Chapter 139 - A Lullaby in the Dark
"They utilized human males as their primary template."
"The prevailing consensus among scholars is that this choice was driven by physiological advantages. Compared to females, the male musculoskeletal system possesses greater muscle mass and fiber density, while the skeletal structure itself is capable of bearing significantly heavier loads."
"Furthermore, during the initial stages of the Swarm’s evolutionary mimicry, the human populations they encountered were overwhelmingly male. The proportion of women among the border guards they first engaged was too low to provide an ideal sample for genetic sequestration."
"Of course, a small faction of researchers remains convinced that the reproductive methods of primate mammals—specifically the female’s—clashed fundamentally with the Swarm’s own biological imperatives. Consequently, during their evolution, the Zerg actively bypassed the traditional viviparous model we recognize, opting instead for a more radical and aggressive incubation process."
"The birth of the male Zerg was an answer to this necessity. As the carriers of genetic material and the brooders of eggs, they often sacrificed raw physical power. Their body fat percentages are relatively higher, a biological adaptation designed to provide maximum protection for the eggs they carry."
"This inverted social dynamic is something most humans find nearly impossible to conceptualize, let alone understand."
"Yet, we must admit it is a remarkably efficient reproductive strategy. It also happens to wound the fragile egos of a certain class of pampered human men in a most peculiar way. They cannot fathom a male counterpart assuming the role of nurturer; they cannot accept a genetic carrier 'cheaply' spreading his legs to await penetration. Much like how they obsess over and take pride in their own meager masculine symbols, the mere existence of such a transgressive social and physiological structure feels like a personal assault..."
The "Flower of the High Tower," having struggled on the front lines for over a year, had undergone a profound transformation. His tongue and pen seemed to have been tempered in fire, his capacity for mockery reaching heights that even his former self would have found scandalous.
Compared to the frail, self-pitying aristocrat of the past, the upgraded correspondent was now a man who could hold his own against ten. In his youth, a slight taunt would have sent him behind closed doors to weep; now, his response was a blunt, "Say one more word and I'll gut you."
In private, he cursed Sakti with a vocabulary viler than anyone else’s. He collected every obscenity he encountered—from the most obscure slangs of the desolate star sectors to the common filth of the trenches—storing them in his mental arsenal specifically for the day he might use them against the Emperor. Because his countless applications for reassignment were systematically rejected, the "Flower" eventually adopted a state of total defiance, practically wearing the words "Dog Emperor" as a badge of honor.
Yet, during that same period, this young man—whose muscles were growing at a frantic pace—began to write a series of articles about the war front with an equally manic intensity.
From the complex structures of the Swarm that the common public struggled to grasp, to the daily lives of the border garrisons, to the minute details of every skirmish, the fallen aristocrat wrote without ceasing. Amidst the drifting smoke of gunpowder, on filthy cots, through layers of grime, sweat, and blood, and in trenches devoid of light-screens or recorders, he recorded everything. He used scraps of cloth, charcoal sticks—whatever tool was within reach.
As a scion of an old-money family, his command of language was precise and elegant; otherwise, his earlier scandalous tabloids would never have reached Sakti’s own desk. The descent into the mud had washed away the last of his sentimental affectations and artificiality.
When his innate grace merged with raw vulgarity, seasoned with a spicy dash of rebellious spite, the compiled volume titled *The River of Time* swept through the human-habitable sectors with the virulence of a plague.
The social-climbing nobles read his swan-like prose, mentally filtering out the "crude" parts to use the elegant sentiments as fodder for tea-time gossip. The common citizens, however, delighted in the sheer catharsis of his insults and the wit of his biting observations. Meanwhile, those embroiled in the war, or those who had lost loved ones to it, wept—their tears like cheap paint sliding down the cheeks of a statue.
They shattered in their grief, and they had no audience.
It was only much later, after his deployment finally ended and he returned to the habitable sectors, that the "Flower" met Sakti in person.
The early signs of radiation sickness had begun to show, carving leaner, sharper lines into the Emperor’s formidable face. His gold-brown eyes burned like steady flames.
The young man who had cursed him in secret for years—though he could no longer be called a young man, but rather a sturdy, tempered veteran—found himself face-to-face with the culprit who had kicked him out of his ivory tower. His face flushed a deep crimson instantly. The torrent of vitriol he had planned to hurl at the Emperor’s face died in his throat.
In truth, by the latter stages of the war, his articles had begun to objectively evaluate the human Federation’s supreme leader. It was only his stubborn pride that refused to yield, forcing him to frame every compliment in a tone of biting sarcasm.
There was no praise, only endless complaints.
But the sheer complexity of his emotions, combined with the overwhelming pressure radiating from the man before him, turned the loud-mouthed journalist into a silent quail.
The black-haired sovereign smiled.
"I heard you wanted to curse me to my face," said Sakti Shalleban, the human. "Go ahead. Curse me."
And so, his face burning and his brain stalled, the young man stammered out the only抨击 he could muster after years of planning.
"You... you really are a bastard!"
***
"You really are a bastard!"
This was the same evaluation once offered by Katla, the former administrator of the Great Sacrificial Arena on the energy planet. Katla had once been unable to stomach Sakti’s "hands-off" approach to parenting, feeling a deep, aching pity for the way the little male Zerg was forced into high-intensity training every day.
"You cannot treat a male Zerg this way!" the elderly administrator had hissed, clutching a bent information screen in warning. "Males are fundamentally different from us. Their emotions are far more delicate. You cannot train him like a common beast, teaching him to shake hands or balance a ball!"
When Katla saw Sakti carrying a nearly unconscious Gera back from training, the administrator’s composure would break completely, his antennae practically twitching with indignation.
At the time, Sakti had remained indifferent. He believed the administrator was being overprotective, treating the male with unnecessary fragility.
However, the more one treats another as a fragile object, the easier they are to break. Those who shatter a beautiful vessel—be they human or Zerg—rarely care if the white porcelain is left with permanent, indelible scars.
Sakti’s philosophy had always been to kick the weak and powerless into the harsh mud of reality, polishing them with grit and stone. It might strip away much of their unnecessary beauty and erase their naive innocence, but a stone jar forged from fragments and re-bonded was far sturdier than delicate white porcelain.
Nothing was more important than survival.
A person crawling in the mire must first learn to breathe and eat; only then can they consider dignity, morality, or meaning.
But now, he no longer thought that way. Sakti was beginning to understand what Katla had meant.
It had nothing to do with whether the other was strong, independent, or resilient.
As Gera’s tears soaked into his shoulder and those thin, fragile sobs pierced through his chest, Sakti felt a concrete, heavy anxiety. It was an emotion that ran counter to the high ground of logical dialectics, a tide that eroded the cliffs of his reason.
He wished, quite simply, that the other would never have to know all the sorrows and griefs of this universe.
The disparity between female and male Zerg was vast. Young, prime-age females like Kleiman and the other Armed Species often displayed a sharper aggression toward "unfit" kin. Yet, even so, they obeyed Clark with a devotion that far exceeded the standard subservience a tribe showed a Sub-King.
Because males were weaker, their genes carried a directive for docility. Upon reaching adulthood, they tended to depend on the swarm, a biological inclination that required their love for their kin to be more abundant and overflowing.
Gera was trying his best to shed that influence.
The white Zerg, who had struggled so hard to survive, was far too obedient and cautious. He rarely spoke of his former tribe or described his kin. But the "candy" he had never received as a child—the love and security he had been denied—remained like a deep scar cutting through his memory, a hidden fissure buried where no one could see.
A wise human avoids wading into such rivers. All that is never obtained eventually turns into a rusted blade, or like a gall on a tree’s bark, it never truly heals.
Much like the Core Species who, even after ascending to the highest throne, remained possessed by an insatiable hunger for wealth and power, the void of what was lacking would accompany them for a lifetime.
Sakti reached out and gently touched that metaphorical fissure.
They were curled together in the nest. Gera had cried himself into exhaustion, his breathing shallow and light as he huddled in Sakti’s arms, nearly weightless. Whenever the black Core Species stroked him, he trembled silently.
Sakti’s dark, iridescent wings wrapped tightly around his mate, their tails entwining. In his semi-alienated form, Sakti tucked the other entirely beneath himself, nuzzling against the white scales.
His grasp of Zerg social etiquette was poor. He knew only that nest-mates who shared a bond would groom each other’s wings and lick each other’s scales with affection, but his practical application was a failing grade.
In an attempt to comfort his grieving partner, he tried to mimic the Zerg way of showing affection. However, in his alienated state, he applied far too much force, accidentally head-butting the white Zerg right over.
Gera: "..."
The male Zerg, who found himself unable to continue crying but also unable to laugh, gave Sakti a light flick with his tail. He watched as his clumsy companion hurriedly tucked him back underneath his body, huddling them together once more.
The tail-whip, covered in iridescent black scales, pressed firmly against the slender white tail, swaying slightly with a soft *thump-thump* rhythm.
In the silence of the nest, a low, intermittent sound began to rise.
The inexperienced Core Species was humming a song—a human lullaby.
The language of the Old Earth was far more soothing than the Universal Tongue. it sounded like a quiet night scented with kerosene and the smoke of the mortal world. Centuries ago, and centuries from now, people sang of kisses in sighs and of partings after growth.
Sakti’s other half was learning to do things he had never done before. He had first learned how to transition from a beast to a human, then grew from a human into a man capable of shouldering the weight of an empire. When his original destiny shattered, the transformed female Zerg had learned to be a companion and a mentor.
And now, he was attempting to embrace his own alienated nature, trying to be a gentle partner.
Under the sound of that voice, the white, genetically defective Zerg finally stopped weeping. He lay cradled in Sakti’s embrace, his hand still clutching a section of the black, scaled tail.
With the traces of tears still on his face, the male Zerg gradually drifted into sleep amidst the soft press of kisses.
