I wake beneath the shattered canopy of stars, my eyes tracing the jagged constellations like scars across the cosmos. The heavens, a broken canvas of ruin and promise, whisper the same truth they always have in this galaxy is nothing but a corpse picked clean by those with the teeth to tear it apart.
And me? I have no name, no history. Just a hollow thing drifting through the wreckage.
The people of Varrak's Rest call me many things: ghost, scavenger, glutton. But names are weights I don't care to carry. I'm not interested in belonging to something or someone. I don't crave legacy. I crave survival.
And, right now, I crave food.
My stomach twists and knots like a beast trapped in my gut. Hunger is my closest companion, a constant ache gnawing at the edges of my sanity. It's never satisfied, no matter how much I eat. It always comes back. Louder. Sharper.
I stumble through the crooked alleyways of Varrak's Rest, a ramshackle town built from the wreckage of a fallen star cruiser. Rusted metal walls loom like gravestones, and the ground hums faintly beneath my boots, remnants of the old ship's systems still flickering with dying energy. The people here da pirates, deserters, and scavengers that survive by stripping the bones of dead vessels and selling what scraps they can find. They don't care about names or pasts. Only trade. Only coin.
Yet somehow, in this forgotten corner of the galaxy, I've become something of a local legend. Not for strength or cunning, not for any grand deeds.
I'm famous because I eat like I'm trying to devour the whole damn universe.
"Oi! gluton !"
I turn, spotting Harlan, a grizzled food vendor with a face like an old battlefield with all scars and jagged lines. His left eye has been replaced with a flickering optical lens that buzzes every time he blinks.
"Did you wipe out my stock again last night?" he growls, arms crossed over his chest. "I had twelve crates of rynfruit. Gone. Vanished."
I scratch the back of my head, trying not to look guilty. "Maybe you've got rats?"
"Maybe the rat is standing right in front of me," he snaps, though there's no real anger in his voice. He reaches under his stall and tosses me a bruised fruit. I catch it, tearing into the flesh like an animal, juice dripping down my chin.
I know he shouldn't be feeding me. The people here barely have enough to survive. But I think they keep me around because I make them laugh. I'm the weird, nameless kid with a stomach like a black hole. A freakshow.
I don't mind.
I've been called worse things.
The rynfruit disappears in seconds, but the hunger doesn't fade. It never fades. I lick the juice from my fingers and eye the crates behind Harlan, already calculating how many I could grab if I ran fast enough.
Then it happens again.
The ache shifts. The hunger twists.
Pain flares through my chest, and I drop to my knees, clutching my ribcage as if something inside me is trying to claw its way out. The world warps and bends, the air vibrating with an unnatural hum.
Metal scraps lift off the ground, floating like dead leaves in a breeze. Harlan stumbles back, cursing as his stall rattles, bowls and plates toppling over. The market goes silent. People turn, eyes wide with fear.
My fingers tremble, and for a split second, I feel something reach out from inside me.
A shape. A shadow.
Then it's gone. The floating debris clatters to the ground. I gasp for breath, my skin clammy and slick with sweat. My limbs feel wrong, like they don't belong to me.
I stagger to my feet and bolt.
I run through the labyrinth of scrap and rust, ignoring the shouts behind me. I don't stop until I'm deep in the shipyard, collapsing against the rusted hull of an abandoned starfighter. My chest heaves, fingers twitching as tiny sparks of energy flicker beneath my skin.
"What are you?" I whisper to myself, voice barely a breath. "What the hell are you turning into?"
I know the answer.
I've known it for years.
I'm an esper.
I don't understand my ability it comes in violent surges, wild and uncontrollable. It doesn't just hurt me. It feels like it's eating me alive from the inside out. Like the hunger isn't just a part of me.
Like it's something else.
Something waiting to break free.
I spend the rest of the day lurking through the town, scavenging scraps of food and eavesdropping on pirate gossip. People talk about relic hunters and treasure fleets, about warlords burning whole planets to stake their claims.
But what catches my attention most is the talk of the Crown of the Stamped.
A relic so powerful it could turn an esper into a god. Or destroy them.
It's a fairy tale,
It spreads through the mouth but never caught on to a hand of the being .
I sit on the broken wing of a rusted fighter, gnawing on a stale bread crust, staring up at the stars. The void hums in my bones like a song I can't escape. The galaxy out there is brutal, unforgiving. But it's also full of power.
I don't want to be a hero.
I don't want to save anyone.
I just don't want to be hungry anymore.
And the thought creeps in, slow and poisonous: what if the only way to fill this emptiness is to take what I want?
What if the only way to survive is to stop running and start hunting?
I don't sleep that night. I sit by the docks, watching pirate ships rise and fall from the sky like vultures. I wonder how hard it would be to steal one.
It's a lie,
But it's a fact.
I have to lie .
During the sleep, I find my answer.
Rather it's a
"Dream "
There's a ship in the scrap fields. A dead cruiser, half-buried in sand and rust. But its frame is intact, and the engines, though scorched, still hum faintly with dormant energy.
I walk inside, footsteps echoing through the hollow hull. The air smells like ash and decay. The control panel flickers weakly, the screens cracked and coated in dust.
I place my hand on the console, and a pulse surges through me.
The ship stirs. Lights sputter on like dying stars.
I grin, the hunger gnawing harder than ever.
I have no name. No crew. No purpose but survival.
But now...
Now, I have a ship.
And the galaxy doesn't know what's coming.
Just kidding...