Angon was the collective name for the architectural complex situated in the central plains.
The closer one drew, the more one felt the sheer, terrifying scale of the silent, encircling stone heads. These towering sculptures possessed a texture somewhere between stone and metal, appearing a cadaverous leaden black. The dim light filtering through Ja’s atmosphere cast itself upon their visages, burying the lower halves of those grotesque faces in deep shadow.
At the very center lay a semi-circular, nest-like structure. The upper half of this "nest" was missing, making it resemble an open bowl with a honeycomb interior—or perhaps a colosseum from the era of ancient humanity. Its spiraling downward slope exposed the central clearing to the gaze of every Zerg present.
Sakti marveled at the Zerg’s primitive aesthetic. It truly lived up to its function as a sacrificial ground; they had even prepared the bowl, making it convenient for their bizarre ancestors to dine on the spot.
A tall, Core-grade female and a frail, gene-deficient male made for an undeniably strange pair.
As they entered the perimeter of Angon, creatures submerged in the shadows rustled and hissed, their multi-colored eyes tracking the duo.
It had been a long time since Sakti had experienced the thrill of venturing deep into a Zerg nest. His scaled tail lashed back and forth; in another second, it would have been swinging like a metronome, as restless as a runaway horse.
Entertainment on low-tier planets remained at a primitive level. On high-tier residential planets, one would almost never see such primordial performance projects.
Gela explained that this was a tradition passed down by the Zerg, traceable back to the era of the Swarm Mother. When an old King died, the direct descendants would slaughter one another until a victor defeated all rivals, birthing a new King under the watchful eyes of the ancestors.
However, as technological eras shifted, this tradition had declined, devolving on energy planets into a new form of gambling.
The worker females of the mining districts had nowhere to vent their boundless energy and no place to trade the energy stones they earned. Aside from purchasing goods from black-market trade ships, they threw their earnings into the arenas of Angon.
The combative nature of the Zerg ensured these slaughters were blood-soaked; every match inevitably saw a few heads flying.
Never having imagined he would personally participate in a Zerg tradition, Sakti felt like a prize rooster selected for a cockfight.
This feeling became even more pronounced when the elderly Middle-grade worker at the registration desk looked him over with a critical eye.
Initially, the registrar tried to wave its forelimbs to shoo them away. A female accompanied by a male looked like a joke no matter how one sliced it. Sakti immediately explained that only he would be participating in this "sacred, traditional, and challenging" sport.
At that, the elderly Middle-grade’s expression shifted from impatience to disdain.
Its upper body mimicked a humanoid form perfectly, but its lower half remained a mess of crawling legs. Its gaze swept from Gela to Sakti, and it let out a sharp "Ha."
"I don't know what kind of sickness you have that makes you so smug about bringing a male here."
"A sub-adult male, at that."
It scrutinized the white male, who looked thin but had clearly been well-fed recently. Its tone, a mix of emotional language and Common Tongue, was thick with suspicion. "You didn't steal him from some Core-grade clan, did you?"
Gela gripped the tall Core-grade female tightly, desperately trying to explain, "No, no, I am his..."
"Cub," Sakti interjected. He held out his hand with an unshakeable air of indifference. "I’m signing up. Hurry up."
The male looked as though he might choke on the word "cub," his tail drooping instantly.
The elderly Middle-grade also seemed quite taken aback. It quickly tossed a light-screen at the black female.
Sakti caught the screen; it was filled with a full page of text in the Common Tongue.
Gela pressed close to him. Whenever the female paused while reading, he would softly explain the occasional unfamiliar word.
The aged Angon administrator watched Sakti as if looking at a combination of a giant piece of trash and an illiterate. When that gaze fell upon Gela, it turned into a pained, hesitant look of "what a waste."
At the very bottom of the light-screen was an empty slot for a signature.
Sakti reached out, pausing for a second.
During their literacy lessons, Gela had once mentioned in passing that the names of Low-grade Zerg often had short pronunciations, consisting of only one or two syllables. The higher the status of a Core-grade, or the more cherished a cub was by its kin, the more complex the name became, usually expanding to three syllables or more.
Thus, the Core-grade female unhesitatingly signed a short "Sa" in the Common Tongue.
He couldn't use his real name, and he was too lazy to invent a flowery pseudonym.
He still remembered the look of stunned disbelief on Gela’s face the first time the male had asked for his name and heard the answer.
Sakti suspected his human name might carry a meaning among the Zerg similar to "Angola the Fire-Breather, Center of the Storm, Dragon of Destruction"—it likely wasn't anything good.
They had been on the bridge at the time, and the white male’s soul seemed to leave his body upon hearing the name "Sakti." That dazed expression had greatly amused the high-ranking Zerg.
Sakti couldn't help but tease him: "Is there a problem? Have you heard this name before?"
Gela nodded subconsciously. "Every Zerg grows up hearing that name." The male seemed to struggle to hold it in before finally whispering in wonder, "Why would your kin give an egg a name like that?"
Now Sakti was truly curious. He wanted to know how the Zerg perceived him from the enemy's perspective. He couldn't help but ask, "How so? Where did you hear it?"
Gela looked at him, still curled into a small ball on the chair. His chest emitted a soft hum, and he buzzed a sentence in emotional language as if embarrassed.
Sakti understood his meaning.
Gela said, "Whenever a cub is being naughty."
Sakti: "..."
The so-called "every Zerg grows up hearing his name," translated bluntly, was the Zerg equivalent of human parents telling their children, "If you don't close your eyes, the Boogeyman will come and get you."
He suddenly understood Gela’s shock.
He was the Boogeyman.
He could have done without that answer.
Now, under no circumstances could Sakti use his real name for registration. He simply took the first syllable of his name, posing as an unremarkable wandering worker female.
The Zerg administrator at Angon glanced at the signature but offered no comment.
Next, it signaled for Sakti to hold out his hand. A small tentacle flicked out from the Middle-grade’s information connector, quickly pricking the female’s hand to register a pheromone sample.
Names held little meaning to the Zerg; pheromones were the most direct way to identify an individual.
Biometric verification for a new age.
Everything had gone smoothly so far, but the negotiations that followed were fraught with difficulty.
The primary point of contention was the Core-grade’s meticulous haggling over compensation.
Sakti’s obsession with making money was bone-deep. He scoffed at the wages proposed by the elderly Middle-grade.
"I don't want other goods. Only energy stones."
He spoke with a lazy hiss. "Is there anything else on this trash heap of a planet worth my time? Energy stones are the only currency worth having."
"You will become very famous. At the very least, every Zerg on this planet will know you," the registrar replied.
The elderly Middle-grade looked at the black female as if accustomed to the suicidal tendencies of the youth. Its hissing sounded dry and devoid of sincerity.
"I’ve seen many like you—arrogant and conceited. For the sake of ethereal fame and glory, you plunge headfirst into fantasies of overnight wealth."
It was "becoming an idol" in another sense.
Sakti had an epiphany and couldn't help but find it absurd.
"I have no interest in that. I only need energy stones. Paid upon completion, in energy stones."
For the next quarter of an hour, the argument revolved around this topic.
The elderly Middle-grade was annoyed to death by him. Finally, it waved a tentacle in concession. "Fine, energy stones! Say one more word and I’ll knock your head off!"
However, Sakti had "painted enough rosy pictures" in his time to have extensive experience in reverse-manipulation. He had zero interest in becoming a Zerg idol and was dissatisfied with the compensation Angon offered.
Thus, on that basis, the Core-grade thickened his skin and pushed his luck further.
"No, that's not enough. I need a nest. Size doesn't matter," he said shamelessly, resting a hand on Gela’s shoulder. "I am traveling with a sub-adult male cub. A nest is a necessity. I cannot bear to let a larva live without a fixed home."
Both the registrar and Gela wore expressions of "what kind of nonsense are you spewing?" Once again, they were speechless at his insistence on calling the male a "cub."
The Middle-grade’s face practically screamed "I’ve never seen a cub this big," and it prepared to immediately reject the unreasonable demand.
But Sakti pressed down on its forelimb. "You can arrange a match for me today. I am very devout; I don't mind immersing myself in this sacred competition right now. After you've inspected the goods, reconsider my proposal, hmm?"
He spoke in a coaxing, leading tone. "Consider the first match a free sample."
No creature in this universe could escape the "since we're already here" and "it's free" traps.
The Middle-grade hesitated, tempted by the "rosy picture" being painted. Finally, it waved its tentacles reluctantly.
"Try a match first."
It glanced at the white male clinging anxiously to the Core-grade and couldn't help but warn, "If you die, he won't live long either."
"I will be worth more than my price," the tall Core-grade said, shoving the metaphorical "cake" further into the other's mouth. "Regardless, you have nothing to lose, do you?"
He even used the steady, reliable, and approachable voice he once used to persuade the stubborn officials under his command.
Low-tier labor contracts were far too disadvantageous for workers. Having just arrived at Angon, he was merely one of thousands of nameless wandering worker females. But with just one exhibition match, he could demand a much more reasonable price for himself.
As a master of the "Open Window" theory of negotiation, Sakti was well-versed in overwhelming his opponents.
If the other party wouldn't agree to opening a window, one simply had to threaten to tear off the roof; suddenly, opening the window seemed perfectly acceptable.
Having become a seasoned veteran, the thing Sakti had been best at was playing "good cop, bad cop" with his secretary to manipulate those troublesome ministers.
How to successfully play and counter-play was practically second nature to him.
*"Next year, we will consider allocating a new construction fund for the post-war reconstruction of the Little Rose Star Sector."*
*"I understand the necessity of researching a new generation of power cores. It is you who brought the dawn of hope for humanity's victory. Every human remembers your sacrifice. I shall re-verify the upcoming military expenditures with Marshal Yeats."*
*"I will raise your concerns at the next council meeting. Regarding the shortage of medical equipment, I will summon the Minister of Finance to draft a new implementation plan."*
It all sounded incredibly sincere, but contained absolutely no substance.
Shifting blame, robbing Peter to pay Paul, making empty promises, and the "yes, yes, fine, fine" of infinite delay—he had mastered these techniques until they were second nature.
As long as it wasn't written down in black and white, there was always room for multiple interpretations. If asked, the answer was always "next time for sure."
Long-term warfare had left humanity penniless. During those years, lying in his bed at the Red Deer Palace, Sakti spent every waking second wondering where he could scrape together more money.
War cost money. Training soldiers cost money. Post-war reconstruction cost money. Every mouth that opened to eat cost money. Every medical pod and crate of medicine sent to the front cost money. Every iteration of every mecha cost money.
When the Zerg finally quieted down and humanity entered a recovery phase, he and the group of officials who had been fed "rosy pictures" for years—and who cursed him for it—worked together to patch up the riddled, collapsing Empire.
He had desperately wanted to wipe out the Zerg while he was still alive, to crush that difficult neighbor in their nest once and for all and end the threat forever.
But humanity could fight no longer.
Nearly thirty years of continuous war had forged humanity into a single force, pushing him from a nameless soldier to an unprecedented height. Yet, when he looked back, he heard the sounds of suffering taking root in every corner of the star sectors, merging into a great river.
The entire race was exhausted.
*"The truly weak cannot make their voices heard. Their struggles are meaningless to the history of human progress; rather, every leap in civilization is accompanied by great pain and sacrifice."*
But from the moment he stepped down from the clouds, the moment he clearly heard the cries of those struggling to survive, he could no longer take another step forward.
A single expedition of the *Red Amanita* consumed thirty units of stellar core energy and tens of thousands of units of high-grade energy stones.
This was equivalent to the annual output of a large-scale energy mine. Even in an era of rapidly advancing technology, the unique nature of stellar core energy meant its extraction was accompanied by immense risks: worker deaths, xeno-contamination, and countless cases of pneumoconiosis—a disease that should have been extinct in the space age.
Five expeditions had repelled the Zerg from human-inhabited sectors, but they had also completely hollowed out the Empire.
Humanity had conquered the universe and repelled the xeno-tides. Three hundred years ago, the first Star-Swallower class weapon, *Heaven’s Reach*, had shot down the stars for the first time. Three hundred years later, starships charged into the Zerg nests. The short-lived species, with their limited lifespans, had for the first time broken the shackles of their fragile bodies to slaughter the long-lived species whose life forms and reproductive capabilities were many times their own.
Yet, vast numbers of humans still died of famine, died of simple malnutrition, vanishing like specks of dust in the corners of the universe.
Poverty was the most difficult lesion to eradicate in this universe.
At that time, having not yet foreseen his absurd future fate, he was lying in his bed at the Red Deer Palace. His body was connected to various monitoring instruments, and he had buried the report on his cosmic radiation sickness and the proposal for the sixth Zerg encirclement at the very bottom of a stack of documents.
His secretary, Klein, sat by the bed, silently taking the documents without a word.
This prompted Sakti to give him a small smile.
"Let there be peace," he said.
He issued the only ceasefire decree of his life as Sakti Shalleban, the human.
***
Glossary
