I woke to a skull-splitting headache—the unmistakable signature of a brutal hangover. It was nearly noon. The rest of the crew was already in the mess hall, eating, laughing, and grumbling about who’d drained the last of the beer. I dragged myself to the med bay, downed something for the pain, then shuffled toward the noise and smell of coffee.

  The place was packed. In the far corner sat Faye, cradling a mug, staring into it like it held answers. I slid onto the bench beside her.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She gave a small nod.

  “So… what now?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  Before either of us could say more, a crewman burst through the door and jabbed the wall screen on.

  “You need to see this.”

  Emperor Arthur I filled the frame, rigid behind a podium, voice iron-hard.

  “Five years ago, my brother stole what was most sacred to us: Christanium—the divine gift from the heavens, the resource that lifted humanity to its rightful glory. Joe Tassle twisted that gift into a weapon of selfish power. He spread his blasphemous propaganda, warped his followers into monstrous, godless chimeras. As Emperor Arthur I, rightful ruler of Earth, sovereign of the Empire of Men, lord of all imperial territories, sectoral kingdoms, and chief commander of our forces—I will not allow this sacrilege to stand.

  To every citizen of the Empire, to every officer and soldier of the imperial legions: we are now at war.”

  The screen froze on his cold, resolute face.

  Faye shot up and fled the mess hall, grief carved into every line of her body.

  I sat frozen, the words sinking in like lead. War. Again.

  Murmurs rippled around me—excitement from some, dread from others. I felt both at once.

  Then Jerry’s voice crackled over the intercom:

  “All hands to the landing dock. Imperial Prince Marcus Torres is arriving.”

  The room emptied fast. I lingered, staring at the blank screen, asking myself the same useless question: What now?

  By the time I reached the dock, the imperial chopper had already touched down, ramp lowered. Marcus rolled out in his wheelchair, flanked by black-armored bodyguards who moved like liquid shadow. Jerry and the senior crew snapped to formal attention, rendering honors as though we were still loyal sons of the Empire. I hung back near the elevator bay, arms crossed, watching.

  The ceremony ended. Marcus rolled toward the elevators with Jerry at his side. As they passed, I stepped into view and threw a lazy, sarcastic salute.

  “Welcome aboard, Your Majesty, Imperial Prince Marcus Torres.”

  He stopped. Reversed the chair. Looked up at me with tired eyes.

  “Don’t call me that. If you’re going for respect, just say ‘sir.’”

  Then he rolled on.

  I waited a beat before following them inside the elevator. I scanned the corridors for Faye or Gina. As I passed the captain’s office, I glanced through the transparent wall.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  There they were: Faye on her knees in front of Marcus, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking. He rolled closer, reached out, and pulled her into an awkward but genuine embrace. She clung to him and sobbed harder.

  Even through soundproof glass I could read the anguish—fear for her father, for the Union, for the chimeras she still refused to call monsters.

  I stood there until Gina’s hand settled lightly on my back.

  “What happens now?” she asked quietly.

  “No idea,” I muttered. My head still throbbed.

  Jerry noticed me through the glass, gave a small nod, then spoke briefly to Marcus. Another nod from the prince. Jerry stepped out.

  “Conference room, thirty minutes,” he said as he passed. “Prince Marcus has an announcement. Everyone.”

  Half an hour later the entire crew packed the conference space. A standard podium stood on the low stage. Marcus rolled up to it—but even raised, he was mostly hidden behind the lectern.

  Two guards stepped forward, lifted him carefully from the chair, and held him upright. He wobbled for a second, then steadied. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone who had already lost everything else.

  “Able-bodied crew of St. Francis’ Revenge—

  the most battle-scarred warriors to ever outlast the void,

  the sharpest blades war ever forged,

  the last fierce souls still breathing in this dying age—

  I stand here stripped bare.

  I see what lives in your eyes when they land on me.

  Hatred. Contempt. The itch to wrap your hands around my throat and squeeze until the lying stops.

  You would not be wrong to feel it.

  I lied to you.

  I hid my name.

  I hid my blood.

  I let you believe I was just another dying man trailing the Foundation—

  when I am the Foundation. Its founder.

  And yes—I am the nephew of Emperor Arthur I.

  But hear me clearly:

  I stand before you neither as prince nor imperial kin.

  I stand as a man who has finally turned his back on tyranny.

  My uncle has remade the Empire into a machine that runs on fear, obedience, and silence. I will no longer serve it.

  I stand for neither Empire nor Union.

  I stand for Earth.

  For whatever scraps of humanity we have left.

  And for that, I make one final request—not for a crown, not for a flag, but for every living thing still drawing breath on this broken world.

  From the Empire.

  From the Union.

  Even from the chimeras we once named abominations.

  You recovered a data chip. You’ve been waiting to know what it holds.

  It is time.

  Years ago, Jericho and I found something humanity was never meant to touch.

  A woman.

  We called her Crystal.

  Not human. Not machine. Something else entirely.

  She was the origin—the living source—of Christanium.

  The miracle element. The divine anomaly. The blessing and the curse God laid upon us.

  When she was taken, I didn’t grieve.

  I studied.

  Ancient scripture. Forbidden archives. Lost science.

  I built hidden facilities. I coded a supercomputer to dissect every facet of Christanium—its biology, chemistry, physics.

  From that machine came the truth.

  The ‘chips’ you’ve been risking your lives to retrieve are not chips at all.

  They are Core Data—compressed fragments of Crystal’s fundamental nature.

  The first, from an abandoned Union site: the Core Data of the Crystal Veins.

  The second, from Facility 64: the Core Data of the Chimeras.

  Three remain.

  Three pieces that complete the map of what Christanium truly is.

  Faye—my cousin, Joe Tassle’s daughter—stood beside me as co-founder of the Foundation. She believed, as I do, that Earth deserves more than eternal war. She begged me for a cure for the chimeras.

  I searched.

  I failed.

  Their transformation is irreversible.

  But I found something else: stabilization.

  A way to let them live with dignity. To give them time.

  And in stabilizing them… I uncovered the final truth about Crystal.

  The Core Data are keys—not just to healing poisoned soil and dying seas, but to healing us.

  Empire. Union. Chimera. All of us.

  I cannot gather the remaining three alone.

  I know I’ve given you every reason to refuse.

  But I ask you now—not as royalty, not as a liar, but as a man who has chosen to betray his own blood for the sake of this world.

  Help me collect the last Core Data.

  Not for Empire. Not for Union.

  For humanity.

  For the chimeras.

  For whatever future we can still claw back.

  For our home.

  Please. Help me heal this planet.”

  Silence swallowed the room.

  From my corner I felt every word land like a hammer. I hated him—God, I hated him. But once we had been brothers in everything but blood.

  And now, looking into his eyes, I saw no mask.

  Only exhaustion. And a stubborn, reckless hope.

  I stepped forward.

  “For Earth. For whatever’s left of humanity. I, Jericho Sanchez, am in.”

  A beat of quiet.

  Then Gina moved beside me.

  “Regina Mendez stands with him.”

  Jerry next.

  Then Harvey.

  Then one by one, the rest of the crew.

  He had finally given us the truth.

  And that was all we had ever really wanted.