Ethan Walker leaned back in the pilot's chair of the Obsidian Wraith, watching the stars stretch into ribbons of light as the ship surged through FTL. The cockpit lights cast a soft blue glow over the controls, most of which he still wasn't allowed to touch unless Iris said it was safe.
He exhaled slowly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
This… was peace.
And it felt surreal.
Not long ago, he was just a face in the crowd on Earth. A quiet life in Tokyo, clocking in and out, drifting through deadlines and neon-lit evenings. The part of him that once dreamed of piloting a starship had long been buried under years of mundanity and personal loss.
His parents had died in a senseless road accident when he was fourteen. The orphanage that followed had been more institution than home. He stopped dreaming after that. Stopped believing in the impossible.
Then one day, the impossible happened.
He had woke up in a wrecked starship crashing through the atmosphere of a planet he'd never seen, in a galaxy he didn't know. Kynara.
The memories since then were a blur of blood, fire and survival. He'd made a name for himself there, fighting back the Black Sun Syndicate and its leader, Drakor Krenna, along with the three bandit warlords who had plagued the planet and its settlements. His name held weight on Kynara, sure...but beyond that? In the Orion Federation at large, he was just another anonymous mercenary with a ship and a shaky flight record.
He didn't mind it that way.
Not when he had so much to protect.
Including his secret.
Earth. The Milky Way. None of it existed in the Federation's records. No archived star maps. No cultural logs. Nothing. Iris had scoured the Galactic Net, parsed public archives, even filtered through some unprotected data-lost civilizations. There wasn't a single mention.
As far as this galaxy was concerned, Ethan Walker had come from nowhere.
And he intended to keep it that way.
"FTL drive stable," Iris's voice echoed softly through the cabin. "You are currently traveling at 6.2 light-cycles per minute. Estimated time to Ashen Prime: 43 hours, 19 minutes."
"Copy that," Ethan replied, sitting up straighter and glancing at the readouts. He still didn't understand half of them without Iris's assistance, but he was learning.
Piloting a ship wasn't second nature yet, not even close. The first time he'd actually taken the helm had been during this trip. Before that, everything he knew came from VR simulations, endless hours of instructional tutorials, and the patient teaching of Iris and a few instructors back at the Kynara Mercenary Guild Branch in Valeris City.
So far, he hadn't crashed.
That counted for something.
The day-to-day life aboard the Wraith was quiet and, surprisingly, fulfilling.
Each morning, he trained. The adaptive resistance machines pushed his limits, adjusting in real time as his strength, reflexes and stamina, enhanced by his psychic energy, improved even more. The gravity treadmill let him experiment with different gravities. From Kynara's heavier pull to the lighter atmospheres he might encounter in deep space. And the combat simulation rig? That was his favorite: a full-sensory immersion into everything from one-on-one duels to squad ambushes. Some even recreated his encounters with Drakor's commanders.
Afterward, he'd take a long shower in the smart bathroom. Warm water, perfect pressure, and a mirror display that streamed ship diagnostics, or whatever movie he left off the night before. It was more comfortable than most apartments he'd lived in back on Earth.
Lunch was usually courtesy of the Auto-Cooker, a high-end unit designed for deep-space travel. It assembled prepackaged cartridges and preserved meal pods into dishes that tasted… well, pretty damn good. He'd gotten used to spicy protein skewers and mushroom risotto, though Iris occasionally warned him about salt intake.
Afternoons were spent with books, movies, and stories he'd downloaded back on Kynara, knowing full well that FTL travel cut off access to the Galactic Net. The silence gave him time to catch up on classic noir holodramas from the Vesari Archives, cult-favorite spacer flicks from the Titan Reach Studios, and serialized mystery novels by the reclusive author N.R. Vale. They weren't from Earth, but they spoke to something familiar. Characters drifting through vast starfields, chasing truth and meaning in a galaxy that didn't always make sense. It grounded him. Reminded him that even in this strange new life, some stories were universal.
He sat often in the observation lounge, watching distant light ripple across the void and imagining what his sixteen-year-old self would think if he saw this.
At night, he retreated to his sleeping quarters. The adaptive mattress always remembered his preferences, the climate system keeping everything just cool enough to let him drift off without effort. The soft hum of the ship's internal systems became a lullaby of sorts.
And through it all, Iris watched over everything, running diagnostics, checking proximity sensors, updating star charts, and scanning for potential threats.
He was never alone, even when he felt like it.
Ethan lay in bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
He didn't know what Ashen Prime would hold. He'd never stepped foot in the capital station before. According to Iris, it was a gleaming metropolis suspended in orbit. An administrative juggernaut filled with civilians but also politicians, merchants, covert agents, and power brokers playing high-stakes games behind polished walls.
The seat of Governor Tallis Krell, the man who'd recognized Ethan's potential and value back on Kynara and agreed on a deal with him.
He wasn't just another wandering merc anymore. He'd taken down Drakor Krenna, a former Federation soldier turned criminal overlord, and shattered the grip of the Black Sun Syndicate in Kynara. That bounty alone had sent ripples through certain circles.
Ethan was on file now. Maybe even under quiet observation by central Guild branches or Federation intelligence. But outside of those select circles? He was still mostly a ghost. No history. No real origin. Just a mysterious mercenary with a ship that shouldn't be flying, and skills that didn't match his rank.
No one knew where he came from. And he planned to keep it that way.
He closed his eyes, letting his breath steady.
Before sleep, he'd meditate.
It was a habit now. Not just for focus or mental clarity, but for connection.
The Astral Slayer rested in its magnetic sheath beside his bed. A molecular weapon, yes but so much more. He'd discovered it in the twin sun-scorched ruins buried deep in the Kynaran deserts, guided there by a strange old man who vanished without a trace. The blade was a relic of a war that predated any faction still standing in the galaxy, forged with technology that defied logic. Its surface was etched in alien symbols he couldn't decode, glowing faintly when he held it too long.
The moment he first touched it, he felt it:
Like it had been waiting for him.
It resonated with his thoughts, responded to his instincts, its edge humming with dormant psychic energy. Raw, primal, and endless. It had saved him in that final battle against Krenna, flaring to life when he needed it most.
Whatever the Astral Slayer truly was… it had chosen him.
And he would find out why.
Roaming the Orion Federation wasn't just about climbing ranks, hunting bounties, or exploring the stars. It was about answers. About tracing the origins of this blade and maybe, of himself too.
Still… despite the hidden past, the political threads, and the uncertainty that Ashen Prime would bring…
This quiet.
This freedom.
This tiny ship between the stars.
It was enough.