Whether to sacrifice the welfare of a few for the sake of a greater interest—on this question, the Sub-King of the Broad-winged swarm had clearly reached a conclusion diametrically opposed to Sarkadi’s.
Consequently, the creature lived a life of youthful health, leaping and bounding with vibrant energy. In contrast, the one who had once been human had, at a young age, found himself bedridden and waiting for the end.
This led the Core Species to lament that while internal strife leads to an early grave, external conflict keeps a bug thriving for a century.
He took great offense at the other’s joyful state of existence and decided to manually shorten the creature’s lifespan with a series of ruthless, underhanded strikes.
Strictly speaking, a large portion of Sarkadi’s combat experience did not stem from his military service. Rather, it originated from his early years of wandering and displacement. As a result, his style was worlds apart from the orthodox methods of a formal academy.
Life never cared for "pulling punches" or "shaking hands after being disarmed." The reality was that if he couldn't beat a group of hulking bastards, he would be the one lying on the ground with a bloody head and no money for medical bills. Whether the blood flowing through his veins belonged to a diluted ancient dynasty or a common street dog was utterly irrelevant in those moments.
Once a person achieves success and fame, the admirers around them desperately try to compensate for their past, attempting to define some unique or extraordinary quality. But when one is a nobody, no one cares about an inconspicuous clod of dirt by the roadside.
Thus, a significant portion of the foundation that built his character was steeped in the colors of a black heart and a ruthless hand.
His radical, "no-way-back" approach could often be glimpsed in his preferred tactics and strategic maneuvers. Stake a high enough price to win a large enough chip—fair, reasonable, and natural.
The thing that had veered his fate in a different direction was V217, an obscure little asteroid. It was a habitable planet located near a military base of the late-stage Reformists.
As a minor attempting to reach the high-tier star systems as an undocumented migrant aboard a smuggling ship, he had been exposed immediately during an inspection. He had spent all the meager savings he’d earned from illegal deliveries to buy a spot in a cargo hold as cramped as a sardine tin and a set of forged identification papers riddled with holes.
Back then, his skill at selecting fake electronic IDs was nowhere near as proficient as it would become during his later years in the military.
The one who caught him was Klein Young’s mother.
She worked for V217’s customs department, specializing in inspecting and verifying all incoming transport ships. She had personally hauled out that entire batch of stowaways, and he was the only child among them.
Dead parents, a Schrödinger’s home, a non-existent birthplace, and a solitary life. One could not find another existence in the entire universe that more perfectly fit the definition of an "undocumented person."
This made it impossible for Ms. Finley Young to smoothly process his deportation or detention.
Perhaps because she had a son of the same age, that woman—stern in expression but gentle in character—eventually found a way to apply for a temporary residency permit for him. She paid the exorbitant fines and security deposits herself, becoming his legal guardian during his stay on V217.
As the Federation neared its end, it was riddled with loopholes. Securing a place to live on a mid-tier habitable planet wasn't too difficult—provided someone was willing to pay.
Sarkadi plunged headfirst into an environment that ordinary people called "a normal life": a pair of guardians who bickered occasionally but loved each other, a stiff, model-student playmate of the same age, a peaceful and stable growth environment, and a clean, tidy little bedroom prepared specifically for him.
Before that, he couldn't have imagined a human owning a bright, clean room. He had thought everyone was born into a mire, fighting and tearing at each other in the dark.
He lived there for several years and never again mentioned his plan to migrate to the high-tier star systems. V217 became the first true hometown he had known since birth.
His neighbors liked to grow vegetables and flowers. Upon learning of his history, they often enthusiastically pressed various foods into his hands—at first, he couldn't even name most of them. In the low-tier sectors, the most common sight wasn't even whole blocks of cheap synthetic rations, but the crumbs and scraps of those rations.
So, a person could actually be full.
A person could actually be loved.
For a time, he was so jealous of Klein that he nearly went mad. The other boy possessed everything he had ever dreamed of.
While Sarkadi had been delivering contraband through muddy, deep alleys in shoes with holes in the soles, Klein had been sitting in a classroom, studying seriously. While he had been fighting children his age and older until they were bloodied over cheap resources, Klein had been sitting at the dinner table with his parents. When he finally scraped together enough for a smuggling ticket and walked alone into a suffocating cargo hold where he might have died halfway, Klein had finished his primary education, graduated smoothly from his first school, and begun preparing for the next.
He was like a beast from the wasteland, carrying savage blood and mastering savage laws, completely severed from civilized society. He sneered at the "top student" lectures about being a law-abiding, good person.
But fate was always fickle with him, often giving him a glimmer of hope at his lowest point, only to kick him down at the peak of his life. Possessing both brains and ruthlessness, he finally caught up to Klein’s academic progress in the second year of middle school and successfully enrolled.
His fragmented memories prevented him from recalling the past coherently, yet they preserved certain profound snapshots.
For instance, in his first week of school, he had sent several older students who were bullying Klein to the infirmary.
By then, humans and the Swarm had already begun tearing at each other. The universe was no longer peaceful; even the originally safe star systems frequently saw bloody tragedies, and the conflict between the Conservatives and the Reformists was beginning to surface.
Ms. Finley Young was summoned by the school. Rushing over, she saw her own solemn-faced son, her black-haired ward who was bristling like a porcupine, and several bruised and swollen unlucky bastards.
On the way back, Sarkadi had prepared himself in a thousand ways. He could accept being scolded, cursed, or blamed.
But after closing the front door, Ms. Finley Young leaned down and silently gave both him and Klein a hug.
This was an action he could not understand. Just as he once couldn't understand the cucumbers, potatoes, and buns the neighbors sent over.
At a moment when he could not accurately perceive love, he had first felt the love brought by a "family." Yet, the moment he finally understood it many years later, he lost it forever.
He lost the hometown called V217.
"Actually, I'm quite tired of guys like you."
The Core Species couldn't help but laugh.
His insect wings unfurled completely, shredding a small section of the other’s tail whip. Those spread black wings were sharp and hard, sounding like an air cutter as they vibrated.
"Acting as if you have some unspeakable hardship all day, keeping noble ideals on your lips, yet able to send your own kin into the incubation nests as consumables without a moment's hesitation."
"Your swarm is truly unlucky to have you as a leader."
The Sub-King of the Broad-winged swarm was particularly an eyesore. So much so that Sarkadi’s scaled tail and sharp claws were itching, wanting to find something to tear apart.
With every attack, both sides bled, wounds opening and then healing at an abnormal speed. To kill with one blow, one would have to remove the heart or sever the head.
His flicking tongue and scent glands perceived a rich aroma of blood—bitter yet sweet. Instinct was reminding him just how delicious a Sub-King’s body was.
This new body was sometimes quite disturbed, salivating over its own kind. But as a rational adult, he had long understood the principle of not picking up random things to put in his mouth.
During the struggle, the case containing the complete genetic samples flew out, rolling down the slope into the depths.
They fought on a half-collapsed incline. Several times, the massive brownish-gray female bug blocked Sarkadi’s path, refusing to let him get a step closer to his beloved key-box.
"Does Clark know your identity?"
The other easily blocked the Core Species, still not forgetting to mock him. "I bet he doesn't. Otherwise, he would have ripped your throat out at the first opportunity."
"Your scent is very strange."
Malicious eyes remained fixed on him. Having been freed by the loss of the box, the Broad-winged bug’s tail slammed the opponent into the ground, creating a web of fine cracks.
The Swarm prioritized pheromones over vision for identification. The way the creature licked the air gave Sarkadi goosebumps he didn't even possess.
"Your appearance is also very strange."
"It’s as if you’re mixed with something else."
"What little tricks did you use to hide your swarm information?"
Violently throwing the disgusting thing off him, Sarkadi’s tail whip twisted, its barbs standing on end and emitting a cracking sound.
He was in no mood to play "riddle bug" with the creature in front of him. The other’s cryptic, ambiguous words were seriously slowing down his progress in decapitation. Only a fool would take the bait.
Four golden pupils locked onto the opponent, each pupil elongating vertically. This was the posture of a predator on the attack.
When confronting Katra, he had once swallowed freshly torn flesh because he was too exhausted, but the texture and taste were nowhere near as fragrant as this.
He wasn't idle the moment he was pinned down by the screeching Sub-King. Seizing an opening, he bit off a bloody scale from the other’s chest. Those scales were dense and thick, firmly protecting the vital areas, and they came away with strands of flesh attached.
If time were wound back half a Great Cycle, he wouldn't have had the ability to break armor directly—at that time, his secondary teeth weren't strong enough, and his strength wasn't great enough.
A soft-shell crab is just as fragile when it has just changed its shell.
Now, it was different.
His body, having entered the peak of its prime, was incredibly durable. The Core Species had discovered this during the previous Gray-wing civil war.
The speed of recovery was almost equal to the speed at which wounds were inflicted. The bones supporting his insect wings were no longer brittle or easily broken; they could withstand strikes beyond imagination. The secondary teeth that had quietly emerged were long and sharp, no longer easily shattered.
Once, when he bit Katra, he had broken half a mouthful of his own teeth. The shards had nearly sliced his throat and almost flowed into his esophagus with his blood.
But now, he bit a deep, bloody hole into the Sub-King without feeling any sign of his teeth loosening.
Responding with an identical long shriek, Sarkadi’s entire body took on a low, crouching stance, poised to snap the enemy's neck. His voice was laced with the hissing of his breath.
"Too much talk."
"If I can just rip your head off quickly, it’ll be a good result for both of us," the Core Species suggested sincerely.
"So just shut your mouth."
***
