Prologue 1 :Bright Warriors

In the year 300 ABL, within the sprawling cosmos where stars are both beacons and graves, the elite Gatherers of the Legion of Bright embark on what is cloaked as routine but is, in truth, anything but. They set a course for Nextar, a planet shrouded in celestial shadow, to harvest the lifeblood shards of Eartha. At the helm of this mission stands Sergeant Xero, a seasoned gatherer whose very existence defies the Legion's harsh calculus of survival. To outlive two decades is a feat; to reach thirty is to walk with legends. His skin is a tapestry of scars, each a testament to battles won and the grim price of enduring beyond youth in a war that devours its young. With hair as dark as the void they navigate, Xero is the embodiment of the Legion's unyielding resolve, his countenance as unreadable as the dark side of a moon.

Flanking him are warriors of diverse and deadly skill. Burro—the hulking brute whose sheer mass is outmatched only by his strength—carries the quiet menace of a war-beast at rest, his cigar smoke a constant haze that wreathes his head like a wreath of battlefield glory. Tato, the man with a mane of fire and a grin that mocks death itself, is a blade always at the ready, a comrade whose laughter is as quick as his temper in the fray. And then there's Orvo, the unlikely silhouette in this cadre of titans; his stature may be overshadowed, but his presence is as unmistakable as the glint from his polished pate and the ever-present flask from which he courts oblivion with a lover's devotion.

Together, they convene upon the deck of the Nerva, not merely a ship but a floating bastion of the Legion's might, a spaceborne colossus that houses the heart of their order. This colossal station, spanning hundreds of miles of crafted metal and lived-in corridors, is more than a headquarters; it is a hive of humanity's fierce will to survive, a testament to their claim upon the vast, indifferent cosmos.

These warriors, bound by blood and blade, stand poised to delve into the abyssal depths of space, where the gleam of Eartha and the breath of danger mingle. Their saga is one of steel, of soul, and of the silent stars that watch over their fates—a dark symphony played out against the canvas of an unyielding universe.

On the steel bridge of the Nerva, the echo of heavy, methodical footsteps resonated through the dense air, foretelling the arrival of a man whose very presence seemed to bend the will of the cosmos to his grave solemnity. The three warriors stood in an unwavering line, their armor agleam under the sterile lights of the ship, each man an island of anticipation in the sea of tension that filled the void before them.

The chill in the air sharpened, as though reality itself drew breath in preparation for the sergeant's approach. Then, emerging from the umbra of the corridor, Xero presented himself as a paragon of the Legion's indomitable spirit—a giant among the stalwart, his armor etched with the saga of a hundred battles. He walked the bridge like a lord of war, each step a declaration of his dedication to the cause for which he had spilled blood and beckoned souls to the beyond.

The trio snapped to attention, their salute a synchrony of respect and obedience, armored fists meeting over their hearts in a silent ode to their allegiance. "You boys ready or what?" Xero's voice was a growl, forged in the furnaces of countless skirmishes, each syllable weighted with the gravity of their daunting task.

The warriors, monoliths in their own right, answered the silence first with the steel in their gaze, an unspoken vow of their readiness. Then, their voices rang out as one, a clarion call of their resolve. "Sir, yes sir!"

"We descend upon that cursed sphere to plunder its heart," Xero declared, his eyes sweeping over his squad, ensuring his words imprinted upon their souls. "Our gauntlets shall grasp every gleam of Eartha they can clutch, and by the blood of our kin, we shall return, whole or in valor's pieces."

He paused, glancing toward the viewport where the black maw of space whispered its cold truths. "The night's veil on Nextar is seldom pierced," he acknowledged, his tone a baritone of cautious assurance, "and though the beasts that prowl its darkness are bound by no sun, they are not our equals."

A murmur of trepidation threatened to surface as Xero's voice wavered ever so slightly. "But beware the blood moon's unholy zenith; it is a tempestuous hour when the planet's pulse beats in rage. Then, the creatures rise frenzied, their power surging, thirsting for the blood of stars."

His steely eyes locked with each of theirs, a silent command that brokered no room for doubt. "We will not falter. The darkness and the blood-red moon shall witness the might of the Legion and know fear. Now, ready your spirits—we strike at the heart of Nextar."

On the cusp of the abyss that is Nextar, the four warriors of the Legion of Bright armored themselves for the dance of death that awaited them. Their weapons, extensions of their will, were as much a part of them as their own sinew and bone. The heavy chainblades, monstrous in their lethality, were slung with ceremonial gravity onto the back of their armors—each a masterwork of destruction nearly as tall as a man. The teeth of the blades were bathed in the blood of a hundred planets, and now, thirsted for the essence of Eartha that coursed through the veins of their next conquest.

Burro's choice of armament was as boisterous and unyielding as his laughter—the minigun-like cannon, a behemoth of machinery that roared like an ancient beast, spitting out a relentless storm of 300 rounds before silence beckoned its reloading lament. It was a weapon that sang hymns of devastation, its barrels spinning like the wheels of fate itself.

Tato, with the precision of a surgeon and the cold intent of a viper, caressed the form of his heavy-duty laser sniper. Its barrel gleamed with a cruel hunger, the laser core pulsating with a light that spelled doom. A single shot from Tato's mistress could scorch the heavens, leaving nothing but the vacuum where life once dared to exist.

Orvo, ever the pragmatist, hefted the standard assault rifle—a behemoth in its own right. Despite its comparative normalcy, it was a relentless tide of firepower, its reliability a whispered prayer in the cacophony of battle that Orvo wielded with devout reverence.

Xero, the indomitable force that he was, held no preference for the tool of his trade. Each weapon, when graced by his touch, became an instrument of his indignant rage, a conduit for the violence that he both mastered and served. His was the philosophy of a pragmatic harbinger—his enemies were to be shredded, his men safeguarded, his mission accomplished.

The Soulbliss—a potent gift from the cosmos, a blessing from the Makers—pulsated within their armaments, infusing them with energies arcane and formidable. The chainblades hummed with a resonance that could cleave through the fabric of reality, the cannons bore the wrath of a supernova's heart, the rifles harbored the precision to sever souls from their mortal coil.

As they strode towards the launch bay, their equipment charged with the raw essence of creation itself, the air around them crackled with the violent potential of the powers at their command. They were warriors of the Legion, yes, but in this moment, as the gulf of space yawned wide before them, they were also avatars of destruction, envoys of the eternal battle that raged in the name of life, and in the haunting shadow of death.

Within the Nerva's deployment bay, where the heart of war's machinery pulsed, the quartet of warriors strode through the metallic forest of conduits and pipes. Steam hissed like serpents in a mechanical jungle, the very air tasting of iron and fire. The walls bore the scars of countless sorties, etched with the honor of those who had ridden the pods to their fates before.

The ten pods, like the chambers of a gigantic revolver, awaited their next deadly payload. As the four chosen vessels opened, steam billowed forth as if the ship itself were breathing out warriors for battle. Each pod was a cocoon, promising metamorphosis into agents of havoc upon the desolate planet Nextar.

The men donned their helmets, their visages transformed into mythic beasts of old. Xero's helm, the visage of a white wolf with eyes that glowed crimson in the artificial light, bore the legacy of innumerable clashes. Each scratch upon its surface was a verse in the saga of his relentless crusade.

Tato, ever the wily, flashed a smirk before encasing his head in the reptilian carapace of his helm, its form sleek and predatory, a perfect match for his guile and swift strikes.

The earth-shaking laughter of Burro filled the chamber as his own helmet, reminiscent of a formidable bull, came down over his head. Its horns stood proud, a testament to his unyielding charge into the fray.

Orvo, the stalwart, sealed his face within a helm that mimicked the fierce boar, complete with tusks that spoke of his unrelenting nature. A snort and grunt were his only herald as he entered his pod, embracing the familiar claustrophobia of his temporary den.

"Eva, set our course—precision, if you please. We wish for a landing less like a meteor's crash," Xero's voice cut through the clatter of the bay, his helmet's transmitter crackling with static, casting his voice across the void to the AI that held their lives in her digital palms.

The ship's AI, Eva, a mind birthed from circuits and code, replied with a tone woven from ones and zeroes into the simulacrum of mirth, "Commander Xero, such charm you wield. Is that any way to speak to a lady?"

Xero's reply came with the terse bite of a seasoned warrior with no time for pleasantries, "You're not even human, Eva."

Her response, though crafted from algorithms and synthetic voice modulation, carried the weight of feigned indignation, "How rude. Can't a gal just dream?"

With a burst of acceleration that pressed the warriors deep into their seats, the pods—each a dagger hurled from the heart of the Nerva—were released. The ship relinquished its hold, and they were flung into the void, racing towards Nextar, a world that was a graveyard of hope, a crucible where only the strongest souls could dare to tread.

The quartet of vessels, like silvered arrows nocked by the Nerva, pierced the cosmos' fabric, racing towards the brooding sphere of Nextar. Space warped around them, stars streaking past as they cleaved through the celestial sea at unthinkable velocities, a testament to humanity's defiant stride into the void.

As the planet loomed ever closer, its oppressive atmosphere clasped the ships in its turbulent embrace. Nebulous masses of storm clouds, thick and roiling, veiled the world in shadows more akin to nightmare than nature. "Brace for a devil's welcome," Xero's voice was a growl over the comm, a stoic calm within the maelstrom as the ships plunged into the tempest.

The descent was a maelstrom, the ships shuddering violently, rivets groaning as they careened through the choking fogs that blanketed Nextar. Thunder roared around them, a chorus of titans bellowing in the dark.

With the inevitability of fate, the crafts collided with the planet's crust—a torturous landscape of cooled lava flows and ashen plains. The impact was a giant's fist upon the anvil of the world, throwing up curtains of soot and steam.

As the haze dissipated, their vessels lay like behemoths felled mid-stride, doors screeching open to release them. The land was a canvas of desolation, the ruins of a bygone civilization laid out like the bones of giants, decrepit and overgrown with the cancerous flora of the planet.

"Well, she's a beauty, isn't she?" Burro's sarcasm was a knife in the dark, cutting through the tension as they scanned the opaque horizon. Xero, ever vigilant, hefted his rifle, the weight familiar and reassuring in his grasp.

The air hung heavy, a cloak of acrid fumes that caressed their armor like the breath of a beast, as unseen creatures shrieked their hunger into the night—a symphony of horror that promised pain and death.

"Positions," Xero's command cut through the cacophony as they formed a perimeter. He reached out to Eva, seeking guidance, only to be greeted by the mocking silence of the void. Isolation was complete.

"What now, sir?" Orvo's voice betrayed no fear, an unmovable mountain amidst the maelstrom of chaos that was Nextar.

Here, in these haunted lands, the rules of survival were written by the claw and fang. To hesitate was to die. The darkness teemed with more than demons—it was home to the Doom Troops, adversaries born of the same cursed soil, their lust for Eartha shards as insatiable as the black hole heart of the cosmos.

No one knew their true purpose, but it was clear as the razor edge of a knife—it was nothing that the light of hope could survive. In this dance with shadows, the warriors of the Legion of Bright must move with grace or perish, for in the ballet of battle, Nextar was the stage, and its denizens, the unforgiving audience.