Inora Prime was a planet known to all races in the universe.
Not for what it was — though what it was was already enough to demand attention from any race that encountered it for the first time. The largest rocky planet in the known universe — not by a small margin, but by a margin that made any second place irrelevant for comparison. The oldest cradle of carbon-based life, with records that preceded any other existing record by enough time for the difference to be not historical data but geological data. A solar system composed of only one massive planet and its star, as though the universe had decided that place deserved to exist in deliberate isolation — not punishment, but curation, the rarity being the product of choice and not accident.
But it wasn't its extraordinary peculiarities that made it universally known.
It was what existed there.
The I.C.O.P — Intergalactic Confederation of Order and Punishment. The pretty name had nothing to do with representation or union — it was the kind of name that had been built to communicate legitimacy before demonstrating it. It was there that the most powerful races of the Oasis decided everything — expansions, invasions, exterminations. It was there that the universe was administered by those who had decided that administering was more efficient than letting nature act.
"This is nonsense. The cost of mobilizing my troops for this isn't worth the effort."
The creature speaking wasn't tall. It didn't have a strong appearance — with the thinness and short stature that, combined with what appeared to be advanced age, communicated weakening in every visible detail. It was the kind of appearance that would make even the most cowardly human consider testing the limits.
But there, in that place, it was one of the most predominant voices in the room. Not through status. Not through charisma.
Through strength.
"The Aquamarine King will not participate."
The person beside the old one seemed substantially more intimidating — with the size and imposingness that communicated order and duty before anything else. They wore garments that seemed to contain water in visible compartments — not as decoration, but as necessity, an extension of an environment that wasn't available there but had been brought along. And even so everyone could hear them as though they were standing beside them, the voice projected with the quality of a race that had developed communication for distances where normal communication didn't reach.
Nobody doubted that race's capability. In fact, they were the thermometer indicating what would happen in that meeting — like a house of cards, the responses of other races came one by one after the Aquamarines, each one calibrated in relation to what had been said before.
The location was a large plain enclosed in a gigantic white dome, with metal structures floating at safe distances from each other, each in the positioning that had been negotiated before any word was said. In each structure, five to ten creatures — as unknown and exotic to each other as to any external observer.
"I think there's a misunderstanding here." — a woman said, with the tone of something that had decided clarifying was more efficient than continuing to listen. — "I didn't come seeking approval or reinforcement. I'm talking about what will be done by my race."
There were few races that opposed the Aquamarines — and those that did were, for the most part, strong enough not to need help for almost anything. What that woman had said was no surprise to those who knew which race she belonged to. But even among the strongest, discussing before acting was common practice — a form of respect, or at least recognition that acting without consultation created an inconvenient precedent.
It was the Aquamarines who had created that council, and with it what they considered the most practical way to resolve the turmoil the universe naturally produced — supervision by fee, with a cost calibrated to fit everyone's budget. For most races, having an owner made things simpler. And compared to a universe of pure chaos, submission was a rational choice. The Aquamarines were seen, by most, more as saviors than executioners. The cost of submission existed and everyone knew it — but submission was still better than the alternative.
Of course submission didn't apply equally to everyone. In the council there existed what everyone informally called the fingers — the strongest races of the universe, whose frictions turned simple matters into true epics where everyone chose a side and prayed they had chosen the winner. The frictions between them almost always revolved around economy or expansion. This time, however, the reason was so confused and apparently futile that many wondered what was being hidden beneath what was being said.
✦
"I hope you know, Lagherta, that your actions will be supervised by a mediator — regardless of what you do." — the Aquamarine representative said, with the patience of someone who had said that many times. — "Honestly, I'd like you to reconsider. Destroying a race that is closer to irrational mammals than to the weakest on our council doesn't seem… rational."
The pause before "rational" wasn't hesitation — it was the deliberate choice of a word that left space for the interlocutor to fill in what had been left implicit.
Lagherta knew what the mediator meant. Most conflicts cooled at that point, because the clause was clever: nobody went into conflict with nothing to gain, and the Aquamarines always knew how to identify what the prize was before the others realized there was a prize to be identified.
"Honestly, dear friend — I see no need." — Lagherta said, with the tone of something that had decided before arriving. — "We're talking about a race that isn't part of the council, I see no reason for such accompaniment."
"I agree." — the Aquamarine said, without changing tone. — "But I also know they have never harmed any race present here. I'm surprised that the interest for such an action stumbles against things that aren't easy to identify." — pause. — "Is there something you'd like to share with us, Lagherta?"
The eyes that turned toward her communicated clearly who was winning the discussion. But how could she explain what had happened when she herself didn't know exactly what it had been? The defeat existed as verifiable fact. What had caused the defeat resisted formulation — because the vocabulary she had was built for things that fit the known categories, and what had happened didn't fit any of them. Fear moved her before reasoning did.
"I'd like to point out that we have maintained business with that race for decades and their innocence makes them very generous." — the voice that arrived was from another floating structure, more distant. — "I wouldn't like to see them disappear without a… plausible reason."
The Travelers.
They were the fifth strongest race in the universe solidly and consistently — and many said it was that people's lucky number, which was why they deliberately maintained that position. With the consistency of something that had found an optimal position and had stopped moving — because moving, even upward, would risk what had been gained.
Their real appearance and capability, nobody had understood — because they were never seen directly. They chose to appear through robotic beings that had, among other capabilities, the ability to act as a perfect extension of the bearer who controlled them — transmitting not just instruction, but presence. Over time, it had become the form everyone knew. And for most, it had become the true form — the distinction between representation and represented erased by enough time to stop mattering.
"Stop that, Vhrugur." — Lagherta said, without changing posture. — "We all know you do business with all inferior races. The protection rings you sell to those weak races have no value in this situation — and honestly, I wouldn't like to end the favor my race does by respecting the clause of that ring, especially when the only real beneficiary is you."
The tension was palpable. But before it warmed enough to become an event, a third voice cut in.
"Both of you, shut up."
The voice was rude and without charisma — not pleasant in any honest way. But nobody raised their tone in response, because everyone knew to whom it belonged.
Seated on a throne considerably larger than any other structure present, a humanoid creature slouched over the chair in a mixture of disinterest and anger. The body in the fractured form of limestone gave a tone that seemed more like a work of fiction than a living creature — as though someone had decided that stone could have consciousness and had proven the point in a disturbing way.
"Lagherta." — he said, without raising his tone. — "You were never the type of person who demands something from us without having something specific in mind. Therefore I'll give you the opportunity to state the real reason for an extinction order." — he paused. — "I'd like to remind you that something like this, in the way you're wanting to do it, has never happened — not even in the era when there was no council."
"I understand, Lord Garnet — and as you rightly said, we have never taken sides against any decision here, even having the power to do so. However this time is different." — Lagherta said, dropping several tones, building the narrative in real time with the materials she had available. — "The only thing I want is non-interference."
"You're not asking us to ignore a murder." — Garnet said, distinguishing categories because the distinction mattered. — "What you're talking about is extermination, something that hasn't been done for centuries. It becomes complicated to permit something like this without proper clarification — not on principle, but on precedent. What is permitted once creates the expectation that it will be permitted again."
"Very well." — Lagherta breathed heavily, with the quality of breath of something that had arrived at the point where the only remaining option was the one it had been trying to avoid. — "I want you to see something."
Even as she spoke, she knew that everything she was doing was irrational at the scale that Garnet himself had named. There was no reason for extinction that would withstand the cold analysis of those who hadn't been there. For someone who had fought endless wars for reasons they could defend, this was something they would never do in full consciousness. But rage transformed everything — and for someone raised being a hammer, everything around eventually starts to look like a nail.
Everyone's interest was clear. Everyone knew that an Infernal with genuine anger only meant one thing historically: a humiliating defeat that had arrived from an unexpected direction. The question was who had been capable of causing that defeat. Those who would have the strength to do so were as confused as those who didn't — and it was exactly that confusion that communicated something more disturbing than any direct answer: it hadn't been any of them. In an era of marked cards where surprises didn't exist, seeing a wildcard that hadn't been introduced by any of the players present was, at the very least, intriguing.
"What will we necessarily see?"
The old Aquamarine seemed genuinely more interested now that the cards were being played — with the quality of interest that had been present beneath the surface of patience from the beginning.
Lagherta had no interest in explanations that could be answered by showing. She ignored the question while causing an enormous floating screen to appear at the center of the dome. She had found no joy in what she was about to show — but something needed to happen, and for it to happen, she wouldn't mind exposing what was shameful.
"Oh — how long has it been since I've seen the arena on your home planet, Lagherta." — Vhrugur said, with the precision of someone who had verified the data before speaking, out of habit and not doubt. — "I myself have done a great deal of business there. Excellent food, terrible gravity." — he paused. — "Correct me if I'm wrong — this is your annual event for the ascension of newcomers of your race, correct?"
"Yes, Lord Vhrugur."
"Hmmm. Three against one." — Vhrugur said, processing the image before processing what it meant. — "I see you still favor your own race."
Pause.
"Wait—"
Nobody seemed to understand his confusion — because for most of those present, a human was something as relevant as any of the five hundred races that occupied inferior positions in the rankings. But Vhrugur was seeing something different. He was identifying who the enemy was before the others finished understanding that there was an enemy.
"You're trying to say that you—"
"Yes." — Lagherta cut in. — "What you're seeing is a human. One of the weakest races in the universe. But that's not what I want you to see — it's what happened."
"But what can we expect from this, Miss Lagherta?"
Garnet's impatience was clear — communicated not by the voice, which had remained at the same tone, but by the details of posture. A three against one fight, with the enemy being from a mediocre race, made the image less interesting and more shameful for whoever had requested it.
At least until the answer came from that Infernal's mouth.
"A massacre."
The mouth responded before the mind finished formulating. The seriousness of her own voice made her clutch her chest — because there was something in that sound that forced her to hear what she had said as though someone else had said it.
Warrior. Grandmother. Mother. Things that didn't coexist easily in the same person, but that demanded space simultaneously. Her mind flew — not about what the screen would show, because what the screen would show would be only an image. And image would never be what she had truly seen. What she had felt didn't fit in any screen.
Only in memory.
✦
"Mother, why did you allow this? This fight will be a disgrace for my daughter."
"You think I care what they'll think of my granddaughter?" — she said, without taking her eyes off the arena below. — "I'd a thousand times rather see her alive than accept that she dies because of your stupidity. Shut up and behave before the others notice."
I hated being in that position — being watched, being measured. The arena was culturally indispensable for the wellbeing of my race, the perfect entertainment, the showcase where the strength of the noble dome demonstrated itself to the people who needed to see to believe. There were moments, rare ones, when things needed to happen in specific ways — and it was in those moments that strings needed to be pulled. Never abruptly. Over centuries, my family had learned to do what needed to be done in ways that were sometimes easy, sometimes complicated, but never of that magnitude. Not even my father had spoken of difficulty like that.
The truth was that I was afraid — and warriors didn't know what to do with fear. I was a hammer. Not a strategist. And there I was having to deal with something without the permission to draw my weapon and resolve it on my own.
"It's starting, mother."
The fight unfolded while I felt, with growing discomfort, something I had rarely felt in relation to opponents: envy.
The human's audacity to act while I was speaking seemed more correct the more I thought about it. At the same time I understood I had been used, the rage of understanding that a race I considered pathetic had been more intelligent and strategic than me in that moment drove me out of my mind. But I understood it was a lesson, not an insult — and a lesson was something a warrior didn't waste.
He had split the group with surgical precision. Against Vrikor — the strongest of the Infernal newcomers — he had placed the enormous Aqrabuamelu summoning not to exchange damage, but to hold. I myself had been surprised that that human, in a few observed fights, had understood that the equation against that Infernal would never close. The idea of placing the heroine on top of the Griffin was also excellent — while the Griffin fought against the Orghaal and its summoning, the heroine was a multiplier: crossbow at distance, persistent healing, pressure on two axes at the same time. I hated the fact that my race had imposed on itself the limitation of never entering with heroes in the arena. They were useful in ways that maximized any warrior — and it was exactly why I would never allow my granddaughter to enter against someone with that advantage. The group combat strategy was too strong to be relativized.
"Damn. He's going to reach my daughter."
Astrid's desperation was something I had foreseen — because the human wasn't doing anything that someone with experience and intelligence wouldn't do. With the strongest being held and the most resistant being bombarded, the most fragile would be exposed. And just as I would have done, he had advanced — ignoring the putrefaction power, showing something that even I hadn't fully calculated.
"Is his healing power Legendary?"
I had finally fit together the reason the human had insisted on fighting my granddaughter even knowing her putrefaction power was Epic. The summoning of the Callagan Desert Putrids was her hero — strong, but irrational to an extreme degree. Luck had smiled on my granddaughter when she managed to acquire the rarest power of that race: active, low-cost and high-power, capable of corroding anything within reach and making enemies melt before even reaching the bearer. That was what she was counting on — and what Astrid boasted about. And there was the human demonstrating that power was useless against him. The most my granddaughter had managed was making one arm fall off — while the other still hung, and the human kept advancing as though the putrefaction were an inconvenience, not a threat.
"Mother. He's coming. He can't kill my daughter."
Astrid was having difficulty maintaining her composure — and that human's healing capacity seemed to be frightening not only her, but also my granddaughter, who seemed to be forgetting that the putrefaction power was only one of the ways of killing she had available. It was a good lesson — never underestimate the enemy. There were creatures and races out there that even I had learned to respect, not for overwhelming strength, but for effective cunning.
"Don't worry, daughter. He's already dead."
✦
As soon as the human got close enough to my granddaughter, the final card was revealed — a competitor whose only advantage was invisibility, positioned exactly where it needed to be, appearing behind the human only to drive the lance through his chest. Honestly, I hadn't expected to need to use it. But it didn't matter.
Victory had a sweet taste.
The booing that rose from the arena didn't disturb me — it would be resolved with more arena, until the memory of that incident died in the people's minds. That was how you controlled a narrative. Not with silence, but with replacement.
"Mother… Mother, what's happening?"
The taste of victory made me lose myself in my own thoughts. That was enough for me not to immediately notice the human was different.
Something black filled him — advancing from inside out, covering every centimeter of the body until leaving only the eyes. Red. The scream that came out when the body was completely filled by that darkness was no longer the same voice that had addressed the arena minutes before. It was many voices layered over each other, each with its own weight, summed without canceling each other — producing something that made my hair stand on end after years of relentless combat.
I knew what needed to be done.
"Stop the fight now."
The lance shattered into many pieces. The perpetrator exploded into blood before anyone understood what had happened. Astrid seemed surprised — and I was the first to lose composure, which had never happened in public, which communicated to everyone around that what they were seeing was something for which I had no prepared answer. That was a demonstration of power that shouldn't exist in that place. It couldn't exist.
Another explosion — not of impact, but of power emanating from that creature like a wave that hadn't been directed, but reached everything with the indifference of force that didn't need to aim. I was thrown to the ground. The screams around gave way to footsteps — fear replacing confusion with the speed that only happened when the fear was genuine.
I got up and looked at the arena.
The creature that stood there was nothing I recognized. The black armor filled the entire body with the solidity of something integrated, not worn. It was the Leviathan in a form that fit in the space — and the space seemed smaller for it.
"Mother, are you alright? Mother, what's happening?"
"Shut up and listen to me." — I said, without taking my eyes off the creature. — "We need to stop this fight. Call the strongest warriors and ask them to enter the arena now."
"And you, mother? What are you going to do?"
"I…" — I paused. — "I'm going to prevent a catastrophe."
The power emanating from that creature chilled the bones — and I had survived too many things to stand with arms crossed now. Even if the Oasis punished me.
I advanced through the corridor while desperation spread through the arena below — invisible blades opening giant gashes, cutting my people indiscriminately as though skin and bone were the same as air. Fortunately, the creature seemed still. Lost within itself.
It was my chance.
I entered the arena.
"Marfini. Marfini, leave the arena now."
My granddaughter stared at the creature with the expression of an herbivore that had found a carnivore and discovered that the body doesn't obey when the fear is sufficiently absolute. My voice made her react — she turned to me while I gained ground in the arena, because someone had to.
"Grandma… I'm scared."
The power that creature emanated was suffocating even for me — and I had survived things that had killed entire legions. I ran shouting for her to run in my direction. I knew fear and that power were freezing her, but she needed to fight it. She needed to get to me.
"Run to me now. NOW."
I saw her feet turn in my direction.
My granddaughter was safe. She just needed to run to me. I would protect her — with my life, if necessary.
That was when it happened.
"Gran—"
Her movement caused the creature's movement. Even I had difficulty seeing how — one moment she was running, the next the creature had her head in its hands. The blood poured and the body hadn't understood what had happened yet, because it kept walking a few steps in my direction before falling at my feet.
"No. No. NOOOOOO—"
My throat ached. My eyes bled with rage — not metaphorically, literally, the red fluid my race produced when the rage surpassed what the body had been built to contain. I wouldn't care what the Oasis would do. I would kill that creature.
But it had no interest in me.
It vanished.
Appeared beside Vrikor.
He had no chance. The body was cut in half before anyone realized the movement had begun. In seconds, all the remaining enemies in the arena were dead — and then the creature finally stopped. In front of me.
"You are weak."
The words came out like a synchronized crowd — many voices, one direction.
"Who are you?"
The creature tilted its head slightly, with the gesture of something that had considered the question and arrived at the conclusion that the answer deserved to be said.
"Us?"
A pause.
"We are the beginning of the end."
The kick threw me out of the arena.
I passed through the stands, breaking what there was to break, burying myself in rubble with the brutality of an impact that hadn't bothered to calibrate the force for the result — it had simply happened. My body writhed in pain. That was not a novice's power. And the Oasis seemed not to care.
Rage. Hatred. Grief.
Feelings that rarely coexisted now accumulated in a way my body seemed to break under their weight even before breaking under the physical weight of what it had received. But before I could get up, the creature was on top of me. The red eyes above that obscure layer looked at me with contempt — the specific kind of contempt of someone who had calculated that the time spent there wasn't deserved.
"Go to hell. Kill me already."
The blow didn't come.
The creature stopped. Looked at me for a second that lasted longer than it should have. And then the black armor began to recede — not all at once, but gradually, like a tide returning to where it came from, revealing beneath it the same fragile human.
The grip decreased until it was only the weight of presence.
I didn't act. Perhaps it was surprise. Perhaps incomprehension. But the only thing that came from my mouth was the only thing I needed to know.
"So it wasn't you? What are you?"
[ Competitor Leonidas Aquiles is being expelled from this world. ]
Our eyes moved apart as he gained distance that would be impossible for me to cover — upward, out of the world, disappearing with the speed of something that had been hooked rather than having departed.
Astrid's scream pulled me from the stupor.
The shock of understanding what had happened arrived all at once — not gradually, not with the transition the mind expected to exist between understanding and accepting. It was real. It had happened. And there was no way to undo it.
"Mother… Mother… She died. NOOOOOO—"
I could only respond with tears and a promise.
It was war.