For advance/early chapters : p atreon.com/Ritesh_Jadhav0869
After the negotiator was confirmed, they came for Aidan.
He was in the Shatterdome's research lab, working through cultivation pool schematics on a holographic display, when Patrick Hemitdon arrived with an entourage of security personnel and diplomatic advisors.
"Has it been decided?" Aidan asked, not looking up from the screen.
"Yes." Hemitdon's expression was serious, but excitement leaked through at the edges. "I'll be negotiating with the Precursor civilization."
Aidan finally turned, studying the older man. This was history in the making. Patrick Hemitdon would be the first human to officially conduct diplomacy with an alien species. Sure, Aidan had been doing it for weeks, but he was... well, Aidan was already becoming something beyond normal human classification. A magician. A cultivator. Someone who violated physics as a hobby.
Over time, people would probably remember Hemitdon's name more clearly. The dignified statesman who forged the first interstellar alliance. Aidan would become legend—the strange, impossibly young sorcerer who bent reality and disappeared between worlds.
"Alright," Aidan said, standing. "You won't need oxygen tanks. I'll take you directly and handle the environmental issues."
Hemitdon nodded. Behind him stood representatives from the five permanent Security Council members—observers only, not active negotiators, but present to witness and verify everything that occurred.
Elder Steven and Achilles had been waiting for hours. They stood on the observation platform, watching the crimson artificial sun, the barren Gobi landscape, the distant cultivation pools still humming with bioengineering processes.
A scarlet portal tore open in the empty air.
Aidan stepped through first, scanning the area with practiced efficiency. Then came Patrick Hemitdon, moving with measured dignity despite stepping into an alien dimension. The five observers followed, faces carefully neutral but eyes betraying wonder and unease.
Elder Steven and Achilles approached immediately, performing the traditional Precursor greeting—arms spread wide, displaying wing membranes.
Aidan responded with a casual wave, then immediately set to work. His hands moved through complex gestures, and a transparent energy barrier materialized around the human delegation, cutting them off from the staging ground's toxic atmosphere. Breathable air, Earth-standard pressure, comfortable temperature—all contained within the magical shield.
Then he went further.
The world fractured—that now-familiar sound of breaking glass that wasn't quite sound, reality splitting along geometric fault lines. The Mirror Dimension manifested, isolating this entire section of the staging ground from normal space. Complete privacy. No chance of surveillance, no risk of interference.
With another gesture, Aidan raised a platform in the center of the transformed space—a perfectly flat stage positioned exactly between the two groups, neutral ground made manifest.
"This," Aidan said, pointing to the taller Precursor with the bright red bone crown, "is Elder Gabriel Leith Steven of the Precursor Council. And this is Commander Achilles Ares of the Kaiju Corps."
The Precursors were similar in appearance—four arms, translucent wings, exoskeletal armor, those unsettling fish-eyes—but Elder Steven's crown was more elaborate, more richly colored. He looked ancient in a way that transcended physical age. Two thousand years of experience showed in his posture, his movements, the weight behind his gaze.
"Greetings," Patrick Hemitdon said, adjusting his translation headset. "I am Patrick Hemitdon, representative of humanity."
Aidan had provided translation devices for everyone—small earpieces that would render Precursor clicking and human speech mutually intelligible. Magic-enhanced technology, bridging the gap between species.
The five human observers stood slightly behind Hemitdon, eyes locked on Achilles. They'd read the intelligence reports. They knew this Precursor had orchestrated the Kaiju invasion, had overseen the production of the bioweapons that killed millions. Seeing him in person—standing calmly, accepting his fate with quiet dignity—that was different from reading files.
Both groups moved to opposite ends of the raised platform. The Precursors stood three meters tall, dwarfing the humans who ranged from one-and-a-half to two meters. But the size difference didn't translate to psychological advantage. Hemitdon's delegation showed no fear, no deference. They stood as equals negotiating terms, not supplicants begging for mercy.
After a moment of mutual observation—humans studying alien physiology, Precursors examining the strange creatures who'd defied their invasion—Elder Steven spoke first.
"For the invasion of Earth," he began, voice carrying the weight of genuine remorse, "Supreme Leader Ella Hayshiz extends profound apologies. Our situation is desperate, our world dying, but that does not excuse the harm we have caused. I come here with full authority to negotiate reparations and alliance."
"Apologies are insufficient," Hemitdon replied, tone measured but firm. "The Precursor invasion has caused irreparable damage to Earth. Millions dead, cities destroyed, entire economies shattered. Words cannot address that scale of harm."
"We are prepared to offer substantial compensation."
Hemitdon reached into his document case and produced a thick folder—printed on actual paper, translated into approximations of Precursor written language, meticulously detailed. He placed it on the platform between them.
"This document represents the consensus of Earth's nations. All compensation requirements are listed within."
Elder Steven picked up the folder with two of his four hands, compound eyes scanning the pages. He read slowly, carefully, his posture growing more tense with each section.
The demands were extensive. Pages upon pages of technological specifications—energy generation systems, medical advances, materials science, biotechnology protocols, manufacturing processes. Humanity wanted everything. The Precursors' entire accumulated knowledge base, hundreds of millions of years of research and development, handed over wholesale.
What struck Steven most was what they weren't demanding. Very few requests for raw materials, minimal interest in mineral extraction rights, barely any discussion of resource claims. The humans didn't want the Anteverse's physical wealth.
They wanted knowledge. They wanted to skip centuries of development and leapfrog directly to post-scarcity civilization.
Steven's mind raced through implications. If humans acquired this technology rapidly, the Precursors would be at their mercy. Sure, the Anteverse's toxic environment provided some protection—humans couldn't invade easily, couldn't survive without extensive support systems. But given time? Given human ingenuity and relentless drive?
Eventually they'd find ways to extract value from this dimension. Mining operations, resource extraction, strategic positioning. And if humanity developed space-faring capabilities using Precursor technology...
The balance of power would shift catastrophically.
A harsh chirping sound escaped Steven's throat—unconscious stress vocalization. He flipped to a specific page, reading the technical specifications again to confirm what he was seeing.
"We are willing to accept the compensation proposed in this document," Steven said carefully. "With one exception. There is one technology we cannot provide."
"Which one?" Hemitdon's expression didn't change, but his tone suggested he'd been expecting this.
"Dimensional wormhole technology. Cross-universal transit systems." Steven's voice was firm, unapologetic. "We cannot share this with any civilization. The strategic implications are too severe."
"That technology is non-negotiable," Hemitdon replied flatly. "If you refuse, there will be no alliance. No cooperation. No technology transfer of any kind."
"Then negotiations are terminated." Steven's posture shifted, becoming more rigid, more formal. "We will provide nothing. The wormhole will be collapsed. All contact between our species will cease."
"We already have the coordinates to your homeworld," Hemitdon countered, voice turning cold. "If necessary, we will develop our own methods of reaching the Anteverse. And when we arrive, we will take what we need by force."
"By the time you develop such capability, the Toxin will have rendered the Anteverse uninhabitable. There will be nothing left to take. No technology to claim. Only the ruins of a dead civilization."
The atmosphere on the platform turned poisonous. Two species staring across a gap of mutual need and mutual distrust, neither willing to blink first.
"Furthermore," Steven added, "we also refuse to surrender Commander Achilles Ares for human judgment. He is a decorated military officer who served his species honorably. We do not hand over our soldiers to foreign powers."
"Then both demands stand," Hemitdon said, each word precisely articulated. "Wormhole technology and Achilles Ares. You will provide both, or there is no agreement."
"We refuse both. If you persist, this meeting is over."
Silence stretched. Long, tense, heavy with the weight of two civilizations' futures hanging in the balance.
Finally, Hemitdon spoke. "We can compromise on the wormhole technology. The dimensional transit systems remain Precursor proprietary knowledge."
Steven's posture relaxed fractionally.
"But Achilles Ares, as the architect of the Earth invasion, must be handed over for human justice. This is non-negotiable."
Elder Steven turned to look at Achilles, compound eyes unreadable. The commander stood silently, having expected this outcome from the moment negotiations were announced.
"I am willing," Achilles said, stepping forward. His voice was calm, accepting. "For the Precursors. For the Anteverse. For the future of our species."
He faced Elder Steven directly. "I accept human judgment. I will go with them."
Something passed between the two Precursors—centuries of shared history, military camaraderie, the bond between soldier and leader. Steven made a sound that might have been a sigh or might have been mourning.
"Commander Achilles Ares of the Precursor Kaiju Force," Steven said formally, "is hereby remanded to human custody for judgment under their laws."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Which, essentially, they were.
"Then we have an agreement," Hemitdon said quietly.
Aidan, who'd been standing silently at the edge of the platform throughout the entire negotiation, finally moved. From seemingly nowhere—pocket dimension storage, probably—he produced a rolled parchment. Ancient-looking, covered in intricate script that glowed faint crimson.
He placed it on the platform between the two delegations.
"Before we proceed further," Aidan said, "both parties will sign a binding contract. Magical enforcement. Anyone who violates the terms will die. No exceptions, no loopholes, no escape clauses."
He unrolled the parchment, revealing text written in both human languages and Precursor script. The terms were clear, concise, brutal in their simplicity:
The Precursor Empire agrees to provide technological knowledge and material support to Earth.
Humanity agrees to provide military assistance against the Toxin threat.
Commander Achilles Ares will be surrendered for human judgment.
Violation of these terms results in the death of the violating party.
Witnessed by magic. Enforced by blood.
"You'll sign in blood," Aidan explained. "A few drops each. The contract binds you personally and symbolically represents your civilizations' commitment."
Elder Steven examined the parchment carefully, reading every clause. Finally, he nodded. Using one of the ceremonial blades worn at his side, he made a small cut across his palm. Blue bioluminescent blood welled up, and he pressed his hand to the parchment.
His signature appeared in flowing Precursor script, glowing briefly before fading into the document.
Patrick Hemitdon took the offered blade—cleaned by Aidan's magic—and made his own cut. Red human blood joined blue alien blood on the ancient parchment. His signature materialized beside Steven's.
The moment both marks set, the entire contract ignited. Not with fire, but with that same crimson energy that powered Aidan's portals. Light consumed the parchment, burned away the physical medium, leaving only the essence of the agreement hanging in the air for a moment before that too vanished.
Gone. Not destroyed—absorbed. Pulled into whatever metaphysical space enforced magical contracts across dimensions.
"It's done," Aidan said simply. "Break the terms, and you die. No trial, no appeal, no second chances. The magic doesn't care about excuses."
Both Elder Steven and Patrick Hemitdon looked slightly pale—facing the reality of supernatural enforcement, consequences beyond lawyers and loopholes.
But they'd agreed. They'd committed. Now they had to make it work.
The rest of the negotiations took hours. Fine details, implementation timelines, resource allocation schedules, military coordination protocols. The Precursors would provide complete technical databases—everything except wormhole technology. Humans would send expeditionary forces through the Breach, establishing forward operating bases in the Anteverse to fight the Toxin alongside Precursor military units.
It was ambitious. Dangerous. Unprecedented.
It was also their only chance.
When the meeting finally concluded, Achilles Ares walked calmly across the platform. Away from Elder Steven. Away from his species. Toward the human delegation.
Toward judgment. Toward execution. Toward whatever price humanity demanded for millions of deaths.
He moved with dignity, head high, accepting his fate for the sake of his people.
Behind him, Elder Steven watched in silence, carrying the weight of having just sacrificed one of his finest commanders for the slim hope of species survival.
History was being written. Alliances forged. Futures decided.
And in the spaces between worlds, the Toxin continued its slow, patient advance toward the Precursor homeworld, indifferent to the desperate gambles of civilizations racing against extinction.