Post by ingen on Jan 31, 2024 22:38:59 GMT
MARCHAND SYSTEM
Admiral George Chase glanced at his console. Even as his eyes traversed, he caught the flip. A single light changed from ruby red to emerald green. Go. The Crucible system at the heart of Otakemaru Station was ready to fire. He looked over at the timer on his left-hand screen. It clanked, number by number, down towards 00:00. The planet had been given warning, or rather the embassies and foreign corporations had been quietly notified and everyone else had to rely on word of mouth or deduction.
The colossal superweapon lurking at the edge of the system like a great sea beast was not hard to spot, nor were the giant energy readings emanating from it. The panic had been instant, as foreign governments and organisations sought to evacuate their people, floods of vessels ranging from shuttles to full warships powering out of atmosphere and fleeing the system, a few curious souls turning once they were past the Cantonese fleet lines to watch the horrific and seemingly inevitable events that were to follow. They had been preceeded by Cantonese ships which had evacuated the 'advisory' forces of the Laptev Axis. No Marchanders had been evacuated. The Premier and many of his staff were dead. The loyalist Federal Guard were in tatters, retreating on multiple fronts as their general staff died on the frontlines, fled their posts or worse took themselves over to the enemy.
A Marchander vessel arced past one of his pickets, and there was a sudden flare of light as it was blasted from the void. The Cantonese had a list of people and entities on Marchand linked to the Cult, and were sinking any connected vessels that tried to leave. Beyond them, a huge cluster of contacts revealed the approach of the Zdenii fleet. Although much battered during the Second Battle of Marchand, the survivors had retreated to their murky fastnesses and had been repaired and reinforced over the last year or so, and were now back in numbers sufficient to give the Cantonese pause.
Their presence was moot, however.
Chase took a breath.
"You may fire when ready."
He heard the chatter of the bridge crew and the communications with engineering below. There was a whining noise and then the whole station shook, buffetted by the very energies it was releasing. A blinding beam sprang from its maw, springing towards Sarnath, the star at the center of the system. The star seemed to bulge with the impact, a trick of the light at first, but as the beam continued to core into the helpless sun it began to swell, suddenly growing as a shockwave tore it apart from inside, losing its cohesion and exploding in a vast cloud of energy and superheated matter.
The ravenous deity they had created pounced on everything around it, engulfing first the tiny barren planets in the system core before flooding over Marchand like a great tide. The planet burned before the star even reached it, intense heat combusting every living thing on the surface and boiling the seas moments before a wave of dying solar matter scorched the planet, shuddering it into nothingness. Caught unawares, the Zdenii fleet was destroyed in less than a heartbeat, their tiny vessels simply winking out of existence as the fire overtook them. Zdeno was next, its vast and deep oceans actually visible for a few moments as steam flash-freezing in space before Zdeno too was consumed.
The explosion battered the distant Cantonese ships with waves of radiation and energy, but their systems withstood the gentle tide of ruin without serious complaint.
Chase closed his eyes. At his command, billions of lives, many of them guilty only of being too weak to resist the Merger, had been extininguished. He had once trained his guns on the planet Valcain and threatened to do the same, but that time he had known it was a bluff. He did not know if his younger self could have committed this action. He did not know if his older self should have.
---
What can be said? What can be done when such a thing of evil has transpired? When words have failed, when all reason has left the ones who are responsible?
This is what the Saxheelians say - for indeed, what can be done? A system destroyed, billions dead, and now a war doomed to escalate in ways beyond this one singular system, this one singular empire.
Condemning in the strongest possible terms was pissing in the wind. They knew that. Everyone knew it when they would inevitably condemn it too. But that first step was hard for many, and Ladon did not shame them for that challenge.
He did, however, desire a resolution. What that resolution could be evaded Him and the other Sax. There were no doubt Marchandese elsewhere in the galaxy who suddenly found themselves without a homeworld, without families.
Thus, it was decided that alongside their obvious scathing condemnation and demand for the disarmament of Canton that the Meta-Sax would offer any and all support they could to the people who had just lost their homeworlds. Whether that was finding a new haven for them, or simply helping them move to be with more of their own, both options were presented.
Attempting to use both some of their SAGA and CONA connections, the Sax make as much an effort as one can hope to rope in diplomats of the various parties to not escalate. To not retaliate. To not use their own superweapons in an endless cascade of ruinous death. To instead collectively, as a galactic peoples, call the ones responsible for this horror to justice.
They plead, they beg, they point to a trail of death ten thousand years long and shake in anguish because they know that such pleas will likely fall upon deaf ears, upon minds closed shut in their own burning rage.
But they are Saxheelian, and they must yet still try. For even in that final moment, before a deep doom settles upon the vastness of the universe, one can yet still spurn the end with an endeavor of hope and faith.
---
They didn't know much about Canton, having never even officially engaged in relations at any point in the past or the present. However it wasn't about relations for them anymore, it was about survival. Some saw it as crossing the line, others saw it as a mistake that the future would be paying for, but there were too many who saw it as justice.
The Second Dawn was a very charged nation when it came to politics, with so many conflictive ideologies all being bottled up into one nation with a hyperaggressive government. It made them vocal when others stayed quiet, it made them angry when others got sad, but above all else, it made them volatile. So when they had learned of the crucible that was pointed at Marchand they didn't denounce or condemn it, they didn't try and quietly reach out through any diplomatic channels and talk them down, they supported it. And not only did they support it, but they condemned those who had condemned it.
And they were more than ready to act on those words their government was practically foaming at the mouth for something to take their citizen's minds off of their recent shortcomings. What better way to do that than to give them something that they can all hate? So that was what they did. Recruiting Advertisements, propaganda videos, disinformation and smear campaigns, anything and everything they could to radicalize the active population against the "Native Menace."
They wanted to burn your homes down and call it "Liberation." They wanted to seize your factories and call it "Pacification." They wanted to kill your protectors and call it "Justice." All while they distributed production orders to foundries, training regimens to shipyards and fleets, promotions to personnel and schematics to laboratories.
Then various politicians took to the media and started giving long-winded speeches about their pride for their country and how Canton was no eviler than anyone else, how they were exercising a much-needed right of defence for their people and ideals. They called on their allies, their friends and their family for support. Then Archon-1 himself spoke; delivering a long speech about how the time to strike was now, while the iron was still hot. He called the ceasefire an ignorant mistake, that peace was always going to be impossible. He called on the Second Dawn's allies to not stop in shock but to scream out in rage and strike against the very heart of all what they perceived as the galaxy's problems: CONA.
Meanwhile, deep in the heart of the Second Dawn, a select series of laboratories sent reports back to the capital. Reports that once read spawned plans of their own, plans that spawned convoys of antimatter and reservations for shipyards. If there was to be a retaliation for what happened with that crucible? Then so be it, they would more than happily respond in kind.
---
Field Marshal Timotei Barbu stood, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed upon a screen showing a live display beaming from afar, and the distant expanse of space where the once thriving planet Marchand had once been. It was now naught but a swirling maelstrom of debris, a testament to the raw power of the Crucible – that merciless creation they had named "Otakemaru Station."
There was a bitter taste of victory (for now), and Barbu's thoughts churned like the turbulent currents of a stormy sea. The Laptev Axis, that age old alliance of Laptev nations, had orchestrated the creation of the Cataclysmic weapon. Yet, as he surveyed the aftermath, the actions of the Tourmaline Canton, his ally, had been beyond his control. The collective might of the Cantonese engineers, their own technological brilliance, had been set in motion with an inevitability that now seemed both terrifying and liberating.
A conflicted smile tugged at the corner of Barbu's lips. He found himself embracing the destruction before him, not out of malevolence, but out of an undeniable thrill. In the deepest recesses of his mind, he admitted to a perverse satisfaction. Marchand's fate was sealed, not by his hand alone, but by the convergence of purpose between two powerful nations. The realization that he was but one pawn in this grand symphony did little to quell the surge of exultation that coursed through his veins.
As the echoes of Marchand's demise would now reverberate through the galaxy, Barbu pondered the reaction that would soon reverberate through Imaginarium. The weak politicians back on the home world would be rattled, their hearts gripped by the icy fingers of fear and uncertainty. They would be concerned for the future of their colonies in Ancerious, (and, the comfort that the Ancerious territories had brought), none understanding the true circumstances of life on the ground, as Barbu understood it.
It was a sensation Barbu knew well, having walked a little along the corridors of power himself, and seen the complacency and fear of the political class. But now, gazing upon the obliteration, he found himself straddling two worlds – one of merciless pragmatism and another of detached complacency.
His mind was now a centre for introspection. The growing disconnects between the realities of Ancerious and the cosseted existence of Imaginarium gnawed at his thoughts. The corridors of power, lined with plush cushions of comfort and privilege, seemed more distant with each passing moment. It was as if he stood at a precipice, one foot firmly planted in the realm of stark, unyielding truths, and the other dangling over the abyss of a complacent dream.
A newfound conviction took root within his heart. The alliance with the Tourmaline Canton, the unleashing of Otakemaru Station, had forever altered his perspective. The galaxy beyond, rife with chaos and untamed wilderness, so scared of the actions of the Laptev Axis, so ready to condemn, suddenly seemed uncivilized in comparison to their calculated actions.
Barbu's fingers clenched into fists, his eyes narrowing as his gaze hardened. The mantle of power, once an abstract notion, now beckoned to him with undeniable allure. He had been a steward of Imaginarium's interests, a loyal servant of the greater good. Yet now, the fires of ambition began to burn brighter within his breast, casting shadows that danced and flickered with treacherous promise.
As the last remnants of Marchand dispersed into the void, Barbu's mind was set ablaze with a resolve that would shape his destiny. The course was clear – the time had come to seize power, to mold the galaxy according to his convictions, and to forge a new era in which the Socialist Republics of Imaginarium and the Tourmaline Canton would stand as architects of order amidst the chaos.
Come what may, the Imaginese territories of Ancerious stood resolute, unwavering in their commitment to the Laptev Axis and their formidable allies. As distant politicians engaged in endless debates within the sheltered chambers of the home world, Field Marshal Timotei Barbu knew that the true crucible of destiny lay in the untamed reaches of space. He would be a man of action, a catalyst of change, unafraid to shape the course of history with his unwavering resolve. Amidst the cosmic turmoil and the echoes of destruction, Barbu had found his purpose – to stand as a steadfast guardian of order and to wield the might of the Laptev Axis to forge a future that would echo through the ages.
A smile, both enigmatic and potent, played upon Barbu's lips as he turned away from the display screen. The die had been cast, and the stars themselves bore witness to the birth of a new force within Ancerious.
His own rise had begun, and the galaxy would soon know his name.
---
Life, Death, Time.
Life, the existence of movement.
Death, the end of movement.
Time, an endless cycle.
Each concept, each force, each form of the universe. The three primordial concepts of the universe, ones bound to the universe. Each made the other important, each made the other significant, each made the other understandable. In the primordial ether of the universe, these gods made sure the universe went forward, kept it meaningful. They made stars significant, they made supernovas powerful, they made light patient. Without these, the primordial era would've been the end of the universe, an empty void of meaninglessness. Yet, life was the only one capable of changing the balance of power between the gods.
Little by little, movement made the ingredients for more complex movements. Each step made the next one better, each creation made the next bigger, each pact made the next stronger. Life, the most vulnerable god, yet the most powerful one. Death only allowed it to spread as much as it wanted to, Time was the only one who allowed the movement. Yet, Life was the only one capable of creation, of motion towards progress. Little by little, eon by eon, Life got better at moving, at creation. And then, one day, Life created something beyond the primordials, beyond itself. It was something abstract, something beyond understanding, something that could not only exist, but perceive its own existence and the existence of everything else. Life had created everything else, this one had created Consciousness.
Life bound Consciousness to itself, a pact that could not be broken. With Consciousness, Life created civilization. Life controlled everything it needed, while letting Consciousness free little by little. With Consciousness, Death was conquered, banished to the sands of irrelevance, of history. Time became irrelevant with Death gone. So, only Life existed. Yet, Time still existed, Time still affected everything, but Life was eternal.
Lillian closed the book within her mind, the images it once contained lost to her from the Fall. It used to be a childrens book, one ancient even to her. It was the oldest recorded book ever found in her universe, outdating herself by millions of years. Yet, it spoke of a story familiar to her. It sung a dream of a different existence to everyone who read it, one even she was swayed by. It spoke of the ultimate vision, the ultimate existence. It was familiar. No- she chuckled. it wasn't just a vague deja vu.
She had seen that story before, it was the story of her existence.
Yet, as she saw the shining glow of a laser in slow motion, she wondered. With every meter it went forward, she asked herself if that children's book was truly found complete. As she saw the beam hit the atmosphere of the planet, she wondered if the dream of another existence could ever become true. As she watched billions begin to have their atoms ripped apart, she could fathom everything but one thing. As she saw the consequences of war, she could only repeat the same question. Over and over, even as every individual body she had began to cry with zero emotion in their faces, even as her nation went into an absolute halt, even as she could see everything the universe had to offer. One singular question she had asked once before.
Just.... Why?
Words, the thing that made civilization possible. Communication, the thing that made the existence of nations even a possibility. They could stop the death of races, they could create entirely new ones. Yet, in that moment, they failed. In that moment, they could not help the billions that called Marchand home. Even with a billion words, even with a trillion mouths, even with quintillions of thoughts. Nothing, absolutely nothing could stop the push of that button. Life was truly the greatest primordial god, yet Death could not be fully eliminated. Death, Death was also eternal.
Her face was indescribable, its complex muscle systems could not hope to express what she was feeling. Her software simply froze, letting every imput through without filter. The scream of the cosmos could not compare to the scream of the billions dead before her. She heard the cries of sorrow, she heard the smiles of soulless bastards, she heard the horns of war. She had tried, she had failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
FailureFailureFailureFailureFailureFailureFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILU
She heard the gentle laughter of a Selenican, the steamy chuckle of a Svarthan, the gentle hum of Saxheelian organics. She heard the bombastic determination of the Coronan, the search for peace from the Union, the search for knowledge of the citizen. Yes, even if she had failed there, even if everyone had failed there, it wasn't over. Even if the most violent and xenophobic leader of a Reborn screamed for more bloodshed, even if the most diplomatic and kind Kel'thulian sobbed at the death, even if she was helpless, it was not over.
Life did not create by sitting idly, letting Death and Time control it. Life sought out, Life changed, Life created. Even if from within the disciples of Death fought, Life could overcome. Her shipyards, like a sleeping giant, begun to wake up with a brilliance. All throughout her nation, the frozen and distraught Lillian did not kneel to the boot of destruction. Her ships began to move once again, began to fight even harder, began to fly even faster, began to breathe a second wind.
She would not choose a side, for both had fundamental flaws from withing. She would not fight for either side, for an eye for an eye only made the whole world blind. She would not speak for either side, for words would only antagonize even more. She would not act for either side.
She would act for life.
From deep within her territory, a bell began to toll. The noise was faint, yet it made its way towards those who wanted to help. Not to help a side, but to help the ones in need. Her industry began to produce more food, more medicine, more material. She did not side with Death, she fought with Life.
A flower began to unfurl, one that had died in the cold winter of Death. It had remained long dormant, its beautiful petals gone to the decay of time. Yet, it began to open, as a new song, a new call began.
A call, one of benevolence, one of healing, one of longing for that dream of another existence. She would not use words, she would use action. All those who needed help would find it with her. All those who found themselves forcibly removed from their homes could find one with her. All those who needed a shield from the war could find it with her. She did not fight to prove her ideology, she fought to protect the weak. Be it native of colonial.
She called for those who wished to help, those who wished for funding in helping the drifting souls within the void. She called to help the ones in need, the ones hurt, the ones injured. For the leaves of the Lotus did not discriminate, it only saw people in need. Yet, it knew of those who wish nothing but destruction. It had seen what a flower without thorns would experience. And so, the thorny vines of the flower began to sprout, ships beginning to be manufactured.
Life would be eternal, for Life would not allow itself to extinguish.
The White Lotus bloomed.
---
DEATHTOUCHED FONT – MINEVAN SHIP, PALLIN MORGA
“Regrettable, they say.” The ancient man spoke. His back was hunched in a startling arch, paired with a trembling body that made standing on his own seem a great feat. He scoffed, repeating the word. “Regrettable.”
He stood before the wide pit carved into the tiled floor, whose rugged contours and divots led to a singular point at the bottom; dark, bare stone which had been gently eroded by the essence of those drawn into it and stained crimson for countless millennia before. This stone platform with its pit appeared to its inhabitants to be floating in the cosmos, the distant specks of stars, celestial bodies, and even the odd pair of vessels dwarfing those upon it.
They were washed over in the incandescence, dozens engulfed in white light as Sarnath culminated its existence as an angry god. The Minevans watched in wonder as billions were being extinguished.
“Khalta Zandaval,” The youth flanking the old man addressed him, questioningly. He was not enjoying the display as outwardly as his elder, it seemed.
“They are calling this act regrettable, but necessary, Keth,” Zandaval flashed a toothy grin back to the youth, his long fangs stained and discolored in the wake of his age. “That foolish Reiko boy and his retainers. Regrettable. But necessary, of course. In truth, they- we are relishing in this moment.”
Keth swallowed hard, watching Zandaval hobble towards the edge of the pit, not long before he craned his neck back to the furious star in its death throes. What Keth was bearing witness to, he had only seen as referenced as history; just a generation ago, weapons that could reshape cosmic geography in the blink of an eye were staples of galactic warfare once and again. He was watching billions perish- and what was certainly the opening note to many billions more perishing.
“I was there, boy. When the Immortal Empire utilized weapons like this and erased entire nations from galactic memory. When the Inarists used the exact same weapon to kill billions of us,” Sandaval’s bony finger pointed shakily to Sarnath, “And now, they will all see, that we and our ilk will not simply stand by to be eradicated as they play at godhood again and again. Even the Reiko boy that sent us here knows it is time.”
The sound of a rushing river could be heard far below, and a torrent of crimson began to flow forcefully in the bottom of the pit, conjured from nothing. The fluid bubbled and foamed as it ran in its whirlpool, and slowly it began to rise ever so slowly toward them.
“At last, we will wield that will and fortitude ourselves,” Zandaval remarked, gazing down into the bloody maelstrom from his ledge. Around the pit, the dozens of Minevans approached and came to stand at even intervals. Each looked to Sandaval, and each bore the sacred mark of their patron goddess, Feffner; a single, solid eye of red that marked Her Deathtouched- conduits of the living and what was beyond.
The elder raised his quaking right arm high, empty-handed. In unison the Deathtouched mirrored his movement- each firmly gripping a traditional two-pronged knife. Sandaval tapped an empty fist on his chest, and each of the Deathtouched found their heart. Their bodies tumbled into the rising pool of essence below.
Keth watched his mentor, the words stolen from his open mouth.
“With just a drop of life from the billions on Marchand, and Feffner’s own…”
Sandaval wheezed, shambling towards the edge- the pool of crimson was reaching the top. The older man was wasting away by the moment- his skin drying, tightening, cracking as his tissue lost volume. The elder’s great effort was orchestrating a ritual of a planetary scale, and his body could no longer take the torment. Sandaval was little more than bones as he scraped forward.
“Finally, they will heel to us…”
Keth watched as the skeleton of a man cast himself gleefully into the hungry tide.
---
CAIRN-DORAIN, SOVEREIGN SHIP OF CLAG BAIN
Sev Ironsides, a tower of a woman, sat at the throne in the end of her Great Hall- whose hearths were not lit, with no food on the tables, nor guests filling its hundreds of meters of length before her. Instead sat before her was a small assortment of her officers and picked warriors sullenly watching the display that floated before them in the air of the chamber. Marchand was gone- the Canton, and by extension their Laptev Axis, was responsible for it.
Sev had taken the initiative to commit Clag Bain to the blockade efforts well before Kesaev Reiko had consulted her for it; he had only provided caveats for her to receive and assist a Khaltic coven to capitalize on the billions of Marchanders sentenced to die. As Sovereign, she lived to serve the will of the Tybrus and the Minevans of her nation; it was only a bonus as she learned the true purpose of Khalta Sandaval’s troupe to construct a magnificent weapon to wield on behalf of her countrymen.
It was to be no simple tool, such as the one she was firmly gripping the pommel of- the gargantuan maul wielded by Clag Baini Sovereigns known as the Soulcrusher. No- the living essence of these victims would be cast in the First Flame of her people and forged into something truly terrifying.
“Tell our Tybrus it is complete. We will return to Libena, and we will present him his weapon.”
---
MARCHAND SYSTEM
Already, through the chaos of the sensor readings that had flooded the system, it was possible to detect the early signs of a neutron star forming amidst the stellar ruin. The planets of Marchand and Zdeno, along with the other celestial bodies in the system, were all gone save for Luuch, a dwarf planet on a distant orbit that was now doomed to sail through darkened skies, freed from its celestial anchor.
After some time, the Otakemaru Station opened a Slipgate and departed the system, followed by its escorts as the fleet returned to Sanrin, leaving the dying embers of two ancient civilisations in their wake.
But the system was not empty. In the void, amongst the swirling motes of radioactive matter, something lingered.
Watching.
Waiting.
Admiral George Chase glanced at his console. Even as his eyes traversed, he caught the flip. A single light changed from ruby red to emerald green. Go. The Crucible system at the heart of Otakemaru Station was ready to fire. He looked over at the timer on his left-hand screen. It clanked, number by number, down towards 00:00. The planet had been given warning, or rather the embassies and foreign corporations had been quietly notified and everyone else had to rely on word of mouth or deduction.
The colossal superweapon lurking at the edge of the system like a great sea beast was not hard to spot, nor were the giant energy readings emanating from it. The panic had been instant, as foreign governments and organisations sought to evacuate their people, floods of vessels ranging from shuttles to full warships powering out of atmosphere and fleeing the system, a few curious souls turning once they were past the Cantonese fleet lines to watch the horrific and seemingly inevitable events that were to follow. They had been preceeded by Cantonese ships which had evacuated the 'advisory' forces of the Laptev Axis. No Marchanders had been evacuated. The Premier and many of his staff were dead. The loyalist Federal Guard were in tatters, retreating on multiple fronts as their general staff died on the frontlines, fled their posts or worse took themselves over to the enemy.
A Marchander vessel arced past one of his pickets, and there was a sudden flare of light as it was blasted from the void. The Cantonese had a list of people and entities on Marchand linked to the Cult, and were sinking any connected vessels that tried to leave. Beyond them, a huge cluster of contacts revealed the approach of the Zdenii fleet. Although much battered during the Second Battle of Marchand, the survivors had retreated to their murky fastnesses and had been repaired and reinforced over the last year or so, and were now back in numbers sufficient to give the Cantonese pause.
Their presence was moot, however.
Chase took a breath.
"You may fire when ready."
He heard the chatter of the bridge crew and the communications with engineering below. There was a whining noise and then the whole station shook, buffetted by the very energies it was releasing. A blinding beam sprang from its maw, springing towards Sarnath, the star at the center of the system. The star seemed to bulge with the impact, a trick of the light at first, but as the beam continued to core into the helpless sun it began to swell, suddenly growing as a shockwave tore it apart from inside, losing its cohesion and exploding in a vast cloud of energy and superheated matter.
The ravenous deity they had created pounced on everything around it, engulfing first the tiny barren planets in the system core before flooding over Marchand like a great tide. The planet burned before the star even reached it, intense heat combusting every living thing on the surface and boiling the seas moments before a wave of dying solar matter scorched the planet, shuddering it into nothingness. Caught unawares, the Zdenii fleet was destroyed in less than a heartbeat, their tiny vessels simply winking out of existence as the fire overtook them. Zdeno was next, its vast and deep oceans actually visible for a few moments as steam flash-freezing in space before Zdeno too was consumed.
The explosion battered the distant Cantonese ships with waves of radiation and energy, but their systems withstood the gentle tide of ruin without serious complaint.
Chase closed his eyes. At his command, billions of lives, many of them guilty only of being too weak to resist the Merger, had been extininguished. He had once trained his guns on the planet Valcain and threatened to do the same, but that time he had known it was a bluff. He did not know if his younger self could have committed this action. He did not know if his older self should have.
---
What can be said? What can be done when such a thing of evil has transpired? When words have failed, when all reason has left the ones who are responsible?
This is what the Saxheelians say - for indeed, what can be done? A system destroyed, billions dead, and now a war doomed to escalate in ways beyond this one singular system, this one singular empire.
Condemning in the strongest possible terms was pissing in the wind. They knew that. Everyone knew it when they would inevitably condemn it too. But that first step was hard for many, and Ladon did not shame them for that challenge.
He did, however, desire a resolution. What that resolution could be evaded Him and the other Sax. There were no doubt Marchandese elsewhere in the galaxy who suddenly found themselves without a homeworld, without families.
Thus, it was decided that alongside their obvious scathing condemnation and demand for the disarmament of Canton that the Meta-Sax would offer any and all support they could to the people who had just lost their homeworlds. Whether that was finding a new haven for them, or simply helping them move to be with more of their own, both options were presented.
Attempting to use both some of their SAGA and CONA connections, the Sax make as much an effort as one can hope to rope in diplomats of the various parties to not escalate. To not retaliate. To not use their own superweapons in an endless cascade of ruinous death. To instead collectively, as a galactic peoples, call the ones responsible for this horror to justice.
They plead, they beg, they point to a trail of death ten thousand years long and shake in anguish because they know that such pleas will likely fall upon deaf ears, upon minds closed shut in their own burning rage.
But they are Saxheelian, and they must yet still try. For even in that final moment, before a deep doom settles upon the vastness of the universe, one can yet still spurn the end with an endeavor of hope and faith.
---
They didn't know much about Canton, having never even officially engaged in relations at any point in the past or the present. However it wasn't about relations for them anymore, it was about survival. Some saw it as crossing the line, others saw it as a mistake that the future would be paying for, but there were too many who saw it as justice.
The Second Dawn was a very charged nation when it came to politics, with so many conflictive ideologies all being bottled up into one nation with a hyperaggressive government. It made them vocal when others stayed quiet, it made them angry when others got sad, but above all else, it made them volatile. So when they had learned of the crucible that was pointed at Marchand they didn't denounce or condemn it, they didn't try and quietly reach out through any diplomatic channels and talk them down, they supported it. And not only did they support it, but they condemned those who had condemned it.
And they were more than ready to act on those words their government was practically foaming at the mouth for something to take their citizen's minds off of their recent shortcomings. What better way to do that than to give them something that they can all hate? So that was what they did. Recruiting Advertisements, propaganda videos, disinformation and smear campaigns, anything and everything they could to radicalize the active population against the "Native Menace."
They wanted to burn your homes down and call it "Liberation." They wanted to seize your factories and call it "Pacification." They wanted to kill your protectors and call it "Justice." All while they distributed production orders to foundries, training regimens to shipyards and fleets, promotions to personnel and schematics to laboratories.
Then various politicians took to the media and started giving long-winded speeches about their pride for their country and how Canton was no eviler than anyone else, how they were exercising a much-needed right of defence for their people and ideals. They called on their allies, their friends and their family for support. Then Archon-1 himself spoke; delivering a long speech about how the time to strike was now, while the iron was still hot. He called the ceasefire an ignorant mistake, that peace was always going to be impossible. He called on the Second Dawn's allies to not stop in shock but to scream out in rage and strike against the very heart of all what they perceived as the galaxy's problems: CONA.
Meanwhile, deep in the heart of the Second Dawn, a select series of laboratories sent reports back to the capital. Reports that once read spawned plans of their own, plans that spawned convoys of antimatter and reservations for shipyards. If there was to be a retaliation for what happened with that crucible? Then so be it, they would more than happily respond in kind.
---
Field Marshal Timotei Barbu stood, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed upon a screen showing a live display beaming from afar, and the distant expanse of space where the once thriving planet Marchand had once been. It was now naught but a swirling maelstrom of debris, a testament to the raw power of the Crucible – that merciless creation they had named "Otakemaru Station."
There was a bitter taste of victory (for now), and Barbu's thoughts churned like the turbulent currents of a stormy sea. The Laptev Axis, that age old alliance of Laptev nations, had orchestrated the creation of the Cataclysmic weapon. Yet, as he surveyed the aftermath, the actions of the Tourmaline Canton, his ally, had been beyond his control. The collective might of the Cantonese engineers, their own technological brilliance, had been set in motion with an inevitability that now seemed both terrifying and liberating.
A conflicted smile tugged at the corner of Barbu's lips. He found himself embracing the destruction before him, not out of malevolence, but out of an undeniable thrill. In the deepest recesses of his mind, he admitted to a perverse satisfaction. Marchand's fate was sealed, not by his hand alone, but by the convergence of purpose between two powerful nations. The realization that he was but one pawn in this grand symphony did little to quell the surge of exultation that coursed through his veins.
As the echoes of Marchand's demise would now reverberate through the galaxy, Barbu pondered the reaction that would soon reverberate through Imaginarium. The weak politicians back on the home world would be rattled, their hearts gripped by the icy fingers of fear and uncertainty. They would be concerned for the future of their colonies in Ancerious, (and, the comfort that the Ancerious territories had brought), none understanding the true circumstances of life on the ground, as Barbu understood it.
It was a sensation Barbu knew well, having walked a little along the corridors of power himself, and seen the complacency and fear of the political class. But now, gazing upon the obliteration, he found himself straddling two worlds – one of merciless pragmatism and another of detached complacency.
His mind was now a centre for introspection. The growing disconnects between the realities of Ancerious and the cosseted existence of Imaginarium gnawed at his thoughts. The corridors of power, lined with plush cushions of comfort and privilege, seemed more distant with each passing moment. It was as if he stood at a precipice, one foot firmly planted in the realm of stark, unyielding truths, and the other dangling over the abyss of a complacent dream.
A newfound conviction took root within his heart. The alliance with the Tourmaline Canton, the unleashing of Otakemaru Station, had forever altered his perspective. The galaxy beyond, rife with chaos and untamed wilderness, so scared of the actions of the Laptev Axis, so ready to condemn, suddenly seemed uncivilized in comparison to their calculated actions.
Barbu's fingers clenched into fists, his eyes narrowing as his gaze hardened. The mantle of power, once an abstract notion, now beckoned to him with undeniable allure. He had been a steward of Imaginarium's interests, a loyal servant of the greater good. Yet now, the fires of ambition began to burn brighter within his breast, casting shadows that danced and flickered with treacherous promise.
As the last remnants of Marchand dispersed into the void, Barbu's mind was set ablaze with a resolve that would shape his destiny. The course was clear – the time had come to seize power, to mold the galaxy according to his convictions, and to forge a new era in which the Socialist Republics of Imaginarium and the Tourmaline Canton would stand as architects of order amidst the chaos.
Come what may, the Imaginese territories of Ancerious stood resolute, unwavering in their commitment to the Laptev Axis and their formidable allies. As distant politicians engaged in endless debates within the sheltered chambers of the home world, Field Marshal Timotei Barbu knew that the true crucible of destiny lay in the untamed reaches of space. He would be a man of action, a catalyst of change, unafraid to shape the course of history with his unwavering resolve. Amidst the cosmic turmoil and the echoes of destruction, Barbu had found his purpose – to stand as a steadfast guardian of order and to wield the might of the Laptev Axis to forge a future that would echo through the ages.
A smile, both enigmatic and potent, played upon Barbu's lips as he turned away from the display screen. The die had been cast, and the stars themselves bore witness to the birth of a new force within Ancerious.
His own rise had begun, and the galaxy would soon know his name.
---
Life, Death, Time.
Life, the existence of movement.
Death, the end of movement.
Time, an endless cycle.
Each concept, each force, each form of the universe. The three primordial concepts of the universe, ones bound to the universe. Each made the other important, each made the other significant, each made the other understandable. In the primordial ether of the universe, these gods made sure the universe went forward, kept it meaningful. They made stars significant, they made supernovas powerful, they made light patient. Without these, the primordial era would've been the end of the universe, an empty void of meaninglessness. Yet, life was the only one capable of changing the balance of power between the gods.
Little by little, movement made the ingredients for more complex movements. Each step made the next one better, each creation made the next bigger, each pact made the next stronger. Life, the most vulnerable god, yet the most powerful one. Death only allowed it to spread as much as it wanted to, Time was the only one who allowed the movement. Yet, Life was the only one capable of creation, of motion towards progress. Little by little, eon by eon, Life got better at moving, at creation. And then, one day, Life created something beyond the primordials, beyond itself. It was something abstract, something beyond understanding, something that could not only exist, but perceive its own existence and the existence of everything else. Life had created everything else, this one had created Consciousness.
Life bound Consciousness to itself, a pact that could not be broken. With Consciousness, Life created civilization. Life controlled everything it needed, while letting Consciousness free little by little. With Consciousness, Death was conquered, banished to the sands of irrelevance, of history. Time became irrelevant with Death gone. So, only Life existed. Yet, Time still existed, Time still affected everything, but Life was eternal.
Lillian closed the book within her mind, the images it once contained lost to her from the Fall. It used to be a childrens book, one ancient even to her. It was the oldest recorded book ever found in her universe, outdating herself by millions of years. Yet, it spoke of a story familiar to her. It sung a dream of a different existence to everyone who read it, one even she was swayed by. It spoke of the ultimate vision, the ultimate existence. It was familiar. No- she chuckled. it wasn't just a vague deja vu.
She had seen that story before, it was the story of her existence.
Yet, as she saw the shining glow of a laser in slow motion, she wondered. With every meter it went forward, she asked herself if that children's book was truly found complete. As she saw the beam hit the atmosphere of the planet, she wondered if the dream of another existence could ever become true. As she watched billions begin to have their atoms ripped apart, she could fathom everything but one thing. As she saw the consequences of war, she could only repeat the same question. Over and over, even as every individual body she had began to cry with zero emotion in their faces, even as her nation went into an absolute halt, even as she could see everything the universe had to offer. One singular question she had asked once before.
Just.... Why?
Words, the thing that made civilization possible. Communication, the thing that made the existence of nations even a possibility. They could stop the death of races, they could create entirely new ones. Yet, in that moment, they failed. In that moment, they could not help the billions that called Marchand home. Even with a billion words, even with a trillion mouths, even with quintillions of thoughts. Nothing, absolutely nothing could stop the push of that button. Life was truly the greatest primordial god, yet Death could not be fully eliminated. Death, Death was also eternal.
Her face was indescribable, its complex muscle systems could not hope to express what she was feeling. Her software simply froze, letting every imput through without filter. The scream of the cosmos could not compare to the scream of the billions dead before her. She heard the cries of sorrow, she heard the smiles of soulless bastards, she heard the horns of war. She had tried, she had failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
FailureFailureFailureFailureFailureFailureFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAILU
She heard the gentle laughter of a Selenican, the steamy chuckle of a Svarthan, the gentle hum of Saxheelian organics. She heard the bombastic determination of the Coronan, the search for peace from the Union, the search for knowledge of the citizen. Yes, even if she had failed there, even if everyone had failed there, it wasn't over. Even if the most violent and xenophobic leader of a Reborn screamed for more bloodshed, even if the most diplomatic and kind Kel'thulian sobbed at the death, even if she was helpless, it was not over.
Life did not create by sitting idly, letting Death and Time control it. Life sought out, Life changed, Life created. Even if from within the disciples of Death fought, Life could overcome. Her shipyards, like a sleeping giant, begun to wake up with a brilliance. All throughout her nation, the frozen and distraught Lillian did not kneel to the boot of destruction. Her ships began to move once again, began to fight even harder, began to fly even faster, began to breathe a second wind.
She would not choose a side, for both had fundamental flaws from withing. She would not fight for either side, for an eye for an eye only made the whole world blind. She would not speak for either side, for words would only antagonize even more. She would not act for either side.
She would act for life.
From deep within her territory, a bell began to toll. The noise was faint, yet it made its way towards those who wanted to help. Not to help a side, but to help the ones in need. Her industry began to produce more food, more medicine, more material. She did not side with Death, she fought with Life.
A flower began to unfurl, one that had died in the cold winter of Death. It had remained long dormant, its beautiful petals gone to the decay of time. Yet, it began to open, as a new song, a new call began.
A call, one of benevolence, one of healing, one of longing for that dream of another existence. She would not use words, she would use action. All those who needed help would find it with her. All those who found themselves forcibly removed from their homes could find one with her. All those who needed a shield from the war could find it with her. She did not fight to prove her ideology, she fought to protect the weak. Be it native of colonial.
She called for those who wished to help, those who wished for funding in helping the drifting souls within the void. She called to help the ones in need, the ones hurt, the ones injured. For the leaves of the Lotus did not discriminate, it only saw people in need. Yet, it knew of those who wish nothing but destruction. It had seen what a flower without thorns would experience. And so, the thorny vines of the flower began to sprout, ships beginning to be manufactured.
Life would be eternal, for Life would not allow itself to extinguish.
The White Lotus bloomed.
---
DEATHTOUCHED FONT – MINEVAN SHIP, PALLIN MORGA
“Regrettable, they say.” The ancient man spoke. His back was hunched in a startling arch, paired with a trembling body that made standing on his own seem a great feat. He scoffed, repeating the word. “Regrettable.”
He stood before the wide pit carved into the tiled floor, whose rugged contours and divots led to a singular point at the bottom; dark, bare stone which had been gently eroded by the essence of those drawn into it and stained crimson for countless millennia before. This stone platform with its pit appeared to its inhabitants to be floating in the cosmos, the distant specks of stars, celestial bodies, and even the odd pair of vessels dwarfing those upon it.
They were washed over in the incandescence, dozens engulfed in white light as Sarnath culminated its existence as an angry god. The Minevans watched in wonder as billions were being extinguished.
“Khalta Zandaval,” The youth flanking the old man addressed him, questioningly. He was not enjoying the display as outwardly as his elder, it seemed.
“They are calling this act regrettable, but necessary, Keth,” Zandaval flashed a toothy grin back to the youth, his long fangs stained and discolored in the wake of his age. “That foolish Reiko boy and his retainers. Regrettable. But necessary, of course. In truth, they- we are relishing in this moment.”
Keth swallowed hard, watching Zandaval hobble towards the edge of the pit, not long before he craned his neck back to the furious star in its death throes. What Keth was bearing witness to, he had only seen as referenced as history; just a generation ago, weapons that could reshape cosmic geography in the blink of an eye were staples of galactic warfare once and again. He was watching billions perish- and what was certainly the opening note to many billions more perishing.
“I was there, boy. When the Immortal Empire utilized weapons like this and erased entire nations from galactic memory. When the Inarists used the exact same weapon to kill billions of us,” Sandaval’s bony finger pointed shakily to Sarnath, “And now, they will all see, that we and our ilk will not simply stand by to be eradicated as they play at godhood again and again. Even the Reiko boy that sent us here knows it is time.”
The sound of a rushing river could be heard far below, and a torrent of crimson began to flow forcefully in the bottom of the pit, conjured from nothing. The fluid bubbled and foamed as it ran in its whirlpool, and slowly it began to rise ever so slowly toward them.
“At last, we will wield that will and fortitude ourselves,” Zandaval remarked, gazing down into the bloody maelstrom from his ledge. Around the pit, the dozens of Minevans approached and came to stand at even intervals. Each looked to Sandaval, and each bore the sacred mark of their patron goddess, Feffner; a single, solid eye of red that marked Her Deathtouched- conduits of the living and what was beyond.
The elder raised his quaking right arm high, empty-handed. In unison the Deathtouched mirrored his movement- each firmly gripping a traditional two-pronged knife. Sandaval tapped an empty fist on his chest, and each of the Deathtouched found their heart. Their bodies tumbled into the rising pool of essence below.
Keth watched his mentor, the words stolen from his open mouth.
“With just a drop of life from the billions on Marchand, and Feffner’s own…”
Sandaval wheezed, shambling towards the edge- the pool of crimson was reaching the top. The older man was wasting away by the moment- his skin drying, tightening, cracking as his tissue lost volume. The elder’s great effort was orchestrating a ritual of a planetary scale, and his body could no longer take the torment. Sandaval was little more than bones as he scraped forward.
“Finally, they will heel to us…”
Keth watched as the skeleton of a man cast himself gleefully into the hungry tide.
---
CAIRN-DORAIN, SOVEREIGN SHIP OF CLAG BAIN
Sev Ironsides, a tower of a woman, sat at the throne in the end of her Great Hall- whose hearths were not lit, with no food on the tables, nor guests filling its hundreds of meters of length before her. Instead sat before her was a small assortment of her officers and picked warriors sullenly watching the display that floated before them in the air of the chamber. Marchand was gone- the Canton, and by extension their Laptev Axis, was responsible for it.
Sev had taken the initiative to commit Clag Bain to the blockade efforts well before Kesaev Reiko had consulted her for it; he had only provided caveats for her to receive and assist a Khaltic coven to capitalize on the billions of Marchanders sentenced to die. As Sovereign, she lived to serve the will of the Tybrus and the Minevans of her nation; it was only a bonus as she learned the true purpose of Khalta Sandaval’s troupe to construct a magnificent weapon to wield on behalf of her countrymen.
It was to be no simple tool, such as the one she was firmly gripping the pommel of- the gargantuan maul wielded by Clag Baini Sovereigns known as the Soulcrusher. No- the living essence of these victims would be cast in the First Flame of her people and forged into something truly terrifying.
“Tell our Tybrus it is complete. We will return to Libena, and we will present him his weapon.”
---
MARCHAND SYSTEM
Already, through the chaos of the sensor readings that had flooded the system, it was possible to detect the early signs of a neutron star forming amidst the stellar ruin. The planets of Marchand and Zdeno, along with the other celestial bodies in the system, were all gone save for Luuch, a dwarf planet on a distant orbit that was now doomed to sail through darkened skies, freed from its celestial anchor.
After some time, the Otakemaru Station opened a Slipgate and departed the system, followed by its escorts as the fleet returned to Sanrin, leaving the dying embers of two ancient civilisations in their wake.
But the system was not empty. In the void, amongst the swirling motes of radioactive matter, something lingered.
Watching.
Waiting.