Arthur had always been loyal to the Sirius Coalition. From the moment he first donned the uniform of its Revolutionary Army, he believed in the cause: bringing order to the lawless Omegas, forging a new future out of chaos. He fought with conviction, rising through the ranks until his name became synonymous with discipline and sacrifice. But loyalty, he now realized, was a fragile thing—easily shattered when built on falsehoods.
It started during the debriefings after missions—those sterile, fluorescent-lit rooms where officers pored over data logs and holomaps while pilots recounted their actions in clipped, mechanical tones. Following the ambush on a Corsair convoy in Omega-41—a mission hailed as a resounding success—Arthur found himself lingering over one particular line in the after-action report: "Recovered artifacts consistent with standard Corsair armament and trade goods."
He remembered vividly what they had actually pulled from the wreckage of the cargo ships. Among the crates of refined minerals and illegal pharmaceuticals were strange relics that didn’t match anything in the Coalition’s database and yet remotely resembles current Coalition symbols and logos. Some bore markings like 金勇士, symbols etched into metal plates that glowed faintly under certain angles of light like yellow crescent moon and red star. Others were fragments of machinery so advanced they seemed almost alien, their purpose utterly inscrutable. Yet none of this made it into the official records and no one even questioned where the Corsairs got it all from.
When Arthur questioned the omission during the debriefing, his superior officer shot him a warning glance before curtly dismissing his concerns. “Focus on your role, Lieutenant,” the man said, his voice low but firm. “Leave the analysis to Command.” The words stuck with Arthur like a splinter beneath his skin, festering with each passing day.
The official history of Coalition —the one drilled into every recruit—was clear enough: the Sirius Coalition was born from a "motley band" of ex-Corsairs, Rheinland dissidents, and unaligned sympathizers who claimed descent from saboteurs responsible for disabling the Hispania . It was a proud lineage, they said, proof that the Coalition stood as the true heir to their fractured legacy. But over time, the pieces of the puzzle began to come together, the constant falsification of reports related to historical finds, the disappearance of officers asking questions about this. Over time, the Coalition fleet began to resemble just the same Corsairs, by lawlessness and arbitrariness. Everything was off in official stories, and after recent discovery Arthur intend to find out the truth.
When Arthur finally confronted his commanding officer during a routine inspection aboard the Alvin Katz , demanding answers about these discrepancies and why these artifacts not made it into records, the response was chillingly dismissive. “The past doesn’t matter,” the officer snapped. “What matters is what we build today.” That answer only fueled Arthur’s growing disillusionment. If the Coalition’s foundation was built on half-truths, how could its future be anything but hollow?
So, he resigned. Not dramatically or publicly—he simply submitted his papers, packed his belongings, and disappeared into the shadows of Omega-52. To the Coalition, he was just another statistic swallowed by the void. But Arthur knew better. He had a mission now, one far more personal than any campaign against pirates or insurgents.
Zvyozdny Gorodok was the logical starting point. As one of the oldest Coalition outposts, it housed extensive archives dating back to the early days of the movement. Most of the data was mundane—supply logs, patrol schedules, propaganda scripts—but buried beneath layers of bureaucracy lay fragments of something greater. Something forbidden.
Arthur moved cautiously, avoiding security patrols and hacking into terminals under cover of darkness. Each keystroke echoed like thunder in the silent archive chamber, every click threatening to betray his presence. Yet, he pressed on, driven by an insatiable need to uncover the truth. Who were the saboteurs? What really happened to the Hispania ? And why did the Coalition cling so desperately to this mythologized version of history and hide the truth?
Hours turned into days, and just as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, Arthur stumbled upon a file labeled “Project Echo.” Its contents were heavily redacted, but what remained painted a startling picture. References to cryogenic pods, mentions of Sol System, the same markings and symbols that were on artifacts from wreckages and more importantly coordinates pointing to Omicron Alpha—the resting place of the legendary sleeper ship Hispania along with an ancient paper map of the ship.
His heart raced. Could it be true? Who really sabotaged Hispania? If the saboteurs really was aboard this sleeper ship, if records about cryogenic pods and ancient Coalition technologies were true, their secrets might still lie dormant aboard that vessel. And if anyone could piece together the puzzle of his own identity, perhaps it was waiting for him there.
But Omicron Alpha wasn’t just another system—it was the domain of the Outcasts, a nation infamous for trafficking Cardamine, a drug that had plagued the Sirius Sector for centuries. Tales of their ruthlessness were legend, and navigating their territory meant risking not only capture but enslavement—or worse. Worse still, rumors spoke of the Siniestre Nebula, where the Outcasts buried their dead alongside their ships, often laden with their most valuable cargo. Ancient wrecks littered the nebula, some rumored to contain rare weapons and lost technologies.
For Arthur, this added both danger and opportunity. If the Hispania held the answers he sought, it would likely be guarded—or claimed—by the Outcasts. Venturing into Omicron Alpha meant stepping into a viper’s nest. But the alternative—living without knowing the truth—was unthinkable.
The journey to Omicron Alpha would not be easy. The system is heavily guarded by Outcasts. Worse still, the Coalition maintained strict control over of its citizens and wouldn't allow anyone to leave without authorization. For Arthur, traveling there meant risking everything—not just capture, but execution for desertion and treason.
Yet, as he powered down the terminal and slipped back into the shadows of Zvyozdny Gorodok, Arthur felt no fear. Only resolve. The Coalition had lied to him, manipulated him, and discarded him once he began asking questions. Now, he sought answers on his own terms. Answers that might rewrite history—or destroy it entirely.
Somewhere in the expanse of Omicron Alpha, the Hispania waited. Silent. Damaged. Guarded by those who thrived in this dangerous system. But not unreachable.
Arthur tightened his grip on the data chip containing the coordinates. Whatever awaited him in Omicron Alpha, he would face it head-on. For the truth—and perhaps redemption—lay hidden among the ruins of ship that keeps so much history.
