The steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep... of the advanced life-support monitors was the only sound filling the sterile, blindingly white VIP suite.
They were no longer on Friton. Less than an hour after the Accord Identifier had left, Leo had piloted the Millennium Falcon at maximum sub-light speed to Athoapra, the nearest high-sec planet in the neighboring sector that boasted a premier, Core-World-grade medical facility.
Dorian lay unconscious on the pristine diagnostic bed, his face pale and covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat.
Standing over him was a Gunnossian senior physician. She stepped back from the bed, letting out a soft, clinical hum. The entire lower half of her right arm, which had just been split into a half-dozen glowing, fiber-optic medical scanners, seamlessly retracted and folded back in on itself, locking into the sleek, silver shape of a standard cybernetic prosthetic.
"His vitals are stabilizing, but there are several micro-tears along his internal energetic pathways and stomach lining," the Gunnossian doctor reported, her pale silver eyes shifting to John. "May I know exactly what this boy ingested to cause such a violent thermal reaction?"
John's jaw tightened. "An Accord Identifier forced his way into our home and made him drink a vial of glowing liquid."
The doctor paused. Her silver eyes blinked once. As a Gunnossian, her logic algorithms instantly calculated the sheer political danger of prying into the unsanctioned actions of an elite Accord Identifier. Self-preservation easily overrode medical curiosity.
"Ah... I see," the doctor said smoothly, completely dropping the line of questioning. "Well, regardless of the cause, we will schedule him for an immediate round of restorative nano-surgery to repair the internal tearing. And I see from his registry ping... you have recently upgraded your family to Class-C citizenship, correct?"
Lyra, who was standing stiffly at the foot of the bed, nodded. "Yes. My brother filed the paperwork and paid the upgrade fees over a year ago."
"Excellent," the doctor offered a polite, practiced smile. "Then under Accord medical law for Class-C citizens, the nano-surgery will be completely free of charge, and his operation schedule will be strictly prioritized. All of you may wait comfortably in this room."
John's broad shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. "So... he will be alright?"
"Yes, Mr. Kepler," the doctor assured him. "The damage is entirely treatable. Please, ease your mind and take a rest as well."
With a crisp nod, the doctor turned and left the VIP room, the sliding door hissing shut behind her.
But despite the medical reassurance, the minds of the Kepler family continued to violently churn. Whether they liked to admit it or not, both John and Lyra shared the exact same, crippling tendency to overthink every detail, a trait Dorian had clearly inherited from his father.
John looked at his daughter, his eyes heavy with guilt. "Sit down, Lyra. Your brother is going to be okay."
Lyra didn't say anything. She slowly sank into the plush waiting chair, her head dropping to stare at the pristine floor.
Beside the medical bed, Marcus had completely exhausted himself from crying. He was sound asleep in a chair, his small hands stubbornly gripping Dorian's limp fingers.
As they sat in the quiet room, both John and Lyra were consumed by the exact same, crushing thought:
'I was too weak.'
John tapped the interface of his holo-wristband, his expression hardening into something resembling the rough, uncompromising miner he used to be. "I need to make a call. Keep an eye on your brother, Lyra."
Lyra gave a silent nod.
John stepped out of the room, leaving Lyra alone with her sleeping brothers.
Lyra lifted her head, looking at Dorian's pale face. 'Too weak,' she muttered in her mind, her fists clenching on her lap.
Her brilliant, analytical mind began to dissect the reality of their situation. The Class-C citizenship that Dorian had bought for them with his hard-earned money was a massive privilege. But she now realized it was the absolute maximum ceiling a citizen could reach with just wealth. To reach Class-B or Class-A, to truly be untouchable by the likes of an arrogant Identifier or a BSO squad, you needed something money couldn't buy.
You either needed to be a powerful, awakened Solar... or you needed to possess immense political power through other means.
She had just been declared an incompatible Null. The path of the Solar was forever closed to her. But as she sat in the hospital room, looking at the brother who had sacrificed his entire childhood to protect her, Lyra made a cold, ironclad decision. There was another way to wield absolute power in the Stellar Accord.
She was going to be a Senator.
…
Meanwhile, out in the sterile, brightly lit hospital corridor, John Kepler stood near a panoramic window, holding his wristband up to his mouth.
"Yes," John said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "They marched right into my living room with photon rifles and dared to hurt my son."
A rough, static-laced voice answered from the other end of the comms line. It was the veteran miner and transport guild leader who had been buying out their massive crop yields. "I told you, John. The Accord doesn't respect dirt farmers, no matter how much money you make. You need teeth. Are the boys okay?"
John went silent for a moment, staring out at the alien skyline of Athoapra.
"He'll live," John finally said. "But I am done playing farmer. I will officially sponsor your transport guild. I want you to do me a favor."
"Name it, Kepler," the voice replied immediately.
"I want you to build a permanent, fortified guild base directly on Friton, on the edge of my property," John commanded, his business acumen sharpening into a weapon. "With my Kepler-grade, high-energy supplies acting as your exclusive bargaining chip, there will be dozens of other galactic guilds willing to buy from you. You will get our goods at a premium discount. In exchange... you give us your heavily armed men standing guard on our land. Nobody steps foot in my house with a rifle ever again."
The voice on the other line let out a booming, highly satisfied laugh. "Now you're talking my language, John. Consider the contract signed. We break ground tomorrow."
John hung up the comms, his jaw set in stone.
Unbeknownst to Tala Felaeon, her violent intrusion hadn't broken the Kepler family's spirit. Instead, it had violently ignited a terrifying, uncompromising ambition for absolute power and protection within both John and Lyra.
…
Three days passed in a quiet, sterile haze.
The advanced nano-surgery went flawlessly, knitting the volatile, microscopic tears along Dorian's stomach lining and internal energetic pathways back together.
Dorian finally clawed his way out of the dark void, his consciousness slowly returning to the waking world. The first thing he registered was the steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of a medical monitor.
He slowly fluttered his eyes open. His vision was blurry for a moment before it focused on the panoramic window across the room. He turned his head slightly, staring out at the unfamiliar night sky. The sprawling, neon-lit skyline and the strange, dual-moons hanging in the atmosphere made it immediately clear he was nowhere near Friton.
He tried to shift his weight, but he felt a heavy, warm pressure anchoring both of his hands.
Dorian looked down to his left. Slumped over the edge of the mattress, sleeping incredibly soundly with her face buried in her arms, was Juno. She was holding his left hand in a gentle, protective grip.
He then slowly turned his head to the right.
Sitting in a hover-chair directly beside the bed was Marcus. The twelve-year-old boy was wide awake, his eyes wide and completely frozen in shock as he stared at his older brother's open eyes.
Dorian managed a weak, exhausted smile. "Hey, big guy," he whispered. His throat felt like it was coated in dry sand, his voice incredibly raspy and parched.
Marcus's lower lip trembled. His wide eyes instantly filled with thick tears. He scrambled up onto his knees, reaching over to the bedside table with surprisingly quick reflexes. He grabbed a sterilized medical pouch filled with clear water.
"Brother," Marcus sniffled, uncapping the pouch and holding the straw near Dorian's mouth. "Drink this water." As Dorian took a weak sip, Marcus patted his shoulder. "Slowly."
Dorian drank the cool water, feeling it soothe his burning throat. He pulled his head back and offered another soft smile. "Okay, that is enough. Where exactly are we? And where are Dad and Lyra?"
"We are in the hospital in Athoapra System," Marcus answered, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. "They said they need to meet someone outside. They told me to watch you."
The quiet voices finally stirred the sleeping girl on the left side of the bed. Juno groaned softly, shifting her head. Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked groggily at the mattress. Then, her gaze traveled up Dorian's arm and met his face.
She bolted completely upright. "Dori?"
"Hey," Dorian smiled, his voice still weak. "Did I wake you up?"
Juno didn't answer the question. She just stared at him, her chest heaving as relief washed over her. She adjusted her grip on his hand, trying her absolute best to consciously control her Solar-enhanced strength so she wouldn't accidentally crush his fingers in her adrenaline-fueled excitement.
"You woke up," Juno whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Dorian let out a long, heavy sigh, sinking deeper into the pillows. "How long have I been asleep?"
"Four days," Marcus answered from the right side. "You went into the nano-surgery this noon."
"Oh," Dorian muttered, blinking in surprise. He looked between the two of them. "Is everyone okay? Nobody else got hurt?"
Marcus nodded, vigorously wiping another tear from his eye. "We are okay." Suddenly, the boy gasped, his eyes going wide again. "Oh! I forgot!"
Marcus lunged over Dorian's chest and violently mashed the glowing red 'Call' button on the bed frame, remembering his strict instructions to alert the medical staff the absolute second his brother opened his eyes.
…
Over the next several days, Dorian remained bedridden, forced to recuperate under the strict observation of the medical staff. But his VIP room was rarely ever empty. The sheer scale of the empire he had quietly built began to show itself in the steady stream of visitors arriving on Athoapra.
On the first day he was fully awake, Ratik arrived. She marched into the room looking as sharp and professional as ever.
When Dorian immediately tried to sit up and ask if the studio and the family estate were secure, Ratik simply placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently back down.
"Do not think about it," Ratik scolded him, a rare, fond smile touching her lips. "Just focus on healing. Besides, the next time you go back home, you will finally see the hangar that you always wanted."
Dorian blinked, completely hype by the mention of a hangar, but Ratik refused to elaborate, leaving him to rest.
The next day, Maestro Gil Nothos and Rita Bralare swept into the room. The elegant Gunnossian duo brought a collection of lavish, incredibly expensive gifts that took up half the room, fussing over his condition and commanding the hospital staff to ensure the boy received the highest tier of care available.
The day after that, Briane Taleini and Nazir Kal arrived. Briane immediately slipped into the role of a worried big sister. She practically interrogated the nurses, fluffed his pillows, and meticulously checked every single blanket to make sure Dorian was perfectly comfortable. Nazir, on the other hand, stood awkwardly near the window. He was out of his element, but he offered a few quiet, incredibly sincere words of gratitude, wishing the man who had resurrected his career a speedy recovery.
And on the fourth day, the rest of the Round Table Studio team finally arrived, escorted by Ratik.
The room was instantly filled with chaotic, familiar energy. Bem, Logan, Liseli, Ross, and Kasavin crowded around the bed. They kept fiercely reassuring him that they would hold the fort and work hard, demanding that he take as much time as he needed to rest.
Dorian looked at his team, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "I appreciate it. But do not work overtime while I am stuck here… Haaahh… I know you all. You will just do it anyway the second I look away."
Logan and Bem both whistled innocently, looking up at the ceiling.
Kasavin pushed his glasses up his nose and stepped forward. "You have my word, Arthur," Kasavin reassured him with a confident, steady nod. "As the project manager, I will make sure everything proceeds smoothly and ethically. Rest up. When you are fully recovered and ready to return... all we need to do is floor the engine."
Dorian looked at the people gathered around his bed. He looked at his studio team, his musical artists, and his family. The lingering fear from the Accord Identifier's attack slowly melted away, replaced by a deep, profound warmth. He nodded, a genuine smile spreading across his face.
A week later, the doctor finally gave the all-clear. Dorian was coming home.
…
The Millennium Falcon broke through Friton's pristine atmosphere, the familiar, lush green expanse of the Kepler estate rushing up to meet them.
As Dorian piloted the ship toward the main property, he noticed a massive alteration to the landscape just behind the mansion. A brand new, heavy-duty durasteel landing pad had been constructed, complete with glowing guidance strips. It was the exact, high-tech hangar entrance he had wanted a year ago.
Dorian set the ship down smoothly. The moment the boarding ramp lowered, the warm, unpolluted breeze of Friton swept into the cabin.
Stepping out of the craft with his family, Dorian paused, taking in the sheer scale of the farm's expansion. The pasture was bustling. He saw several brand new, specialized Compadres tending to the fields, an FH-4 "Shepherd" unit was currently being swarmed by a herd of bouncing, marshmallow-like Muurbeasts, while an LP-2 "Sorter" meticulously stacked crates of produce near the barn.
But what brought a genuine, secret smile to the Keplers' faces was the invisible workforce. Thanks to their unique connection to the Junimos, Dorian, John, Lyra, and Marcus could see dozens of little, brightly colored Junimos happily working right alongside the robotic Compadres, carrying giant melons and watering crops in perfect, magical synchronization.
However, Dorian's smile faded slightly when his eyes caught a glint of polished metal near the tree line.
Patrolling the perimeter of the estate were several heavily armed guards. They didn't wear the pristine, sterile white armor of the Accord Legion. They wore mismatched, rugged durasteel plating, heavy dust coats, and carried high-end, customized weaponry. They looked exactly like Outer Rim mercenaries.
Before Dorian could even ask who they were, a woman detached herself from the patrol route and walked directly toward them.
She was a human with fiery red hair tied back in a practical, messy braid. She possessed the rugged, battle-scarred look of someone who had spent decades surviving in the galaxy's harshest environments. A heavy photon rifle rested casually, yet expertly, in her right hand.
The woman stopped in front of the family, her sharp eyes scanning Dorian up and down.
"Heh," she grunted, a rough smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. "Is this the boy, John?"
John stepped forward, offering a warm, familiar nod. "Allu Zir. Yes. This is my eldest son, Dorian Elias Kepler."
Allu shifted her photon rifle slightly and offered Dorian a firm, calloused nod. "Nice to meet you, kid. Welcome home. Don't worry about the perimeter; leave the safety of your estate to us."
Dorian, still entirely confused and slightly taken aback by the sudden mercenary presence on his peaceful farm, just managed a stiff nod. "Thank you."
As they turned and began walking toward the mansion, a deep, hydraulic hum vibrated through the ground beneath them. Dorian looked back over his shoulder. The massive surface landing pad had engaged its lift sequence. The entire platform, with the Millennium Falcon resting proudly on top, began to smoothly descend into a cavernous, brilliantly lit underground deck hangar.
Dorian's eyes completely sparkled, all the stress of the hospital instantly vanishing.
"I definitely need to explore that hangar later," Dorian muttered to himself.
Once they were safely inside the comfortable, sunlit living room of the mansion, Dorian couldn't hold it in any longer. He dropped his bags and looked at his father.
"Father... who exactly are they?" Dorian asked, gesturing toward the window. "Why is there a private army patrolling our Zilka hens?"
John let out a deep, booming laugh. He walked over to the plush sofa and gestured for Dorian to sit. "Come sit down, son. I'll explain."
John leaned back, a look of profound, quiet pride settling over his weathered features. "You remember my old friends from the deep-crust mines on Nexus Prime? The ones who scraped together everything they had to form a small, independent transport guild?"
Dorian nodded. "Yeah. You said they were struggling to compete with the corporate haulers."
"They were on the absolute edge of bankruptcy," John confirmed. "About to lose their ships and go back to the mines. At the time, our farm was producing way more yield than we could handle. So, I hired them. I figured, who better to transport an ex-miner's goods than other ex-miners? It was supposed to be their last haul before folding the guild."
John smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. "But we underestimated exactly what you planted in that soil, Dorian. When they took our surplus to the Mid-Rim markets, several high-star restaurant procurers noticed the quality. They had never seen crops so vibrant, so perfectly grown, and so incredibly dense with nutritional energy."
Dorian blinked, his jaw going slightly slack as he realized the Junimo magic had completely disrupted the culinary market.
"They bought out the entire batch on the spot," John continued. "On their second transport run, word had spread. The restaurants were practically fighting over the crates. The chefs started asking where these miraculous ingredients were coming from, because in this day and age of synthetic food blocks, true, high-quality organic produce is a myth."
John chuckled. "In the spur of the moment, one of my old crewmates panicked under the pressure. He blurted out that they were exclusive 'Kepler-grade' crops."
Dorian's mouth was completely agape now.
"And that is exactly where it took off," John said proudly. "The more restaurants demanded it, the more their transport guild became famously known as the absolute, exclusive distributors of Kepler-grade goods. The Golden Rock Guild exploded. They went from near-bankruptcy to buying a fleet of new carrier ships in months."
John looked out the window, watching Allu Zir coordinate the patrol outside.
"I'm glad we moved here, Dorian," John said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "Unlike them, my body isn't as tough as it used to be. The mines took their toll on me. But down in the dark, miners look out for each other. That loyalty doesn't rust."
John turned back to his son, his eyes firm and reassuring. "You can trust them implicitly. I've known every single man and woman on that crew guarding our estate for years. We gave them their golden ticket, and in return, they are building their permanent, fortified base right here on Friton to protect their investment. They are a great bunch."
…
Later that night, the mansion finally settled into silence. The newly established mercenary patrol kept the perimeter secure, allowing the Kepler family to finally breathe a collective, exhausted sigh of relief.
Dorian slumped back onto the comfortable mattress of his own bed. Finally, he was back home.
He stared up at the ceiling for a moment before mentally pulling open his Creator System interface. He navigated past the standard resource panels and opened the Hades Gacha integration menu.
He looked at the glowing, purple surface of the Mirror of Night.
Through his countless Gacha and the steady influx of Resonance points over the last few months, several of the Mirror's abilities had been fully unlocked and integrated into his physical body. He focused on one specific passive trait: Chthonic Vitality.
In the game, each rank of Chthonic Vitality restored one point of health whenever Zagreus exited a chamber. When seamlessly translated into real life by the System, it manifested as a powerful, localized cellular regeneration ability that restored minor physical damage every single day.
Dorian had managed to upgrade it to the third rank. That passive, underlying healing factor was the only reason his internal energetic pathways had knit back together so quickly. The Gunnossian doctors at Athoapra had fully expected him to undergo a second round of nano-surgery, but his condition had stabilized miraculously overnight once he woke up.
Dorian swiped away the Mirror of Night and checked his primary status panel. He let out a heavy sigh.
His total Resonance count was currently sitting at -210,000.
It was deep in the negative. At the very least, he was alive. The System had clearly utilized an excessive amount of his stored Resonance to forcefully purge the toxic Identifier plasma from his body before it could fully melt his organs. Judging from the frantic, archived system logs, the cost of utilizing points effectively doubled once the bank dropped into the negative.
By the time he had first woken up in the hospital, he had been nearly one million points in debt. Only the massive, continuous, daily influx of Resonance from billions of people listening to Stardew Valley music, playing Hades, and streaming Percival's album had managed to drag the number back up toward the positive.
He could wait. The points would naturally recover. But more importantly, the near-death experience had completely shattered a mental barrier he hadn't fully realized he was holding up.
There was absolutely no need to hold back anymore.
At first, during the brainstorming session, he had been slightly hesitant about unleashing the Pokémon franchise. He had worried about the ethical implications of summoning hundreds of powerful, elemental beasts into the real world.
But thinking back on the cold, featureless visors of the Legionnaires pointing photon rifles at his father and sister... his perspective violently shifted.
'If I had a Pokémon right now,' Dorian thought, his eyes narrowing in the dark. 'I could be fully healed in seconds by a Chansey. Or better yet... I could have a massive Charizard, or a 'Big Man' Blastoise, just blast those arrogant Legionnaires straight out of my living room.' He looked at his own tired reflection in the dark glass of the window. That's right. There is no use in hesitating now. He could not and would not allow Accord officials to step into his house thinking they held absolute power over his family's lives ever again.
…
The next morning, the automatic doors of the Round Table Studio HQ hissed open.
The entire development team, who were currently huddled around a massive holographic design document in the main junction room, simultaneously froze. They looked up, their eyes widening in sheer shock.
Arthur strolled casually into the room.
"Arty?!" Logan stammered, nearly dropping his datapad. "You're back already? We thought you were grounded for at least another week!"
Arthur looked around the junction room. It was in an immaculate state, looking as if the cleaning drones had just swept through it. He tilted his head.
"Hoo. I can't have my elite team developing our next massive project all by themselves, can I?" Arthur said, his voice warm but carrying a hint of suspicion. "By the way... Gawain."
"Yes, Arthur?" the AI system answered smoothly from the overhead speakers.
"Did any of my team members actually leave the studio compound while I was away resting?" Arthur asked.
There was a brief, highly entertaining pause from the AI. "Honestly, Arthur? No. The team stayed inside the compound for the entire week. They utilized the on-site sleeping pods, maintained an aggressive coding schedule, and consumed primarily synthetic caf."
Arthur crossed his arms, letting out a long, heavy sigh. "What did I tell you all about overworking?"
Lin Liseli rubbed the back of her neck, offering a guilty smile. "We could easily do it, Arty! Besides, sitting around at home doing nothing just... didn't suit our style. Right, guys?"
The rest of the team vigorously nodded in agreement. They were artists and engineers; when inspiration struck, they didn't want to stop.
"You guys actually have to go out and spend the salaries I gave you," Arthur scolded them gently. "Enjoy life. See the galaxy. There will always be more work to be done tomorrow. So, as punishment for strictly disobeying my direct orders to rest... I am compensating all of you with full overtime pay for the entire week."
The entire team simultaneously groaned in sheer frustration.
Dorian blinked. 'These absolute weirdos,' he thought. 'They are getting massive overtime payouts and they are actively groaning about it.' What Dorian didn't realize was that in the team's eyes, their relentless week of works was supposed to be a 'get well soon' gift to their director. They didn't want to get paid for it because they viewed their hard work as a personal gift to Arthur.
"Alright, save the groans. I am not changing my mind on the payroll," Arthur declared, clapping his hands together to shift the energy. He walked over to the central holographic table. "Now... let's see exactly where we are at with the new project."
**A/N**
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**A/N**