The red emergency warning lights on the vaulted ceiling of Waystation #15 cast long, bloody shadows across the polished basalt runway.
Through the shimmering atmospheric barrier of Docking Bay Seven, ten black, dagger-shaped warships hovered in aggressive attack formation.
Each ship was painted with the dark green, twin-headed serpent insignia of the Military-Industrial Alchemist Guild.
Their hulls were reinforced with thick ceramic heat shielding, bristling with chemical torpedo tubes that dripped foul, fluorescent green necro-acid into the vacuum.
Inside the waystation’s central concourse, dozens of merchant families and civilian drivers were beginning to panic.
Captain Mirah and several other freighters gripped their communication slates, their faces pale as they looked toward the smoking green acid stains sizzling on the outer rocks.
Grandma Chen immediately bustled out of the main canteen, waving her wooden ladle with serene authority.
“Sit down and finish your noodles, everyone!” Grandma Chen called out, her warm voice cutting through the rising panic. “A few noisy metal bugs outside are no excuse to waste good beef broth. Boss Lin is out there. In three years, has Xiao Mo ever let a customer get a drop of soup spilled on their shirt?”
