Invincible: Escape from Viltrum

The violet light of the Viltrumite sun filtered through the large skylights in the ceiling, casting elongated shadows across the metal floor.

The anticipated bustle of the cadets under liberty according to the orders of the Great Regent was accompanied by that familiar feeling that seemed to him a reflection of his own human past.

Like seeing a kindergarten waiting for their parents on a Friday afternoon.

It was normal enough, peaceful enough, to ignore the fact that this facility was nothing more than a military indoctrination center under a galactic regime that imposed its supremacy through universal genocide, in the name of conquest.

Ironically, there was one key difference between his group and the rest of the hatchlings throughout the facility.

Unlike him, who wore a red fauld, all the others wore their own gray faulds, which meant that they had been promoted to "soldiers," so evidently, they too had been decorated; especially Null-am.

Because he had been responsible for the death of the Lithari leader, where he tore that insurgent apart with his own hands, the Regent had been generous, granting him the non-commissioned officer's bar. The boy had shown a great deal of courage despite his own shyness; he was a good kid whom Korr regretted having indirectly pushed toward that act.

For at the cost of saving him, Null-am had stained his hands with blood.

In short, all of them had become exemplary soldiers for the Empire, from whom future feats were expected after their future graduations.

Vespera stood near the main entrance, her red hair more disheveled than usual; together with the hatchling, a group of girls whispered about the things they would tell their progenitors once they came for them.

Their gazes met for an instant, but she turned her face away, blushing as red as a tomato.

"This girl," he thought, shaking his head.

Vulc-an and Kang, those eternal rivals, seemed to have temporarily suspended their hostilities. They remained seated on the floor, near one of the perimeter columns, their gazes fixed on the horizon.

Neither spoke a word, but they were waiting for their parents. Apparently, their progenitor was the same; the issue was that the latter had been given the task of breeding with two Viltrumites and, as a result, the two hatchlings existed only in a tyranny of seeing which of them was the better hatchling.

The taller boy, the one whose name Korr had never bothered to memorize by this point (Tuth-pak or some similar variation), had taken up a position near the center of the hall, his arms crossed over his chest. Beside him, the shorter one played with a fragment of metal he had found in some corner, spinning it between his fingers in a display of fine motor skill.

Korr was beginning to grow impatient. He did not want to be here in the slightest, but he had no say in the matter. Memories of this kind only made him feel suffocated and cornered; they got on his nerves.

The word "father" evoked in his memory images of a previous life, such as responsibility, teaching a child to ride a bicycle, celebrating his children's achievements, and supporting their decisions even knowing they were stupid.

Giving advice about life, being attentive to their needs, and sacrificing oneself for a better tomorrow than the one he had ever had, the one his own father had not been able to provide him.

Vorath was not that archetype he had once been; he probably never would be. He was not even the archetype of father expected by the Empire.

If such a thing even existed.

Vorath was an elite soldier, a ruthless general who had been ordered to extend the line of his bloodline so it could grease the gears of Viltrum in order to expand its territory across the galaxy.

He had decapitated Syra-Vel in front of him, had gnawed his knuckles for his disobedience, and had not hesitated for even a moment to abandon him in the Dorymathos as one might place a tool in a warehouse, literally so he could continue unleashing his campaign of death somewhere in space, beyond the stars.

The first progenitor to make an appearance was a walking mass of flesh.

Without even properly making out his figure, Korr had already sensed how massive this man was.

A pressure in the air seemed to condense, under the illusory premise of space folding before his arrival.

The man landed in the center of the platform with a dull impact; his absolute control over his own mass seemed terrifyingly unsettling.

Korr was surprised. Was he a berserker? He probably had to be a berserker. He looked like one, and his physiological build seemed to betray that he was a ruthless being who loved indiscriminate slaughter.

His white boots touched the metal floor, imposing his titanic presence.

He stood over two meters tall, and every centimeter of his body was pure compressed muscle. His uniform, immaculate and white, could barely contain the robustness of his torso. On his chest, three bars gleamed with a sinister glow, which disproved Korr's assumption that the general was a berserker, for few mental madmen such as berserkers ever reached such a rank within the Empire.

His face was a mask carved from granite, with that square jaw, and his eyes seemed to be two abysses; all beneath the perfect cut of his mustache in honor of the founder Argall.

His icy eyes swept across the entire expanse of the facility, searching for the hatchling that belonged to him within a mixed pen. The children around him remained petrified after being shaken by that skin-flaying gaze.

But the disdain for the hatchlings who shrank in shame in his presence was so great that it seemed to ooze from his pores.

Who the hell was the hatchling of that creature, a promise of decay and certain annihilation?

"DAAAAAAAAAAD!"

Apparently, and to the surprise of everyone except the owner of that childish cry, this man did have a child.

"Null-am?" Korr said to himself, completely surprised.

The hatchling in question shot forward like an out-of-control comet, using his own feet like a terrified chicken; it seemed he had forgotten how to fly for that instant.

His small legs stumbled over themselves once or twice before the momentum of his flight launched him against the giant's waist.

His arms, thin and somewhat chubby, closed around the general's torso as though the world would end if he let go for even a single moment.

The man tensed at that sudden closeness.

For an instant, only a fraction of a second, his shoulders stiffened and his right hand rose until his own movement made him hesitate. He looked at those present out of the corner of his eye before sighing.