First Intergalactic Emperor: Starting With The Ancient Goddess

The assassins crouched on the ledge, the wind howling this high up. Nexus Tower’s neon strips pulsed faintly against their gear. They whispered plans back and forth through comms.

”Door locks are layered. Too many codes. If we hack it, we’ll be sitting ducks.”

”Blasting’s out. Security’ll have us bagged in under two minutes.”

”Windows sealed—thermal reads show glass sensors. Try cutting, you trip the alarms.”

They argued in circles, irritation simmering, until one assassin froze, visor catching a faint reading.

”Wait. Kitchen window.”

The others turned. Sure enough, tucked in the far corner, a panel was cracked open just enough. An oversight. A gift.

He signaled the boss. ”Clear entry point.”

The leader peered over, lips twitching. ”Well, well. Looks like our genius left us a welcome mat.”

They snickered as they slithered across, rigs digging into the smooth glass, silent as shadows. One by one, they slipped inside the kitchen, boots landing soundlessly against the polished floor.

”Some intellect. Guy’s supposed to be dangerous and leaves his kitchen open like an amateur.”

Another shook his head. ”He’s on the fifty-fifth floor. Who the hell breaks into the fifty-fifth floor? Not that dumb when you think about it.”

A few low laughs followed, then silence as scanners hummed, painting the apartment in wireframe outlines on their visors. Two heat signatures lit up in bedrooms—steady, relaxed breathing.

One assassin frowned. ”Two girls. Both asleep. No sign of him.”

The team froze. Xavier wasn’t here. Their fifty-million credit target was gone.

”What the fuck—did we get fed a fake location?” one muttered.

”Intel was solid. This is his registered suite. He should be here.”

The boss stood still, voice like a razor.

”If the dog ain’t home, you bite the leash.” He gestured toward the heat signatures. ”We kill the girls. Leave him something to choke on when he comes back. Then we hunt him.”

The crew nodded, spreading out, knives sliding from sheaths, guns clicking on safe mode for silent execution.

They crept down the hall toward the bedrooms.

The assassins split up without a sound. Five peeled off toward Lyra’s room, five toward Lilia’s, leaving a few to guard the hall. They moved like phantoms, weapons gleaming in the dim city lights spilling through the glass and curtains.

The five that entered Lyra’s room never came back. No sound, no signal. Just silence.

One of the guards frowned, muttered through comms, ”They’re taking too long.” He slipped his knife from his belt and padded down the hall, sliding into Lyra’s doorway.

And he didn’t return either.

The last guard clicked his tongue, unease crawling through his chest. And then—

BANG!

A shot cracked sharp from Lilia’s room, muffled but unmistakable. The hallway lit with the flicker of muzzle fire.

The remaining assassins rushed in. Their boots skidded to a halt as the scene unfolded: bodies sprawled across the floor, blood pooling under black armor, one man choking on his own blood, eyes wide and glassy.

”...What the fuck—?” one hissed, scanning fast.

Empty room. Just carnage. No target on sight.

The boss lifted his visor, scanning thermal, sensors flaring to life. That’s when cold steel pressed into his back.

A soft, calm female voice cut the silence.

”Don’t twitch. Don’t even breathe wrong, or I’ll paint this wall with your head.”

He froze, pulse spiking. Whoever it was shoved him forward, forcing him into the living room. The apartment’s smart-lights snapped on, drenching the carnage in white.

From the hall, slow footsteps echoed. Lyra emerged, her face and hair slicked with blood, claws dripping red. Her clothes torn, smeared in gore. She looked feral, like something that had been waiting for this exact moment.

But the one holding the gun to the assassin’s spine wasn’t Lilia.

It was Viola.

Her eyes burned cold, one hand steady on the trigger, the other shoving the assassin forward like he weighed nothing.

The assassin barely had a chance to process before—

BANG!

Viola didn’t hesitate. She spun her wrist and dropped the two closest men with clean headshots, blood spraying across the pristine white tiles. The last three in the room snapped their rifles up, but she was faster. Her arm blurred, two shots ripping through one chest, one throat, and the last one had his skull blown apart before he even pulled the trigger.

Bodies hit the floor. Eighteen men had entered the apartment. Now, only one was left breathing.

The boss.

Viola shoved him hard, sending him crashing into the coffee table. Glass cracked under his armor as he groaned, clutching his side. He tried to reach for his blade, but a sharp kick from her heel pinned his wrist down.

”Cute,” Viola muttered, twisting the gun barrel under his chin. ”You thought you could stroll into this apartment and make it out alive?”

The man’s visor flickered as he tried to activate comms. Viola noticed, slammed her boot down on the side of his helmet, sparks flying as the comms unit shorted out.

From the hallway came a low sound, not words—more like a growl.

Lyra stepped out of the shadows again, hunched low, claws dragging against the floorboards, her mouth smeared with blood. Her eyes glowed with that predatory hunger that made her look less like a girl and more like a nightmare beast. She circled the assassin like a wolf, sniffing at him, letting her claws scrape his armor with long, deliberate screeches.

The man’s breathing went ragged. He flinched as Lyra leaned in close, dragging her tongue across his helmet, leaving a streak of blood behind.

Viola tilted her head. ”She’s hungry. And she really doesn’t like intruders.”

The assassin trembled, his tough-guy front slipping fast. ”Wh—What do you want?”

”Names. Orders. Who sent you.” Viola’s voice was flat, cold, but carried enough bite to remind him she wasn’t asking.

Lyra crouched low, claws at the ready, lips peeling back to reveal sharp teeth. Her body language screamed one thing—say the wrong answer and she’ll tear you open.

The assassin’s throat bobbed. His pride cracked under the pressure of death closing in on both sides.

If he didn’t confess, he would die. And if he did, he would be killed by his boss. He was dead either way.