Within the territory of the Umojan Protectorate.
It had already been a year and a half since the Fall of Korhal IV, the catastrophe that had brought profound wounds to the people of Korhal. During this time, more than twenty-three million Korhalites who had taken refuge in Umoja had watered this barren and mountainous land beneath their feet with tears and sweat, reclaiming wastelands and building cities.
This generation of Korhalites was gradually taking root and sprouting in this foreign land far from their homeland. When the new generation of children was born, they could only recall the Mercurial City and the lush green primeval forests of Korhal IV from their parents' memories and the beautiful songs of the past.
The main city of New Styrling, encircled by mountains, still bore faint traces of the brilliance and splendor of old Korhal's capital. The city center was dense with buildings and towering structures. The silvery-white architecture decreased in height outward from the central government tower, the circular chamber of the Korhal Assembly, and the Supreme Court of the Dominion to the residential and industrial buildings on the outskirts—like concentric ripples spreading from a drop of water falling into a river.
Unlike those cities on Korhal IV that had risen from colonial-era settlements, New Styrling had no inner city walls or the tangled and complex transport networks characteristic of the old age.
The urban layout of New Styrling followed a strictly detailed plan; its landmarks, roads, residential buildings, and even each brick were designed before being laid. The entire city's transportation grid resembled a series of sharply angular, overlapping meshes and oblique lines—a city symmetrical and orderly, yet somewhat lacking in vitality.
Due to Umoja's capricious climate, with hurricanes and torrential storms making regions of stable weather exceptionally precious, even as a mostly plains-covered world, its usable land resources were highly limited. Humanity had to wrack its brains to make full use of every bit of valuable land, leading to high-rise residential districts replacing the community neighborhoods and livestock cooperatives to which the Korhalites had once been accustomed, becoming the foundation of their lives and homes.
At this moment, it was local morning time. The rising sun created a magnificent scene: long-wavelength rays refracting through the atmosphere left streaks of red-orange lines across Umoja's bright tangerine sky, like the veins of a citrus fruit—like the cross-section of a blood orange. Meteors occasionally streaked across, vanishing as fleeting bursts of flame.
Against this beautiful backdrop, the silvery-white towers of the metropolis reflected brilliant orange-red light, resembling a transparent crystal city, with spire-tipped skyscrapers forming a serrated horizon.
At the city's edge stood crystal-processing plants, gas refineries, and heavy industrial factories made of square glass and steel structures. Employing Umojan anti-gravity technology, they floated above the city, suspended in the sky and linked to the interstellar routes shuttling ceaselessly between the planet's surface and orbital space. Tug barges stretching thousands of feet long appeared as black dots far off on the horizon.
The colorful, splendid city and the orange sky seemed motionless—beautiful like a painting by an impressionist master.
Augustus stood at the center of a vast circular plaza paved with square stone bricks, with Revolutionary Army soldiers adorned with fluttering sashes standing beside him. This plaza lay at the very heart of New Styrling City, surrounded by the three landmark buildings, and enclosed on all sides by tall red walls.
The central plaza, encompassing one-fifth of the downtown area, retained the name "Styrling City Square," named after Augustus's grandfather. At the same time, the plaza was far from empty: it contained a reconstruction of the Korhal Senate Chamber and what had originally been the burial grounds of several members of the Mengsk family and other great nobles. Now, however, it was the resting place of millions of fallen Revolutionary Army soldiers.
At the very center of the plaza stood a bronze statue of Augustus's grandfather—a short-haired man with a stern face, wearing a robe, and at his feet lay two Styrling wolves, their eyes wide open. Beyond the statue stretched tens of thousands of black tombstones, each topped with a carved cross, with a bouquet of flowers placed before every one.
On a tall monument was engraved a sentence: Your names are unknown, but your deeds shall live forever.
This cemetery held those who had fallen in the Battle of Korhal, the Dylarian Campaign, the Battle of Tarsonis, and the battles fought on Mar Sara. Some of the warriors' remains had never been recovered; buried here were their farewell letters, their belongings, or a rifle sealed away.
The youngest of the fallen was only sixteen, the oldest fifty-five. Many among them had never imagined, before joining the Revolutionary Army, that there would come a day in their lives when they would take up a gun—some had never even seen a firearm or a body smashed to pieces.
They had borne many identities—fathers, sons, husbands, wives, patriots, passionate volunteers joining the army with fearless devotion, or simply social misfits and opportunists carried along by the fervor of the times. But now, all of them shared only one identity.
Augustus was wearing the dark gray cloak that had accompanied him through Korhal, Deadman's Port, and Mar Sara, as he raised his head to gaze at the sky and the city beyond the plaza walls.
New Styrling was called the Silver City among the Mountains, the Pure Crystal City, the Korhalites' Refuge, and the Last Sanctuary.
After Augustus had led the Revolutionary Fleet deep into the void without hesitation, Angus and his aides had devoted themselves to rebuilding a shelter strong enough to protect their people from the storms.
The skilled Korhalite craftsmen, top scholars across every field, and the very foundation of their nation—the common folk—had all escaped the destruction that consumed their homeworld. With their own hands and wisdom, they swiftly restored the Korhalites' dignity. In just over a year, industry and the real economy revived. Shame and hatred became the fuel driving even those Korhalites who held little hope for vengeance to work tirelessly.
The Korhalites of Umoja upheld their almost fanatical creed: to reclaim everything that had once belonged to them from the Terran Confederacy.
A gentle breeze brushed across the blue-bricked, red-walled plaza, and the air carried Umoja's distinctive, strange fragrance—a soothing scent that eased tension, which was also why the Umojans were far less quick-tempered than the Kel-Morians. The people here were neither proud nor cold; they always greeted others with a smile.
Far away, an elevated train track hung suspended in midair, and a train traveling at over 480 kilometers per hour flashed past in an instant.
Augustus knew that train was filled with Revolutionary Fleet soldiers returning to their families. For those who had fought and sailed across the stars alongside him for so long, they must surely be returning home with the joy of having survived the disaster.
The unchanging training aboard the warships and the stifling atmosphere of living without daylight had long accompanied these brave soldiers, along with the psychological issues and various diseases brought on by alien environments. Months or even a full year of lightless hyperspatial voyages tested the will of any human being.
Now, under the arrangements of Augustus and Warfield, the Korhal-born soldiers of the Revolutionary Army could disembark in batches upon Umoja to reunite with their families. Even those from Deadman's Port, Mar Sara, and the resocialized soldiers had been granted their own leaves.
Compared to the warriors buried beneath Augustgrad Square, the Revolutionary Army soldiers aboard the train were the ones who could return to their families carrying the honor they had earned. When they stepped off the train, they were welcomed by enthusiastic officers of the Umojan Protectorate Army and pretty young women holding flowers—each man receiving a kiss from a youthful girl.
Augustus withdrew his gaze from the passing hover train, his eyes finally settling on Ryk Kydd, who was standing before a tombstone. Not long ago, he had buried both his adjutant, who had died on Bel'Shir, and the soldier who had sacrificed himself to protect him.
Lundstein stood silently before the graves of his two uncles, four nephews, and his father. Harnack was clutching the tombstone of Kurt Josephine, weeping bitterly, perhaps recalling the days when the two had fought over food during their time at the Turaxis II recruit training camp.
Besides them, there was also buried here a Heaven's Devil named Henry Lane. Like all members of the Heaven's Devils squad, Henry had soon become a senior officer in the Revolutionary Army, leading an elite paratrooper unit.
And of course, Augustus still remembered that Heaven's Devil who had once saved his life.
Henry's death had nothing to do with courage or cowardice—his battlecruiser had simply been destroyed by the Federal Navy during the Battle of Tarsonis.
Thousands of soldiers had perished like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass. Most had vaporized in an instant, consumed by the scorching plasma hot enough to melt a battlecruiser's steel hull. Because the destroyed ship had been trapped between the two warring sides, no rescue ever came. The survivors kept fighting, until, several hours later, the last of them died from suffocation and cold after a long and agonizing struggle.
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