Thud, thud, thud—
Heavy, forceful footfalls echoed through the dim subway tunnel, each step like a hammer pounding on frayed nerves.
The sound grew clearer, sharper—an army closing fast.
The survivors present were still so shaken by the Tyrant's appearance that their souls seemed to have fled their bodies.
For a moment they thought death was inevitable—that in the next second the Tyrant would lift that huge, armored hand and crush them like insects.
But that didn't happen. The Tyrant simply stood in the shattered doorway, an unmoving statue of steel.
As doubt rose in their hearts, the approaching steps swelled, the pressure even more suffocating than the Tyrant's silence.
Every SWAT officer and the old cop instinctively raised their guns again, palms slick with cold sweat.
They knew full well they couldn't even resist the Tyrant. With yet another presence arriving, any resistance was meaningless—and yet they didn't dare lower the only weapons they had.
At last, the owners of the footfalls appeared.
A column of figures in trench-coat combat gear filed in, steps synchronized, cadence precise—cold machines of war.
In the dim light, the metal sheen on their helmets was as sharp as a blade. The chest plates and shoulder joints bore inlaid draconic insignia, every light-line cold and austere.
They were not any unit the survivors knew, but an armed force none had ever seen.
Then a soldier with a deep-red helmet stepped out from the formation.
His tread was heavy, imperious, each step carrying an irresistible weight. His ocular monitors glowed a ghostly red in the gloom—cold, unyielding mechanical eyes sweeping every corner of the shelter.
Hiss—hoo—!
A deep, regular breathing accompanied him.
The respirations, amplified by the helmet's filters, sounded like mechanical lungs at work, the rhythm chilling.
Every survivor held their breath. Some edged backward. A few children burrowed into their mothers' arms.
The air was crushed flat; even time felt congealed.
At last, the red-helmed soldier spoke.
His voice came filtered through the mask, dense with nasal resonance and metallic timbre, the tone flat and emotionless: "We belong to the Human Empire's clone forces. We are here by order to extract you. You may rest assured."
The few words exploded in the shelter like thunder.
For a heartbeat, they only grew more uneasy.
They craved rescue by instinct, but the cold introduction made trust hard.
A strange army, a mysterious power—more terrifying, in some ways, than the Blood Cross.
As fear mounted, two more clone soldiers entered.
Their kit differed slightly. A white armband with a red cross was clear on their left sleeves, belts hung with complex medical tools and compact rescue gear.
They moved briskly, without wasted motion, heading straight for the survivors.
One announced curtly: "Remain seated and still. We will examine you one by one to confirm no infection."
As the words fell, the medic lifted an arm. A module popped from the armor's flank and cast a cool blue scanning beam over every person present.
The glow was a cold blade, washing the survivors' faces to a pallid sheen.
"Don't move!"
The officers barked on instinct, but held their fire.
They knew they stood no chance. A rash shot would only throw the survivors into the abyss.
The old officer stared hard at the red-helmed soldier, those aged but still-steady eyes full of caution.
He yearned for rescue, but experience taught him never to trust an unknown power—especially a force as mechanical as this.
The clones didn't care about the hostility.
The formation at the door held perfect order. Their muzzles were down, but looked ready to take every life in a blink.
That cold confidence was the most frightening thing of all.
As the scan swept on, the shelter's tension crested. Each pass of the blue light felt like a scythe handing down a verdict.
At last everyone understood—
their future might already lie in the hands of a vaster power.
When the clone medics finished, the pressure began to ease.
A flat mechanical voice confirmed the results, data terse and clean.
Aside from a few children running mild fevers from long-term malnutrition and damp conditions, no one carried the Blood Cross virus.
The news pierced the fog like a ray of light, letting nerves strung to snapping finally draw a breath.
Even so, when the medics with red-cross armbands moved in to treat the feverish kids, parents instinctively stepped in front of them.
Fear was hard to quell in their eyes.
In a world of death and betrayal, they no longer trusted strangers—much less faceless, mechanical "men."
The clone medics didn't pause. They offered no explanation, showed no emotion, and simply stepped past the blocks and set injectors to small arms.
A faintly luminescent liquid flowed into the children's veins. Nano-robots ferried microscopic agents that began repairing inflammation and metabolic disruption almost at once.
Visible changes followed—
Fevered brows cooled. Breaths eased. Faces flushed red by high fever drew back to normal color.
The turnaround was so fast it beggared belief.
?!
Parents stared in stunned silence, incredulity blooming in their eyes.
Fear ebbed, replaced by trust, beaten out of them by facts.
Gradually, the civilians huddled in corners stood, edging nearer to the Empire's glacial soldiers.
They still harbored caution, but had to admit: without these "people," they would already have died—of Blood Cross, or at the hands of roving infected.
Under the clone soldiers' guidance, the survivors left the cold, cramped shelter.
The heavy alloy hatch sealed behind them, severing the last tether to their old world. They filed up a cleared passage toward the surface.
When they finally emerged, the cold wind and light almost overwhelmed them.
Then they raised their eyes—and every breath caught at once.
!!!!
Above Toronto, a leviathan hung.
A Valiant-class super-heavy cruiser spanned the sky like an iron continent blotting the stars. Its hull was etched with complex lines and fortress turrets; running lights and deep red warning beacons crisscrossed the night, crushing the lungs with pressure.
A heraldic crest loomed at the prow, half-veiled by cloud—a sigil declaring the single truth: a warship of the Human Empire.
Words failed them. The world they knew split down the seams.
Even hardened officers and SWAT veterans froze where they stood, mouths dry.
All around, the streets radiated a braided aura of order and killing calm.
Clone soldiers in trench combats lined the ways, step-perfect and silent, weapons cold with light, oculars burning deep red—harvesters without feeling.
Farther out, ranks of auxiliaries in powered rigs moved to work, turning the district into a military encampment.
Cordite and blood hung in the air, but chaos was gone. Pockets of Blood Cross were being pared away.
Those once terrifying were nothing before a regular "future" army. Gunfire sputtered now and then; the louder sound was an icicle silence.
The SWAT officers watched, emotions in turmoil.
They had thought themselves the city's final line. Now they were dust motes.
These Imperial forces were the ones who decided the city's fate.
The survivors learned a single thing. Before this war machine, neither Blood Cross nor civilians with light arms had any ground to stand on.
The only choice was to follow—to obey.
For now, at least, they were alive.
The frame shifted. The "camera" seemed to cross the endless sea of stars and settle on Earth of the prime universe.
This Earth was no longer the blue world of an old civilization. It was the unquestioned center of the Human Empire—and the palace complex known as the Imperial Palace reared upon it like a god's dwelling.
The Palace defied imagination.
Tier on tier of domes and spires stabbed the sky. Golden and white alloy skins flung back moonlight in blinding sheets, as if their radiance cloaked a continent in awe.
It was not merely architecture, but a symbol that struck the soul—faith and pillar of billions, the Empire's will made manifest.
Deep within lay the core of the former Relic Base.
Statues, altars, and torches remained—the very foundations that let the Empire stride the multiverse.
Beneath the celestial vault, spatial gates of 6 km × 6 km stood arrayed, their surfaces a deep, rippling sheen like mercury mirrors.
They led to worlds without number.
Through them, Imperial power could leap to alien universes in an instant, bearing order and iron to unending stars.
The entire zone was wrapped in a mighty energy shield and kept at highest alert at all times; only by imperial authorization could a gate open.
Past the core, sight returned to the Palace proper.
Vast stairs and corridors ran to the horizon, arteries linking sky to earth. Each stone was carved with fine script, chronicling the Empire's rise, humanity's growth, and the glory of blood-won campaigns.
Everywhere stood the Imperial Guard in golden armor.
They were the pinnacle of Imperial guardians, each towering over eleven feet, bodies like iron colossi.
Their gilded plate was inscribed with Han-character sigils and psionic talismans. In the hall's glow, they seemed to burn with sacred fire.
They stood between carved beams and painted pillars, or patrolled in ordered files. Their gazes were hard and resolute, idol-steadfast. Any who profaned the Palace's majesty would be torn to ash in an instant.
The light drew onward, to the most sacred place—
The Meditation Hall.
The chamber was vast and solemn. The dome was laid with reliefs of gold and gem, telling a grand sweep of unification and victory.
The air carried a hush heavy as stone, as if time itself ran slower here.
On the tall columns flanking the hall, immense torches burned with golden light, flames wavering without a wisp of smoke.
Clearly they were not common fire, but psionic flame—symbol of the Human Empire's will, never to be extinguished.
At the far end, a golden throne rose high, its bulk almost one with the hall.
Below it, scores of Imperial Guard stood in two ranks—silent, austere—not merely guardians but a living warning that made any who entered feel small.
At the foot of the steps stood two singular figures: Apu and Melissa.
They were the first brilliant AIs to join the Empire. Their bodies were liquid metal, shape-shifting at will, though now they wore near-human forms.
Black qipaos traced clean, grave lines, silver fluid flickering at sleeves and hems like a silent warning.
Their eyes glimmered with data—endless streams—cool and wise as they watched all within the Meditation Hall.
The sight finally came to rest on the golden throne.
Upon it sat a figure of peerless authority—
Samuel Young.
A pure, immaculate psionic radiance wreathed him. It did not glare; it soaked every corner, as if even the air was cleansed.
That power shielded the Human Empire, keeping its billions from the taint of subspace and chaos.
His face was calm and unshakable, his gaze deep with a wisdom that pierced time and space—father-gentle and emperor-stern, beyond profanation.
He did not speak, yet it felt as though the universe's pulse beat in time with his will.
Everything in the Meditation Hall proclaimed an undeniable fact: this was the Empire's core, and the man upon the golden throne was the single refuge and faith of billions.
______
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