Anna slept on her side, the sleeping bag drawn up to her chin, her breath slow and steady.
Pressed against her stomach lay Strong, the infant lord of absurd destiny, dressed head to toe in his green Hulk costume — complete with molded abs, bulging arms, and the faint scent of synthetic plastic. Only his tiny pink face showed through, soft and serene.
One of his small fists had tangled itself in a lock of Anna's red hair, clutching it as though it were a lifeline to warmth. The night was quiet except for the soft pulse of the fire outside and the rhythmic breathing of the two souls sharing the same heat.
Then, somewhere deep within that warmth, the dream began.
Strong opened his eyes and found himself lying on the gravel road beneath Dean Bridge.
The air was cool and silver, and beside him the Water of Leith whispered softly through the valley.
Above — not a single star.
Only blocks of glowing text hung suspended in the void: menus, icons, scrolling numbers — like the night sky had been replaced by the interface of a god.
Everywhere he looked, categories unfolded in radiant script:
> [INFANTRY EQUIPMENT]
[HEAVY ARMAMENT]
[VEHICLES / AERIAL]
[PERSONNEL / HISTORICAL]
[LUXURY / MISCELLANEOUS]
Each title stretched into infinity, as though every possibility the world could offer was now just a purchase away.
The baby pushed himself upright with effort, small hands gripping the gravel. His Hulk costume creaked as the foam muscles bent.
Instantly, a row of modern weapon racks shimmered into being before him — sleek black metal, rows of rifles gleaming under pale artificial light.
Each rifle bore a floating tag:
> HK416 — 4,500 SP
FN SCAR-L — 5,200 SP
M4A1 SOPMOD — 4,800 SP
Thermal Scope Package — 3,000 SP
There were helmets, body armor sets, tactical vests, night-vision goggles, even a fully loaded combat drone quietly humming to itself like a waiting pet.
The System's voice slid into his ear — calm, velvet, and dripping with temptation:
> "Just say the word and I will grant you the men, and the tools to see all your desires come to fruition.
Let this world's pain and death become your path to power.
Let the rivers of blood flow and the skies rain fire.
Let this world be undone and remade in your image, my little Lord.
Just say it within your heart, and I will make sure you grow truly… strong."
The wind along the Leith paused, as though the world itself awaited his answer.
Strong, dressed as a green muscle god, merely tilted his head.
He looked at the racks of rifles, the blinking price tags, and made a soft, thoughtful sound —
> "Hmm."
Then, bored, he turned his gaze toward the flowing river.
The water sparkled faintly in the light of the menus, each ripple mirroring the weapon racks like distant stars.
The System faltered. The silence of disinterest was not part of its calculations.
Weapons meant destruction. Destruction meant points. Yet this child — this chosen one — looked at its catalogue of war as if it were a dull toy aisle.
So, the System adapted.
> "Very well," it whispered, voice sharpening. "Perhaps… something with more flair."
The ground beside Strong quivered.
Soil shifted, stone cracked, and from the earth rose Napoleon Bonaparte — young, uniform immaculate, his expression dazed and vaguely terrified. A glowing price tag hovered over his head:
> [NAPOLEON BONAPARTE — 50,000,000,000 SP]
Before the baby could react, the air shimmered again and two beautiful women appeared — their French maid dresses torn and dusted with dirt, price tags dangling before them:
> [FRENCH MAID (HISTORICAL PEASANT CLASS) — 1,500 SP each]
They looked around in confusion until a ripple of code passed through their eyes — the System's command taking hold. Their faces softened into practiced smiles. Their hands found their hips.
Behind them, a sleek red sports car spun into existence, its headlights flaring like suns. A 1945 M4A3E8 "Easy Eight" Sherman tank rolled up beside it, fresh paint gleaming, another tag hanging in the air: [750,000 SP].
Napoleon blinked rapidly, rubbing his temples as if fighting some unseen compulsion. Then, abruptly, he straightened, buttoned his coat, and stepped forward with a forced grin.
"Bienvenue, Monseigneur!" he proclaimed grandly, though his eyes betrayed panic. "Allow me to present—how do they say—our finest selection of instruments for… glory!"
He gestured toward the tank like a used-car salesman caught in purgatory.
The maids leaned over the sports car, posing, smiling mechanically, dust still clinging to their knees.
"Observe!" Napoleon continued, voice cracking slightly. "The finest machinery from history and beyond! A tank for your empire, a carriage for your victory parade, and—ah—two loyal attendants of… flexible skill sets!"
Strong stared at him in silence.
The wind along the valley carried the soft whisper of the river.
The baby blinked once, twice, then let out a quiet yawn.
The System froze, its grand illusion hanging awkwardly in place—Napoleon mid-gesture, the women smiling too brightly, the tank idling in confusion.
> "Subject remains… disinterested," the System muttered, irritation bleeding into its synthetic calm.
"Adjusting parameters…"
The showroom tore away like scenery on wires.
Night unfolded—an open ocean of grass under a moon without clouds. Dew smoked off the blades where the dream-air ran cold. In the middle of that field, a white flare cracked reality—and something vast arrived.
A cathedral of steel and scripture slid into being, kilometers of hull resolving from light to mass. Saintly frescoes marched along buttresses; sensor spires rose like organ pipes. Vox-cherubs fluttered as if sketched in fire. Napoleon and the maids reappeared a heartbeat later, stumbling as their feet found earth, price tags hovering faintly above their heads.
"An Imperial—ah—corvette," Napoleon announced, voice wobbling between awe and salesmanship. "A Claymore-class vessel. Approximately one point four kilometers in length, zero point three in beam at the fins, five point nine megatonnes in mass, and a crew capacity of twenty-one thousand." He swallowed, finding his smile. "Ideal for escort, patrol, and planetary—how you say—persuasion. It is, for a limited epoch, priced at three trillion Soul Points—crew included."
Strong, who had been yawning through rifles and history, finally blinked. The baby's eyes went round. A soft, thoughtful "hmm" escaped him.
Even the maids forgot to pose. Napoleon stared upward, the weight of a whole lost century collapsing in his chest. Along the corvette's flanks, guns the size of bell towers brooded in casemates; one glance told him more than any treatise: the grand batteries of France had been toys.
The System breathed a single word into Napoleon's skull: "Name."
He flinched as if struck, then whispered to no one, to everyone: "Saint Halitus."
The heavens tore in sound. Thrusters roared like choirs dragged through thunder. The Saint Halitus made her burn, bled furnace-light, and descended—city turned to blade. When she touched the plain, the world bowed. Soil glazed to glass in a widening halo. A perfect aureole of ash ringed the hull.
Silence.
She sat as a cathedral laid upon the earth. Along her spine, towers and shrines winked. Brass censers in the launch bays exhaled incense. Inside, the ship's organs rumbled the Canticle of Safe Arrival.
The forward ramp shuddered open.
White poured out. Steam billowed like a god's breath. From the glare emerged men and women in cobalt storm-coats and iron-crested helms—Armsmen of the Saint Halitus—boots striking in lockstep, rebreathers hissing, flak-plate clanking. Vox-casters threw the motto across the field:
> "To live is to serve; to serve is to burn bright."
At their head strode Captain-Primus Aureon Lasker, white command-coat threaded with aquila gold, hand resting on a power sabre sanctioned by the Segmentum Fleet. First Officer Hethra Voss followed, data-scrolls chained to breastplate, servo-skull painting hololithic runes in the mist. Two red-robed void-priests came after, mechatendrils swinging censers in perfect, ancient rhythm.
Platoons of Armsmen flowed next—five hundred steel-willed shadows, shotguns and carbines oiled with machine-blessing and holy water alike. Behind them, the press-ganged thousands of the engine decks: mortals with hands like tools and eyes like candles, bearing honor-banners embroidered with the ship's wars: Dorn's Belt. Phalanx Rift. Port Wander Reclamation.
The machine-spirit's vox-horn boomed completion of the Rite of Landing. Choirs within the hull answered through a hundred open hatches:
> "Ave Imperator. Terra invicta. The void is ours to burn."
Captain Lasker surveyed the dark plain, dew steaming under the ship's radiant heat. Lightning spidered low on the horizon, turning the grasslands into a slow silver sea. He raised his sabre; moonlight sparked along its edge like a star brought close.
"Saint Halitus has returned to soil," he said, the vox carrying him to every ear. "By the Emperor's breath, we claim this world for His light."
The soldiers knelt. The magi intoned the Litany of Consecration. The corvette loomed like a sleeping god.
And then—power condensed to its most ridiculous, unanswerable form.
Strong's attention wandered to the ground beneath his bottom.
He pinched a handful of grass, tugged it free with solemn effort, and tossed it up. The blades cartwheeled in the landing light; he giggled, delighted by how they sparkled and fell.
Everything stopped.
Napoleon, the maids, the captain, the magi, twenty-one thousand souls and a ship-spirit older than empires—everyone—watched a baby in a green Hulk costume discover grass.
For that instant it was obvious to all—even to the ship. This was the axis of the world. Not macro-batteries or sabres, not engines or rites. A child, warm with sleep, amused by grass more than anything else.
He was the center—the key who would decide whether they remained dream-ghosts or were purchased back into breath. The dream bent around the baby who, thus far, was unimpressed by them all. Even the System felt the tragedy of it. This infant, godlike within its circuits, chose who stayed dead and who rose; a small judge of life and death—and so far, it was the grass that had piqued his attention most.
The world blinked once, and dissolved. The System scrambled, rethinking how to entertain a less-than-a-day-old baby into spending points in ways that would earn even more.
It painted its pitch in a language his small, hungry mind could accept: a sea of warm milk, white and wide as a winter field, bobbing with Christmas food—pies, roasted joints, trays of mince pies drifting like little islands. Over that sea, winged crusaders sailed, feathers bright as an angel's, rifles hoisted like banners. Ridiculous and holy at once; wings clicked, and the milk steamed under a low, patient moon.
He looked up, and the moon became Anna's red hair in a soft halo, her face smiling down like a gentle god. Beneath her, Sheepy ran across that cloud-sky—a barking fluff of a dog—patrolling the horizon.
The System was desperate for him to do something, to spend, to trigger the engines of gain. But how does one tempt a baby into a calculus of points?
Strong only laughed in his sleep—an animal, delighted sound—and the milk rippled like applause. The System readied another clever prompt about how he could have anything he wanted… then let out a tired, invisible sigh.
With the simple clarity of a child escaping a strange play, Strong stirred awake. Drool cooled sweet on his lip. He tightened his grip on Anna's hair and rolled his head toward the mat-box entrance. Beyond the flap, Sheepy kept vigil—one eye half-open, one ear cocked. In the dark past the doorway, shadows moved where the nine crusaders and Braveheart were preparing—quiet hands, low whispers, steel and resolve collecting with the dawn.
He could make out men shifting in the underbrush. Braveheart's silhouette cut and uncut the trees as he paced; the others formed a line like soldiers. They no longer looked like a random mismatch but like the First Crusade rewritten by an armourer from the future: white FR surcoats with crimson crosses drawn over ceramic and polymer; crusader helms with great visors and black cross-slits; webbing and magazines strapped where mail once lay.
The three Light sets—the women—stood slim and hard in their great-visor ballistic helms with soft venting breaths; IIIA carriers with slim ceramic fronts hugged rib and waist; composite limb guards locked home with quiet clicks. Short AK carbines rode tight to the chest on two-point slings, red-dots glowing like tiny altar candles. Drums and box mags nested side by side on their belts and packs.
The five Heavy sets—the men—wore reinforced helms and plate carriers with Level III/IV ceramics, heavier limb shells and gauntlets. Their full-length AKs wore LPVO 1–6× glass, rings ready to turn from corridor to field. Drums bulged, box mags rattled; mission packs rode high.
Everyone dressed so—everyone except Sir Braveheart, who still looked like a homeless man: coat frayed, boots scarred, rain and tobacco about him—now a homeless man leading nine heavily armed and armoured crusaders. Sir Egg loomed among them, strength like a penance, moving with the shy care of a giant in a church.
Their movements made a faint click-and-clack—buckles, plates, polymer, optics—a new music to a baby's ear. It was the first time Strong had heard such sounds, and still he understood by the look and the noise that they were powerful.
Braveheart turned and leaned to look inside the mat-box. Behind him the first light of dawn was rising—cold, pewter grey. Anna stirred, rubbing her eyes. Strong pressed his cheek to her chest and blinked up at the ragged man who had somehow become a leader.
"Good morning, Miss Anna," Braveheart said—his voice soft and sure as a rope thrown to shore. "Do not worry. All will be well. Trust us. We will make you proud. We will make Scotland free again. Rest and do whatever you wish—we will meet again here or at your Hope estate. Now we must go."
Anna squinted, still sleepy, hardly tracking. "What are you…? Is it already breakfast time?" she murmured, dry and puzzled.
Braveheart smiled like a man who had just won the lottery and was about to rob a bank—because that was, essentially, what had happened and what he was about to do. He bent as if to bless the baby, then straightened. Sheepy blinked at him. The others took their cue and began to move. In order, they pushed through the bushes with heavy steps, the sound crisp in the chill air. Braveheart ran at their head, excitement in his stride. They stepped the shallow run of the Water of Leith and vanished onto the footpath—nine crusaders following a homeless madman.
They passed beneath Dean Bridge like something out of Comic-Con—marching first, then breaking into a sprint. Soon they cut off the path, crashed through wet brush, and spilled into the city. It opened before them in cold perspective: asphalt and lampposts; glass-banded buildings scabbed with graffiti; an abandoned lot yawning like a mouth—things the crusaders had never seen.
In the car park the white van waited, a hulking block with doors shut like a tomb. Braveheart had once meant to tie Anna and stuff her inside; now he thumbed the locks and waved the medieval men aboard. They filed into the rear like worshippers entering a chapel before war.
He slammed the back doors, slid into the driver's seat, glanced once over his shoulder, and said, "Fuck yeah—this is going to be awesome."
Inside, the crusaders clutched their rifles—carbines' red-dots winking, LPVO glass ringed to 1×—bayonets sheathed along barrels like narrow spears. Even the van amazed them; never had they seen so much iron in a war-wagon. Braveheart reached back, pressed a ten-pound note into Sir Egg's gauntlet, and said, "Remember—money. This is money. Go get me money, okay?" Sir Egg nodded, saintly and a little confused. Braveheart turned the key.
The engine coughed; the city unspooled in strips of glass and shuttered shops. In the cramped metal chapel at the back, they sat shoulder to shoulder—a grotesque choir of past and present. Prayers hissed behind visors, turning faces into icons rather than men.
Back at the mat-box, Anna snuffled and rolled. Strong burrowed deeper into her warmth. Sheepy, faithful and foolish, kept one lazy eye on the outside world—
—until Strong's bladder betrayed him. Warmth spread.
"Ewww! No, Strong—don't pee on me! Oh no!"
And so the first day of motherhood began for Anna.