These alien visitors were not merely muscle-bound giants like Dr. Bruce Banner. They were mutants, superpowered individuals, battle-hardened elite extraterrestrial soldiers—and, like himself, possessed similar high-tech powered armor and the knowledge required to handle most situations.
What was this supposed to be?
The Hulk (physical strength) plus Thor (energy output) plus Captain America (combat skill) plus Black Widow (environmental adaptability and field experience) plus Iron Man (equipment and intellect)?
Thud. Thud.
Clearing a path and watching the Demon Inquisitor giants stride past with heavy, metallic footsteps, Tony Stark stood there in silence.
He had lost.
His left arm was set in a plaster cast. His neck was immobilized. His face, swollen and bruised from being slammed around, twisted from time to time with sharp jolts of pain. Turning his head, his expression complicated and guarded, he looked toward the bizarre scene before him.
Blood.
Heads.
Severed limbs.
Government personnel who had transformed from agents into janitors carried high-pressure hoses, mops, rags, and vacuum cleaners. Attendants sprayed perfume and deodorizer into the air. A ceremonial honor guard, faces stiff and slightly unnatural, awkwardly shouldered M1 Garand rifles while the military band continued playing as though nothing had happened.
And not far from a half-open-air temporary negotiation table—just steps away from a bloodstained "slaughterhouse" where the gore had not yet dried—the North American authorities, United Nations officials, and the heavily armored giants and humanoid civilian representatives from beyond the stars were conducting diplomatic talks.
The Divine Empress Order... what was that supposed to be? Some kind of cosmic religious power like the Papal States of the Vatican, worshiping a god of the universe?
The Demon Inquisitor Chapter? Some violent institution like a medieval inquisition?
Having personally brushed against death and experienced the fragility of life, Tony Stark had finally cooled down from the blazing fury that had erupted when his closest friend and comrade was killed before his eyes.
After being beaten half to death—nearly killed outright—his latest modified Mark 47 Iron Man armor, which had incorporated partial nanite technology, had been torn apart by brute force. The Arc Reactor in his chest had been ripped out. His artificial intelligence, Friday, was suspected to have been hacked by the opponent's superior artificial intelligence.
It was only because Secretary Ross had noticed, and—being decent enough—had come over to give him a heads-up, that Iron Man had escaped ending up in the ICU... or the crematorium.
Now, Stark's face was pensive.
He was not an idiot.
He had gradually taken Ross' words to heart. Supported by on-site staff, Stark saw what remained of Nick Fury's body—his torso shattered by a bolt round—being processed. If nothing else, that flattened black egg had now turned into a green egg.
He also saw, within the shattered remains of the War Machine armor, Rhodey lying with his chest blown open, barely clinging to life. His disguise could no longer hold. The blood flowing from his mouth and nose had turned dark purple-black. His dark skin had shifted into an oily green.
Connecting that with what Ross had said, how could Stark not understand? Nick Fury and Rhodey had been replaced!
"Skrulls... They can replicate recent memories and even genetic traits? When did this happen..."
Stark's face looked terrible.
Did this mean that even his friendship with Rhodey had been false?
These green-skinned aliens had replaced him, inherited his recent memories, and seamlessly inserted themselves into his life—while he had remained completely unaware!
"Looks like you didn't know either."
He glanced at Agent Hill, who had yet to recover, and the former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents under her command. There was a trace of shared misery in his voice.
"I... I don't know... When did it happen..."
Agent Hill frowned, rubbing her temples repeatedly. The shock had clearly hit her hard.
The director she had followed for so long was an alien? Since when? She had never considered herself a rookie, someone easy to deceive. Yet she could not figure it out. Or...
A terrifying possibility formed in her mind.
The director she interacted with most of the time—the one who had trained and promoted her—might have been an alien for most of that time.
"Then where is the real Rhodey?"
That was what Stark urgently needed to know.
At the same time, he felt a chill.
According to these alien visitors who called themselves the Divine Empress Order, the Skrulls were already widely present on Earth. A significant number had fully integrated into human society, replacing and occupying many elites across various industries and social classes.
If even Pepper had been replaced, then he would truly be...
Terrifying.
It was simply too terrifying.
"So, during the negotiations, we temporarily added a clause. We require their assistance in helping Earth eliminate the Skrull xenos, and in establishing methods to prevent and identify further Skrull infiltration."
Secretary Ross, dressed in a tailored suit, having retired from the Army as a general before entering politics, approached with visible delight. Seeing everyone's attention shift toward him, he nodded enthusiastically and explained, "That includes locating the victims who were replaced by the Skrulls."
Clatter.
In step with Ross, a group of Imperial auxiliary technicians carrying specialized toolkits walked in. Unfazed, they efficiently took hold of fake Nick Fury's head and, using cutting tools, removed fake Rhodey's head as well. From a pile of unsettling green heads, they selected intact brains for preservation.
Watching this scene, Stark turned suspiciously toward Ross, whose expression brimmed with satisfaction.
"So what exactly did you negotiate?"
"This is a victory. Stark, do you believe in God? Perhaps our current identity is that of a believer."
Ross looked upward and spoke meaningfully.
"A believer?"
Stark was about to respond when—beep beep.
His brows knitted together. He reached into his pocket.
It was a battered old flip phone.
...
As for the affairs of the three great interstellar empires, Master Chief John-117 was not particularly concerned, nor did he intend to provoke them.
Unlike the Xandarians—whose expansion was weak, whose influence was confined to a corner of space, and who flew the banners of tolerance, neutrality, and commerce for self-preservation—provoking the three galactic bullies would genuinely invite retaliation.
Of course, that had been the past.
The current cosmic situation—more accurately, the situation between two bullies—had changed.
According to the latest intelligence gathered by his agents from Xandar and Knowhere, widely circulating information—already a secret known across the universe—was that the Skrulls were not doing well.
Battle reports could lie. Front lines could not.
The Skrull Empire was at a comprehensive disadvantage in its war against the Kree Empire. They had been pushed back to their own doorstep. Their homeworld was on the verge of being sacked.
The Skrull royal family had declined. Their capital was under attack. Religious authorities, priesthood factions, and frontier warlords were rising in power. The political situation had spiraled completely out of control—a late-dynasty fragmentation, warlords carving up territory.
The once-mighty Skrull Empire had shattered into thousands of fragments. Civil war and external war had nearly blended into one massive chaos. Internal strife and foreign threats compounded each other. Citizens abandoned their ancestral lands and fled. It was the unmistakable image of a dying nation.
Originally, John had not intended to provoke them.
A cornered beast on the brink of death—who knew what trump cards they still possessed? Especially given that the Skrull Empire was the oldest of the three great interstellar empires. Their foundations ran deep.
There was no need for him to take a bullet for the Kree Empire.
Although John was confident that the 117th Strike Cruiser Fleet of the Demon Inquisitor Chapter under his command was no inferior to fleets of equivalent scale from the three great interstellar empires—and that if they unleashed full firepower, turning the tables and annihilating the enemy would not be difficult—there was always the risk of being swarmed to death by sheer numbers.
Not fearing death and not fearing war was one thing. Recklessly courting disaster without adequate preparation, picking fights for no benefit whatsoever, was another.
Cough... if there were benefits, if the price was right, if the other party delivered themselves to his doorstep, or if interests came into conflict—that would be a different matter.
And the current situation was exactly that.
John truly had not expected that the Skrulls would flee from the Andromeda Galaxy into the Milky Way—and just so happen to share the same target as him.
In that case, there was no choice.
The Kree Empire and the Shi'ar Empire might warrant careful consideration. But you, the Skrulls—your nation shattered, your empire collapsing, a pack of stray dogs—and you still dared to bare your teeth?
At worst, he could simply act as an unofficial mercenary force for the Kree Empire and wipe them out in the Kree's name.
The millennia-long blood feud between the Kree and the Skrulls was infamous across the universe. There was a widely circulated saying: as long as you were killing Skrulls and were not hostile to the Kree, then you were the Kree's natural ally.
John had no saintly heart.
Knowing full well that both the Kree and the Skrulls wished nothing more than to exterminate one another, he would not suddenly overflow with pity at the miserable plight of Skrull refugees and decide to forgive and protect them.
If interests conflicted—they could all be killed.
John believed the Kree would gladly accept such goodwill.
Moreover, someone had already offered a good price—
"Help you eliminate the Skrulls on Earth?"
His enormous frame had no suitable chair. John waved away the attendants and manipulated cosmic energy to shape a massive seat for himself, half like violet crystal. Sitting upright, back straight, hands resting on the armrests, his voice was low and powerful.
Watching him, the silver-helmed giants followed suit. Each shaped their own seats out of energy. Even the auxiliary staff who resembled clerks politely declined assistance, forming their own energy-crafted chairs.
The Black President felt his temples throb.
The pressure was immense.
"Yes, Your Excellency. The Skrulls' replication and cloning abilities are a catastrophe for any regime or organization. Unfortunately, in the last century, our nation once suffered a series of severe security incidents due to a mutant possessing abilities similar to the Skrulls'. The losses were tremendous."
The President spread his hands.
"One such individual was already a disaster. I cannot imagine what it would mean if hundreds of thousands—or even millions—of Skrulls were hiding on Earth. The free world would be overturned. Human order would collapse."
The logic was simple: if you could not control it, destroy it.
With American habits, one or two would certainly be captured for experimentation. But if the numbers exceeded ten thousand... that would be a completely different matter.
No one wanted to wake up one day and discover that they—or their loved ones—had been silently replaced.
Besides, it was not as though they could not secretly keep a few experimental specimens. In the chaos of cleansing operations, so many had been killed or wounded. DNA samples, muscle tissue, blood—there was plenty scattered everywhere.
He was certain the people in the CIA, FBI, and DHS had already taken advantage of the cleanup to pocket quite a few samples.
"The Divine Empress Order is a friend of justice. Earth will not be stingy or dismissive toward its friends."
He continued.
"We support your entry into the United Nations Security Council. As for a permanent station, after deliberation, we are prepared to offer regions including parts of Africa, Europe, Oceania, the Far East, Antarctica, South America... and portions of North America for Your Excellency to choose from..."
So-called "permanent station" was merely a euphemism. Territorial concessions would be more accurate. Something like treaty ports—pick whatever you like. Reparations, privileges—those could be negotiated gradually. And perhaps they could haggle over reducing the losses a bit?
Judging others by themselves, if they had possessed this level of force, would they negotiate? Negotiate what? It would be Earth Storm Operation 2.0.
"Why would we involve ourselves in your planet's internal council? We do not require a permanent station."
Just as the American negotiation team, faces ashen, prepared to present various prewritten clauses and play the poverty card, John spoke. His hands slowly moved onto the table, fingers slightly curled.
"Ah?"
Beads of sweat formed on the President's forehead. He had been imagining himself as the first president in American history to sell off the nation—only to be caught completely off guard.
"My forces are not interstellar pirates. We have no need for your continental lands. Nor do we require treaty ports. What we require..."
John's fingertips tapped lightly on the negotiation table.
The substance of his terms was not complicated. Nor was it new.
It was almost entirely transplanted from the most relaxed tier of the Sacred Selene Empire's governance system—the management model for vassal colonial worlds.
The Demon Inquisitor Chapter would not dispatch internal administrative officials. There would be no stationed garrison forces. No Inquisition, no Ministry of Justice, no Internal Affairs spies. Nor was there a hereditary governor family that had voluntarily surrendered.
In short, John's conditions were simple.
Earth would provide a fixed quota of material resources annually (taxation).
Earth would permit the Demon Inquisitor Chapter to establish temporary auxiliary recruitment stations (conscription).
The highest-level government departments must display the Imperial double-headed aquila banner (change of flag).
Grand construction projects must be undertaken to build Selene temples and spread faith in the Divine Empress (unification).
Precious secret treasures must be offered as tribute (tribute).
Truly, with the Sacred Selene Empire's domains now so vast, its governance in certain contexts had become rough and unrefined—but hardly tyrannical.
Reading through the official document, printed on special material and presented by the other side's clerk, line by line in both Imperial Common and English, the Black President was stunned.
"That's all?" he asked in disbelief.
The terms were not merely lenient—they were practically charitable.
He and his advisory team had nearly prepared to sell out their NATO allies, perhaps even ancestral lands. And this was it?
Resources? Fine. Industrial goods as reparations. Anything that could be solved with money was negotiable.
Recruitment? A bit difficult—we already struggle with recruitment ourselves—but providing recruitment stations was no problem. America's word carried weight. A wave of the hand, global approval. And if manpower was truly needed, there was no shortage. America might not have much, but its prisons were full of talent. Penal troops were still troops.
Temple construction? Spreading the Divine Empress' faith? Missionary work? Fine, fine.
Change of flag? Having the double-headed aquila fly above the Stars and Stripes would be a bit troublesome—but manageable.
Precious treasures? As long as the definition remained broad, it was negotiable. Cultural relics counted as treasures. Details could be discussed.
"That's all," John nodded.
This was one of the military's standard operating modes.
First courtesy, then force. In human civilizations, deliver an ultimatum. Refuse, and war followed. Accept negotiation, and matters could be discussed.
Moreover, John's situation was somewhat special. He lacked sufficient long-term imperial logistical support. He had no accompanying administrative corps to enforce deep governance. This hands-off taxation-and-recruitment model suited him perfectly.
"Good, good, good..."
Clap. Clap clap!
The Black President led the applause. The Secretary of State, Secretary of Defense, and senators rose to their feet, applauding uncontrollably.
Their excitement was so intense that they ignored the macabre environment around them.
Was this selling out the nation? Not at all. They could even use material tribute and their devout faith in the Divine Empress to request technological assistance.
"Your Excellency, you are a true saint. The Divine Empress is the true God."
He spoke sincerely to the Master Chief.
The atmosphere grew heated.
"All glory belongs to the Most Exalted Divine Empress. All for Sacred Selene."
"Yes, that's right—everything for the Divine Selene."
...
Meanwhile, in low Earth orbit.
Within a certain orbital aerospace base where all communications had been jammed and severed, a bald black head was reflected on the gleaming deck.
"Motherfucker."
Before the black man's nose hovered a crimson spear radiating an ominous, arcane aura.
—
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