled.
"Punch it!" I commanded.
In a burst of blue light, we warped away—leaving their burning world behind.
The jump was short, but the silence that followed was heavy.
We drifted in orbit above Earth, the home we fought so hard to protect—and that would soon become a battlefield.
Inside the ship, the air was thick with mourning.
Empty chairs where Lup and others should have been. Bloodied armor piled in the corner. Faces hollowed by loss.
I stood at the center of the common bay, every eye on me.
I had to say something. Anything. Even if my own heart was drowning.
I drew a breath, the words sharp on my tongue:
"We have lost brave souls today," I began, my voice carrying through the bay.
"Lup... others... they stayed behind so we could live. They believed our world was worth dying for. We owe them more than grief. We owe them victory."
The soldiers straightened. Tears burned in their eyes, but they listened.
"We are not broken," I growled, slamming my fist against my chest."We are the sword that will carve out justice. We are the fire that will cleanse the wounds they left in our hearts. We will make them pay."
A roar erupted from my team, the sound fierce and savage.
We were wounded—but we were not defeated.
As we entered Earth's lower orbit, fleets of human ships rose to meet us—not in hostility, but in salute.
Entire cities lit up. Beacons and banners streamed from towers. The world welcomed us back as heroes—because they knew.
The war had come.
On the ground, dignitaries and civilians lined the streets, holding up signs, praying, sobbing, chanting our names.
But behind the celebration, a heavy weight dragged at our spirits.
I watched from the balcony of the operations center as death notices were handed out.
Mothers collapsed to their knees. Fathers screamed into the heavens. Children clung to photographs of soldiers who would never come home again.
It was the price of war—and it was only the beginning.
When I finally returned home that night, my mother rushed toward me.
Her arms flung around me in a desperate embrace, clinging to me as if I might vanish again.
"My son, my son," she whispered, her tears soaking into my jacket.
I held her tightly for a moment, feeling the warmth of her body, the life still in her—and then I broke away gently.
We sat at the kitchen table, the familiar walls feeling alien now.
"It's not over yet," I said quietly, my voice flat. "I have to protect our world. I won't stop until their nation is wiped from existence."
My mother flinched, her hands trembling.
She tried to pass wisdom to me, her voice shaking:
"Vengeance won't bring you happiness, my son. It won't bring your father back."
Something inside me snapped.
"Then what should I do?!" I roared, slamming my fists into the table. "WHAT SHOULD I DO, MOTHER?!"
She recoiled, hurt flashing across her face. Without another word, she rose and left the room, her footsteps heavy with anger and grief.
I sat there alone, the house too silent.
The rage in me churned. But underneath it—an emptiness.
Later that night, I found myself back in the cell where we kept him—my father.
Or at least, the man who wore his face.
He sat silently in the dim light, his head bowed.
I leaned against the doorframe, staring at him.
Why did I keep coming back here?Why did some broken part of me still call him father?
Was it because, deep down, despite everything...he was all I had left?