Hope took three steps and swore. He’d forgotten to ask for a backpack and rations—especially water. Just… brilliant.

  Would there even be water on this rock?

  He scanned the horizon, chewed the thought, then let it go and picked a direction.

  Gravity ran light; dust jumped and hung on each footfall. The wind took him—his lesser Air Gear’s embrace—just enough to catch the thin gusts and carry him faster. The ground blurred into grey-violet pans and low ridges, heatless wind combing the grit in slow threads.

  Movement flicked ahead.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  Spraywing

  Level 72

  Big for a “bird,” though not quite a bird.

  Purplish mantle with a sheen like wet kelp; feathering tight and small so the body read smooth, almost cute at a distance. Wings long but not long enough for that bulk—compensating with speed and angle, riding the thin air. Short, sharp beak like a punch-dagger. It skimmed low over the crater lip, banking on a whisper and leaving a hiss in the air that tickled his teeth.

  Air-aligned for sure. Grade… hard to call without seeing it in action. Big body made sense in light pull; less weight to pay for, more mass to bully the gust.

  Selera’s lessons lined up in his head—thin atmosphere, low drag, save breath, read the signs. He dipped his shoulders, kept his pulse easy, and angled toward the thing, thanking her under his breath as the dust fanned off his heels.

  The Spraywing eventually saw him and flared. A baby gust rolled off its wings; dust skeined sideways and the hiss in his teeth sharpened.

  Hope shifted a half step and let it miss. No drama. A small lean of Air under his boots, a thumb of tilt in the lines, and the push slid past like spilt water.

  The thing banked again, trying for a crosswind slap; he bent a little slip along his own little run and watched it overshoot, feathers shivering as it fought the thin air.

  Decent speed and Air Magika control for its level. Not much power, though. Grade-F at the floor, D at a stretch… E felt ‘bout right.

  Not worth getting dirty over this one.

  He let the tide inside him go flat for the creature’s sake and swung wide. The Spraywing circled once, decided he wasn’t food, and slid away toward a low basin where the light pooled.

  He watched the glide for a breath, then set his eyes on the next rise.

  As he moved, more of the big birds appeared—levels in the 60s up to the low 80s. He even spotted an Elite along the way, a four-winged variant—the Cutterwing. He wasn’t interested in those either. Hell, he’d probably have to kill a hundred of them for a single level.

  Minutes slid by as he tuned himself to the light pull and thin air, working the strange moon’s ribs and hollows. Now and then his gaze drifted to the giant shouldering the sky—damn, what a sight. If not for the job, and the ticking clock with no food or water, he’d have parked on a rock and stared at it for an hour.

  But this wasn’t a holiday.

  A dozen minutes on, something finally caught him proper.

  Humans.

  Levels: 82, 84, and… 31?

  Hope sighed inwardly. When the Captain said not to mention names, he’d reckoned he’d meet locals sooner or later. Which meant… this was probably a huntward moon.

  Problem was, he knew jack shit about this planet. One thing he did know: interplanetary travel was rare—extremely rare in these parts. You needed to be at least Tier 3 to sail the void after all, and even then, without a Spacetime Numen you were stuck to your own solar system at best.

  So most worlds almost never saw visitors—and when they did, the visitors were usually the bigger teeth, unless the planet belonged to a strong Tier 3 house or organization; then the tables turned.

  So the question was: would this world treat outsiders with respect and wariness, or with disdain? Odds favoured the first, but he still had to play it right. He couldn’t exactly lead with, “yeah, some space pirates are parked outside waitin’ for me.” So he’d need a solid fake story to stand on.

  He turned it over until one of the trio finally locked eyes with him and tensed, wide with disbelief.

  Hope’s gaze narrowed a touch. Surprise and… fear, huh. Alright.

  He walked in with a casual smile and gave a calm wave. They were all Ventari—big lungs, long, thin limbs, hair that seemed to float even in barely-there wind.

  “Howdy, lads. How’s the grind?”

  The tall one gulped and froze on the spot; the other turned too, going paler by the second.

  The third—low-level, frail-looking—had big eyes with purple bags under them, messy hair, dirty clothes, no armor, and a pack so heavy it bent his back.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Hope had a guess from Selera’s lessons: a slave. G-grade, probably.

  He kept his gaze easy, friendly even, despite his strong thoughts on that.

  He met the tall one’s eyes and flashed an amused smile. “Be at ease, lads. I won’t be here long. Gramps dropped me… wherever the hell this is… for more of his ‘tempering.’ Gods, am I sick of that old man’s games. He’ll pick me up soon enough, though. I’m keen to get home and just sleep for a week, you know?” He winked. “So don’t fret. Not lookin’ for trouble. Just killing time—take a look around. Any fancy spots? Creatures worth a look?”

  The Ventaris traded glances—plenty said without a word—then fixed back on Hope.

  “Ahem… we’re members of the Viento family, outsider,” the tall one managed. “May we inquire as to the nature of your travel, or if your esteemed grandfather—or you—require anything?”

  Hope sighed inwardly. Good. No Tier 3’s breathing down their necks; outsiders get the soft gloves. Jackpot! Let’s wrap it up clean.

  “Oh, easy, lads—no need for the ‘sir.’ Keep it casual. I’m just another Tier 1 like you.” He shrugged. “And the old man? Oddball bastard who gets his laughs toying with me, so don’t give him face on my account. Truth is, I don’t know why he dropped me here—maybe there’s something weird on this moon, maybe he’s bored and cackling from his half-assed ship. Either way, let’s ignore the seniors and have some fun between us. Whaddaya say? Care to show an outsider the sights?”

  The tall Ventari swallowed and tried to square his shoulders. “Well… compared to what you’ve probably seen across the void, we’ve little to show. The view of our planet, Swevion, from here is considered quite a good sight. As for creatures here on this moon… we’ve Highwing Palefangs about and, well—if you get permission from the warden, perhaps you can see the Hollowfang Regent.”

  There it is. Hope kept his pulse steady and his face easy, just a touch surprised. “Hollowfang? Sounds cool. Let’s check it out.”

  The boys traded a look, uncertain, then turned back and nodded. “Okay, si—well… does sir have a name?”

  “Yep. Call me Hector, ’kay? What about you lads?”

  “My name is Fin Viento, and this is my cousin, William. Pleasure to meet you, Hector,” the Ventari said with a small, graceful bow.

  Hope’s gaze lingered on the third, but he didn’t ask. Slaves didn’t get names, and pressing it might blow his cover.

  “Trip long?”

  “Two days, si—Hector.”

  “Oh… alright. Two days might be a bit much, though. Knowing the old man, he’ll yank me back just before I see the Hollowfang.”

  “W—we can make it in a day if we push,” William said. “But our courier…”

  Courier, huh.

  “Not in the mood to go slow,” Hope said. He looked past them. “You. Hand me the pack, kiddo.”

  Fin and William froze as he spoke to the slave. The boy flinched, hands shaking.

  “That… s—sir, we—”

  “Not in the mood for titles either,” Hope cut in. He stepped forward, took the backpack off the boy like it weighed nothing, and slung it over his own shoulders. “Alright. Which way?”

  They glanced at each other, then at the ‘eccentric’ outsider, and started moving. “This way’s shortest,” Fin said. “It’s on the far side—other face of the moon.”

  They broke into a run, Fin and William feathering themselves with Air Magika—no Air Gear, just raw push. The pack boy struggled in the rear, breath ragged.

  Hope sighed. Slavery was everywhere in the void; he knew that. Still put copper in his mouth—a deep, mean disgust at how easy people make their lives by dumping their weight on someone else’s spine and calling it order. Fuck that. He knew how far it went—breath-knots and brand irons, auction ropes and pretty laws—people ground down to gear so the fat and frightened could sleep soft. Just… disgusting.

  He exhaled sharp and slipped back into his ‘Hector’ persona.

  “Hey, kid. Closer,” he barked to the courier.

  “Hector, is something our—”

  “Nah, just too slow. You—run right behind me,” Hope said, casual.

  The boy looked to Fin, who sighed and nodded, then shuffled up behind Hope.

  “Alright, try not to trip,” Hope grinned. He laid a thin wind-lane ahead and bled the gravity on the boy—light on the lift, firm on the push—each step feeding the next.

  The kid’s eyes went wide as the world began to slide under him. A steady force tucked at his back, faster than he’d ever moved. Twice he thought he’d pitch forward, but the wind curled and set him straight, balance snapping back like a hand on the collar.

  Up front, Fin and William faltered, faces gone pale—not just at the clean Air work, but at the other thing they felt riding under it.

  Spacetime.

  They stared at Hope like he was a ghost. Then they traded a look—the kind that says: ‘we can’t afford to offend this one.’ Wherever ‘Hector’ came from, he was way out of their—and their planet’s—league. Best to grit their teeth and give the spoiled scion whatever he wanted.

  Minutes slid into hours. Fin and William began to flag, pace chewing on legs and lungs; minds frayed, steps sloppy. Meanwhile ‘Hector’ walked like it was a stroll. He carried the full pack, kept the courier gliding, and barely broke a sweat.

  Wasn’t he only a handful of levels higher than them? How could the gap feel this big? Was this what being a high noble’s scion meant? They’d heard stories; seeing it was different.

  Something caught Hope’s eye up ahead and he stopped.

  Fin and William nearly ran into him, then bent double, sweat pouring off their brows.

  “Oh? That the one you mentioned earlier, ey?” Hope grinned, easing the pack to the dust with a soft thud. “Cute-looking Alpha.” He rolled his shoulders. “Alright, lads—catch a break. I’m gonna play with this one a bit.”

  “Ah—Hector, uh…” Fin began.

  Hope glanced back, gaze narrowing. “Is there a problem?”

  Fin swallowed hard and bowed too fast, words tripping. “N–no, sir. Not at all. Just… surprised, is all.”

  Surprised was putting it mild. One: Hector meant to solo a level-94 Alpha. Two: you were supposed to get permission before hunting Alphas—and they didn’t have it. But he wasn’t about to say that now. Even their house head would probably look the other way for this one.

  And besides… Fin wanted to see it. He wanted to know exactly how strong this ‘Hector’ really was.

  Hope eyed the beast calmly.

  Highwing Palefang [Alpha]

  Level 94

  Three pairs of long, high-aspect wings layered like scythes; the outer primaries ran pale along the edge, hissing when they flexed. Its body wore a deeper purple mantle, sleek and dense. The beak stretched near a foot, with twin ivory hooks curving from the upper ridge. Two thin tails trailed behind, each tipped with a paired, bone-pale spur. Eyes were a dark, near-black violet.

  Elegant and imposing—much more so than its lesser kin.

  He’d already pegged the world as E-grade, which meant this one should hit harder than the F-grade Alpha he’d killed before, even if the level was lower.

  Hope grinned and stepped in, easy.

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