"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." - Edmund Burke
————
He is recognized by various titles and appellations, Emperor of Asterran-kind, Hami Al-Wajud, Omnissiah, The God Light, Lord of the Machine, and Deus Imperator, and many more, some lesser known and some unknown.
Yet, no one dares to utter his true name. Not merely out of fear, though his enemies tremble at the thought, but because his name itself holds power. Legends claim that its very utterance can bring miracles, or catastrophe.
Many believed that speaking his name could make miracles happen.
Some whispered that it had healed the wounded, brought the dead back to life, and even changed fate itself. Others feared that saying it without reason could bring uncontrollable consequences.
So instead, they called him by his titles, showing respect without ever daring to utter the one word that could shake reality itself.
It is currently the 52nd Millenium.
Nearly forty-nine thousand years since the Age of Exploration.
For forty thousand years and earlier since the count began, the civilizations of Asrameda have been at war with the Chaos-borns, driving the galaxy into a never-ending cycle of annihilation.
Mekalthortheplr, The Brain of Rot, The Screech of Durdle, The Unfilial Child, The Spawn of Nothingness, The Instigator of Entropy, and The First Child of Azgarom, conspired with his siblings to enslave all of existence, even their slumbering father.
They have reached the climax of a plan millennia in the making, tearing reality open across the width of the galaxy and unleashing forces unheard of, forces full of Azgarom's torn flesh. Nightmares were born, beings of madness capable of consuming entire universe, together, can end existence.
At that time, the empire wasn't born, and the galaxy was a chaotic place with many struggling star systems. Civilizations rose and fell, unable to fight off the darkness threatening them. Many worlds and systems have fallen under the chaos-born. Leaving only a quarter for the denizens of the many civilizations inhabiting the Asrameda Galaxy.
To be alive in this time is a dreadful fate, where an existence of grinding servitude is the best that can be hoped for, and an immediate death is seen as the greatest compassion. Yet, for those who seek glory, it is an age of legends, where only the strongest carve their names into history.
The Asrameda galaxy, which at one point contained millions upon millions of great civilizations and foes who would destroy each other without hesitation, was brought united under the banner of the then-young Emperor "Aman" for war against the Chaos-Borns children of Azgarom.
Together with these civilizations, now reformed as the known Empire, it commenced its first crusade at the forces of the, The Huzzah of the Towering Rod, True Daughter of Azgarom, L'resh, and was won by the emperor alone with his immeasurable strength. It won the invasion of Sehjur, Rebdgir, Lohrdon, Amew-Rica, Skirbidiz, Wahdaz, Zigma, he retook the 3-G allied system named Goonedz, Gronx, Goateed, the Mog'ged system, Amonguz, Ri-Zulerr, and lastly the Fanumttarx system.
Many of these systems used to be the manufacturing worlds for trade system-wide, by imparting the knowledge of the emperor that earned him his name of "Machine God." This pushed these systems to kick-start the production of logistics and advance weaponry especially designed to counter Chaos Borns, which made the empire's strength more robust.
Towards the corrupted subjects, conventional weapons may have work with them.
However conventional technology, even the most advanced, barely scratched the monstrous entities from the Rift. Standard energy weapons were inefficient, mass drivers were too slow, and explosives were unreliable. The empire was fighting an enemy that defied the laws of physics, and brute force alone wasn't enough.
The Emperor changed that.
He introduced a new era of warfare by designing and mass-producing weapons specifically to counter the Chaos-born. Better guns or stronger achine, entirely new principles of destruction. This strategic plan by the emperor became known as Plan "OPP-STOPPA," Overwhelming Production Power, Supplying Total Planetary Primary Assets.
The idea came from an old saying by Bibi-El Drizi, the Sage of the Planet Gruminn, who once said, "I like 'em young." Though his words were simple, they carried great meaning, the younger they started, the stronger they would become.
The Emperor took this belief to heart and created a new elite force known as the Inquisition of the Skurr'Ers. Unlike regular soldiers, these recruits were taken in at a young age, before their minds and bodies were fully shaped by the world. They would be trained from childhood, molded into the strongest warriors of the Empire.
The Skurr'Ers were the first line of defense against chaos. Their purpose was clear, to become the strongest fighters in the universe, to eliminate any threats before they could take root, and to crush chaos wherever it appeared, no matter the cost.
Their training was brutal. Failure was not an option. They were taught how to fight, endure pain, and survive the harshest conditions. Their bodies were pushed beyond limits, and their minds were sharpened to resist fear, doubt, and corruption.
By the time they reached adulthood, they were no longer ordinary soldiers. They were weapons. Their duty was simple, if chaos appeared, they would find it, extinguish it, and burn it to the ground, and if necessary raze the planet, as everything they do is for the empire, and for the emperor.
With the emperor as the special variable in the war, the crusades started by the emperor continued to eradicate the forces of Mekalthortheplr, unimpeded by the cadres of the forces of chaos with the emperor at its forefront.
However, the war isn't all glory and victory; there's still losses and defeat, unimaginable and galaxy-wide numbers of casualties, and massacres performed by the forces of Mekalthortheplr. Worlds were eradicated, systems were disturbed, supernovae occurred almost a billion times, curses of the chaos-borns infested the whole empire, and the empire citizens turned to blobbing creatures that almost made the empire lose the war once and for all.
Despite the Emperor's psychic might slowing the death-empowered ritual curse that was fueled by the sacrificial deaths of the Childrens of Azgaroms, it spread swiftly, crippling the empire and setting them back from the beginning.
To save his people, the emperor started the Asterrans Project, a Mass-Population Bionic Transformation. The emperor decided to transfer their minds into new, immune, and indestructible synthetic mechanical bodies, blessed bodies with his might.
It took almost a millennium-long research, retreat, rescue, and taking over of every imperial soul to revive and purify, which concreted his position as the God of the Empire. This transformation saved the empire from the curse, preserving their memories and essence in strong, new forms, essentially forming a new, unified race.
"The emperor's light will never fade. He will continue to guide the path of the empire, the path to victory." - Al-Fredizaruz Vanir Zigma, Imperial Advisor of the Empire, and Right-hand man of the Emperor.
Until the day Mekalthortheplr was smited by the emperor's light, pushing even as far as exterminating the chaos-borns from existence and killing Azgarom himself.
Decem Millennium has passed since the emperor put an end to the never-ending war and his crusades against the Chaos Borns after eradicating the existence of Azgarom, the Mad Chaos Sultan. Darkness was still threatening to erupt again, and the empire continues to pursue this stray chaos that has hurled itself away from the senses of the emperor.
However, even if chaos threatens to return, the emperor continues to protect…
This is the Era Pacis.
○●○●
"So uh… what is this actually?"
He asked the director of the project, the head of the team of game designers he hired, in a tone of disbelief.
"Oh that! Yes, it's the lore you asked us to make. We fulfilled each of your requests, including it being easy to read, short yet elusive, and grand and cool. So yeah, you get it."
"No….no no no no no."
"What do you mean boss? Is there any problem or changes we need to make?"
"No…I-uh, it was good overall, I just need an explanation about this part."
"Ohhhh, that! I see you noticed it too, it's cool, right? We have to go through so many phases just to crack these words out. I mean, the Yggdrazil concept is based on the myth of the seven realms. Now what we have to do now is think of new words, but no matter what we do, our team always ends up complaining that it's bad and unoriginal, or we just end up going around and sticking the naming sense to the myth again, which is kind of not okay, as per your request to separate it from the world tree itself, and the idea is alien. Although it's not the whole team's attention, one of our members, who's especially troublesome, almost got us in trouble."
"What do you mean "trouble"? What did you guys do, without permission?"
The director shivered at the sight of his bosses suspicions, and couldn't help but she'd a sweat on his forehead and a nervous expression on his face.
"...What did he do?" He asked.
"W-well, he hacked through the data servers of the North Central Arcology to get these words out. He said he could almost get that one file, which might possibly have saved us time. I forgot what it was called, but I remember something called sun-wars?"
"You mean Star Wars?"
"Yes! That, Star Wars. Also something called Wa-,War-?Armor 14K?"
"It's WARHAMMER 40K! YOU DAMN HERETIC!!"
"Uh! Yes, Sorry Boss! That too. Do you happen to know it, Boss?"
He sighed at the question of the director, although he had suspicions it existed he didn't know it actually did exist.
"Yes, I happen to know it, although I don't know most of it. If I remember well, it could save you quite the time when thinking of names. So, my question is, why is it that you couldn't get that file if you saw it, and just have to use this nonsense naming sense, huh?!" He shouted like a corporate supervisor reprimanding the mistakes of his overworked subordinate.
"Well, don't get angry, boss." the director said to pacify him.
"We got detected before we extracted the remaining twenty years of file, so we only managed to get the last hundred years and it's quite the trash so we have to go through it for months and have to vote for these names!"
After what the director said, he stammered and looked at the director with a squint in his eyes.
"You- you guys are discovered?!"
"..."
Seeing the director's face he could only let out a deep breath. The director wanted to say more, but hesitated for a moment and then he spoke.
"Boss, please don't fire him. He's my sister's son, he won't be able to survive long if he loses this work. Please boss, I'll bear responsibility."
"Huh? What are you talking about? Don't you have a family yourself? What do you mean taking responsibility, huh?!"
"..."
He berated him for his irresponsibility in his way of words, but one thing surfaced. In a dog eat dog world, there's still this guy existing.
"You want your family to starve, is that it?!"
"..."
"Before you worry about others, worry about yourself first. Geez, I wonder how you survived this long?"
Before he knew it, he's really starting to sound like an evil boss of a black company who pins his employees with moral dilemmas.
Ha…. whatever, it's not like I'm good with names too.
"Regardless, I expect you guys to remove traces of us or else…"
"Yes boss! We'll do our best!"
Sometimes, he wondered if they were even a real company when he looked at the chaos his team created. Though he took some guilty pleasure in being the one giving orders for once, he still valued their work, no matter how ridiculous their methods were.
"if you remove the meaning it sounds okay-ish. But still why does gen z have to ruin my day like this?"
"Sorry?"
"I'm not talking to you! Get out!"
"Hiii! Sorry boss!!"
The director flees immediately out of the office, but without getting yelled at by him to take the draft of the cursed lore.
"Ugh, dammit. What the fuck are those names!"
"Uh- boss..?"
"What!"
"Nothing! It's just there were people in black waiting for you at the meeting hall."
"Who?"
"I don't know, boss. It's just they're scary and all, they look like some kind of mafia."
The moment he heard that, he immediately knew what's going on.
What are they doing here? He asked himself.
Perhaps going there, he will know. It's been like forever since he was contacted by these people.
Although he knew they're monitoring him, he didn't expect any contacts at all.
Did he do something to anger them?
No, that was impossible. He had no thoughts of rebellion, why would he? He was just an ordinary person.
Unlike the reincarnated types with their supernatural abilities, he had nothing.
He didn't meet up with some kind of god, who would give him some kind of wish or something. Although reincarnation itself is a miracle, that just proves nothing to him.
Some might say that knowledge itself could be a cheat, but in this world, hundreds of years into the future, his modern high school education was worthless. Innovate? That was the dumbest shit he'd ever entertained. If he wasn't born in this family and didn't remember his past knowledge, he might have died outside of the arcology somewhere where his body and insides were melted by the acid rain or being eaten by some dangerous scrubs out there.
Leaks of any technology were heavily monitored and protected, any scientist or researcher worth their salt was locked away in corporate labs of those conglomerates. Knowledge, and learning materials or anything that might be considered is hidden.
Education was a privilege, only available to those who could afford it. Middle-class families buried themselves in debt just for the hope of lifting their children up a rung on the social ladder. Some succeeded. Most didn't.
None of that mattered now.
Anyway, going back, he was on his way to the meeting hall.
When he was intercepted from behind, an arm wrapped around his neck, pulling him into a chokehold, and was dragged to the direction of an empty room by a guy who looked like a mafia with his long coat.
His first instinct was to fight back, but without knowing how many there were, that was a good way to end up in a world of pain.
If there were too many of them, he wouldn't even get the chance to see how his project was developing.
But then when he was almost at the door, he drove his elbow hard into his attacker's ribs, then shifted his weight, using the momentum to throw the man over his shoulder.
The guy hit the floor with a painful grunt, the kind you let out when someone just knocked the air from your lungs.
"UGHH!!!"
"YOU FCKING GA¥ AS$ MOTH€₹##$#$!!!"
The reason? He had held his mouth too tightly, and his fingers even slipped in! Who could handle a guy molesting you just because he was free to do whatever he wants.
"Get that guy!"
Perhaps hearing the commotion, two more men in black coats rushed out of the room, seeing him beating the shit out of one of their guys, their guns immediately raised.
He froze, hands slowly lifting in surrender.
He wasn't looking for a fight, he just didn't appreciate being manhandled and molested when he could've walked in peacefully.
Before asking, yes, he can fight. But how did he learn to fight? What did he do? Since he can't hire a trainer since spies and hitmen are a thing, he has to rely on things like tutorials. But video tutorials weren't enough to fill in hands-on experience.
What did he do?
Mortal Battle.
If some doesn't remember, Mortal Battle was a VR game, a game about fighting until you're the last one standing.
No levels, No special abilities, just survival of the fittest. The tutorial was actual martial arts classes, and if you didn't learn, you got stomped. Since the game mirrored real-world strength, you had to work out just to keep up. No choice. If you were weak in real life, you were weak in the game. And if you were weak, you were just some punching bag for stronger players who treated it like their personal fight club.
Without another word, they forced him inside.
'Professionals?' he thought.
The two guys immediately brought him inside the room. The room was filled with them, at least a dozen men standing guard. But his eyes were drawn to a single figure standing by the window: an old man, maybe in his fifties, staring outside the window.
Before he could say anything, a sharp kick to the back of his knees sent him kneeling down, in which he didn't respond kindly.
"AHH!!"
The man collapsed.
Instinctively, he retaliated. His fist slamming into the groin of the guy who did it, which was responded to by a gun pointed at the back of his head.
"..."
A series of clicks followed as a dozen guns locked onto him.
He let out a deep breath through his nose and stayed still.
"Who are you people?" he asked just in case, these guys were someone else.
But he was met with silence.
"Mr. Reffison, are your parents Greeks or Russians?"
The one who asked the question was an old man who was facing the window, refusing to look at him.
"..."
He didn't answer immediately. The man still hadn't turned to look at him, as if he was nothing more than an afterthought.
"Do you mean, the Nordic? Because of the son in my name."
"..."
Silence descended.
"Did you come here just to waste time?"
The old man stiffened for half a second, just enough to betray his reaction. So that was the game he was playing.
"Haha…You're a smart young man." He laughed.
"But you have quite a foul mouth." he stood in front of him with his scarred aged face.
"Why are you here?"
"Me?"
"We were here for you, Mr. Reffison."
The old man answered, his accent thick with a Russian drawl.
"..."
"You want to know why, Mr. Reffison?"
"..."
"It seems you have caused quite a bit of trouble in the north, that's why we are here. We are responsible for monitoring you Mr. Reffison, but you still cause trouble."
He didn't respond. He knew these types, villains who enjoyed hearing their own voices, who stretched out conversations to toy with their victims.
"And for that, we're going to teach you a bit of a lesson for you to learn from your mistake."
The old man smiled, the kind that never reached his eyes.
"Do you understand?"
Without waiting for an answer, he extended his hand. One of his men stepped forward, placing a gun into his palm.
The old man admired it for a moment, turning it in his hand as if it were some priceless item. Then, he looked at him.
"Do you know what this is, Mr Reffison?"
"..."
He remained silent. He knew they wanted a reaction, fear, anger, anything.
He refused to give them those expectations.
The old man began pacing slowly, the polished leather of his shoes barely making a sound against the floor. His movements were deliberate, savoring every second of the tension.
Trying to push his fear on the surface.
"Hundred years ago, they had this thing called a whiteboard pen." He said.
"Teachers used it to write on whiteboards. To educate their students."
"..."
He remained silent. Never acknowledging the other party. He knew where this was going.
"And now, this gun,"
He lifted it slightly, letting the cold metal glint flash his face, making him close his eyes due to the light.
"will serve the same purpose."
BANG!
"—AAAGGHHHH!"
A sharp, searing pain tore through his leg, and before he could stop himself, a strangled cry escaped his lips. He collapsed to the ground, clutching his leg as warm blood began pooling beneath him.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway. His employees, hearing the gunshot, came rushing toward the room in a panic.
The door burst open, and they froze at the sight.
He lay on the floor, his face twisted in pain, sweat started beading down his forehead. His leg burned like fire, the wound fresh, and blood pooling beneath him.
"Boss!!!"
"W-Who the fuck are you?!" The director stammered, eyes darting between the armed men.
The old man didn't even spare them a glance. He simply smiled down at him, taking in his pitiful state.
"Lesson one,"
"Actions have consequences."
He let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
"Lesson two."
He crouched slightly, pressing the still-hot muzzle of the gun against his other leg.
Then he pulled the trigger.
BANG!*
"—GAAAAGGHHHH!"
Another scream.
"BOSS!!"
He can hear the director and his employees crying out in fear. He barely registered it.
The pain was overwhelming, white-hot agony ripping through his body, drowning out all thought.
His head spun, vision flickering. Then, another wave of pain hit, and that was it, he blacked out.
The old man sighed, lowering the gun.
"Those guys above are angry. Don't make me teach you lesson three, "
The old man spoke but then noticed that person's vacant, unfocused eyes.
Then, he turned to one of the men standing nearby.
"Hey, you!" He pointed at the director.
The director, still in shock, hesitated before pointing at himself, as if to clarify.
"Yes, you! Kretin. Tell this kid not to reach lesson three, got it?"
Then, without another word, he gestured to his men.
"Zakonchili, poyekhali."
And just like that, they were gone, leaving only the blood-stained floor and the heavy silence in their wake.
When he woke up he was at the hospital, he looked at his legs with two bandage gauze wrapped around his legs.
Remembering what happened, he clenched his fist with nails drawing blood in his palms.