The next day, despite the doubts of the townsfolk, Rā once again stood before them, continuing his speech.
He sought not only to awaken in them a longing for a better life, but also to give them something other than violence to occupy their thoughts. In a world stripped of joy and entertainment, too many passed their days wondering whether to start a fight simply for amusement.
More importantly, Rā wanted to draw the attention of the town's rulers.
This settlement, though shabby, at least maintained a semblance of order. Its leaders even showed rudimentary concern for those who could barely survive—already far more humane than ninety-nine percent of other towns, where cannibalism and cruelty had become the norm.
In Rā's eyes, such leadership was like a glimmer of gold in the endless night.
His true intention was to study this ruler closely. If conditions proved favorable, he would do as he had done in ages past: hide himself in the shadows, guide the ruler, help expand his power, and teach him the ways of kingship—laying the foundation to reunite Terra and rekindle humanity's rise.
As for why he would not take the throne himself, the reason was simple.
He was immortal. An eternal ruler, no matter how wise or capable, inevitably stagnated society—cementing rigid hierarchies, breeding superstition, even becoming an object of worship, a false god to the masses. That path always led to decline.
Religion, in his eyes, had been a failed experiment since more than twenty thousand years ago. He was determined to avoid repeating that mistake.
The true form of civilization, Rā believed, was the Federation of Humanity in its Golden Age: strong, progressive, and enlightened. A society where every need of body and spirit was met, where even congenital flaws were corrected through science. But that shining age had collapsed through forces beyond his power to prevent.
Still, it remained his ideal template.
---
One Week Later
Rā finally met the town's ruler: an elderly man in a plain gray robe, introduced by his attendants as Bram Kadur.
Humanity's degeneration after the gene-collapse had reduced average lifespans to mere centuries. Judging his true age from appearance alone was impossible.
Yet while Rā regarded him calmly, Bram Kadur reacted with visible shock—almost fear. Tears welled in the man's eyes as he abruptly fell to his knees.
"Lord! I have committed a sin beyond forgiveness!"
The outburst startled everyone. Even Rā froze, uncertain how to respond.
Catching himself, Bram quickly dismissed his attendants, leaving only the two of them in the chamber. Once the doors closed, he spoke with trembling urgency:
"My lord, I was once a captain in the Federation's Second Fleet—an assault fleet commander, and a classified high-tier psyker. But during leave, the Warp storms stranded me here on Earth."
At that, Rā finally understood.
In the Golden Age, even ordinary humans lived thousands of years. The elite Golden Men lived tens of thousands. Though the machine rebellion and its data-virus had destroyed reincarnation technology and robbed them of true immortality, mere millennia should not have brought their civilization to ruin.
But the Warp storms that followed had poisoned the very genome of mankind. Most Golden Men and unmodified humans alike degenerated, their lifespans collapsing, their strength diminishing, their lines extinguished in centuries.
Only the rarest psykers managed to resist, stabilizing or even improving their genetic inheritance. Out of the Federation's quadrillions, only a handful survived intact.
That Bram Kadur was one of them filled Rā with relief. In this broken age, even an ordinary man of the Golden Era would be irreplaceable. But a fleet captain and psyker? Priceless beyond measure.
Still, Rā could not hide his puzzlement.
"But I should not recognize you. How do you know me?"
Bram's face twisted with guilt.
"It comes from the greatest mistake of my life. In a sealed strategic depot, I once discovered records—records about you. That same depot also contained several intact, unused STCs..."
At those words, Rā's heart leapt.
The Standard Template Constructs were the Federation's most precious relics—self-contained archives of entire technological trees. With even one functioning STC, any competent human could terraform worlds, build industries, and raise armies.
With one STC, Rā could conquer Earth in a month, restore it to 21st-century technology within two years, and build fleets within a decade. He had hoarded many before the rebellion—only for the corrupted machines to destroy them all, knowing exactly how to wipe out their creators' greatest tools.
For Rā, even a broken STC would be worth half his life. A working one would be salvation itself.
To hear of several intact units made his blood burn with hope.
But then Bram's words—"my greatest mistake"—and the pitiful state of this town made Rā's heart sink ice-cold.
From euphoria to despair, in less than a second.
As Bram confessed, Rā's fears proved true. By his own error, those STCs had been destroyed long ago.
Though Rā had already suspected it, hearing the confirmation nearly broke him. For a moment he almost struck the man down with his own hands.
Bram, weeping bitterly, seemed crushed by the weight of his guilt—like a man who had strangled the last hope of his people.
---
(Author's Note: To put this in perspective—imagine nuclear war wipes Earth clean, and in the ruins you stumble across a fully powered, pristine Command & Conquer MCV. Humanity's rebirth is within reach! Then your companion climbs aboard, accidentally hits the self-destruct switch, and it's irreversible...)
---
After a long silence, Rā mastered his fury. He spoke with forced calm:
"What's lost is lost. Don't torment yourself further. Take a new name, begin a new life. Humanity still needs your strength."
Privately, he knew if Bram kept that name, every time Rā heard it he might lose control.
The old captain lowered his head in thought, then finally said:
"Very well. From this day forward, call me… Malcador."
...
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