The scheduled time for departure was fast approaching. Sarkadi and Kleiman reviewed the entire plan one last time.
The Armed-type Zerg and Sarkadi had successfully moved past their adjustment period, so this time, Sarkadi had assigned Kleiman to lead a separate squad on his own.
The Zerg thought process was indeed different from that of humans. After the previous Sub-Queen had been eliminated, the "tail-swishing fellow"—being of direct lineage—practically radiated a sense of relief, as if he were finally rid of a heavy burden. His friendliness had increased exponentially.
It was clear that internal strife bred irritability, and childhood trauma truly required a lifetime to heal. However, once the source of that trauma was dead, it could apparently trigger a medical miracle.
Yet, even as the appointed time passed, Clark was nowhere to be seen.
The silver-gray Sub-Queen was originally scheduled to personally lead a large portion of the Grey-wing tribe—those who had initially obeyed Krisha but later defected to him. These individuals, having chosen the wrong side previously, were currently listless and clearly shaken, yet none dared to utter a word of complaint.
As early as the second day after Clark was able to stand, he had personally reorganized and disciplined the tribal ranks, giving the troublemakers a vivid demonstration of the consequences of disobedience.
The former Sub-Queen’s methods had been somewhat similar to Katra’s, but the current Sub-Queen was far more meticulous. He had systematically weeded out every unsuitable element, breaking down and reintegrating all the new recruits.
But now, he was missing.
Tardiness occurring with this specific Zerg was as surreal as the sun rising in the west or a wormhole appearing in the Little Rose Star Sector.
The Armed-type leader sent three consecutive inquiries through the information connector, but all vanished like stones dropped into the ocean.
Gera, as he always did, came to see his partner off to war. Little did he know that he, Sarkadi, and Kleiman would wait for nearly forty micro-cycles without seeing the Core-type depart.
"What’s the situation?" The black Core-type raised an eyebrow, glancing at the Armed-type leader. "Still no reply?"
"I just saw him this morning." The tail-swishing fellow was equally baffled, the confusion practically written across his face as he shook his head. "At the time, he said that according to the original plan, after clearing the third quadrant, we should scout the habitats of the Broad-wing and Pedipalp tribes from different directions. He wanted to push the boundary line toward the fourth quadrant to force them into declaring war first."
This was beyond bizarre. The entire Grey-wing fleet was ready and waiting, yet the Sub-Queen had vanished.
"Where did you last see him?" Sarkadi ran through every possible accident in his mind. Although they had experienced conflict and chaos, he and Kleiman had quickly reset the defense systems, and Clark had personally reorganized the troops. Theoretically, it was impossible for an enemy to sneak in and assassinate the new Sub-Queen under their noses.
"Near the docking rails," the other replied honestly, having developed a near-reflexive habit of reporting to the black Core-type. "He was going to the *Red Tai Sui* to check on that human."
The Grey-wing tribe was now completely numb to such things. Most ordinary members had no idea what was happening; they had simply woken up to find a red starship parked at their doorstep, which then spat out a battered, crumbling Great Information Nest. Many unfortunate souls who had followed Krisha were zapped into unconsciousness by the *Red Tai Sui* as they fled the collapsing Royal Nest, promptly receiving the "prisoner treatment" of stasis cuffs.
One could not find a more earth-shattering upheaval in the entire universe. Compared to that, the facts that their new Sub-Queen was close to a human, that the human’s tail and wings were fake, and that the human had entered the old Royal Nest... all became trivial. When the ceiling is gone, who cares about a small window?
"..."
But Kleiman’s answer set off alarm bells in Sarkadi’s sixth sense. Something felt wrong. If he remembered correctly, he had just spent ten minutes chatting with Arthur Simmons the day before, and the youth had solemnly promised, "I’ll handle it."
Sarkadi hoped the youth’s "handling it" didn't involve some world-shaking maneuver—like a murder-suicide thriller.
"I’ll go—"
He was about to say "I'll go check," because if a conflict really had broken out, an injured human could never win against a female Zerg.
However, in the next second, a commotion erupted at the rear of the Grey-wing ranks. The swarm parted to both sides, clearing a path down the center.
The silver-gray high-ranking Zerg arrived in a hurry, an hour late.
Clark looked as though he had just been in a physical brawl. His usually meticulously groomed hair and wings were a mess; he hadn't even had time to change into his light combat armor, and his civilian clothes were pulled so haphazardly they weren't even aligned.
It truly gave off the vibe of "waking up at ten o'clock, realizing you're late for work or school, and frantically throwing your clothes on backward while sprinting out the door."
The scene was so absurd it seemed impossible for his dignified and slightly arrogant direct-line Core-gene boss.
The pitch-black Core-type couldn't help himself; he raised a hand and gave a casual wave. He really wanted to ask, *“Did someone beat you up, brother?”*
But the silver-gray Zerg ignored him entirely, walking straight past.
The pressure was incredibly low, and his pheromones were intensely aggressive. They weren't targeted at Sarkadi specifically, but were instead indiscriminately blasting every Zerg present, completely unrestrained.
Kleiman and Gera instinctively took a step back.
As a male Zerg, Gera’s mental sensitivity was higher; he immediately pressed close to his partner and grabbed Sarkadi’s hand.
"Don't say a word," Gera whispered a warning. "Clark is very unstable right now. He’s about to explode."
Gera knew his partner’s talent for stoking fires. Especially as the Core-type’s expression shifted from "Strange, where is he?" to "Oh, boy" to "No way, I’ll go look," and finally to "???"... If Gera couldn't guess that Sarkadi had a hand in this, he would be a fool.
"Depart."
The silver-gray Zerg, having reached the boarding gate, spoke in a raspy voice. His soft, elegant tone was gone, replaced by a sound that suggested he was using every ounce of strength to suppress the instinct to grind his wings.
A Sub-Queen didn't need to apologize—the entire Grey-wing tribe belonged to him—but failing to offer even a single word of explanation was indeed uncharacteristic.
The white Zerg shook his head frantically at Sarkadi, his tail tensed, his hand busy making a "zipping the lips" gesture.
"Listen to me, don't ask," he whispered into the other's ear. "Whoever asks right now is doomed."
*Especially you,* he thought, but managed to hold back the second half of the sentence.
Heed advice and prosper. In moments like this, Sarkadi was always amenable. He did have a bit of a mischievous streak—much like a crow that enjoys plucking fur from a mammal's tail—but that didn't mean he would knowingly jump into a minefield.
Quietly, he scooped up the small white tail and gave it a squeeze, winking at the male Zerg.
"I'll be back soon."
The pitch-black Core-type intertwined his tail with Gera’s. "The *Red Tai Sui* hasn't left yet. The core habitat is safe. If there’s any emergency, you can find me or it."
"It will help within its capabilities."
"Don't worry."
Gera smiled. He was no longer as afraid of farewells as he had been at the start. During the first separation at the Energy Star, he had been so anxious he couldn't sleep, relying on piling up fluffy blankets in his nest to soothe his unease.
But Sarkadi had fulfilled every promise he had made. Even though Gera logically understood that accidents could happen at any moment in the universe, his emotions were now enveloped in a sense of security, preventing him from feeling as lost as before.
"I will work hard to analyze the Great Information Nest," the male Zerg said happily. "I said I wanted to give you a gift... I want to give you something too." By the end, his voice dropped out of shyness.
"Thank you." Sarkadi gazed into those golden-brown eyes and kissed his partner’s forehead. "I’m looking forward to it."
Thus, the male Zerg who watched the fleet depart remained in a happy, floating state. The feeling was complex—not just the joy brought by the romantic games between lovers, but also the fulfillment of finally finding a place to utilize his talents as an individual, knowing his work was anticipated.
This was exactly what he had lacked before.
He finally understood why the Core-type had initially forced him through training and exams with such devilish strictness. Long before Gera could understand, Sarkadi had been firmly and undeniably leading him forward.
The urge to give his gift became urgent. Gera wanted to present a complete, beautiful Great Information Nest, just as the other had once given him the *Morning Star*.
At the same time, inside the lounge of the *Red Tai Sui*, the human refused the assistance of the mechanical arms, slowly sat up, and stepped onto the floor.
His movements were somewhat sluggish.
It had to be said that the physical disparity between humans and Zerg was immense. The act of holding onto a Sub-Queen to prevent him from escaping midway had nearly resulted in Arthur being seriously injured again.
Fortunately, even in a state of fury, Clark couldn't bring himself to actually strike him. Instead, out of fear that pushing too hard would hurt the human, he had been momentarily pinned down.
Rewinding to over an hour ago, the silver-gray Zerg, angry for the first time in such a way, had nearly thrown the other off—right after the youth had straightforwardly embraced him and given him a light kiss.
In that instant, Clark’s joints seemed to have rusted shut.
A hint of bewilderment appeared in his pale gray eyes. Every inch of his body froze, like a capstan that hadn't moved for centuries, letting out a harsh grinding sound at the slightest nudge.
"Hm?"
A small, questioning sound made the high-ranking Zerg appear softer than usual. But the truth was, the suddenly embraced Sub-Queen simply hadn't processed what was happening. In such a state, he could only emit a short, confused noise.
The human’s pale lips pressed lightly against his.
It was a genuine kiss, one that allowed for no ambiguity or misunderstanding.
"Clark," Arthur said.
Many cycles ago, when the human was still a child, the silver-gray high-ranking Zerg had already garnered a reputation for bloodshed that kept others at a distance. His brothers loathed him, his enemies feared him, and his followers revered him.
But at that time, the human child’s mind was not yet filled with such impressions. Thus, he was not afraid; he simply reached out his hands in a gesture for a hug.
"Clark," the blue-eyed child had said.
That was the first phrase of the Zerg Common Tongue learned by the young Arthur Simmons, after he had forgotten a large portion of human language. He had learned the other's name first.
The shock of his father’s death had left the child unable to correctly express his emotions for a long time, and his linguistic functions had regressed accordingly. After the accident where he was nearly sent back to the human star sector, the condition had worsened.
The silver-gray Zerg had been forced to guess what was wrong based on the volume and frequency of the child's crying.
"What do you want to hear?" the high-ranking Zerg would ask. He would sit in the nest, and the human cub would lie on his side, staring at him motionlessly.
"I will read you some myths." The Zerg sighed, speaking in clumsy Human Common. His silver-gray wings were draped behind him as he used his scaled tail to encircle the young child, holding him as if in an embrace. He turned the pages of the book in his hand, his voice gentle. "Good... human... stories."
"...A legend... about the one who stole... the fire..."
Those were books the high-ranking Zerg had gone to great lengths to obtain. In the early days of the armistice, relations between humans and Zerg were nowhere near as lenient as they were now; obtaining human items was incredibly difficult. He had been forced to laboriously learn the human language, reading a simple illustrated book of myths with stammers and numerous mispronunciations.
He read of Prometheus hanging from the cliffs, crying out to the mountains, rivers, and the Earth, the mother of all things.
He read of Europa’s immortality, becoming a goddess who walked the earth, the land beneath her feet named in her honor.
He read of Niobe, whose arrogance brought disaster, her youngest daughter dying at her skirts until she turned into a weeping stone statue...
In the next moment, the Zerg’s hand was caught.
The human child, who had not spoken for so long, opened his arms, seeking a warm embrace. And as the other leaned down to hold him, he uttered a sound he had learned at some unknown point, yet which carried a clear meaning.
"Clark."
Those blue eyes, calm as lake water, gazed at the other.
That name had been shattered, bonded, dismantled, and then stirred into his very marrow, integrating into Arthur’s life as a human from the beginning to the end.
Simmons had already seen too many things that ordinary people would never see in their lifetimes. A human raised in a Zerg nest, he had witnessed the true form of the Akashic Rift at close range; he had seen the Grey-wing tribe, under the leadership of the silver-gray Zerg, tear through two Core-gene tribes in succession; he had touched the Graveyard of Stars and the Legacy of Fafnir...
He had gained so much that the thing he truly wanted had, for a time, remained out of reach.
The youth’s fingers gently cupped the other’s cheek. Pressing against the high-ranking Zerg’s lips, he left a tender kiss.
Just as he had done within the Royal Nest, amidst the burning gold-red flames—from the ground to the heavens, the accumulated bones of countless generations collapsed, and severed heads looked down with black eye sockets at the audacious, sinful, and ignorant human.
At that time, Arthur had used nearly the same movement, kneeling before the throne, to kiss the silver-gray Zerg.
"It’s not an illusion, nor is it a misunderstanding," the human said, his arms now holding the other tight. "I won't lie to myself, and I won't lie to you."
The voice fell upon the high-ranking Zerg’s ears like a clap of thunder.
"I love you, Clark."
***
