The corridors of *Obsidian Reach* whispered with life, a blend of human determination and alien remnants left from an age long gone. Kalen moved swiftly, his prize tucked under his jacket. The holo-tablet's faint hum resonated with each step, a constant reminder of the secrets it might hold. But he didn't head directly to Lazrik's headquarters. That was a rookie mistake—one Kalen wouldn't make.
He ducked into one of the narrow maintenance shafts, his route a series of twists and turns known only to those who lived below the empire's surface. Here, beneath the polished towers and power-hungry council chambers, was where the true Reach thrived: the Underspace.
Obsidian Reach wasn't just a floating station—it was a vision. Built into the asteroid known as *Veilstone*, it had been claimed by warlords nearly a century ago and expanded piece by piece. What began as a simple outpost for miners and smugglers had grown into a thriving empire of trade, conflict, and ambition. Layers upon layers of structures burrowed deep into the rock, creating a sprawling hive of sectors connected by winding corridors, reinforced tunnels, and energy bridges.
Above ground, the Reach was a place of power. Gleaming spires housed the warlords' council, where deals were struck, alliances were forged, and betrayals simmered beneath polite smiles. The mid-levels were alive with commerce: black-market traders, mercenary recruitment offices, and engineering workshops that churned out weapons, ships, and tech for the highest bidder. The station's orbital docks buzzed with incoming vessels—everything from sleek couriers to hulking freighters brimming with stolen goods.
But it was the Underspace that Kalen called home.
Down here, the station was raw. Unfinished. The walls were carved directly from the asteroid's metallic stone, the air heavy with damp and the tang of unprocessed minerals. The population in the Underspace was a mix of the forgotten and the desperate: orphans like Kalen, refugees fleeing galactic wars, and outlaws who couldn't afford the bribes to live in the higher sectors. It was filthy, dangerous, and alive with opportunity.
And Kalen thrived in it.
He slipped into a small alcove he called a hideaway, tucked behind a half-collapsed storage facility. Inside, he activated the holo-tablet, its display flaring to life. Blue symbols and encrypted data scrolled across the screen, far beyond anything Kalen could interpret. Whatever this was, it wasn't just another stolen shipment. Lazrik wasn't stupid enough to waste manpower on ordinary goods.
"What are you hiding, Lazrik?" Kalen muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. The Reach thrived on secrets, and this was no exception.
Kalen's thoughts wandered as he scanned the tablet. The Reach wasn't like the galactic empires Kalen had read about in stolen datapads. It wasn't governed by royalty or bureaucrats. It was a kingdom built from chaos.
The warlords who controlled it were former mercenaries and pirates—men and women who'd clawed their way to power through force and cunning. They called themselves the Obsidian Council, though their "rule" was tenuous at best. Each warlord controlled a sector, enforcing their own laws with private armies and leveraging the station's resources for personal gain. Cooperation was fragile, held together by the promise of mutual profit and the constant threat of annihilation if anyone stepped too far out of line.
Below the council, there were factions: scavenger guilds, tech cults, and rogue A.I. enclaves that carved out their own territories in the Reach's labyrinthine depths. Trade kept the empire alive, and its central position near the Arixis Void made it a hub for smugglers, bounty hunters, and merchants dealing in goods no legitimate government would touch.
But the Reach's true strength lay in its ambition. Unlike many frontier stations, it wasn't content to merely survive. The warlords dreamed of expansion—turning their asteroid base into the core of a new galactic power. They had the resources, the location, and the ruthlessness to do it. All they needed was someone bold enough to unite them.
Kalen didn't care about their dreams. Not yet. For now, the Reach was his battlefield, a place to test his wits and claim the scraps left behind by giants.
A sudden noise snapped Kalen out of his thoughts. He froze, his hand instinctively moving to his knife. The faint shuffle of footsteps echoed through the narrow passageway outside. Someone was close.
He powered down the holo-tablet, slipping it into a hidden pocket, and pressed himself against the wall. The footsteps grew louder, deliberate but cautious. Whoever it was, they were hunting. Kalen held his breath, his pulse steady. The Underspace wasn't just a haven for the forgotten—it was a hunting ground for anyone looking to settle debts or make a quick kill.
"Kid," a voice called, low and sharp. "I know you're in here."
Kalen's blood ran cold. The voice was unfamiliar, but the tone wasn't. This wasn't someone from Lazrik's crew. No, this was worse. A freelancer—someone not bound by the rules of the Reach's fragile alliances.
"I'm not here to hurt you," the voice continued, dripping with mock sincerity. "I just want to talk. About that shiny little tablet you stole."
Kalen's grip on his knife tightened. He didn't answer. He moved, slipping into a side passage that branched deeper into the rock. If the freelancer thought he could corner Kalen in the Underspace, he'd learn the hard way that this wasn't a place for amateurs.
The passageway narrowed as Kalen darted through it, his boots barely making a sound on the uneven floor. Behind him, the freelancer followed, his steps heavier but just as determined.
"You can't run forever, kid!" the man shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. "You don't even know what you've got there! It's worth more than your life!"
Kalen gritted his teeth, ignoring the taunt. He knew the tunnels better than anyone. They were his home, his territory. He took a sharp turn, then another, weaving through the labyrinthine pathways.
Suddenly, he stopped. He pressed himself into a crevice, blending into the shadows as the freelancer's footsteps approached. The man was close now, too close. Kalen could hear the faint buzz of a plasma weapon charging.
"Smart kid," the freelancer muttered. "But not smart enough."
As the man passed, Kalen moved. He lunged from the shadows, his knife flashing in the dim light. The freelancer reacted too late, his weapon clattering to the ground as Kalen drove the blade into his side. The man groaned, stumbling back, but he wasn't finished. He swung a heavy arm, knocking Kalen to the ground.
Pain shot through Kalen's ribs, but he rolled to his feet, his knife ready. The freelancer grinned, blood staining his teeth. "You've got fight in you. Good. This'll be fun."
Kalen didn't answer. He lunged again, feinting left before slicing upward. The freelancer staggered, his movements slower now, but he wasn't going down easily. The fight was brutal, a clash of desperation and skill, and every move Kalen made was calculated.
Finally, with a final twist of his knife, the freelancer collapsed, clutching his side. "You… you don't know what you're holding," he gasped, his voice fading. "They'll come for you. All of them."
Kalen stood over him, breathing hard, blood dripping from a cut on his cheek. He wiped his knife on his coat and picked up the freelancer's discarded plasma weapon.
He didn't know who "they" were. Not yet. But in the Reach, ignorance was a death sentence.
Kalen turned and vanished into the shadows, the holo-tablet humming faintly in his pocket.