Chaos Empire: Heteromorph Revolution

The Most Precious Gift

1.

After returning home and changing out of his formal attire, Walter Müller, Chairman of the Security Council of the New Granit Empire and a Sapient, immediately gave his first order of the evening:

To have the recently delivered gift box brought up, and to open it at once.

The first box contained a pair of cufflinks.

A common choice for a gift, yes, but their material and craftsmanship were anything but ordinary.

Each cufflink held at its center a high-grade emerald, its color rich and deep, like the most vivid spring leaves.

They must have come from the gem-rich Kingdom of Kunkuru in the south, then cut and polished to perfection by the artisans of Saint Johnris, whose genius transformed the stones into tiny suns scattering brilliant light with every facet.

Encircling each jewel was a ring of sterling silver, its edge engraved with delicate patterns like petals of a rose in bloom.

They were not mere ornaments, but a clear declaration of the wearer’s taste and status.

“Those Saint Johnris noble Heteromorphs really don’t know where to spend their money,” he sighed.

And indeed, he wasn’t wrong.

Among all nations, the nobility and royal houses of Saint Johnris were the most visibly wealthy.

They adored refinement and extravagance: they bought jewels, built palaces, and believed it all perfectly natural. After all, the Parliament could hardly restrain them, and they did govern well enough. Today, their nation stood among the most advanced in economy and light industry.

Besides, could you really blame him for enjoying it?

In his current, awkward position, Müller didn’t often receive such rare, enviable gifts.

Chairman of the Security Council — such a grand title, “the highest advisory body for imperial security policy.”

In truth, the role meant little more than offering suggestions during meetings, drafting reports for other military departments, and supervising the implementation of whatever security plans others had already decided.

His rank and actual authority shifted entirely according to the will of the Leader and the higher ministers.

And the very fact that they had appointed a Sapient to this post was proof enough that it wasn’t a particularly high one.

Among his own kind, it sounded impressive, though opinions were divided.

Many Sapients admired him, saying that holding such a position in these times was remarkable — they always admired strength.

But just as many despised him, calling him a sycophant and a traitor, a Heteromorphs’ lapdog who had earned his seat by servility.

Well, truth be told, he didn’t care.

He cared only for the tangible comforts of life. Praise or insults alike, they never reached the ears of his Heteromorph superiors.

So long as they didn’t interfere with the flow of gifts, money, and connections, why should he mind?

With that thought, he carefully opened the second box — the heavier one he’d been warned to handle gently.

Ah, just as he expected.

A tea set, and of course made in the Republic of Jiu Zhou — a collector’s treasure more than a utensil.

Porcelain of that kind was adored by both Sapients and Heteromorphs alike; and truly, who in this world doesn’t love tea?

The glaze on these cups shone like translucent glass, smooth as crystal, the surface rippling faintly with reflected light.

When he ran his fingers across the painted lines, he could feel their graceful contours, raised ever so slightly from the surface — each touch soft as silk, like caressing the purest crystal.

Upon the teapot and cups were painted chrysanthemums and stones, rendered by a master’s hand — nature’s elegance blended seamlessly with human artistry.

By his experienced eye, he recognized it at once: enamel-painted chrysanthemum and stone porcelain, the kind only heard of in legends.

That young duke truly knew how to give a gift.

Indeed, this was the most precious sort of gift he could imagine.

His grandfather had once told him that, back in the days when Sapients ruled the world, every family of standing owned such things — symbols of wealth and prestige.

He could still faintly recall his childhood, before the age of ten:

his father’s collection of gem-studded cufflinks, his mother’s shelves full of Jiu Zhou tea sets.

Before every banquet, his father would pick one pair at random to match his tie; and his mother, whenever she invited her sisters for afternoon tea, would choose a set at whim — and no one thought it remarkable.

But those days were long gone.

Ever since that man named Gilbert fired the first shot, everything had changed.

Now, Müller could touch such luxuries only when basking in the reflected glory of his superiors and patrons.

Most Sapients would live and die without ever laying a finger on them, unless they visited one of the museums “open” to Sapients — and even then they risked tripping the alarms by staring too long, to be promptly thrown out by some merciless Heteromorph guard.

But who could he blame?

Walter Müller was no wretched Sapient of the old kind; he was a New Humanity, a citizen of the Empire.

The suffering of those other Sapients had nothing to do with him.

Now he held in his hands what he had always imagined to be the most precious of gifts, and a curious thought crept into his mind:

What kind of gift would that Heteromorph general, the renowned Nikolas Leon Schwarz, commander of the army group that went with him, receive?

.

2.

It was a relatively quiet afternoon.

Nikolas Schwarz had finished going through the reports he’d brought back; no meetings were scheduled, no visitors expected. For once, he could enjoy a rare moment of peace.

He gently lifted the champagne-colored gift box he’d received the night before — the larger one, smooth and fine as if it were itself a work of art.

With a soft click, the lid opened.

Even though he had some idea of what to expect, the sight still made him pause.

Inside the velvet lay a book, tightly sealed in a vacuum case.

Its cover was a deep, quiet green.

The Crown Upon the Snowfield, by William Arno Lorvey — the title and signature written in gold pen, now slightly faded, yet each stroke still carried the spirit of a proud, unyielding soul from three centuries past.

He didn’t remove the seal; to do so would have felt like desecration.

Instead, he touched it through the protective layer, the parchment cover rough and textured, marked by the weather of history.

He leaned closer and inhaled: the scent of decaying wood, faintly mingled with something light and clean — birch bark.

He remembered that smell.

Birch trees were common in the Cartier Empire, a vast nation bordering the northern frontier of New Granit, powerful and proud.

He had visited once, long ago, when he was still a major general, accompanying the Great Leader and other officers on a state visit.

It had been a long delegation, many attendants in tow.

Their official meetings were held in the central castle, but their lodgings were in a cluster of villas at the city’s edge.

From the window of his study there, he could see a wide, endless birch forest.

The timing hadn’t been ideal — early spring, still as cold as winter.

Though the snow had stopped falling, its white breath still lingered, wrapping the land in crystal stillness.

From afar, the birches stood upright and disciplined, like regiments of silent soldiers.

He never went there by day, but sometimes, when boredom and emptiness crept in, he would glance outside and imagine it:

a breeze stirring the air, faint with soil and green scent,

the murmur of hidden streams, the chirping of unseen birds,

the quiet rhythm of the world’s endless renewal.

That birch forest reminded him of the nature he’d loved as a child, back when his heart was still tender, when every detail of life shimmered with poetry.

Now, that scene seemed capable of washing away, if only faintly, the blood on his hands — a small mercy from the world itself.

And so, at night, he would sometimes wander into the forest.

Alone. No weapon, no aide, nothing that would disturb the purity of solitude.

Walking the snow-clad path, he regretted not changing out of his boots.

He stepped lightly, careful not to break the silence.

The birch trunks gleamed pale in the darkness, silent sentinels, or perhaps spirits, waiting for someone to step into their realm.

The air was thick with that bittersweet birch fragrance,

a spirit of the night drifting softly among the trees, consoling every soul that prayed to it.

Above, the sky was a dreamlike violet, deep and infinite,

a silken fabric woven by the cosmos to embrace the sleepless.

Stars dotted its surface, not mere diamonds, but countless eyes of the departed, shimmering with tears, gazing down upon wanderers who shared their solitude.

Those tears became light, crossing eons to reach him.

But General Schwarz could no longer find the few he sought.

Deeper into the woods he walked, and a stray thought returned:

Would it be too romantic, to have one’s grave built here?

He thought of Anatoly, Reinhardt, Charles, Hans — men who’d never escaped the war — and felt a strange stirring in his chest.

No gravestones, no names, he once thought.

Here was peace, here was beauty.

After a winter, the earth would bury them in frozen soil, deeper and deeper, until no one ever found them.

He had truly believed that then.

And now, he knew what should lie beside him in such a grave:

this book.

To rest together in eternal calm, to turn to soil, to be forgotten — so long as no one ever discovered them.

“…No. Better donate it to a school or a museum.”

Carefully, he placed the book back into its box, stored it in the deepest part of his cabinet, and locked it with a code.

A writer’s manuscript was never meant to be read casually. Besides, he’d read the novel long ago and could still recite its finest lines by heart.

The students will never love it as much as I do, he thought, half amused.

Then he took out another, smaller square box and slowly opened it.

He froze.

For a moment he wondered if his eyes had been shattered by bullets again, still not fully healed.

Inside lay a spent brass cartridge, old and tarnished with rust, yet to his eyes it still gleamed faintly.

It wasn’t large, barely twenty-five millimeters, and badly worn — but those scars spoke truth, the truth of the battlefield.

Once, this shell had been hurled from an ordinary pistol, striking the earth with all the weight of history.

What truly stunned him was the symbol at its center — a Nightstar, six rays radiating sharply from a single point.

Not uncommon today, yet carved on this relic, it could mean only one thing: a fragment of legend itself.

In the ancient myths of certain Heteromorph tribes, the Nightstar symbolized protection, its light warding off evil and guiding the lost.

But since that cataclysmic event centuries ago, it had come to signify only one name.

He stared at it motionlessly, like a statue.

That name echoed again and again in his mind — near and far, across the years.

It had resounded from village to city,

from the slums to the very heart of the Empire.

Children and the dying whispered it softly;

the young and strong cried it out in passion.

It was in the darkest nights and the brightest dawns alike.

That name was a banner, a monolith —

its past a history of oppression, its future a dream of freedom and equality.

Like ripples spreading across a river,

they had raised their heads,

lifted their arms,

and shouted together:

“Gilbert! Gilbert!”

There was one more item tucked in the box — a folded paper.

Schwarz unfolded it and read the words printed clearly upon it.

His heart trembled, and he murmured them aloud, reverently:

“July 21, Year 3207 of the Twilight Era —

The final cartridge shell fired by the great Heteromorph leader,

Gilbert Rubert Brichtlofen,

in the old capital of the Germanian Empire.”

How had Richard Kates come to possess it?

At that moment, the question no longer mattered.

What mattered was that it now belonged to Nikolas Leon Schwarz alone.

You have been gone too long.

If you could see us now… what would you say?

If you could see me now… would you be disappointed?

He felt himself trembling.

A surge of emotion, long buried, flooded his hollow chest.

Closing his eyes, he drew a deep breath, forcing the tremor to still. Then he reopened them, slowly, and gazed once more at the relic.

“This is the most precious gift in the entire Empire,” he whispered after a long silence.

A faint, genuine smile crossed his lips, the kind that came naturally and without pain.

He would keep this gift in the safest place in the world, guarding it with his very life.

It would never be buried with him.

He would pass it down to the next generation of the Empire,

and they, to the next, and the next —

a living flame handed forward.

Until one day,

someone truly understood its meaning

and rekindled the glory of the old Liberator.