The Otheman Mandate had risen from the literal trash heap of their sector. While other civilizations spent centuries cleaning their oceans and filtering their skies, Vetra’s ancestors had leaned into the rot. They had accelerated their evolution through the Relentless Industrialists civic, turning their home world into a tomb world that thrived on the very pollutants that killed everything else.

"Warm up the thrusters," Vetra commanded, her eyes reflecting the neon green glow of the sludge pools below. "If the God is calling, we won't greet them with clean hands. We’ll bring the stench of a thousand factories."

Her skin, a translucent shade of bruised purple, slicked with a protective layer of natural secretions that shielded her from the caustic fog. Behind her, the massive vent of the toxin-scrubber groaned, belching out a fresh cloud of sulfurous yellow gas. To any other species in the galaxy, this room was a death sentence. To the Toxoids of Otheman, it was a nursery.

Vetra walked to the observation deck. Below, the city-spire stretched into the smog. Giant pipes, thick as starship hulls, pumped toxic runoff into massive fermentation vats. This was the "Knights of the Toxic God" quest—a search for the progenitor who had blessed them with this glorious filth.