The ship's door slams shut with a metallic clang that echoes through the command chamber, sealing the dry, dusty air of Czarnia outside. The interior is cold, the filtered air carrying that metallic tang that's become familiar, almost comforting. I take a step forward, the armored boots clanging against the polished metal floor, the sound reverberating through the room like a war drum. The visor of my armor glows red, streaks of dried blood—Zorak's blood—etched into the metal like a grotesque painting. My right arm still aches, the tubes humming faintly as they cool, and the weight of the fight clings to me—dust in the armor's crevices, imaginary sweat beneath the mask, the visceral memory of that punch that shattered his head. I drag myself to the command throne, the metal creaking under my weight as I sit, the armor's tendrils settling at my sides like exhausted sentinels.
The three days I set as a deadline pass slowly, each hour marked by the tense silence of the ship and the monotonous reports from the robots. "Sir, more inhabitants have boarded," they say, floating toward me with sparse updates. There aren't many—Czarnia is a dead planet, and the few who remain are scraps of a broken species. By the end of the third day, the count comes in: seventeen Czarnians in total, all who still breathed in that gray tomb outside. They board gradually, carrying rags, makeshift weapons, and wary gazes. Among them, I recognize the girl—Lyra—and her mother. Lyra steps in first, her wild black hair falling over her shoulders, her red eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and caution, a machete gripped firmly in her right hand. Her mother follows, slow steps, her thin frame wrapped in a tattered cloth, her pale face etched with deep wrinkles and exhaustion. The other fifteen are a mixed group—eight young men, lean but hardened by survival, wielding machetes and clubs; five older ones, three men and two women, backs bent but eyes still sharp; and two teenagers, skinny and jittery, clutching jagged metal scraps like treasures.
"Take them to the triage chamber," I order, my deep voice echoing through the room. "Assess their strength, skills, physical condition. I want a full report." A robot flashes a green light and floats off, while the Czarnians are led down a side corridor, their footsteps ringing on the metal. I turn to the drones in the secondary chamber, where Zorak's body lies, sprawled on a metal platform like a forgotten carcass. His broad chest is still, the dried blood forming a dark crust around his ruined neck, white bones exposed where my fist did its work. His dangling arms drip dark drops that stain the floor, and the smell—a mix of rotting flesh and scorched metal—seeps through even the mask's filter.
"Collect samples from the body," I say, leaning forward in the throne, the visor projecting a holographic screen with initial data. "DNA, muscle structure, everything. And prep the assimilation tank." The robots hum in response, springing into action with an almost beautiful precision. One extends a thin claw, slicing into the pale skin of Zorak's chest with a wet, viscous sound, the dried blood cracking as the flesh parts. Another injects long probes into his biceps, blue lights flashing at the tips as they extract cellular samples, red liquid trickling down the platform's edges. A third uses a small saw, its high-pitched whine cutting the air as it carves off a chunk of shoulder, revealing thick muscles and taut tendons like steel cables. "I want to absorb some of that DNA," I continue, drumming my fingers on the throne's arm, the metallic clinks echoing in the room. "A safe dose—just enough to boost my strength and add some regeneration. Nothing fast, but present."
The assimilation tank—a relic from the original Vilgax, a reinforced glass cylinder filled with golden liquid—is dragged to the chamber's center by two larger robots. The glass reflects the ship's lights, the liquid inside bubbling as the systems warm up. "Sir, the process will take a few hours," a robot says, adjusting the tubes that will connect to my implants. "DNA samples are being prepared." I nod, the visor flickering as I review the preliminary data. **Physical strength: 87% above galactic average. Endurance: exceptional. Regeneration: compromised by local virus.** That virus—Lobo's parting gift—is the key. It weakens the Czarnians' natural healing, making my blow to Zorak fatal. But if I can understand it, use it…
"Collect virus samples from the surface," I command, rising from the throne, the floor trembling under my boots. "I want a full analysis—chemical composition, effects, weaknesses. And develop a cure." A robot flashes a green light and departs, carrying a sealed collection tube, while the others continue dissecting Zorak. My mind races with possibilities. Three days of the robots' work, and results start trickling in by the deadline's end. The virus is a complex toxin, tied to Czarnia's air and soil, eroding the Czarnians' regeneration over generations. But the drones find a weakness—an enzyme that neutralizes its effects, restoring healing capacity without sacrificing brute strength. "Prepare the cure," I say, my voice firm. "I want doses ready for testing."
As the robots work, a beep cuts through the air. The system flashes on my visor, golden letters floating in my vision: **"Update: Villain Aura enhanced. Demonstration of strength and dominance recognized. +25 points to Conqueror's Gacha. Current points: 30."** I pause, my fist clenching with a creak of metal. Thirty points? With the five I already had, that's enough for three rolls—10 points each. "Not bad," I mutter, a smile tugging beneath the mask. Killing Zorak, bringing the Czarnians aboard, planning the virus—the system likes the show I put on. I bank the points for now—I'll decide what to roll for when I've got a quieter moment.
The three days end, and the seventeen Czarnians are gathered in the main chamber, a wide room with metal walls and cold lights. I stride toward them, the armor creaking, the visor glowing as I face them. Lyra stands at the front, her red eyes locked on me, machete still in hand but lowered. Her mother lingers behind, shoulders hunched, the cloth clutched tight against her chest. The others spread out, some wary, others just weary. The floor shakes with each of my steps, and I stop in the center, the armor's presence filling the space.
"You are the last of Czarnia," I say, my amplified voice booming off the walls. "A dead planet, a broken species. But I am Vilgax, master of this world, and I brought you here for a reason." I pause, letting the words sink in, the visor sweeping across their pale faces. "I've studied the virus Lobo left in you—the one that stole your regeneration, weakened you for generations. And I have the cure." I raise a hand, a robot floating beside me with a small vial, the blue liquid inside glowing faintly. "With this, I can bring your species back to its old glory—strong, resilient, as you were before the massacre. Join me, and you'll have more than a dead planet. You'll have an empire."
The Czarnians stare at me, the silence thick, their red eyes blinking in the light. Lyra steps forward, machete steady, her lips parting as if to speak. I wait, the visor fixed on her, knowing this is just the beginning.
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I stand in the main chamber of the ship, the machete still in my hand, the cold metal pressing against my sweaty palm. The metal floor gleams under the harsh white lights, and the air here is different—clean, free of the dust and death I've breathed since I was born. The other sixteen are around me, scattered across the vast room, their red eyes glinting in the dimness. My mother stands beside me, her tattered cloth clutched tight against her chest, her gray hair falling in loose strands over her thin shoulders. The three days we spent in the ruins were long—arguing, waiting, deciding whether to come here. In the end, we all did. Seventeen of us, the last of Czarnia, drawn by the promise of that stranger—Vilgax.
He enters, and the floor trembles with each step, his red-and-black armor streaked with dried blood, his visor glowing like fire. I lift my chin, eyes locked on him, my heart pounding in my chest. He stops in the center, a mountain of metal and strength, and speaks with a voice that slices through the air like a blade. "You are the last of Czarnia," he says, the words bouncing off the metal walls. "A dead planet, a broken species. But I am Vilgax, master of this world, and I brought you here for a reason." He pauses, and I feel the weight of the silence, the others holding their breath around me. "I've studied the virus Lobo left in you—the one that stole your regeneration, that weakened you for generations. And I have the cure." He raises a hand, and a robot floats to him, holding a small vial with a faintly glowing blue liquid, like a captured star.
My mother grips my arm, her trembling fingers digging into my skin. "The cure?" she whispers, her voice hoarse with disbelief. I don't answer, my eyes fixed on the vial. My head spins with the stories she told me—legends I heard as a child, whispered at night by the weak fire in the cave. She spoke of our species' peak, before Lobo, before the massacre. Czarnians who lived centuries, nearly immortal, their bodies healing from any wound in minutes—cuts closing like magic, broken bones mending as if they'd never shattered. It was a myth to me, a pretty story to forget the hunger and cold. But now, staring at that vial, a shiver runs down my spine. What if it's true?
Vilgax continues, his voice steady. "With this, I can bring your species back to its former glory—strong, resilient, as you were before the massacre. Join me, and you'll have more than a dead planet. You'll have an empire." He lowers his hand, the robot floating forward, and the other Czarnians stir, murmuring among themselves. The older ones—Krag, the hunched man who can barely walk, and Tira, the hollow-eyed woman who lost an arm to a mutant beast—step forward, their pale faces lit by something I haven't seen in years: hope. "Like it was before…" Krag mutters, his voice quivering, eyes wide. "Immortality… strength… I remember the stories."
Vilgax doesn't wait longer. He gestures to the robots, and they move in, each carrying an injector filled with the blue liquid. "Whoever wants the cure, step forward," he says, his visor sweeping the room. Krag is the first, hobbling to the robot, his frail body shaking with anticipation. The injector touches his neck, a low hiss echoing, and the blue liquid vanishes into his pale skin. For a moment, nothing happens—he stands still, the others watching in silence. Then he cries out, a rough sound that makes me grip my machete tighter, and drops to his knees, hands clutching his chest.
But it's not pain. I see it—we all do. His skin, wrinkled and spotted, begins to tighten, the creases fading as if time were rewinding. His gray hair darkens, turning black and thick, falling in waves over his shoulders. His muscles, sagging and weak, swell beneath his torn shirt, his arms taking shape, his back straightening. He stands, panting, his red eyes glowing brighter, and lets out a loud, almost manic laugh. "I feel it!" he shouts, flexing his hands. "Like before—like I was!" He looks young—thirty, maybe, his body strong and whole again.
Tira goes next, her stump trembling as the injector touches her. The liquid flows in, and she grunts, teeth clenched. Then her missing arm begins to grow—skin forming from nothing, muscles coiling like ropes, bones snapping into place as they take shape. In seconds, she has two arms again, her fingers opening and closing as if testing a miracle. "By the moons…" she murmurs, tears streaming down her now-smooth face, her gray hair turning a glossy brown. The other elders rush forward, nearly tripping over each other, and take the cure—each one rejuvenating, their bodies returning to their prime, scars vanishing, eyes gleaming with a strength I've never seen in them.
The younger ones go after—the men I hunted with, the scrawny teens. They don't change as much, but I see old wounds close, crooked backs straighten, muscles taking on a healthy sheen. My mother hesitates, her eyes locked on the vial, but I nudge her gently. "Go, Mom," I say, my voice low. She looks at me, fear warring with something else, then walks to the robot. The injector touches her neck, and I hold my breath. She groans, falling to her knees, and I almost run to her—but then she rises, her gray hair darkening to a lustrous black, her wrinkles fading, her thin frame gaining strong curves. She looks my age now—young, whole, her red eyes shining like mine.
I'm the last. The robot floats to me, injector in its claw, and I look at Vilgax. He stares back, his red visor fixed, unmoving. My heart races—I don't know if it's fear or something else. "Do it," I say, and the injector touches my neck. I feel a cold jolt, then a heat surging through my body, burning in my veins. My skin tingles, my muscles tighten, and I feel it—every scratch I've ever had closing, every old ache vanishing. I haven't aged like the others, but now I'm more—stronger, more alive, as if I could run forever, fight forever. It's the peak of our species, like in the legends. Regeneration. Immortality. Real.
The others are laughing, crying, flexing their arms, testing their new bodies. Krag punches the metal wall, the sound echoing, and Tira swings both arms as if dancing. My mother hugs me, her eyes full of tears, her voice steady for the first time in years. "It's like they said, Lyra… how we were." I look at Vilgax, machete still in hand, my chest tight with something I can't name. He did this—brought the legends back, gave the elders what they dreamed of, gave us what we lost. Admiration isn't the right word—it's more than that, a fire burning deep inside me. He's the master, and now I know why.
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