⫸ [ TIME: +24 HOURS SINCE THE SKY WAR ]
⫸ [ LOCATION: BASE CAMP ALPHA – DETENTION SECTOR ]
⫸ [ STATUS: JUDGMENT ]
The rain had stopped, but the smell of ozone and wet ash lingered over the base.
The Detention Sector was a hastily erected cage of Void-Steel bars set into the bedrock of the crater. Inside, three hundred disciples of the Golden Crow Sect sat in the mud. They were stripped of their robes, their staves, and their dignity.
They huddled together, shivering. Without their artifacts, they were just men and women accustomed to tropical heat, now freezing in the cool night air of the jungle.
Elian stood outside the bars. He wore his grey undersuit. His new metal skin gleamed under the floodlights.
Alara stood next to him. She watched the prisoners with a mix of pity and fear.
"They are starving," Alara said.
"They are cultivators," Elian replied flatly. "They can live on ambient Aether for weeks. They are hungry for power, not food."
"You said you were going to turn them into batteries," Alara challenged. Her voice was quiet, but it held a steel that reminded Elian of her mother.
Elian looked at the schematic on his datapad. The Bio-Aetheric Generator. It was efficient. It solved the energy waste problem.
But then he looked at his daughter.
"I calculated the efficiency," Elian said. "It is high."
"It is evil," Alara said. "We are not them, Dad. We don't put people in cages and harvest them. That's what the Wardens do."
The word hung in the air. Wardens.
Elian lowered the pad. He sighed. It was a sound of mechanical exhaustion.
"Fine," Elian said. "Plan B."
He walked to the gate. Grom unlocked the heavy mag-seal.
Elian stepped inside.
The prisoners flinched. They looked at his metal skin, his cold blue eyes. To them, he was a demon of iron who had eaten their god.
"LISTEN," Elian's voice boomed, amplified by his vocal synthesizer.
The prisoners went still.
"Your Patriarch is dead," Elian said. "Your fleet is ash. Your Sect is dissolved."
A low murmur of despair went through the crowd.
"I offer you a choice," Elian continued. "Choice A: You stay here. We build the generator. You serve as living batteries until your spirits burn out."
Alara stiffened behind him.
"Choice B," Elian pointed to the North, toward the smoking wreckage of the Sun-Ark. "Labor. You are Spirit-Smiths. You know how to weave Aether into metal. You know how to grow crops in volcanic soil. You work for me."
An Elder stood up. He was bloodied, his arm in a sling.
"Work?" the Elder spat. "We are the Chosen of the Sun. We do not till the earth like peasants."
Elian didn't blink. He raised his hand. The Arbiter, holstered at his hip, hummed.
"Then you choose Choice C," Elian said.
"Choice C?" the Elder frowned.
"Compost."
Elian drew and fired in one fluid motion.
THUMP.
The railgun slug took the Elder's head off. The body collapsed into the mud.
The silence was absolute.
"Anyone else want to be fertilizer?" Elian asked calmly.
The prisoners dropped to their knees. They pressed their foreheads into the mud. It was the universal sign of submission.
"Good," Elian said. He turned to Grom. "Get them to the salvage yards. We need that gold stripped and melted down by sunset."
He walked out of the cage.
Alara was waiting. She looked pale, but she nodded.
"Labor," Alara said. "I can live with labor."
"It's not mercy, Alara," Elian warned her. "It's logistics. Dead men don't build empires."
⬡ ─── ⬡ ─── ⬡
⫸ [ TIME: 10:00 AETHELGARD STANDARD TIME ]
⫸ [ LOCATION: THE WRECKAGE OF THE "GOLDEN DAWN" ]
⫸ [ STATUS: INTEL RETRIEVAL ]
The flagship lay on its side in the jungle, broken in half like a snapped twig.
Elian and Disciple Lin walked through the ruined corridors of the bridge tower. The gravity here was twisted; in some places, they walked on the walls.
"This is where the Admiral kept his logs," Lin said, pointing to a crushed room lined with scroll racks.
Most of the scrolls were burned. But one object remained intact.
A Memory Stone. A glowing crystal sphere used to record high-level data.
Elian picked it up.
"A.R.C., interface."
[ Scanning... ]
[ Data format is encrypted. Aetheric Cipher. ]
[ Brute-forcing... ]
The crystal flickered. A hologram projected into the smoky air.
It showed the Admiral bowing before a massive, floating screen.
On the screen was not a Cultivator.
It was a face Elian recognized. Or rather, a mask.
It was a Federation High-Command Helmet. Standard issue for Planetary Governors.
"The harvest is late, Admiral," the Governor's voice said. It was distorted, digital. "The Quota must be met. The Core World needs the Aether."
"My Lord," the Admiral pleaded. "The mortals are weak this cycle. The yield is low."
"Then cull the weak," the Governor commanded. "Burn the villages. Stress induces cultivation. Fear ripens the soul. Increase the pressure."
The recording ended.
Elian stared at the empty air.
Lin looked confused. "Who was that? A god from the Upper Realm?"
"No," Elian whispered. "A bureaucrat."
He crushed the memory stone in his metal fist. Powder drifted to the floor.
"I was right," Elian said. "The 'Gods' aren't Ascended Immortals. They are Federation Administrators. They are farming this planet for psychic energy."
[ Analysis Complete. ]
[ "Aether" appears to be a biological by-product of the local ecosystem, refined by the human nervous system. ]
[ The Federation is harvesting it as a high-efficiency fuel source. ]
[ The Golden Crow Sect were just the overseers. Middle management. ]
"And we just fired the managers," Elian said grimly.
"What happens when the owner finds out?" Lin asked.
Elian walked to the viewport of the wrecked bridge. He looked up at the sky, past the clouds, toward the faint stars where the Federation ships waited.
"They will send a liquidation squad," Elian said. "Not Cultivators. Marines. Mechs. Orbital bombardments."
He turned back to Lin.
"How long until the 'Harvest' is due?"
Lin thought for a moment. "The Great Offering is every ten years. The next one is... in six months."
"Six months," Elian repeated.
He activated his comms.
"Grom. Stop the salvage."
"COMMANDER?"
"Shift priority," Elian ordered. "We aren't building a kingdom anymore. We are building a bunker."
"Why?"
"Because we just declared war on the Federation," Elian said. "And they don't fight with fireballs. They fight with nukes."
⬡ ─── ⬡ ─── ⬡
⫸ [ TIME: 18:00 AETHELGARD STANDARD TIME ]
⫸ [ LOCATION: BASE CAMP ALPHA – THE FABRICATOR ]
⫸ [ STATUS: TECH TREE UPDATE ]
Elian stood before the Fabricator.
The machine was humming, processing the gold and Void-Steel salvaged from the wreck.
On the screen, the Tech Tree was displayed.
Most options were greyed out due to lack of materials.
But with the Titan Heart (Infinite Energy) and the Sun-Ark Scraps (High-Quality Alloys), new paths had opened.
◤ UNLOCKED SCHEMATICS ◢
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
⬢ Project: THE IRON LEGION
⬢ Item: Mark-II Standard Combat Armor (Mass Production)
⬢ User: Giant / Deep-Kin Infantry
⬢ Cost: High Alloy / Void-Steel
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
⬢ Project: SKY-SHIELD
⬢ Item: Planetary Defense Battery (Surface-to-Orbit)
⬢ Requirement: 12 Titan Hearts (Current: 1)
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"We can't fight a fleet in orbit," Elian muttered. "Not yet."
He selected Project: THE IRON LEGION.
"We arm the Giants," Elian decided. "No more scrap metal shields. I want powered servo-assist armor for every soldier. I want Rail-Pikes. I want them to be able to punch a mech in the face."
[ Confirm. Initiating Mass Production of Mark-II Infantry Armor. ]
Elian looked at his own hand. The grey scales were settling. He felt stronger every day. The Tier 2 upgrade was fully integrated.
"A.R.C., what about me?"
[ Analysis of Biology. ]
[ You have reached the limit of "Passive" Cultivation. ]
[ To reach Tier 3 (Nuclear/Core Formation), you need an internal power source. ]
[ You cannot grow a Spirit Core. You are human. ]
"I have the Titan Heart," Elian said. "It's in the ship."
[ Correct. To reach Tier 3, you would need to miniaturize a fusion reactor and implant it into your chest cavity. ]
[ Effectively replacing your biological heart with a machine. ]
Elian touched his chest. He could feel his heart beating—slow, steady, human.
"Not yet," Elian whispered. "I'm not ready to cut that out yet."
He turned away from the screen.
"Focus on the army. Six months. We have six months to turn a tribe of savages into a Space Marine chapter."
He walked out into the night.
The fires of the forges were burning brighter than the stars. The Giants were hammering metal. The Deep-Kin were chanting the rhythm of the work.
It was the sound of a planet waking up.
[END OF CHAPTER 30]