“Sark suggested I ask for your opinion.”
As the cub cautiously extended a forelimb and grasped the male’s scaled tail, the Sub-king of the Gray-wing tribe spoke again.
“Regarding… the arrangement for all remaining members within the Pod-limb territory.”
The nameless cub showed a high level of acceptance toward Gera, who was also a male. He poked a small portion of his body out from the blankets, slowly chasing the slightly swaying long tail. His behavior was like that of a garden eel cautiously peeking its head out.
He didn't realize the distance between them was gradually closing. It wasn't until he was gently gathered into the white insect’s arms that he showed a momentary flash of panic.
Gera pressed close to him, emitting a low hum, preventing the frantically struggling cub from hurting himself. The gentle sound was like a chant; even without using mental power to soothe him, it still had a positive effect.
Soon, the small silver-gray male gradually settled down, scrutinizing his patient kin with a curious gaze. He slowly reached out, tentatively touching Gera’s cheek, then the drooping white wings.
“Like.”
The young insect suddenly spoke, uttering clear and accurate words in the Common Tongue.
The one holding him showed a look of surprise. As an insect who had taught himself foreign languages, Gera understood perfectly how important early education was for a cub’s understanding of the world.
Though he hadn't been accepted by other members, he had remained within the core genetic tribe for a long time, so his mastery of language was far superior to that of insects from low-to-mid-tier genetic backgrounds.
Insects who did not undergo relevant cultivation were essentially cut off from any possibility of climbing upward. Females might still manage to crawl out of the lowlands through fierce slaughter and a robust physique, but frail males were destined to lose all opportunity.
Since meeting Sarkdi, most of the low-to-mid-tier cubs Gera had encountered lacked systematic and accurate understanding. It was difficult for them to make formal expressions. En and Enna were examples; when the brothers first arrived on Ja, they could only make chirping sounds, understood nothing of written records, and could only learn to use weapons through rote memorization.
“He can speak the Common Tongue?”
Gera’s pale eyes looked toward Clark, and then toward Sarkdi, who sat beside him.
At some point, the latter had shuffled closer to his partner, annoyingly reaching out to tease the cub as well. Each time, he provoked a defensive hiss, forcing Gera to swat away the meddling hand.
Gera gave his tail to the cub to play with and stuffed his wings under Sarkdi’s hand, using this to stop his restless other half from making the little male cry.
However, after the question was posed, both the Sub-king and the Core-species fell into a state of silence.
Sarkdi’s hand rested on Gera’s wing, stroking it gently as a form of comfort.
“His caregiver… taught him,” the Core-species finally answered. The female had no particular expression when saying this, but Gera sensed a specific emotion from his partner.
He couldn't perform an accurate mental perception, but he understood that for a moment, the other had shown a cold hardness he hadn't displayed in a long time—not directed at Gera, but at something else.
“He once had a male caregiver.”
Taking over the topic, the Sub-king lowered his eyes, quietly watching the cub who was clutching the white scaled tail.
*“Greta!”*
The young male, who had woken up due to medical treatment, had been extremely terrified upon seeing the powerful Sub-king beside him, incoherently repeating the same word.
Initially, Clark and Arthur thought it was the cub's name, but they soon realized the fear-stricken child was calling out for a familiar insect.
Once the cub had calmed down slightly, the silver-gray female—who was quite experienced and patient in raising cubs—tried to guide the linguistically disordered little male to slowly piece together the meaning he wanted to convey.
The sole survivor of Angon was looking for his caregiver, a male named Greta.
“He’s also… in…”
The cub, whose digestive functions were still weak and could only lick a small amount of sweet nectar, was unexpectedly sharp and intelligent. Even under immense shock and stress, he still tried his best to provide an accurate explanation.
“There. We were all… help him…”
After realizing that the so-called "there" referred to Angon, which had completely fallen into the Akashic Rift, the Sub-king fell silent for a time.
The cub before them was the sole survivor, which meant that he and the insect he was searching for were destined never to return to each other's side.
“Is he your kin?”
Asking a targeted question in a gentle tone, Clark’s gray eyes watched the eager cub.
However, to his surprise, the cub shook his head quickly.
“Brought us food. Taught us to… speak.”
Struggling to respond to the question, the male—who had shown excellent mimicry even before reaching sub-adulthood—was quite resilient. Having just been pulled back from the brink of death, he endured his fear and began to struggle for self-preservation.
His expressive ability, which was better than most insects his age, was a great help at this moment.
This survivor was looking for the caregiver of himself and several other cubs.
A certain male, born of a defeated core genetic tribe, had struggled to protect a group of cubs who had lost their kin.
The higher the rank of an insect, the longer their name, often reaching three syllables or more to distinguish them from others.
Direct descendants like Clark, Kleman, Klisha, and Roxanne all had relatively formal names.
The name "Greta" implied that the insect sold as cargo into Pod-limb territory might have originally come from a relatively privileged background, which gave him the capacity to teach the cubs around him the Common Tongue.
However, once his tribe failed in the war, his former stability vanished in an instant.
“They bit him. Bit us. It hurt.”
A cub too young found it difficult to analyze specific violence, nor could he understand the reproductive acts that accompanied it. The relatively older male had struggled in those dire straits, while trying his best to feed the cubs who had also lost their tribes.
When a necklace woven of beauty and scarcity is placed upon a frail individual, that necklace turns into a noose. Such was the fate of a male born from a core genetic tribe.
Most of the insect race were like Vikings of the space age; their interest in savagery and plunder far outweighed any compassion for their own kind.
Every female wanted to see a beautiful toy shatter.
Just as when they had first landed on Ja, the manager of the trading nest had suggested selling Gera to the energy mines. This species had no understanding of morality, yet their emotions would surge because of blood and violence.
The desires brought by death and reproduction always shared the same source. What was a screaming, unbearable ordeal for one side became interest and fun for the other.
Yet, a male who had barely left a name in the entire war had insisted on raising three unrelated small cubs amidst agonizing pain.
The fragile but unbreakable adult male, situated in Pod-limb territory, had picked up several dying cubs like one picks up trash, squeezed out pittance-like amounts of food, and slowly taught them the Common Tongue and relevant knowledge.
When the war reached its final stages and the Pod-limb tribe began to scour their territory for males and cubs, preparing to put their own tribesmen to the torch, the caregiver—who had sensed the scent of fear ahead of time—had tried to hide the cubs he looked after.
But the effort failed.
They were rounded up like spare parts or cargo and thrown into Angon.
Long-term suffering had not crushed those indelible hopes, yet they were easily destroyed by a single massacre. It was as simple as treading a flower or a blade of grass into the mire.
The Sub-king of the Pod-limb tribe had personally plucked the silver-gray cub out and held him up before all the insects.
This unexpected discovery made the insects present laugh. What could be more farcical than suddenly seeing a cub that resembled their enemy?
It was a bloody, malicious, and grotesque smile.
It ignited the carnival that followed.
As chaotic memories resurfaced, the little male—a mix of Gray-wing and Flash-pattern genes—fell back into terror and convulsions. Clark wrapped the twitching cub in many small blankets.
A dark, soft, cocoon-like environment would make a young insect feel safe, simulating the illusion of still being inside an egg.
The powerful female gently patted the cocoon from the outside.
The exhausted cub, falling into a deep sleep, did not yet know that the vast number of males and cubs piled in Angon had not survived. Even their remains, along with the silt and blood-sludge settled there, had fallen into the Akashic Rift, quietly annihilated within this universe.
His caregiver, whether in the war or the massacre, had not had the chance to leave a name behind. Other insects would not remember such an insignificant male.
The passing of a life is often silent, just as the birth of a life is often valueless.
“Should I…”
Sarkdi, who had hurriedly gone through jump points to the other core planets to handle the final cleanup, found the silver-gray female uncharacteristically silent during a long-distance communication to exchange status and progress. After uttering a few syllables, Clark spoke no more.
“I don't accept psychological counseling.”
The Core-species, raising his hand to swap for a different weapon, was concise. Excessive use had caused his particle gun to malfunction. He finished calibrating the new equipment handed over by an attendant and stood up quickly, looking at the Sub-king, who was not in a good state.
Since they had met, the high-ranking insect before him had shown a ruthless attitude toward enemies and those outside his tribe. It was as if, while being protective of his own, he had discarded all redundant sympathy.
However, the more extreme the emotions, loves, and hates, the more they turn into blades that cut oneself the moment doubt and concern arise.
When fate looms, it is always hard for people to distinguish right from wrong; when the trajectory is formed, it is hard to change the established facts of the past.
“Whether you find the answer yourself or confide in Arthur—I believe he is willing to talk to you, including those obscure emotions you refuse to tell anyone—I need you to recover your state as soon as possible.”
Sarkdi watched him. They had both once annotated harsh judgments for each other, moving from a hostile relationship to an eventual alliance.
“We don't have much time.”
Just as he had once been pushed forward relentlessly, every second wasted behind them would become thorns growing across the path ahead.
“Before I completely purge the Pod-limb territory, I hope to initiate formal peace talks with the Flash-pattern and Chela species.”
“I need you to stand with me, with my tribe, in your capacity as the Sub-king of the Gray-wing tribe and as an ally.”
The cleanup process was not fast.
The Core-species took longer than expected to return. If it hadn't been for the brief message from Kleman describing Gera’s current state, he might have been delayed for a few more days.
During the purge of the Pod-limb core habitats, too many things had been pulled up by the roots from the shadowed corners and exposed to the daylight, like an absurdist play.
War was only the first step; the true difficulty began with management and governance.
The Gray-wings were actually short on numbers. Continuous warfare meant the tribe needed to enter a recovery phase as soon as possible. How to allocate limited manpower became a major problem.
The good news was that the Pod-limb tribe had suffered even more casualties.
During the era of the White Emperor, the Mapuz Academy of Sciences had once used special interrogation methods. They treated dissenters as brains in vats, stripping away the physical body and subjecting the remaining brain to endless stimulation, analyzing it without reservation until every bit of desired information was squeezed out.
This practice had long been discarded, and the legal and ethical issues it raised had once caused a massive uproar.
In comparison, the insect race was much simpler.
In the past, the spirits of all tribe members were open to the King without reservation. The insect at the apex of the tribe could obtain any information they desired. Even if a member died, other insects would collect the deceased's head, allowing that stray consciousness to return to the swarm after death.
This practice bore a subtle resemblance to the methods of the Mapuz Academy of Sciences; the only difference lay in whether it was active or passive.
However, with the King currently missing, the Core-species spent a full three days excavating and tallying clues of the Great Massacre. He then processed the relevant insects with conclusive evidence in batches and thoroughly "plowed" the remaining two core planets.
A large portion of Pod-limb members with ambiguous points of suspicion awaited further screening. They had fallen into hysterical fear because of the blood that had soaked the Sub-king’s nest.
The collapse of a core genetic tribe would spawn too many problems.
“Organize the remaining data.”
Chipped cold weapons and triggers pressed until they shattered were like echoes of fate. The human of the past had once used similarly cruel methods to sever the King’s head; his life seemed to be on a constant loop.
Violence breeds fear, fear triggers obedience. The birth of new orders and regimes is often accompanied by death and slaughter; every inch of the land that lays the foundation flows with the blood of both friend and foe.
But after stepping into peace, every life seems to spontaneously learn to don the cloak of morality.
“I will not tolerate fabricated evidence.”
Sarkdi’s golden-brown eyes looked toward the Gray-wing members who were on the verge of falling into a frenzy, pulling all the eager insects back to the high shore of discipline.
Unrestrained power is terrifying; it can easily lead everything toward destruction. When within the swarm, the constraints of morality become particularly weak, and all unreasonable practices become eligible for forgiveness and praise.
The ruthless part that constituted his true core was currently scrutinizing death with a cold gaze.
“But I also will not allow a single involved party to be missed.”
This was something that happened in a small cycle earlier, and something the Core-species had not told his newly awakened partner.
Gera, who had temporarily lost his reading ability, had not yet noticed where the exhaustion on the other’s body came from. The female, having washed away all scent of blood, smiled and hugged the white insect who was stretching lazily. He scratched those soft wings and made an innocuous joke.
It was as if the parts involving blood and death had never existed.
The young little male had already curled up in a pile of small blankets and fallen asleep.
An insect who hadn't fully recovered was quite prone to sleepiness, often lacking energy and unable to concentrate for long periods.
Gera held the younger, softer cub in his arms, gently patting the little one who wasn't sleeping very soundly. This time, his black partner sat to the side, neither teasing him restlessly nor leaning over clingily.
When he looked up again, the albinistic male gazed at the Sub-king of the Gray-wing tribe, his tone gentle and steady.
“I understand,” Gera said.
When the Sub-king mentioned the cub’s caregiver and implicitly mentioned the massive deaths that occurred in Angon, Gera held the little male in his arms, not letting the lightly sleeping one be startled awake by all the bloody stories.
A cub’s dreams could have the scent of earth, the scent of grass, the scent of sweet nectar, and the gentle scent of being patted on the head; they should not have the scent of blood, the scent of burning corpses, or the greasy, disgusting scent of violence and sex.
“Regarding the resettlement of the remaining members of the Broad-wing and Pod-limb species, please tell me the details.”
Gera responded frankly, and when Sarkdi remained silent, he took the initiative to lean back into his partner’s embrace. He felt the Core-species go silent for a moment before finally raising an arm to encircle him.
“Besides that…”
His words paused slightly, as if he were making some kind of decision.
“There is a document that has just been organized. I need to discuss it with you.”
“In my capacity as the current manager of Great Information.”
Gera felt somewhat nervous. A suffocating heaviness permeated his body, making him want to tremble slightly.
But at the same time, the instinct for competition emerged. Even the most easygoing male had to follow this principle. Morality above instinct and the desire for plunder beneath instinct merged into one, leading him to step into territory he had never trodden before.
What he wanted to say at this moment was different from those light, inconsequential matters of the past. Clark was an incredibly intelligent insect; even if his attitude was more lenient than that of an average female, Gera, unable to read his emotions, wasn't sure what kind of reaction the other would have.
Perhaps the status of an Information Hive user was not yet enough leverage.
He wanted to have a hand in the foundation of the new order.
Males rarely had the chance to speak loudly; males could not sit at the negotiating table; males were valueless.
Like a reckless fool, he was trying to pull out a chair and force his way into a realm unknown to him.
The next second, Gera felt Sarkdi take his hand.
The other didn't speak, just quietly held him, silent and wordless.
Just as that hand had once plucked him off the raider ship and led him into Kata’s nest to find a tutor for him.
Gera squeezed the other’s hand back.
His trembling ceased.
***
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Sacre-D: Reborn as the Swarm's Apex | Chapter 135 | A Seat at the Table | Novela.app | Novela.app
