The hilt of the short blade, its fang-shaped pommel clasped tightly in his knuckles, sent Carn’s breath billowing into a white mist in the subzero corridors of the interstellar outpost❄️. This Battle Cry Feral·Stellar Fall tactical short blade was salvaged from the ruins of an insectoid hive; under night-vision goggles, the claw-like grooves etched into the blade glowed with an eerie violet fluorescence🔮. Three days earlier, his mercenary squad had been wiped out during an ambush on an insectoid scout patrol—only he managed to escape into the abandoned outpost, clutching this very blade. Now, at the far end of the corridor, the brittle scrape of insectoid exoskeletons against metal echoed through the air. He tightened his grip on the short blade, and the feral roar of the fang seemed to reverberate in his ears—the Stellar Fall alloy of the blade could effortlessly slice through even the toughest insectoid bone armor—but little did he know that hidden within this blade was the lingering consciousness of the insectoid hive, now seeping through his palm and burrowing straight into his nervous system🧠. In the shadows of the corridor, a pair of compound eyes flared with the same ethereal violet glow as the blade itself. Suddenly, Carn realized: what he held in his hand was no weapon—it was a hunting invitation from the insectoid hive, and the prey? Himself.