The Obsidian Wraith drifted quietly near the derelict courier vessel, both ships locked in a slow orbital waltz beneath a band of glittering asteroid dust. The pirate wreckage from the earlier skirmish had either disintegrated or faded from sensors, leaving only silence and starlight.
Ethan leaned back in the cockpit, one boot resting against the edge of the console as holograms shimmered in front of him. Iris had compiled everything, sensor recordings, trajectory readouts, shield telemetry, and combat performance breakdowns. The data replayed in controlled bursts, curated like a post-mission review.
The first few minutes of the fight had been clumsy. His fingers had tensed too much on the controls, and the Wraith's inertial dampeners bucked slightly under the erratic throttle shifts. He'd overcompensated during lateral rolls, misjudged the Corsairs' attack angles once or twice. The energy shield drifted too wide on the second turn, absorbing more heat than necessary. It hadn't been elegant.
But it hadn't needed to be. Because halfway through the skirmish, something in him clicked. A shift, not just instinct, but something deeper.
Ethan didn't just recover. He adapted.
He'd realized it back on Kynara, in those early days after waking up in this new universe, something fundamental inside him had changed the moment he arrived. The speed at which he picked things up, the way his body and mind adjusted without needing years of training… it went beyond talent. Beyond discipline.
It wasn't natural.
Even an idiot would've noticed the signs by now.
Languages of the Orion Federation. spoken, written, even the high-density digital codes of data pads and ship consoles, came to him as if they'd always been there. No implants. No translation chips humming at the base of his skull. Just understanding, clean and immediate. Like his brain had been rewired in an instant.
That wasn't education. That was something else. Something mystical.
Psychic power.
Whatever force had pulled him from Earth and dropped him into the heart of this galaxy hadn't left him empty-handed. It had infused him with something potent, something buried in the marrow of his being. A core of invisible energy that was still unfolding with each passing week. Each new experience.
At first, it had shown itself in bursts. A faster reaction in close-quarters combat. A strange awareness of someone hiding behind him. Subtle instinct in a shootout. But as time went on, it became more than just occasional advantages, it became part of him. A constant rhythm under his skin. A sharpening.
And now, behind the controls of a starship in open space combat for the first time, it had shown its value again.
This was how he'd learned to fight. How he'd built a reputation so quickly. How he'd survived gunfights, perilous missions and war without a long, bloody trail of failure behind him.
He was learning everything, languages, tactics, ship systems, at a speed that defied logic.
The Astral Slayer, whatever it truly was, wasn't just a weapon. It was a key to unlocking more of this ability. A conduit that deepened his mental focus and meditative state. When he trained with it, it was as if the universe itself quieted down and let him listen..to instinct, to insight, to truths unspoken.
Even flying the Obsidian Wraith had become second nature faster than it should have. The way he synced with Iris. The way he could sense the spatial flow of a dogfight. All of it pointed to one conclusion:
He wasn't just evolving in skill. He was becoming something else.
And while that truth still unsettled him in quiet moments, tonight… after burning down a trio of Corsairs in open void without a scratch on his hull, he couldn't help but acknowledge it.
Iris's voice cut in softly. "Do you wish to save this engagement log as a personal combat benchmark?"
"Yeah," he muttered after a long moment of silence. "Tag it as 'First Orbit Kill.'"
"File created."
He flicked away the logs and let the screen darken. The silence of space felt different now. Not hollow or unsettling, but dense. A hum of possibilities under its surface.
Ethan stood and walked to the secondary console. With a tap, he brought up the display from the Ashen Prime data shard, the one given to him in secret after that night mission in the industrial ring. The prototype stealth core blueprint glimmered on-screen in pale green wireframe.
"Iris. Any progress on analyzing this?"
"I've decrypted 92% of the formatting. Preliminary scans suggest it is a modular passive cloaking core, it integrates alongside standard drives without disrupting power flow. The build is resource-efficient, but delicate. Shield modulation must be precisely timed."
Ethan studied the file, rubbing his chin. The blueprint wasn't just theoretical, it included assembly diagrams, calibration protocols, and detailed feedback loops. Whoever developed this wanted it deployed in the field, not shelved in a lab.
He folded his arms. "If we install this, how much stealth improvement are we talking?"
"In passive mode: twenty-six percent reduction in EM signature. Forty percent in burst-disengage scenarios. It will also allow you to linger in FTL shadow zones for longer periods without trace exposure."
"Downsides?"
"Core maintenance will increase. Weapon use during stealth will spike heat levels, risk of trace-back unless managed. And I will need at least a week of calibration to fully integrate it."
He nodded slowly. Not a trivial upgrade, but one worth considering, especially now. After what had just happened, the idea of being less detectable appealed more than ever.
"I'll think on it," he muttered.
He moved toward the rear corridor. As he walked, he opened a voice log on the fly.
Personal Log — Entry #112
"I thought the quiet parts of Federation space were safe after not encountering anything dangerous in the Beltrax Sector. I was wrong."
End log.
The stars outside glimmered faintly through the viewport, their light refracted slightly by residual particle dust left from the engagement.
And then it happened, a soft ping across long-range sensors. Nothing loud. Nothing invasive.
Just a whisper.
Iris's voice followed. "Two ships on approach. Long-range stealth pattern consistent with Federation Naval cloaking protocol. ID suppression confirmed."
Ethan walked over and flicked a sensor overlay onto the wall. Two faint signals, barely above noise, slipping in from the system's far edge.
"They're not broadcasting," he noted.
"They're not supposed to," Iris replied. "Tactical formation suggests a silent retrieval operation."
He didn't need to ask who they were here for.
Ethan watched the two dots move into slow holding pattern range. They didn't hail. Didn't ping. Just floated there, quiet, efficient, and prepared.
He reached for the control pad… then changed his mind.
Instead of hailing them, he powered down the scan display. The light faded from the wall.
"Let them do their job," he said.
"Acknowledged."
He stepped away, arms crossed behind his back, watching the empty dark out the viewport again.
No dramatic rescues. No need for thanks. Just systems doing their part, shadows watching over shadows.
The courier's cryo-pod was secure. The battle was won. The logs were filed. And somewhere deeper in this fractured galaxy, wheels had begun to turn and Ethan Walker was already tangled in them.