[Void Craft - Side Story] Legend

In the chaotic star regions of the Galactic Era, the flames of war never truly extinguished. Kast Balo's expansionist fleets surged toward neutral territory like an endless tide, while Kulan Tech's elite defenders stood firm like an iron fortress. The outer orbit of Village 37, supposedly a place of respite, often became the starting point of a battlefield. In this era, pilots were mere specks of dust in the void, piloting their warplanes, chasing the illusion of survival, occasionally sparking fleeting sparks in the carnage.

He was known as "Qiongqi," the chief pilot of an Alliance nation. His title stemmed from his ferocious combat style, like a beast from ancient myth, tearing through enemy lines yet remaining elusive. His aircraft was a cutting-edge, Level 9 fighter, equipped with anti-gravity engines and nano-repair systems, a symbol of national glory. But deep down, he was a weary soul, tired of the endless slaughter. Between missions, he often gazed at the stars, questioning the meaning of it all.

That day, in the outer space of Village 37, a sudden skirmish erupted. A Kast Balo reconnaissance team attempted to infiltrate, entangled with Kulan Tech patrol vessels. Qiongqi, ordered to conduct a reconnaissance mission, ventured alone deep into the asteroid belt. His scanners picked up an unusual signal—the presence of a mercenary group. They were free-spirited hunters, unaffiliated with any faction, fighting solely for reward. Leading the charge was a modified fighter, its maneuverability ghostly, its pilot's skill making him wary.

The battle erupted instantly. Laser beams traced deadly arcs through the vacuum of space, the roar of engines echoing through the void. He locked onto the lead fighter, a woman whose pilot's skill astonished him: every evasion seemed to anticipate his intentions, like a dancer in the void. The mercenary group's assault was fierce, but Qiongqi's experience was superior. In the melee, he activated a hyperspace micro-jump—a high-risk tactic, dragging the enemy aircraft into the twisting vortex of space, attempting to escape entanglement. When reality reshaped, the two found themselves in a no-man's land: a dead, silent void far from the sun, littered with ancient cosmic debris. Ammunition depleted, blades shattered in close combat, and oxygen reserve alarms blared. His gauges indicated slightly more oxygen than hers, but if they continued fighting, they would both suffocate. Through the video feed, they exchanged a glance—her eyes held no fear, only a calm assessment, as if accustomed to such desperate situations.

"Share the oxygen flow," he whispered over the comms, a hint of fatigue in his voice, "or we'll all die here."

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded in agreement. The pipes connected, and the system began slowly regenerating oxygen. For those long minutes, they sat in silence, gazing out at the stardust. The instinct for survival had brought them together for a moment, but it had also forged an unspoken bond. Beyond the void, the war raged on, but here, time seemed frozen, with only the two of them and their fighters suspended in eternal darkness.

After the war, Qiongqi used the Alliance's network of contacts to track her down. She was holed up in a bar on a remote space station, a haven for mercenaries. The air was thick with cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke, and the walls were covered with bounty warrants and old battle reports. He pushed open the door, and the gazes of the entire bar were like daggers—except for him, they were all her subordinates, armed, alert and rugged. They were ragtag bands, hailing from all corners of the galaxy, but unwaveringly loyal to her.

She raised her glass, her lips curled slightly, breaking the silence: "A drink? It seems you're more than just a gun."

He sat down, and they drank together. She said she valued friendship, regardless of friend or foe. He had saved her that day, and according to her tradition, exchanging weapons was a lasting commitment. So he offered his signature laser blade, and she responded with her modified pulse gun. From that moment, their destinies intertwined. The bar's lights dimmed, and the whispers of the mercenaries hummed in the background like a buzzing buzzer, but for a moment, the two seemed cut off from the universe.

In the years that followed, hundreds of battles raged across the galaxy like a storm. Kast Balo's human wave tactics consumed the star system, while Kulan Tech's ships shed blood in defense. Qiongqi was a frequent sight on the battlefield—her fighter always armed with his weapons, and he with hers. They never attacked each other, even in the fiercest melee, avoiding each other as if by tacit agreement. Once, on the borders of Zenthara Prime, he witnessed her destroy a Kast Balo commando, bypassing his position, like a guardian in the void. Another time, in the skies above Village 37, she deflected a missile for him, asking no reward, merely a distant nod. Their "legend" spread among pilots, but no one knew the truth—a tacit understanding that transcended factions, a fragile humanity blossoming in the midst of slaughter.

Until that fateful day. She received an urgent mission: Kast Balo's heroic units were approaching a neutral station, threatening the mercenaries' supply lines. His weapon—the laser blade, a symbol of friendship—was undergoing repairs. In a moment of urgency, she grabbed a spare pulse gun and rushed into the battlefield. The void once again became a stage. She collided with his fighter, instinctively not firing—an instinctive act of trust. But Qiongqi glanced around, seeing no familiar weapon markings. The battlefield was ruthless, and he pulled the trigger without hesitation. Lasers ripped through space, and she nimbly dodged, exposing her weakness. The maneuver felt so familiar to him, so like her usual style, but the inertia of war forced him to pursue, his doubts drowned out by adrenaline.

At the last moment, her fighter made a gesture—a simulated toast, a signal of their first encounter. Qiongqi's heart trembled, and he understood instantly. But it was too late. His second round of shots hit, and her fighter was shattered in a silent explosion, scattering into the eternal void. The fragments reflected starlight and disappeared like tears. He froze in the cockpit, the communication channel filled with only the hiss of static. He returned to base alive, but he was never the same again. The Alliance honored his "victory," awarding him medals and promotions, but his eyes were as empty as the void. After that incident, no further sightings of "Qiongqi" were heard from the Mercenary Neutral Zone. He quietly retired from the Alliance, and no one knew where he had gone. Some veteran pilots speculated he had secluded himself on a remote planet, while others said he had gone mad and was wandering the uninhabited lands. But the only thing the mercenaries knew was that every year during the month of the incident, a bouquet of flowers would be left at the bar where they first met. The bouquet was simple, yet always shimmered with the faint glow of void fragments, as if plucked from the extradimensional space. The bar owner never touched it, letting it wither, only for a new bouquet to appear the following month.

Deep in the galaxy, a fleet of AiO Project reconnaissance ships quietly observed all this. Their energy shields, cloaked in the stardust, recorded the final trace of "Qiongqi"—a solitary figure, piloting a battered fighter, disappearing at the edge of Void X's projection. Perhaps he had been chosen to become part of the next mystery. But that was already the beginning of another legend, quietly brewing in the endless void of the Galactic Era.