Young Sector 101 — Verilion

Shhhh~

The heavy, ancient metal door creaked open, releasing a gust of stagnant air. A faint hiss followed as pressurized steam escaped, and then the figures emerged—towering beings with curved, horned heads and armor dyed a deep, sinister crimson. Their armor plates clinked and scraped against one another as they stepped forward, their presence alone exuding menace and pride.

"Haah~ I almost forgot what fresh air smells like!" one of them bellowed, spreading his muscular arms wide as if to embrace the ruined world before him. His rough voice cracked like thunder in the empty wasteland.

"How long have we been drifting in space?" another grumbled, his tone carrying a weary amusement.

"I don't know," the first replied with a sharp laugh, "but who cares? We're back—all of us! Hahaha!"

Their laughter echoed through the hollow silence. The ground beneath their boots—dark, scorched glass—reflected their silhouettes like distorted shadows of ghosts returning from war.

After nearly a hundred crimson soldiers had descended, Sakaar finally landed, his heavy boots striking the crystallized ground with a low boom. The pressure around him shifted, and the soldiers instinctively stepped aside. Following him came Amon, a mountain of a man nearly a meter taller, his armor etched with runes that pulsed faintly with dull red light.

Without a word, Sakaar closed his eyes and swept the landscape with his spiritual perception. His expression hardened, and his head dipped slightly, as if in silent recognition of what this place once was.

This land—what once served as the command hub of the Shattering Meteor Empire's armies—was now nothing but a vast plain of scorched glass. The soil had melted under temperatures so fierce that even the essence of stone had been rewritten.

Miles of the crust were now cratered and fractured, each massive pit deep enough to hold oceans. If they were filled with water, they could have birthed civilizations, cities glimmering along their shining shores. But now, only death reigned here.

Yes, Sakaar had set out that day with his men to protect this world. But reality had not been kind.

From the moment The Supreme Sword, Theo, gave his command, to the time spent securing the fleet, refining their strategy, briefing his generals, and coordinating the flanking maneuver that would crush the coalition's rear—every step, every decision, had consumed time.

Time that their enemies had used with devastating precision.

Dozens of fleets descended upon Verilion in that window, and the bombardment that followed was beyond comprehension. It wasn't just an assault—it was a cosmic punishment.

No... to be precise, the coalition didn't destroy the planet, but one continent—the only continent that had served as both fortress and sanctuary for the Shattering Meteor Empire and the Crimson legions.

The number of orbital detonations that struck the surface defied reason; each wave carried the wrath of a dying star. The sky had burned white, then black, and finally disappeared under a wall of ash. It was almost impossible to imagine that a single living being could have survived that storm of annihilation.

And yet—even amidst that devastation—there lingered a sliver of hope within this abyss of ruin.

First, the continent had been purely military. The civilians had long been evacuated to other worlds, spared from the firestorm that would consume their home.

Second, while nearly 80% of the Crumbled Meteor Empire's grand army perished defending Verilion, roughly 20% of their forces were scattered among neighboring worlds. They were fragmented, yes—but alive. And as long as even a fragment endured, the Empire itself still breathed.

Third, the bombardment had been concentrated on that single continent. After Sakaar gave Helgha and her elite units clearance to cleanse the planet's surface, the coalition's remnant forces were most likely wiped out. The surviving Verilion inhabitants could finally reclaim what was left of their world, piece by fragile piece.

That continent had been their birthplace, their pride, the beating heart of their empire—but even the proud must learn when to retreat. The planetary emperor had withdrawn, taking his remaining legions with him, leaving behind a grave of glass and silence. At least the rest of Verilion had not shared the same fate.

Was that truly hope? Perhaps it was—a thin thread of light amid an ocean of darkness. But it was enough to remind them that the Crumbled Meteor Empire had not been erased from history. Not yet.

As for Sakaar, the reason he chose to land upon the Glass Continent was simple—painfully simple. He cared little for the emperor's orders or for the fates of those who had fled.

For beneath this dead and gleaming wasteland lay something far more important: a hidden city, buried under layers of melted stone and ash. A city that had once been their haven—where their women lived, where their food was stored, and where their young had slept, dreaming of glory beneath a sky that would one day burn them all.

"There." Sakaar extended one massive claw and pointed toward a specific patch of the glassy terrain. "Start digging there. Carefully. Don't go too deep, and don't strike too hard. We can't afford to bring the entire city down on the heads of whoever might still be alive beneath."

"Understood, Marshal!" came the unified shout of the crimson-armored warriors. The sound rolled like thunder across the wasteland.

They were a fearsome sight—demons with curved horns, armored hides shimmering under the twin suns of Verilion. Their heavy boots struck the ground, shattering the fragile glass crust beneath them. Excitement coursed through their bodies, a mix of hunger, relief, and primal yearning.

It had been months since they last tasted warm blood or touched their mates, months since they'd breathed air untainted by the metallic stench of space.

Sakaar stayed behind for a moment, his towering frame still and focused. He pressed his clawed hand against his chestplate, channeling his soul force toward the Sound Ring embedded within his armor.

"Helgha," his voice rumbled through the link, low and commanding, "we're standing directly above the city—but there's no visible entrance. Not a single one. What's going on down there?"

It made no sense.

Through his spiritual perception, Sakaar could clearly sense dozens—no, hundreds—of faint life signatures beneath the glass. They were moving slowly, organized even, perhaps still clinging to a structured life underground. Yet from one edge of the buried city to the other, there was nothing: no stairways, no tunnels, no visible passages. Only hundreds of tiny, needle-thin openings piercing the glass—too small for even a serpent to pass through—designed purely for air circulation.

(My King… you've returned!) Helgha's voice echoed almost instantly through the link, her tone mixed with joy and guilt. (There was still food and water down here, and the war above was far from over. I thought it best they stay hidden until you returned. Did I make the wrong call?)

"…As long as you didn't abandon them, that's enough." Sakaar's response came calm and heavy, the kind of voice that could silence a battlefield. "Where are you now?"

(We're helping what's left of the Crumbled Meteor Empire reclaim their strongholds.) Helgha answered swiftly, her tone snapping back into a soldier's focus. (Their planetary emperor begged for mercy—he knelt before us and pleaded that we stop razing what remained of Verilion's cities. He promised to rebuild them himself, so… I accepted his terms.)

"…I don't blame him," Sakaar muttered, cutting the transmission. His eyes dimmed slightly as he looked around the desolation.

The glass plain stretched endlessly beneath a hazy crimson sky. To any outsider, this was nothing but a dead wasteland—but to Sakaar, this was sacred ground, the ashes of his kin and history.

If he were that planetary emperor, he too might have fallen to his knees. Watching your world burned, melted, and stripped of its legacy would drive any ruler to despair. To preserve even a fragment of the old architecture, even a shattered monument, was an act of defiance against oblivion itself.

CRACK!

"Your Majesty! Over here!" one of the crimson soldiers shouted, his rough voice breaking through Sakaar's thoughts. The soldier knelt beside a fissure where molten glass had begun to split apart, revealing a hollow space beneath. The opening widened—slowly, reluctantly—until it formed a jagged pit large enough to swallow a full-grown drake.

Without hesitation, Sakaar strode forward.

Every being here was a Demon King, a ruler of their own clans, hardened by centuries of war and blood. Each possessed a will strong enough to bend lesser demons into submission. Yet even among such exalted beings, none dared stand as equals before Sakaar or Amon. To them, those two were not merely kings—they were the Monarchs of their race, the primal lords from whom all bloodlines drew strength.

"…" Sakaar dropped down into the pit with a single heavy step, the ground trembling beneath his weight. The others followed, their armored bodies disappearing one by one into the darkened depths.

Inside, the world shifted.

The tunnels glowed faintly from the old runes still carved into their walls, dim lights that flickered with the faintest trace of ancient power. The air smelled of dust, age, and something faintly metallic—the scent of blood that had dried centuries ago. Yet there was life here. The corridors pulsed softly with echoes of breathing, whispers, and faint heartbeats.

The Demon Kings fanned out immediately. Their soul senses spread through the maze, mapping every corridor, every ruined hall, every chamber. Some sought out their private quarters—others rushed toward the birthing dens, or to the vast corpse sanctuaries where the bodies of their ancestors slept in silence.

But Sakaar did not deviate. His strides were long and unwavering, his massive frame brushing against the low ceilings as he advanced. Along the way, countless demons froze at the sight of him.

Gasps. Cries. Then silence.

Dozens of figures fell to their knees as the truth reached them—their King of Kings had returned. Some wept; others pressed their foreheads to the cold stone floor, muttering prayers to old gods.

Sakaar didn't slow. He moved like a shadow of iron and authority, his gaze fixed on some point deeper ahead.

Finally, he stopped. The corridor around him felt strangely familiar, and he realized this was where his old chamber once stood. He hesitated a moment—then turned toward one of the lesser demons nearby, who had frozen mid-breath under his stare.

"You there."

The demon jolted, then immediately dropped flat, forehead slamming into the floor. "Y-Yes, my lord!"

"Before I left, I heard screams," Sakaar began, his tone quieter now, almost pensive, "there was a female… in that direction." He gestured toward a distant tunnel, one long collapsed by glass and rubble. "I was told she was screaming from childbirth."

He tilted his head slightly, voice deepening. "What happened to her?"

"...…"

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