CHAPTER 12: "JEREMIAH FLEET" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

By William Warner

CHAPTER 12: "JEREMIAH FLEET" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

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As Emily and I climbed back up the hidden stairwell into the main hall of Jericho’s twisted cathedral, our boots echoed on the stone steps, still wet with condensation and the lingering scent of death. The desecrated altar sat like a monument to false divinity, its fractured slabs casting long shadows under the flickering red lights above. The cathedral's silence was no longer peaceful—it was tense, like a drum skin pulled too tight. We were no longer explorers here. We were invaders.

Suddenly, Emily’s wrist gauntlet buzzed and emitted a low beep. A red projection blinked into existence above her arm, shimmering with static until the hazy image of Serenity appeared. Her eyes were strained, and her tone was uncharacteristically sharp.

“They’re coming,” Serenity said without preamble. “The Knights are launching a massive fleet from the planet Jeremiah. It’s not just Jericho they’re after anymore—they’re coming for York too. Retaliation. Big time.”

Emily tensed beside me. “How many ships?” she asked.

“Too many,” Serenity snapped. “Dozens of siege frigates, and at least two dreadnoughts. Our Long Ships aren’t built for this kind of skirmish. The tech disparity is too wide. If they breach York’s planetary shield, it’s over. We won’t be able to hold.”

My thoughts swirled with calculations. Every second counted. “Is there any way to infiltrate their fleet?” I asked, stepping forward. “Can we destroy them from within? Sabotage their engines? Wipe their navigation? Anything.”

Serenity’s projection flickered with static. “It’s possible, but not without risk. We’d need access codes, internal mapping, fleet formation patterns—things we don’t have yet. The only way we might get that intel is if we can access deeper military files on Jericho. You’re still in their capital. There might be something underground or in a high-ranking officer’s archive. Otherwise, we’re blind.”

Her tone softened just slightly. “You need to get out of there, now. Regroup with me back on York—”

I cut her off. “Just keep your mouth shut, Serenity. We’ll handle this.”

Serenity’s expression darkened, but she didn’t argue. The call disconnected with a sharp digital flick, and the air grew quiet again.

Emily exhaled slowly. “That was harsh,” she said, half under her breath.

“I don’t need more panic,” I replied, looking around the desecrated holy hall. “We need answers. Serenity’s right about one thing—we’re not done with this planet.”

We began scanning the walls for hidden panels or passageways. The cathedral’s core was ancient, likely rebuilt dozens of times by different sects, each adding layers of secrets. Jericho’s oppressive gothic-industrial aesthetic made everything feel overdesigned and overengineered—what looked like a pipe could be a switch, and what looked like a panel could be a door.

We located a recessed maintenance shaft near the altar’s shattered edge. A small inscription was carved above it in some old dialect, possibly a mix of High Imperial and religious code. It read: “Only the sanctified shall observe the Throne’s True Power.”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “That’s not ominous at all.”

I pried the panel open. It led to a narrow corridor lined with dim, reddish lighting and a descending ramp. My helmet interface lit up with unknown EM fields, likely caused by Imperial dampeners or cloaking systems. Emily flicked on her head light, and we pressed forward.

The corridor opened into a command sanctuary—clearly used by ranking clerics and military strategists. Embedded into the walls were dozens of holoscreens and ancient data cores—some Imperial, others far older, almost alien in design. I approached a large circular console in the center. Its surface was smooth obsidian until I placed my palm on it.

The console roared to life.

A red holographic interface bloomed outward, displaying complex fleet schematics. Battleship layouts. Planetary routes. Combat protocols. My eyes darted over the information, searching for anything that looked like a vulnerability.

“There,” Emily pointed at a secondary diagram.

I traced my finger across the flickering holo-text, letting each revelation sink in. The files painted a cosmic conspiracy more complex than any war we’d fought—Nasga architects, Arckon overseers, and a web of hidden manipulation stretching across species and epochs.

“The Nasga People,” I murmured, reading the description. The information floated above the console: “Arrived at the dawn of this galaxy. Seeding lifeforms using technology reminiscent of the Arckons: mammals, reptiles, bird‑like beings—all created for coexistence.” It was a mythological origin rewritten in cold code.

Screens shifted to display images: Jaguars, leonine reptilians; Charoon, spinosaurus‑headed humanoids with sleek scales; Troodons, avian in structure; and Buerr, bear‑faced, noble warriors. To think these ancient, engineered races existed here… engineered by beings who came from beyond.

Another file read itself: “If the citizens of the Red Dragon Empire were to discover that the Nasga people made us, and that the Arckons made them, it would destroy this Christian Empire in an instant as people panic. To make matters worse, the Vikings have adopted the new faith of Spiritual Alchemy, which revolves around the idea of becoming a creator being.”

I felt the magnitude of it.

“They tried to suppress knowledge,” Emily voiced softly behind me, arms crossed against her chestplate. “Because once people realize they weren’t ‘chosen’, their faith collapses.”

I paused on the document’s signature line: Edward Murray—a Noble from the Russ legion.

The name rang alarm bells—someone trusted, someone with a seat at the highest tables. His betrayal in ink confirmed it: this was an empire‑conceiving treachery.

Emily reached out, her hand steady in mine. “Are you okay?”

I closed my eyes, taking a steadying breath. “This is a lot to process.” My voice wavered, betraying exhaustion. “We thought we were fighting swords and demons—but this… this is war against cults of truth and lies.”

She nodded, courage mirrored in her green eyes. “Now we know why they offered us false worship—and why they feared Spiritual Alchemy. They believed it would make us gods ourselves.”

I shook my head, stunned at the scale of it. “If people knew their history… the Imperial system could topple overnight. Aelle’s throne would crumble—just like Ragnar’s did in Vikingnar.”

Emily squeezed my hand. “We can use this. Not destroy. Expose.”

I swiped through the data, vision narrowed. “ Then we broadcast—history and all—this truth. We launch the sabotage on the fleet, securing York and Jericho.”

A slow smile curved Emily’s lips. “Never a dull moment with you.”

For a moment, the cathedral’s oppressive air fell away. We were no longer pawns in someone’s galactic chessboard. We were the ones holding the board.

“Let’s rewrite destiny,” I pressed my palm against the glowing console. “No more holy lies. No more hidden creators.”

Emily pulled me close, head resting on my shoulder. “Together.”

And in that cathedral sanctuary—tainted though it was—we made our vow: to bring truth to the galaxy, no matter how unstable the ground beneath us might shake.

The plan was born: expose the secret lineage, sabotage the imperial armada, and reclaim what was ours—truth, sovereignty, and a future built on knowledge, not gods.

With a steadying breath, I scrolled into the Imperial Fleet File. Lines of red-accented data filled the holo-screen, and my pulse quickened.

“Each vessel of the Red Dragon Empire is equipped with an onboard Psychic navigator—individuals trained to safely traverse the Wraith. These Psychics can relay encrypted messages between star systems. Any individual with the proper resonance can receive these transmissions.”

Emily scoffed softly, running a dark-gloved fingertip through her hair. “They claim to be Christian, yet worship a literal angel on the side—and twist alchemy into a tool for dominance. Hypocritical assholes.”

I laughed, a low chuckle that lightened the cathedral’s gravity. Then clarity struck me like a bolt across the sky.

“Relay stations.” I whispered, turning back to Emily. “We can broadcast truth across their empire—right into the heart of their society.”

Emily reached for her wrist holoscreen, switching to camera mode. The light flickered into a warm amber glow as I looked into the lens and began recording.

“This clip reveals how far King Aelle will go to control you,” I announced calmly. The scene shifted to our faces, straining over that dying woman in Jericho’s basement, surrounded by malnourished prisoners. The footage showed her final words—"Help… My gods hate me…"

My image returned. “King Aelle… withheld this reality from you. You were made in the image of God, destined to create just like the Nasga civilization—and the Arckons who preceded them.”

Emily cut the recording, then turned to me quietly. “We can send that link through the Psychic Relay Station; the whole empire will receive it on their comms.”

I nodded, stepping closer. “Let Red Dragon's minds open. If the people know the truth… the empire collapses from within.”

A crease formed in Emily’s brow. “And the fleet?” she asked gently.

“Their flagships all have just one Psychic each—unless they kept extras on planets like Jericho.” I tapped the data pad. “If we secure or negotiate with those planet-based Psychics, the Empire’s Wraith navigation collapses.”

Emily exhaled, doubt shadowing her eyes. “And if they refuse?”

I paused, choosing my words. “Then we corner them into a path that leads nowhere else but the Shadow Realm.”

Her head tilted, lips tightening. “So… annihilation.”

“If the choice is psychic betrayal—or total military extinction—is that really monstrous?” I answered softly. “We’re saving the galaxy from a lie built on spiritual oppression.”

Emily met my gaze, tension in her posture. The weight of our plan pulsed in the silent hum of the chamber. Ultimately, she nodded once—firmly. Our resolve is sealed in action.

I reached for her hand and squeezed it. “We stand together.”

The low hum of the palace’s power grid echoed around us. On the holo­table, projections of the Red Dragon fleet lingered next to maps of Jericho, York, and the Psychic Relay node.

The conference chamber’s glass walls reflected faces marked with resolve, fear, hope, and determination. As we prepared to strike at the heart of empire and truth alike, I couldn’t shake a single certainty:

We were about to change everything forever.

Emily and I moved as one, exiting the Capitol’s glass doors with determined resolve. The air was cool, tinged with the lingering scent of blood and dust from the recent battle. warriors in sleek, graphene-reinforced armor parted for us, their expressions grim with purpose.

One of the warriors—a tall woman with a Viking knot dyed in crimson—stepped forward. “My lords, we discovered this in the old Research Vault,” she said, her voice low. She held open a steel-clad doorway, revealing stairs descending into dim, humming depths. Red cables snaked through the ceiling, gothic arches supported overhead, and vents exhaled mechanical breaths that echoed through the corridors.

We followed her into the facility. The walls were lined with arcane circuitry—rows of transparent tubes pulsing with alien light—and behind a reinforced window, the portal glowed. It was a holo-vortex framed in black metal, suspended at the center of a circular console. Its colors spiraled from crimson to deep violet, casting shifting shadows across the room.

I recognized it immediately. It mirrored the portal I’d seen on Earth—reverse-engineered Wraith tech, stolen from the Greys. The Imperials had done this themselves. My stomach clenched. We couldn’t allow them to perfect it.

Together, Emily and I approached the console. Cold steel fingertip panels awaited input. I keyed in the precise coordinates of Jericho’s Psychic Relay Station. Each press caused a hum to intensify. Fingers poised, Emily glanced at me—silent questions passed between us.

The hum crescendoed. The vortex stabilized. Wisps of crimson light spilled out before the center turned black. A rip in reality shimmered, beckoning.

Emily stepped back. I turned to the Viking assembly. “Hold here. Follow if—” But before I could finish, she cut in, quieter but harder. “Don’t follow us! We’ll keep in touch.” Her voice carried finality.

I nodded, then without another word, together we stepped into the swirling gate that glowed crimson.

The transition through the Wraith Portal left behind a static buzz in my spine. As the swirling crimson light folded into nothingness behind us, Emily and I stood still, absorbing our surroundings. The chamber before us was immense—like a cathedral fused with a space station.

High vaulted ceilings loomed above, arched in gothic latticework carved from black alloy and wrapped in red, glowing circuitry. Industrial piping ran between ribs of steel like veins through bone. The floor was smooth obsidian glass, reflecting not only our figures, but the radiant lights of floating monitors and holographic data reels cycling in endless patterns along the perimeter of the space.

Central to the cathedral stood a massive circular platform raised a few feet off the ground, accessible by narrow steps that seemed to float in place. In the air above it, suspended in a slow, unnatural rotation, was a cloaked figure—levitating with a grace that defied physics.

The figure unraveled her hood with a fluid motion, and long, silver hair flowed like silk caught in zero gravity. It was her.

Valrra.

I clenched my jaw immediately. My hand instinctively went to the hilt of my chainsword.

Emily stepped forward beside me, voice cool but cutting. “Of all people.”

I narrowed my eyes at the floating woman. “And why in the hell are you working for the bad guys, Valrra?”

There was a delay—just a second—but it told volumes. Her violet eyes didn’t meet ours at first. She descended slowly, her boots touching the floor without a sound. Around her, glowing cables coiled and writhed, linked to the relay hardware. Her face was pale, unreadable.

“I didn’t choose this,” she said. “After I fled Cybrawl, I was captured. They kept me alive only because of my mind. My psychic ability. And because I could operate the Wraith frequencies. I’m under Imperial Law now... a prisoner, forced into servitude.”

Emily crossed her arms, tense and unyielding. “That doesn’t explain everything. Why did you kidnap William? Why manipulate me into merging with an Immortal? You knew what that would do.”

Valrra’s expression flickered. Her lips parted as if to speak—but no words came. She looked down at the floor. “I can’t say. Not here. They’re always listening. Even now.”

I stepped forward, fury under control, but bubbling just below the surface. “You owe us the truth.”

“I owe you more than that,” she replied, her voice soft but cracked. “But right now, I can do one thing that might tip this war in your favor. I can send your message across the Red Dragon Empire’s psychic network. Every planet, every citizen with a psychic receiver will feel it. Hear it in their dreams. See it on their devices. I just… I need you to trust me for five minutes.”

Emily looked at me. I nodded once. “Fine,” I said. “Do it.”

Valrra exhaled and turned back to the central platform. From her belt, she retrieved a small, crystalline object—hexagonal, pulsing with inner red and white lights. She inserted it into a console slot, and the entire room pulsed.

Around us, the cathedral’s walls came alive.

Massive arrays unfolded from the ceilings like the petals of a steel flower. Holographic rings spun faster. Then came the noise—not auditory, but felt—a resonance that passed through the bones. The air shimmered. And then—

Visible sound waves.

A symphony of crimson, gold, and ultraviolet pulses radiated out from Valrra’s chest and hands like concentric ripples in water. The pulses surged into the air, riding invisible pathways through dimensions unseen by the naked eye.

“I’ve piggybacked your video across the psychic neural net,” she whispered. “Now… they’ll know.”

The relay screens began to display our recording—Emily and I aiding the dying woman in the Capitol basement. The words I spoke on that video echoed not just through the screen, but into the mind, into dreams and thoughts. From backwater mining colonies to metropolitan cathedral-cities, the truth screamed like a blood-red virus in the mind of every citizen:

“King Aelle has hid the truth from you. You were created in God’s image, and you’re destined to create like a god. Just like the Nasga people who created us, and like the Arckons who created you, William. They are your gods.”

Then came the cutscene of the hidden files, revealing the hypocrisy of the Empire’s so-called Christian dominion. The false goddess Madeline. The manipulation. The fabricated guilt traps. The reward-slavery complex.

Emily turned from the screen. Her fists were clenched, eyes fierce with righteous fire. “They’ll never undo this,” she said. “It’s already inside them. Like a blade.”

Valrra’s face showed the briefest hint of a smile. “Now you just have to finish what you started.”

“And what about the fleet?” I asked. “The one coming from Jeremiah.”

Valrra’s gaze drifted toward the shadows above. “The flagship’s psychic relay can be disrupted. But only if the Psychic aboard is forced to choose. If you reach them—make them understand what’s been done in their name—they might defect. If not…”

I finished her sentence: “We send them to the shadow realm.”

Valrra’s aggression turned lethal now her eyes burned with dark purpose. She whispered, "There’s only three more Psychics you have to worry about," she said with a smirk. “I’m sorry, you weren’t what I was looking for,” and with one hand, she activated a dormant portal behind her. It—was not set to a distant world, but directly into the Wraith.

Before I could stop her, the air tore open, and a towering demon emerged—an orange-skinned, winged warrior with the head of a raging bull. Fangs glistened in its maw, and it brandished a jagged battle axe that dripped with infernal energy.

I shouted a warning to Emily, but the creature advanced too quickly. I raised my chainsword and plunged toward the demon, hoping to distract it long enough for Emily to stop Valrra. Emily yanked Valrra backward by her hair, briefly halting the portal’s surge, while desperately working to shut it down.

The demon swung its axe in deadly arcs. I parried and countered, moving in close. The monster lacked finesse—crudely skilled with steel, but no training in close-quarters fighting. It howled, mid-swing, when I struck its groin hard with the butt of my weapon. It staggered. Using that moment, I drove the chainsword deep between its legs. The demon collapsed in a roar, clutching its wound—then slumped and died without vanishing.

Emily finished sealing the portal. But as smoke still curled from its threshold, Valrra—raw and possessed by Maladrie’s demonic essence—sprung away from Emily, hurling fireballs that exploded across the shattered tech. Dark energies intensified as more of Maladrie’s demon-warriors materialized: winged, orange-skinned soldiers cracked with infernal light and brandishing flaming swords.

Emily and I took a battle stance. We were outnumbered, but our swords were tempered with purpose. I yelled, “Form up! Now!” — and we tore through the horde. Every step was brutal, every swing decisive. The air shimmered with smoke, sparks, and the ringing of metal—a hellish echo in that vaulted hall.

Valrra hovered, shifting shape: her frame twisted into a demonic form, horns curling across her skull, and her face set with savage intent. She summoned bolts of fire and more warriors. Emily and I spun together—her blade glittering red, mine humming fiercely. A chorus of clashing steel and hissing flame erupted.

Valrra lunged at Emily. Emily parried, keeping her blade steady. I saw my opening: Valrra focused on combat, not on self-preservation. I silently broke away, darting past smashed consoles, cobblestones cracking beneath my feet. My hand found a length of steel pipe embedded in the wall, scorched and torn free by battling forces.

I backed slowly, then rushed forward, pressing Emily to lure Valrra my way. Emily taunted the demon away from the others. Valrra pursued, confident in her supernatural speed.

When she passed within range, I thrust my improvised weapon—a trench-knife, bound to the pipe and tipped with lethal shungite—straight into her abdomen. Valrra’s eyes widened in shock as the blade tore through her flesh. She crumpled mid-air, dusting sparks against the floor.

Emily was beside me in an instant. Valrra landed with a dull thud and immediately began to go unconscious—the demoness rotted instead of turning to black ash. Emily's face was a portrait of grim resolution.

The golf-club screech of the sealed portal clawed through the silence. The room was still. The demons were gone. Maladrie’s influence—but briefly seeded—retreated like a tide sucked backward by gravity.

I wiped sweat from my brow. Emily gently placed a hand on my shoulder, steadying me. Our eyes met. In that ragged silence, we stood together on battlefield-spattered flooring, battered but unbroken.

We had stopped Valrra’s betrayal.

But we had cut open the Wraith in the heart of the Empire. And now, the enemies who controlled that realm would know we were coming.

I sheathed my blade with slow care. Emily tightened her grip on her sword hilt. In the hush, a single thought roared louder than any demon’s warcry:

This war is far from over.

We walked together out of the ruined cathedral-hall, ready to bring the fight to the forces that had unleashed the Wraith’s demons on our world.

The air hung heavy with heat and the smell of demon blood. Valrra’s twisted corpse lay motionless, pinned to the wall where my makeshift shungite spear had struck her. Emily wiped demon ash from her lip, her blade still humming faintly from the energy it absorbed. We stood in silence, surrounded by the bodies of Valrra’s summoned warriors, the chaos we had carved now frozen in aftermath.

But my mind wasn’t quiet.

I stepped forward, staring at Valrra’s face—still partially twisted from her demonic possession, yet eerily human in death. Her final words looped in my mind like a glitching transmission:

“I’m sorry… you weren’t what I was looking for.”

My hands curled into fists. The words weren’t just insulting—they were loaded. Coded. Deliberate.

Emily stood beside me, breathing hard. “What the hell did she mean by that?” she asked. “And why’d she turn into a Demon like that?”

I didn’t answer at first. I crouched beside Valrra’s remains and noticed something hanging around her scorched neck: a hexagonal flash drive crystal, black and pulsating faintly with red data threads. Carefully, I pulled it from the chain and slid it into the nearest command console.

The red-tinted monitor lit up with encrypted files. Emily stepped beside me as we sifted through the layers of intel—some in ancient Arckon glyphs, others in the Imperials' secret dialect. Then we found her personal log. Her actual motives.

I began to read aloud.

“The subject known as William survived fusion with the Immortal. The fusion was meant to occur during extraction on Earth, but resistance caused the plan to spiral. The Immortal instead bonded with him in the chaos. I assumed the fusion would either kill him… or make him unstable.”

“When reports came in that he survived a later encounter with a Stethacanthus Hive Warrior, I feared he was still only partially merged. That perhaps he wasn’t the true vessel after all.”

Emily narrowed her eyes. “Wait… she’s saying she thought you might’ve died fighting that Stethacanthus? That shark-thing that ambushed you years ago?”

I nodded slowly. “She wasn’t sure if I was fully fused with the Immortal. The Stethacanthus wasn’t connected to the Immortals—it was just one of those freak apex predators out in deep space. But the fact that I barely survived it spooked her. She wanted a backup plan.”

Emily’s eyes widened in realization. “That night at my house… when you first showed up, and you brought your gear—”

“She snuck another Immortal into my bag,” I said, bitterly. “Thinking that if I wasn’t fully merged, it would finish the job. Only…”

Emily took a half step back, processing it.

“It bonded with me,” she whispered.

I looked at her solemnly. “She never intended for that to happen. But you were exposed. And now… you’re fused too.”

Emily let out a slow, bitter laugh. “So she was playing god the whole time. Just pushing pieces around without knowing what the hell she was really doing.”

“She wanted to be the one who created the vessel of the next age,” I said, voice tight. “If I was the one the Immortals chose… She wanted a claim. That’s why she was trying to manipulate everything—from the fusions to the politics.”

We opened a second file. A message between her and Edward Murray. His signature was encrypted, but unmistakable.

“Once King Aelle is disposed of, I will ensure you and William rise to power. Your child—if conceived during full Immortal synchronization—will be a divine heir. In exchange, you will preserve the religious framework of the Red Dragon Empire and assist me in locating my Immortal. The age of kings will fall, but our rule will be eternal.”

Emily blinked, visibly revolted. “She wanted to have your kid? This was some twisted imperial breeding program?”

“She didn’t just want power,” I muttered. “She wanted control of the future. She wanted to tether herself to whatever destiny she thought I represented.”

“But she was still working under Murray,” Emily said. “He made promises, but he was using her.”

I nodded grimly. “Valrra thought she was a kingmaker… but she was just a pawn. Murray doesn’t want a partnership. He wants the whole throne. He probably fed her just enough lies to keep her loyal until she outlived her usefulness.”

Emily shook her head. “So the entire Red Dragon Empire is being manipulated by psychics, demons, and Immortal cultists with twisted family agendas. I can’t believe we ever thought this was just about Aelle’s crown.”

I turned from the console. The glow of the red screen painted shadows across my face. “We exposed Aelle’s crimes. But Murray? He’s building something deeper. He’s the real architect of this insanity.”

I glanced back at Valrra’s corpse. “And she was just one layer of it.”

The relay station hummed with eerie stillness, even as my wrist gauntlet glowed red from the live feed. I didn't hesitate. Hand poised, I confirmed the upload of our exposé—the raw footage from Jericho’s basement, the twisted rituals, the revelation of Maladrie, King Aelle, and the Red Dragon Empire's desperate machinery of control. Seconds later, the station’s central holo‑screen erupted in chaos: massive riots, crowded streets aflame, and citizens pouring into the streets chanting for justice.

“These protests aren’t just about false gods or alien threats,” Emily murmured, her hand resting on mine as we watched. “They bought us time.”

I nodded. Time to finish what we started.

With quiet resolve, Emily and I activated the nearby Wraith portal console. Its crimson glow deepened, pulsing like a heartbeat. Our warriors, battered but resolute, fell in line behind us. “Stay tight,” I told them. Emily squeezed my hand, wordlessly confirming—and we stepped into the portal together.

The crimson vortex of the Wraith Portal collapsed behind us with a low growl, leaving a brief shimmer of energy in the air. Emily and I stood once again on the cold, durasteel floors of the research facility on Jericho—exactly where we’d left. The atmosphere felt heavier now, the station charged with the weight of what had just happened in the Relay.

Our warriors were waiting, exactly as instructed—lined up near the console banks and the crude makeshift barracks they’d fashioned from overturned tables and armored panels. Some sharpened their plasma axes, others adjusted runes embedded in their chest plates. Their loyalty hadn’t faltered. That gave me confidence.

I stepped forward, my boots clanking with authority on the metal floor. The warriors looked up, eyes wide, and one of the captains—Bjarn, a weathered Viking with a jagged mechanical jaw—approached us.

“Well?” he asked. “Did the Empire hear the message?”

“Oh, they heard it,” I said, my voice sharp. “They’re hearing it right now. Protests are already spreading across the Red Dragon Empire. The truth’s out—about the Nasga, the Arckons, the false divinity of King Aelle. But we can’t just rely on riots and hope the system collapses on its own.”

Emily stepped beside me, placing her hand on my shoulder as she faced the group. “We’re taking the fight to the source. Jeremiah.”

The room went still. Even the buzzing consoles seemed to hold their breath.

I nodded. “That’s right. No Longships. We’re not going in with a full invasion force. Instead, we’re using the Wraith Portal—slip in, just us and a select strike team.”

Bjarn blinked. “To do what exactly?”

“To hijack their main Imperial vessel,” I said. “The flagship—the gold-plated dreadnought docked above Jeremiah’s orbital defense grid. It’s the brain of the entire Knights’ fleet. With it under our control, we’ll rain fire from above, disable their entire command structure, and force the rest to either surrender… or burn.”

For a moment, silence returned to the room. Then the warriors began to grin—grins filled with bloodlust, hope, and vengeance.

I tapped my wrist gauntlet: the red icon pulsed—Serenity. She appeared as a crimson-hued avatar, half-enthralled by the moment’s seriousness.

“We’ve successfully uploaded the message,” I said. “I slaughtered Valrra, and her Demons. The Wraith Portal is active, and we’re ready for the Jeremiah mission.”

Serenity’s avatar flickered. “Ok?” she responded, voice tight. She was taken aback, but she trusted me.

Serenity’s crimson figure nodded. “Backup?” she asked.

I pressed my jaw forward. “If things go south, you’ll get the signal. Bring the cavalry.”

She waved and the link died. Emily and I stood for a moment, staring at the Wraith portal humming in the center like a storm cloud waiting to strike. Beside us, the silent soldiers shifted shifts of energy, breathing in sync with the portal.

The crimson swirl of the Wraith Portal faded behind us as Emily, myself, and our band of Viking warriors emerged onto the surface of planet Jeremiah. The atmosphere was starkly different from the gloom of Jericho. The air, though heavy with industrial fumes, was strangely cleaner. Gothic spires still loomed above us, but they were better kept—polished, ornate, with statues of Madeline and Christ casting long shadows over wide stone plazas. The city had an eerie sense of order. This wasn't just another world under Imperial control—this was a gathering place for their nobles, their elite.

The architecture confirmed it. Concrete cathedrals soared with vaulted arches. Iron gargoyles clung to watchtowers. Stained glass windows reflected warm, holy light onto dark metallic walkways. Imperial banners of blood red and gold draped from every building. The entire city was a fusion of religion, power, and war—a shrine to the Empire’s twisted values.

We moved in silence, blades drawn, ducking into alleyways and moving along shadowed colonnades. Whenever an Imperial soldier or Knight crossed our path, we struck like ghosts. Our warriors moved with swift precision—axes and short blades slicing through their enemies before they had time to scream.

Eventually, the steel-tiled alleys opened into a massive docking yard. Cargo crates were stacked in rows, and spotlights cut across the fog of industrial exhaust. The hum of machinery was constant. Massive steel arms were loading supplies into a dark gray Imperial cruiser, its gold trim marking it as a vessel of high clearance.

We dropped behind a stack of crates. From our vantage point, we spotted something unusual: a prisoner. A hooded figure, wrapped in a long black cloak and bound in energy chains, was being escorted up the ship’s ramp by two Knights in plated crimson armor. The chains were laced with glowing runes—powerful enough to suppress even psychic energy.

“That’s our hostage,” I whispered.

Emily narrowed her eyes. “If they get that ship off the ground, we lose them.”

Without another word, we moved. Our warriors unsheathed weapons and followed. We broke cover, sprinting across the metallic yard. Shouts erupted behind us. A squad of Knights saw us too late—we were already at the ramp. I ran up the platform first, my chainsword roaring to life as I cut down the escorts.

The other Knight tried to draw his blade, but I was faster. My Chainsword flickered in a crimson arc, and the Knight collapsed, lifeless.

Inside the ship, the lights were dim—red emergency LEDs lit the corridors. I hit the console at the side of the ramp and forced the door shut. A loud clang echoed through the ship as I activated the manual welding torch and sealed it. Sparks rained down.

“They’re locked out,” I said. “Let’s move.”

Emily reached into her pouch and released one of her scanning orbs. It hovered into the air, emitting a low, pulsing hum before projecting a red hologram of the ship’s schematics between us.

“Bridge is two levels up. Two small guard patrols—one on this level, another below deck.”

“We take the bridge first. If we control that, we control the whole ship.”

The orb blinked and retracted. We moved swiftly through the steel corridors, each corner bringing the clash of weapons. Knights met us halfway through the first deck. It was tight, brutal combat—hallways barely wide enough for three people side-by-side.

One of our warriors was wounded in the thigh by a halberd swipe, but another yanked him aside and slammed the attacker into a wall with a war hammer. Emily and I kept pushing forward—blood sprayed across console panels and walls, boots echoing on grating floors.

The bridge was just ahead—a bulkhead guarded by two heavily armored Knights. They raised their swords, but I launched forward, my chainsword cutting through both weapons and armor with a shriek of metal and plasma. Emily followed up, disarming the last one and slicing his knees before finishing him cleanly.

I slapped my palm against the bridge door scanner, overriding it with brute force. The door slid open. I herded everyone in, then shut and sealed the bulkhead behind us.

We had taken the bridge.

The control room was shaped like a hexagon, with reinforced glass showing a wide view of the dockyard below. Gold-lit consoles flickered with encrypted data. A shrine to the Empire’s martyr saints was built into the far wall—porcelain white, with candles still burning. Emily spit on the floor.

I approached the main helm, pressing keys until I gained access.

One of our warriors moved to the prisoner, still chained and slumped against the side wall. He knelt beside them and pulled back the hood. A tan man—pale, scarred, eyes flickering with faint psychic glow.

“He’s sedated,” The Viking warrior noted. “Still breathing.”

The cloaked figure straightened in the low-ceilinged bridge, stepping out of the shadows. “You must be the ones who stole my transport,” he said, voice calm, almost amused. He pulled back his hood to reveal sharp features and pale eyes that shimmered with a curious light—psychiatric eyes. “I’m Christopher,” he introduced himself. I studied his face and stance: no hint of hidden malice, no psychic tremors betraying allegiance to Maladrie. Emily placed a hand on my arm and gave a subtle nod. The guards relaxed marginally, albeit warily.

Christopher glanced at the walls, lined with holographic weapon displays and command consoles. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said with a half-smile, “Don’t worry—I’ve resisted her influence. Maladrie’s seductions don’t work on me. I have my own wife.”

I gave a slight nod. “That’s good,” I said softly, voice steady. “Any alliance with Maladrie is a trap.”

Christopher chuckled, but as I moved to give a guard instruction, Emily waved me back to the pilot’s seat. She pressed controls, and the bridge’s sliding double-doors hissed closed with finality. I took my seat, fingers hovering over the override panel.

Immediately, I locked every internal door on the ship. The lower deck is sealed with a soft thrum—metal shutters sliding into place. Our warriors, gathered in the fuselage behind us, leaned forward, their silhouettes framed under dim red lights. Pressure thrummed in the air as I initiated the anti-gravity thrusters.

The ship lifted mere feet off the ground in silent rebellion against gravity. Emily guided us into position; outside, the dockyard faded, metallic crates and service cranes shrinking in our viewports.

“Ready,” she whispered. I nodded and activated the targeting grid. Unlike Hollywood spectacle, this ship’s armament was singular: a focused laser cannon, tuned precisely to burn through the densest energy shields and graphene-reinforced hull plating.

Through the main viewport, I tracked a squadron of Imperial vessels resting in empty berths. My aim locked onto the first. The laser system powered up—crimson energy humming, coalescing into a tight beam. Within moments, a solid weapon beam carved through the nearest ship’s hull, glowing red-hot as the beam seared deeper. Alarms must have wailed below as panic spread through the dock—hull ruptures, metal plating giving way, internal fires erupting. I clicked to shift targets, and the beam swung toward the hangar entrance, slicing through recessed armor to torch the interior.

I didn’t cease until dockyard cranes collapsed and storage domes crumpled into smoking ruins.

Then, Emily’s voice cut through the chaos, “Incoming!”

My senses snapped upward. A second Imperial cruiser — larger, armed, airborne — was bearing down on us, energy shields humming in readiness. Its weapons opened fire as we transitioned: a volley of shimmering pulses that struck our shields in a sudden wash of impact. Lights flickered. I grasped the console, teeth clenched.

Emily guided us downward and forward in a sweeping arc. “Under their hull,” she called, eyes fixed on tactical tracers. I followed—and, with a juddering jolt, our ship collided with theirs. My world spun; alarms blared. Metal shrieked. But we held fast—and the momentum carried us beneath the enemy vessel.

Below, I raised the laser again, sweeping the beam along their undercarriage. The ship buckled and groaned. I held steady until the hull split in a burst of molten energy, then powered down. The enemy ship wavered, shields brittle, systems failing—and began its descent, tumbling away from the battlefield.

Emily and I exhaled. Victory.

“I can initiate the teleport,” Emily began.

I gripped her shoulder. “We need confirmation—”

“Too late,” Christopher called. His tone was urgent, but the ritual was already underway: emergency teleport protocols engaged. Lights pulsed green, then blue, arc-shaped waves rippling in the cockpit.

We blinked—and the battlefield vanished.

Glasses of stars reappeared through the viewport: unfamiliar constellations, swirling gas clouds, a distant planet casting an olive & blue glow. We were not in the Wraith—nor were we in Jericho. We hovered in a segment of space near the outer bounds of the Red Dragon Empire.

“Where are we?” I whispered.

Emily gave me a half-smile, her hand tight on my thigh. “Far enough. We’re at the outskirts of the Empire.”

---

CHAPTER 12: "JEREMIAH FLEET" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"