Several days later;
Morning mist had yet to disperse, and the streets of every city on Korhal were still filled with busy figures.
Massive anti-gravity transport units from the Human Empire's Engineering Corps hovered over areas designated as slums by imperial decree. Modular housing units, like silver-gray seeds, were being precisely "planted" into these lands long ravaged by hardship via robotic arms.
Not long after, an emaciated old man stood inside one of the new homes, his cloudy eyes reflecting the freshly installed alloy walls.
He reached out with a trembling hand to touch the plate on the door assigned to him—
It read "Unit B-47," and still retained the faint warmth of machine processing.
Three days ago, he had been coughing blood inside a leaky shack. Now he had a climate-controlled enclosed space and a terminal capable of summoning a medical drone.
"Grandpa, does this button really make hot water come out?"
A dirty little girl stood on tiptoe, curiously poking the control panel for the shower.
Thump, thump.
Before the old man could respond, heavy footsteps echoed outside the door.
Two giants stood at the threshold.
One wore dark green power armor, shoulder plates etched with the emblem of a fire lizard. The other, clad in red and yellow armor, bore a teardrop-shaped insignia that glimmered crimson in the morning light.
Their immense frames nearly blocked the doorway, yet they brought no sense of menace—especially since the red-armored warrior was gently cradling a crate of food as if it were a fragile treasure.
"Daily ration." A metallic voice issued from the helmet's speaker, surprisingly gentle. "Heat before consuming."
The little girl boldly tugged at the warrior's waist armor and asked:
"Uncle, are you gods?"
"Heh."
The dark green-armored soldier let out a low chuckle and crouched down so she could see him better.
"No, we're not gods. We're the Emperor's angels of war."
Meanwhile, beneath the central plaza's holographic announcement board, a throng had gathered.
Sunlight pierced the cloud cover, casting a pale golden glow on the sea of heads.
The air carried the scent of damp earth, mingled with the "anticipation" radiating from the crowd.
Atop the towering alloy support of the announcement board, the Empire's dragon-emblazoned insignia shimmered in the sunlight, looming like a predator over the ant-like masses below.
"The Basic Survival Security Act takes effect today."
A synthesized female voice, clear and firm, reverberated across the plaza with undeniable authority.
Its sonic waves seemed to shatter the dew clinging to the board's edges from the night before, sending droplets cascading like silver threads in the morning light.
The crowd erupted in murmurs.
A limping veteran shoved his way forward. His CMC power armor had long been confiscated, and now he wore only a faded, over-washed old military uniform.
His mechanical prosthetic leg screeched with every step, but it did nothing to stop him from muscling his way to the front, his calloused hands clenched tightly, knuckles whitening.
"Scam!"
His roar was like a rusted blade, slicing through the crowd's noise.
The scar running from his left forehead to his right cheek twisted with fury on his weathered face.
"They said the same thing during Mengsk's era! This must be—"
Before he could finish, the display suddenly changed.
The holographic projection expanded into a three-dimensional image, engulfing the entire plaza.
It showed a live feed labeled "Sector North 7" — a real-time view of a slum.
Imperial medical officers in white robes moved like angels among the people, with synthetic assistants trailing them. One team was administering injections to elderly citizens waiting in line.
The camera zoomed in on a hunched old woman.
Her arms were covered in ulcerated wounds caused by years of malnutrition and exposure to a harsh environment. The purplish-black rot emitted a stench of death.
As the nano-injector pierced her skin, the rot seemed to reverse with time.
Dead tissue sloughed off, replaced by tender new flesh spreading visibly. Tears welled up in her cloudy eyes, flowing down her wrinkled cheeks.
"This isn't propaganda."
A deep voice came from behind the veteran.
He whirled around, nearly slamming into the chest plate of a red-armored giant.
A Lamenter had appeared behind him, casting a shadow over his entire body with his towering frame. The red and yellow power armor shimmered with blood-hued light in the morning sun, its teardrop emblem glowing faintly.
"This is just the truth."
The voice was broadcast through the helmet's speaker with a metallic calm. The Lamenter raised an armored hand, pointing toward the announcement board still displaying policy details.
Holographic text flowed like a waterfall:
"Universal Basic Healthcare — Free of Charge."
Beneath were detailed provisions, including prosthetic replacement programs;
"Capable adults must register for employment within 90 days."
Accompanying this were blinking coordinates for job training centers;
"Those of legal age, with the ability to live and work independently, who refuse employment shall lose their benefits."
However, this was followed by clauses guaranteeing protections for the disabled.
The veteran's gaze suddenly locked onto a line that read:
"Disabled retired soldiers may apply for lifelong benefits."
This man, who had once held a position for three days and nights during a Zerg siege, now looked around like a lost child.
The Lamenter slowly knelt down, armor joints letting out soft hisses, and gently placed his massive palm on the veteran's shoulder with incredible tenderness.
"Your service number?"
The veteran instinctively recited a string of digits. The Lamenter's visor flashed with a data stream.
"Confirmed. Corporal, 12th Terran Mechanized Infantry Division."
The Lamenter paused, then added, "You are entitled to the latest model of neural-linked prosthetics."
The announcement board's light reflected off the veteran's face. Beneath the gnarled scar of a shrapnel wound, something quietly melted.
Behind him, the crowd erupted in cheers—
The feed had switched to the handover of the first modular housing units. Children hugged gift packages distributed by the Empire, their smiles brighter than the morning sun.
A breeze swept across the plaza, carrying the scent of disinfectant from medical pods and the cries of a newborn.
That was the first baby in Sector North 7 to receive genetic therapy.
The holographic system amplified the sound, turning it into a trumpet call for a new era, echoing beneath Korhal's sky.
But in the aristocratic district, the reaction was starkly different.
In northern Korhal, the sunlight stained the baroque rooftops of noble mansions a deep red.
Inside one such estate, an old man in a dark green formal suit stood before gilded floor-to-ceiling windows, glaring at a floating holographic display.
On the projection, the crimson border of the "Asset Declaration Form" flashed like an unhealed wound.
"How dare they!"
The old man's age-spotted hand lashed out, sending a gold-trimmed teacup flying. It crashed against the wall behind the display screen.
Scalding tea exploded across the data stream, smearing the page titled "Family Declared Assets · Page 3" and blurring the numerals of wealth accumulated since colonization.
Outside, engines roared.
Twelve auxiliary troops in powered suits were inspecting private ships on the estate's landing pad.
The lead technician linked to the ship's main control system, data streaming rapidly across his interface.
"Per Article 17 of the Grey Asset Requisition Order," the unit commander's voice crackled through speakers into the old man's ears, "this unregistered, suspiciously-sourced Nightingale-class ship will be nationalized."
The family crest on the old man's chest—a siren—heaved violently. Its gold-plated scales shimmered ominously in the light.
His bony fingers dug into the hardwood windowsill, blood seeping from beneath his nails.
Suddenly, his gaze shifted to something outside the estate—
Three Fire Lizard warriors in dark green armor knelt in a public park.
They were demonstrating engineering mech operations to a group of civilians—
No!
To children of commoners.
A freckled little girl gleefully manipulated a holographic joystick. The simulated mech's hydraulic claw gently tapped a decorative stone.
"Master…"
The butler's trembling voice came from behind.
The old servant, who had served the family for over forty years, urgently reported: "The deadline for the Private Armed Forces Registration Form is… before dawn tomorrow. The Human Empire demands we relinquish control of all private armies.
They say families who comply will be pardoned and compensated."
"Heh!"
The old man suddenly laughed.
A laugh that reminded the butler of ancient venomous snakes in museum displays.
He reached into the lining of his suit and pulled out a thumb-sized encrypted communicator, handing it to the butler.
"Contact those old foxes," he said, his voice like something crawling from the grave. "It's time these outsiders learned who Korhal really belongs to."
"Yes, Master."
Soon, dusk swept over the city like a tide.
In the newly constructed modular housing blocks of the civilian districts, lights blinked on one after another, like newborn stars.
Inside Unit B-47, the old man carefully operated a brand-new microwave.
Inside it, a silver cube from the Empire's relief agency heated up a nutritious meal, releasing an aroma he had never known.
Through the kitchen window, he saw the red-armored giant kneeling on the communal lawn. The power armor's servos hummed gently.
A little girl, on tiptoe, was placing a wildflower into the seam of his shoulder plate.
Then—an engine roar in the distance.
Unmarked hovercars slid ghost-like into the dark alleys of the noble district. Their headlights swept across weathered walls, illuminating graffiti that read:
"The Human Empire Doesn't Feed Parasites."
The paint was still wet, gleaming like congealed blood under the moonlight.
The night breeze carried a mixture of smells through the city—
Disinfectant from medical pods, synthetic compounds from modular buildings, and sandalwood from the noble district.
In this complex air, faint metallic clinks echoed—possibly from workers pulling an overnight shift, or perhaps from nobles preparing to make a "move."
But before long, in Unit B-47, the little girl had curled up on a temperature-controlled mattress and fallen soundly asleep.
In her hand, she clutched the candy wrapper given to her by the giant, a sweet curve lingering on her lips.
It was the first night in Korhal's history when no child went to bed hungry.
The night deepened. Several hovercrafts silently touched down on the estate's private landing pad.
Only upon landing did their full silhouettes emerge from the shadows. As the cabin doors opened, a group of nobles in fine clothing stepped out swiftly, flanked by bodyguards.
The estate's front doors were already open. The aging butler stood in a deep bow, his silver sideburns trembling in the night wind.
"Gentlemen," he said respectfully, "my master has been waiting for you in the chamber."
The nobles exchanged glances and followed him down the hallway.
Portraits of past family members lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow the visitors in the dim light.
The thick carpet underfoot muffled all footsteps, and only the rustle of fabric could be heard in the silence.
The butler pressed his fingers to a concealed scanner, and a hidden door silently slid open to reveal a spiral staircase descending into the dark.
The air changed, thick with the scent of old parchment, sandalwood, and metal preservatives.
The secret chamber was larger than expected. A crystal chandelier embedded in the dome bathed the glass display cases below in cold white light.
Inside those cases, Earth's antiques slept quietly—
Including a medieval knight's sword, its ruby-studded hilt glowing blood-red under the lights.
The old man stood at the round table in the center of the room, idly flipping a gold coin. When the guests were seated, he gave a rehearsed smile.
"Thank you for coming."
"Cut the crap!" barked a silver-haired noble impatiently. "Say what you need to say. The fact that we're here already gives you more face than you deserve."
"…"
The old man's smile faltered for a second before returning. He set the coin down, its clink ringing sharply against the solid wood table.
"Gentlemen, we are losing everything." He swiped across the tabletop, activating a holographic projection showing the scarlet title: "Private Armed Forces Registration Form." "If we surrender our last military power, who will protect our assets?"
A brief silence followed.
"Heh."
A young noble suddenly sneered, stroking the family crest on his ring.
"Protect how?" His voice was low and bitter. "Do you not understand that god's existence? Every soldier who followed Valerian saw it—he crushed Char with a single step!
What can we use to oppose that kind of power? Being allowed to keep our legitimately earned property is already a blessing!"
"He's right."
"Yes."
Several nobles nodded unconsciously. Some even began backing away, as if wanting to escape this dangerous conversation.
The old man narrowed his eyes. The wrinkles on his face looked carved by blades under the chandelier's glow.
"I've received new intel…" he whispered, like a serpent hissing.
"That so-called god has a child."
The chamber's temperature seemed to plummet.
"We can abduct them in secret," the old man gestured as if seizing something, "and use them as leverage—to threaten that so-called deity."
"You're insane!"
The young noble shot to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the floor.
His face had gone ghostly pale. Sweat beaded at his temples. The other nobles gasped—one even knocked over a goblet, wine staining the antique carpet like blood.
But the old man remained calm, even wearing a smug smile of calculated confidence.
He slowly placed a data chip on the table, its surface reflecting a cold gleam like a bomb ready to detonate at any moment.
"On this chip is how to contact our former assets and allies."
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