Private The crusader's journey: Chapt. 1, a new way of doing.

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you...
But unfortunately, I won't."
⏵ Play Theme

Location: Military base, somewhere in the Outer Rim.
Objective: Clean the area.
“People” involved: Far-right military organization.

Luccant moved silently through the shadowed alleyways, clad in a heavy, Crusader-like armor — a grim silhouette against the flickering lights of the outer perimeter. In one hand, he gripped a vibroblade slick with dried blood; at his side, a DC-17 blaster rested in its holster, waiting.

The air was heavy with tension as he slipped between structures, using the terrain to his advantage. One by one, the soldiers fell — not with loud screams, but with gurgling silence, as Luccant crushed their vocal cords using the Force. He watched them writhe, then bleed out in the dirt, their deaths as quiet as they were brutal.

But stealth only lasted so long.

Alarms flared. Shouts rang out. Within moments, he was pinned down in a chaotic gunfight. Yet Luccant didn't falter. He adapted — striking from the shadows, luring soldiers into traps, pulling weapons from hands with unseen strength. His tactics were vicious, merciless. Reinforcements arrived... and so he changed tactics again.
He took hostages.
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https://youtu.be/VoF9HUvYPKs

"DON’T YOU DARE BREACH MY DEFENSES — I HAVE HOSTAGES!"
"For God’s sake... You’re in no position to negotiate."

A heartbeat of silence.

An inhuman scream tore through the corridor as something landed at the soldiers’ feet — a finger, severed and bloodied.

"Others’ deaths are already on your hands. You wouldn't want his to be, too."

"...Attack!"

A single gunshot echoed. The hostage dropped, lifeless. At the same moment, hidden explosives detonated behind the advancing troops, sealing off the most direct path. Smoke and flame swallowed the corridor.

Using the confusion, Luccant executed a precise, surgical flank. His blade found flesh. His blaster struck true. No survivors were left behind.

[RADIO] ~Do you read me? I repeat... We are—[static]—We need immediate support at location Charlie-5, Tango—[gunshot]... signal lost
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[Lucaant Vaneric]

Luccant let out a low sigh, his breath shaky beneath the weight of exhaustion. His armor was scorched and torn, his helmet perforated by shrapnel, his hands slick with blood — some of it his, most of it not.

He turned toward the only man still alive, the officer trembling, barely able to stand. Their eyes met — one pair filled with terror, the other with bitter disappointment.

"You... we could've avoided this. Why?"
"Tell me why you had to push."

The officer coughed, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. His voice cracked as he tried to speak, rage and disbelief leaking through the pain.
"Monster... you... horrendous—"

Before the words were finished, Luccant’s blade sang through the air. The officer’s head dropped to the floor with a muted thud.

Silence.

Luccant stood still for a moment, surveying the carnage. Even in the depths of his inhumanity, there were limits. He didn’t take pride in this — but survival, retaliation, erasure? These were necessities.

It was too late now.

He moved through the wreckage and began collecting what he needed — supplies, tech, data cores, and finally... a valid matriculation code for a military-grade starship. His prize.

Within minutes, he entered the hangar and boarded a vessel he regocnized as aGozanti-class Cruiser. As the boarding ramp sealed shut behind him, he removed his damaged helmet and tossed it aside. Blood dried at the corner of his jaw. The void outside stared back at him through the viewport.

He moved slowly to the med station and patched himself up — quietly, efficiently, like an automat who had done this a hundred times before. No pain. Just routine.

Once stable, he walked toward the auxiliary turret controls. With a cold expression, Luccant activated the targeting system. Coordinates locked. Luccant watched the remnants of the checkpoint he decimated for a second, then opened fire.

Blazing plasma erupted from the ship's guns, raining down hell upon the base. Explosions rippled through the compound as Luccant made sure to hit the fuel supplies. Barracks collapsed, hangars burst into flame, and the lone communications tower melted in the inferno.

Everything — the corpses, the blood, the war crimes — disappeared in a firestorm.

Poetic. Clean. Forgotten.

No trace, no evidence. Just death and the smell of burnt soil.