"The battlefield is like purgatory. It selects the excellent and eliminates the mediocre. Grief is useless. After crossing the death-purgatory watered by your naivety, there are endless steps awaiting your climb. The second round will arrive soon. Trials will become routine. You will grow accustomed to them."
"Prepare yourselves, soldiers."
"The epitaph of a qualified warrior must be nourished by the blood of countless bones."
Listening to the war veterans of the Divine Empress Order deliver their pyramid-scheme-like brainwashing speeches—complete with half-smiles and teasing expressions—the face of Earth's super-billionaire and superhero Tony Stark looked no different from the mutant soldiers and the penal legionnaires.
Numb. Miserable. As if their fathers had just died.
A second round right away?!
Slumped on the shuttle's crude folding cot, Stark was howling inside as well.
To hell with the Divine Empress Order. To hell with the Order. Preaching? Believers?
You're worse than a medieval inquisition. You're just a bunch of oversized mercenaries waving the banner of "God," profiteering from war without restraint!
We boarded a pirate ship. The whole damn Earth boarded a pirate ship.
What happened to that technical officer position focused on research and development? When it came time to deliver, it turned into a frontline space marine grunt? Is there no law left in this universe? I want to see Gorgon... I want to see Lady Gorgon!
Of course, Stark didn't dare shout and cause a scene.
Based on what he'd heard about internal bullying in the U.S. military—and looking at the massive biceps of those Imperial veterans, each one seemingly capable of beating him to death with a single swing—Iron Man silently declared that he was a refined, high-quality man of science and technology. He would not stoop to the level of brutes.
"You're the worst batch I've ever trained."
The post-battle summary and experience-sharing lecture from the Imperial Auxilia and servant army veterans continued:
"Especially you mutant conscripts. On the battlefield! Stop relying on your unstable, occasionally deranged mutant genes every time you encounter the enemy!"
"With your half-baked genetics—having nightmares in your sleep, your brains glitching—forget your damn Epsilon-level, Delta-level, Beta-level classifications. Right now, you have only one identity: recruit!"
"What's the most reliable companion in your hands? Your body? Your abilities?"
"No! It's the little vest and the flashlight issued to you! At any time, those are your most trustworthy weapons! In terms of reliability, they've endured more battle than the grains of rice you've eaten in your lifetime!"
"Some of the idiots who died tried to use psychic abilities to scout the enemy easily. Did they even weigh their own worth?"
"The Skrull Empire—one of the three great overlords of the cosmos. Even in decline, would their regular army units lack countermeasures?"
"Others deliberately mutated and beastified their limbs, compromising their armor seals, then accidentally exposed themselves to viral gas and died. And there were even fools who, after the 'greenskins' had already been cleared out of a nest, took off their helmets to rest and inhaled too much harmful dust, passing out. That's the stupidest way to die!"
"Fix your bad habits! Conventional warfare has its advantages. Take it step by step... Don't try to fly before you've even learned to walk!"
Finally, something felt familiar. Wasn't this the exact tone of Pentagon boot camp training?
As the veterans barked and jabbed at them with sharp words, Stark frowned and muttered inwardly.
In one ear, out the other. Stark turned to look toward the other end of the shuttle cabin, where fixed mechanized sanitation units were cleaning up the appearance of several Earth conscripts, issuing them new-model equipment, while auxiliary officers commended and encouraged them.
These were naturally the best-performing Earth conscripts in his temporary formation—mutants, penal soldiers, and clean-record volunteers alike.
Among the mutants alone, aside from a handful of low-level mutants with stable minds, high quality, and strong mastery over their abilities, the majority were powerful Beta-level and even Alpha-level mutants.
Watching all this, a deep, shadowed look appeared in Stark's eyes.
If nothing unexpected happened, the Earth conscripts were about to be divided into ranks.
During this period of interstellar voyage alongside the Divine Empress Order, Stark had long since sensed the strict hierarchy within their ranks.
It wasn't like American capitalist wage employment relationships, nor was it medieval religious clergy hierarchy. It was a strange yet perfectly fused structure combining feudal noble titles, modern military ranks and posts, and a culture of strength above all within the armed forces.
A dark aesthetic of authoritarianism.
As for Stark himself, it was awkward. His performance hovered neither high nor low.
He had no choice. Away from Earth, his global armor defense-response deployment system was unusable. Many of his methods—modular assembly, external weapon mounts—were unavailable. His portable AI, Friday, lacked sufficient computing power, and due to his own personal circumstances, it was temporarily incompatible with the fleet's battleship network.
Relying solely on the single Iron Man suit he wore and a portion of portable components in his suitcase simply wasn't enough.
Battle after battle—defeat after defeat, yet he kept returning to fight. That spirit had earned recognition from many Imperial veterans, but it still wasn't pretty. He was too weak...
No exaggeration—setting aside weapon configurations, the penal legionnaires straight out of prison truly had far more experience than a billionaire like Stark in certain dirty, winding fields.
Vrrr—
"Command station, this is AC–9527. Requesting radiation clearance for the deck defense shield... initiating frequency sync... entering airtight barrier. Link established."
The shuttle trembled lightly as the voice of a shipborne servitor echoed through the comms.
On the folding cot, Tony Stark stared at the small display screen beside him. When the indicator shifted from yellow to green, he painfully moved his battered Iron Man armor and, relying on what little structural integrity remained, forced himself to stand.
Returning from the Skrull fortress satellite, one shuttle after another, transport craft after transport craft, quietly landed in the vast internal hangar bay of the battleship, appearing minuscule by comparison.
Thousands upon thousands of Earth conscripts, tempered by interstellar warfare, moved swiftly across the deck lanes under the guidance of Imperial veterans. Those who still had all their limbs and could move formed barely orderly ranks and headed toward the lower sleeping quarters.
Under the command of servant soldiers clad in full-coverage powered armor and servant officers in iron-gray uniforms, the severely wounded were also evacuated in an orderly fashion.
There were unquestionably far fewer people now.
Even the Earth volunteers who had once joined the Divine Empress Order with enthusiasm and longing—eager to experience the grandeur of interstellar war—no longer bore their former vigor and passion.
Stark, whose injuries hovered between light and moderate, limped under the support of a servitor toward the temporary care station set up along the edge of the deck. The ship was simply too vast. Without internal identity authorization—possessing only visitor-level clearance—if they wandered off without guidance, they might not find their way out for three days and nights.
"You again."
A clear, cool female voice, like a spring in winter.
"Hm?"
Stark snapped back to attention and turned toward the most striking figure in the care station.
Moving among the wounded, that old-fashioned red uniform still looked stunning upon her. Her soft pink hair was braided neatly, and those somewhat alarming crimson eyes flicked briefly toward him.
The physician in red would pass by every injured soldier, glancing at each patient who came through her hands—casual, yet utterly serious.
Why casual? Because it was too fast. The efficiency was almost absurd, as if she were constantly issuing silent verdicts of "No saving them. Take them away."
And yet, every wounded soldier she touched seemed to receive divine revelation—their pale faces flushing with color at once...
Until—
"Done. Basic recovery achieved. As for the body's depletion—nutritional replenishment and light rehabilitative training will suffice. Take him down."
A faint fragrance brushed past him. His legs no longer ached, his back no longer throbbed. Only then did Stark realize—the woman had saved him again.
Had her medical skill improved even further? Or was that just his imagination?
"Wait. My name is Tony Stark. You've saved me twice now, and I still don't know your name."
The last time he'd been rescued, he had been barely conscious and hadn't felt it clearly. This time, Stark was certain—she possessed a healing ability.
On Earth, self-healing mutant abilities were common enough. But the power to heal others? That was unheard of.
Even the titan of mutant scholarship, Professor X, had remained paralyzed his entire life. And the finest neurosurgeon, Stephen Strange, after his car accident, had searched the world in vain to heal his hands.
One day, he might very well come knocking. For himself—or for family.
Stark's capitalist instincts told him he needed this woman's contact information.
"Nightingale."
The red-eyed, red-clad, tall and mature physician did not turn her head. "Florence Nightingale."
Stark's eyes widened as if he had just heard the impossible. He froze.
"The Lady with the Lamp of Crimea..."
It was a name every medical student encountered—especially those in nursing.
Unlike most mutants and prison-background recruits with only primary or secondary school education, Stark—an academic prodigy with near-universal scholarly exposure—had studied Florence Nightingale's Notes on Hospitals and Notes on Nursing.
"1820... two centuries ago... Are you a mutant?" he murmured.
"..."
As a Heroic Spirit whose basic parameters had been specially enhanced by Selene, Nightingale heard his whisper clearly. She turned her head expressionlessly and tilted it slightly. Her pale, beautiful face seemed devoid of emotion.
"Does it matter?"
"No," she answered immediately.
"Wait—"
Stark had many more questions, but at that moment a hoarse voice descended from above.
"The greatest genius of this century. Dreamer, patriot, Iron Man—Tony Stark."
A figure stood above him.
Stark looked up to the second level of the deck staircase. A strange man wearing an enormous golden mask and a blue-and-black striped robe held open a glossy Earth magazine featuring a Playboy personality profile, scrutinizing him with the tone of a scholar.
"And you are... sir." Stark had nearly said magician or circus clown, but remembering his surroundings, quickly corrected himself. He spread his hands. "Do we know each other? What can I do for you?"
"You may call me Avicebron. A fellow seeker within the boundless domain of wisdom. Using you as a ground assault marine is a waste of talent," Avicebron stated calmly. "A mage's workshop is where you belong."
"Magecraft?"
So he really was a magician?
Before Stark could finish the thought, invisible puppet threads hooked around his limbs.
Do not resist.
The voice echoed directly within his mind. In the next instant, man and armor alike were lifted before Avicebron.
"Come with me," he said.
Stark's body moved against his will, following the masked magus. Soon, after passing through deck security checkpoints, the two walked one before the other along a long, dim side corridor.
"Your trial this time was set by that Beast Goddess. Yet since you have returned alive—rather than being executed by the commissariat—it means you passed."
"I was singled out? So I didn't actually need to participate in ground combat?!" Realization struck him, and Stark's voice rose three octaves.
Avicebron did not answer.
"Now. Join my magecraft workshop. I will teach you golemancy. You will also gain access to confiscated Skrull and Kree technologies. Your task is to thoroughly comprehend them and unleash your full potential..."
He spoke as much to himself as to Stark.
After a pause, he lifted the magazine in his hand and added, "Just as you once did on Earth."
Stark saw the cover headline—Prodigal Son Returns.
"That was a long time ago. I stopped making weapons years ago."
"You will make them again." Avicebron halted, his tone laden with implication as he turned his gaze toward the porthole. "The Goddess will require it of you."
Stark was trembling.
Hummmmmm—
Beyond the viewport lay a viscous black cosmic expanse. Countless sinister, cold tendrils writhed and hissed, emanating despairing dread. And their master—the colossal cosmic goddess, vast as a celestial body—rose slowly from below the window's frame, accompanied by unending murmurs.
The brilliance of constellations coiled and spread within her being. Newborn stars pulsed with luminous rhythm... Majesty. Solemnity. A single glance was like witnessing the extinction and rebirth of a million suns.
"Gorgon..." Stark whispered the name, trembling.
"Will you do it?" Avicebron asked. "Stark. As a human of Earth, do you intend to defy the Mother Goddess who now safeguards your world?"
As if in response to the magus' words, the Beast Goddess opened her Mystic Eyes. A vortex stirred in the aetheric domain of the star system. Even the air seemed to grow heavy.
Visibly, the system's primary star dimmed. The once-vibrant solar radiation faded like water without a source—vanishing in an instant.
Eternal night descended.
"I'll do it!"
...
The minor episode within the flagship did not concern Selene.
Even if someone borrowed her name to intimidate others.
She was busy helping the newly reassigned Heroic Spirits familiarize themselves with the Empress' "gift."
Simple. Direct.
"Karna, son of the Sun God. You—restore the star I petrified."
"Heracles. Use planets as your sparring weights. Temper your body with stars. Shatter it."
"Enkidu. Revive the life of that burning dead star."
"Cu Chulainn..."
...
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