The flickering neon sign of "The Rusty Gear," half-heartedly proclaiming "Best Fixes This Side of Kepler-186f," cast long, distorted shadows across the grimy landing pad. Nathan steered his battered freighter, the *Stardust Drifter,* towards the designated berth, its hull groaning in protest against the station's weak gravitational pull. Rusty Gear wasn't exactly a tourist destination. It was a haven for smugglers, scavengers, and anyone else looking to operate on the fringes of the Shattered Star Sea. It smelled of cheap synth-ale, burnt circuits, and desperation, a cocktail Nathan was intimately familiar with.

He’d tracked a rumor here, a whisper carried on the solar winds: a distress call, quickly retracted, originating from one of the station's lower levels. Distress calls meant salvage, and salvage meant opportunity. More often than not, it was a fool's errand, but with the Whispering Vault humming gently in his cargo hold, even fool's errands could pay dividends.

As he disembarked, the grimy air pressed against him, thick with the stench of recycled water and something vaguely metallic. He passed a gaggle of hulking brutes, their augments gleaming under the dim lights, arguing in guttural clicks and hisses that he didn't recognize. The lingua franca of the Rusty Gear was necessity, and everyone understood the language of credits.

Nathan made his way through the station's labyrinthine corridors, his hand instinctively resting on the energy pistol tucked into his worn leather jacket. He wasn't looking for trouble, but trouble had a knack for finding him. The corridors grew darker and narrower the further he descended, the walls adorned with graffiti depicting everything from stylized cosmic shards to crude caricatures of station regulars.

He finally reached his destination: a dimly lit workshop tucked away in a forgotten corner of the station. A single, flickering lamp illuminated the interior, casting eerie shadows that danced across the intricate machinery scattered haphazardly across the room. The air here was thick with the scent of oil and ozone.

Standing amidst the chaos was a Clockwork Cog artificer, his bronze skin gleaming under the weak light. Cogs were known for their intricate craftsmanship and their unwavering dedication to their mechanical deities. This one, however, looked utterly defeated. His multiple mechanical arms twitched erratically, and his optical sensors flickered with fatigue.

"You... you the salvager?" the Cog rasped, his voice a strained collection of whirs and clicks. His nameplate, barely visible under a layer of grime, read "Artificer 734, Designation: Kepler."

"Nathan," he replied, extending a hand. "Heard you had some... salvage you wanted to get rid of."

Kepler ignored the hand, his optical sensors focused on Nathan with a desperate intensity. "Titanium Tears. I need to sell them. Quickly."

"Titanium Tears?" Nathan raised an eyebrow. He'd heard the term, but never seen them. Titanium was valuable, but not *that* valuable. "What's so special about them?"

Kepler hesitated, his mechanical arms fidgeting with a small, dented box. "It's... complicated. Suffice to say, they are crucial components. I... I acquired them for a project. A project for… the Great Mechanism." His voice dropped to a whisper, almost a prayer.

"The Great Mechanism?" Nathan inquired, feigning ignorance. He knew the Cogs held their deities in high regard, almost as physical extensions of themselves.

"It doesn't matter," Kepler snapped, his metallic voice regaining its sharpness. "What matters is, I need to get rid of them. I... I made a mistake. A grave mistake. Someone is looking for them."

Nathan's interest piqued. A desperate artificer, a hasty retreat, and valuable components that someone was actively searching for? This was more than just salvage; this was a potential goldmine.

"How much?" Nathan asked, cutting to the chase.

Kepler named a price, a figure so low it was almost insulting. He clearly wasn't looking for a fortune, just a quick escape.

Nathan feigned a thoughtful pause. "That's... awfully low. I'm taking a risk here, you know. I could get pinched just being seen with these." He added a touch of theatrics, knowing it would play to Kepler's desperation.

Kepler's mechanical hands tightened around the box. "Please. I have nothing else. This is all I have left."

Nathan considered him for a moment. He wasn't a heartless man, but he wasn't running a charity either. He could squeeze a bit more out of Kepler, but he had a feeling time was of the essence.

"Alright," Nathan said, relenting slightly. "I'll take them for that price. But I need to know what I'm dealing with. Why is someone looking for these Tears?"

Kepler hesitated again, his optical sensors darting nervously around the room. "I... I can't say. It's better you don't know. Just... just get them off my hands."

Nathan knew he wouldn't get anything more out of the artificer. He shrugged. "Fine. Your funeral. But if these things come back to bite me, I'm coming back for you, Kepler."

Kepler practically shoved the box into Nathan's hands. "Just go. Please."

Nathan paid Kepler in credits, a paltry sum compared to what he suspected the Tears were truly worth. As he turned to leave, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking away with more than just a box of titanium. He was walking away with a secret, a secret that could be incredibly valuable or incredibly dangerous.

Back on the *Stardust Drifter*, Nathan carefully examined the Titanium Tears. They weren't actually tear-shaped, but rather small, crystalline structures that shimmered with an iridescent light. They were intricately etched with patterns that seemed to shift and change as he rotated them in his hand.

He activated the Whispering Vault, inputting a description of the Tears and their unusual properties. The Vault hummed to life, its holographic interface displaying a cascade of symbols and information from across countless realities. After a moment of processing, a single entry appeared:

**Realm Designation:** Aethelgard

**Item:** Titanium Tears

**Strategic Importance:** Essential component in the construction of Aetherium Regulators, devices capable of manipulating the flow of Aetherium, a powerful energy source unique to Aethelgard. Used for both defensive and offensive applications. Currently in high demand due to ongoing conflict between the Valkyrie Clans and the Shadow Empire.

**Market Value:** Extremely High.

Nathan whistled softly. Valkyrie Clans and Shadow Empires? Aetherium Regulators? This was far beyond the simple salvage he had anticipated. He now understood Kepler's desperation. He had stumbled upon something of immense value, something that could potentially catapult him into a whole new level of the game.

But with great value came great risk. The fact that someone was actively searching for these Tears meant that he had just painted a target on his back. He needed to be careful, very careful.

He locked the box of Tears in a secure compartment, his mind already racing with possibilities. He could try to sell them directly to one of the factions in Aethelgard, but that would be incredibly risky. He knew nothing about the political landscape of that realm, and he could easily be taken advantage of.

Perhaps he could find someone who knew more about Aethelgard, someone who could act as a broker. But who could he trust? Trust was a rare commodity in the Shattered Star Sea.

As he considered his options, a chime sounded on the *Stardust Drifter's* comm system. An incoming message. He hesitated for a moment, a sense of foreboding washing over him. This could be related to the Titanium Tears, or it could be something else entirely.

He took a deep breath and activated the comm.

A distorted image flickered onto the screen. It was a gaunt, pale face, partially obscured by shadows. A cold, calculating gaze stared back at him.

"Nathan," the voice rasped, sending a shiver down his spine. "We know you have the Titanium Tears. We want them. And we're willing to pay... handsomely."

Nathan's hand tightened on his energy pistol. He knew this voice. He knew this face. It was a representative of the Shadow Syndicate, the very organization he had been trying to avoid. The game had just changed. He was no longer a salvager; he was a target. And the hunt had begun.