Chaos Empire: Heteromorph Revolution

1. He lost an eye. A bullet had pierced his left eyeball with a sharp “whizz” as he crawled out from a pile of corpses, shattering it like a crystal ball dashed against the ground. Fortunately, the bullet hadn’t penetrated further—at least his life was spared. The eye wasn’t a big deal; it would heal in a dozen or so minutes. The burst of pain when his eyeball exploded didn’t faze him. He raised his rifle and fired toward the source of the shot without much aim, rewarded by a distant, muffled groan. He crawled forward along the ground, finding a trench to take cover in while he waited for his eye to regenerate. The wound in his abdomen from the specialized bullet hadn’t fully healed yet. His body was caked in grime and blood, and all around him lay fallen figures—corpses of Homo Sapiens, they Heteromorphs with tails or towering statures. Some of the more tenacious still breathed faintly, twitching, while others wailed strange syllables, already on the brink of death. Near a pile of shattered earth and bodies, he spotted a familiar canteen. He shuffled over, crouched down, and turned the face toward him—the eyes could no longer open, but the body trembled slightly, like a fish gasping its last in thirst. He still remembered this Heteromorph soldier’s name. Just yesterday, they had sat together sharing a rock-hard piece of bread, talking about their hopes of returning home after the war. Now, the young man’s body had been torn apart by artillery fire, his regenerative abilities no match for the swift approach of death. Yet he still quivered faintly, enduring unbearable agony. He tore off the soldier’s dog tags, whispered a few words of comfort into the dying man’s ear, and promised to return his belongings to his homeland. Then, without hesitation, he drew his sidearm and ended his suffering. But his own suffering was far from over. He was still alive, forced to watch as those around him marched one by one toward their doom. Just like this world—everything was hurtling toward ruin. All that had been built was reduced to ashes. Tanks, flamethrowers, and artillery advanced relentlessly, crushing every last shred of hope, leaving behind nothing but ruins. The war seemed like an eternal cataclysm, driving everyone forward with an unnamed force, offering up their bodies in sacrifice until the last living creature on the continent of Chaos became a charred specimen. Five years ago, during the strategic stalemate, he had just come of age when the conscription office herded him onto the battlefield. He felt like a gaunt, skeletal horse, whipped forward into the fray, driven madly onward until he foamed at the mouth, yet still unable to stop. Now, this war between Heteromorphs and Sapients had raged for twenty years. Both sides had cycled through soldiers and marshals alike, and he—once a poor youth from an impoverished family in an eastern mountain village—had become a battle-hardened Heteromorph Alliance captain and company commander, recently awarded his fifth Seven-Star Hero’s Medal for outstanding combat achievements. Ha. How laughable. With things in such a state, who could still call themselves a HERO? The original purpose of the war had long been forgotten. What remained was nothing but an endless game of s*******r, a contest to see who could survive the longest. But he felt like he was about to lose. His life, too, was likely nearing its end. The battle in the outskirts of the Sapient capital, St. Johannis, had been especially brutal. In less than three days, nearly all the comrades he’d chatted with had become corpses on the ground. The modified Maelvin-676 flamethrowers were lethal to Heteromorphs. Over a decade ago, Sapient firearms had already switched entirely to specialized anti-Heteromorph ammunition. Before the war, the Sapients wouldn’t have bothered with such things. They’d been too busy killing each other to spare a thought for the Heteromorphs, whom they had long oppressed as an inferior race. It was this great war that had forced those high-and-mighty bastards to finally take notice of Heteromorph strength, compelling them to pick up what they had once scorned. Take the Heteromorphs’ native language, “Puteli”. Originally, no Sapient would deign to learn it—instead, all Heteromorphs were forced to learn the Sapients’ tongue. It was proof of their oppression, of their civilization’s decline. But once the war began, this language—something Heteromorphs were born knowing—became their greatest advantage. Intelligence and orders relayed in their native tongue required only simple encryption, if any at all, to conceal their meaning. It was brutally efficient. Of course, over time, even this method lost its edge. Sapient intelligence and translation specialists learned the language during the war, and ordinary soldiers, through repeated firsthand experience amid gunfire, came to understand the absolute terror hidden within those words: “Wakari—” Open fire! Bullets shrieked through flesh. “Diyalo—” Fire the artillery! Thunderous explosions erupted everywhere. They gripped their guns tighter, carving that blood-deep dread and horror into their instincts. Many Sapient soldiers who survived the war developed “Puteli Phobia”- just hearing the language was enough to send them into convulsions, weeping and trembling uncontrollably. And yet, despite both sides’ terror of a prolonged war of attrition, it had dragged on for so long. For the Sapients, the longer each battle lasted, the more the Heteromorphs’ racial advantages became apparent. Unless it was a fatal wound, even if you shot them in the eye or limbs with specialized Xurila bullets, they’d recover in a dozen minutes and charge back into battle like madmen. But this qualitative advantage came at the cost of population. Heteromorphs had weak reproductive abilities and slow growth rates—their numbers were just one-twentieth of the Sapients’. The Heteromorph leaders feared that, sooner or later, they would be wiped out entirely. Moreover, Heteromorphs had never controlled much of the means of production. In a world dominated by Sapients, all Heteromorphs had been at the bottom. The first three small Heteromorph nations had all been Sapient-backed puppet regimes. Fortunately, after years of planning and violent revolution, they had managed to establish one Heteromorph state with a complete industrial system before the war— The New Granit Empire , founded by the great leader Gilbert Joubert Brichtlofen. He had been the initial leader of the Heteromorph faction in this protracted world war, until his assassination by a treacherous turncoat eleven years ago during an internal revolt. So, compared to the Sapients, they had far more to do. They waged war to sustain war. After each victory, they seized new territories and turned them into military-industrial bases. When they marched into a Sapient capital, they toppled the regime and installed Heteromorph rule. They fought and revolutionized simultaneously, using wartime policies to establish centralized states, carving out Sapient reservations, stripping them of power, and weakening their combat strength. Rumor had it that some regions had even set up so-called “Unity Camps”, where prisoners of war and civilians were treated equally—useless laborers were put into eternal slumber. The Sapients were no better. Let it not be forgotten—THEY were the ones who had started this war. Every Heteromorph remembered that day: December 25, 3207, Year 1 of the Evening m******e. In Lune, the capital of the Kingdom of St. Johannis, Heteromorph students demanding equal rights took to the streets in protest, clashing with Sapient government forces. The military deployed Neo-Grian-66 flamethrowers against the unarmed demonstrators— the streets became a sea of flames, a hellscape that devoured lives. The protest leaders and students nearest to the flames were reduced to charred corpses amid their screams. Those farther away could still be seen, their bodies twisted in agony. One hundred and thirty-seven Heteromorphs. Their lives were extinguished in the prime of their youth. How could they NOT hate? Heteromorph mothers took two to three times longer than Sapients to nurture an embryo into a full-term infant. Then, in harsh conditions, they spent over thirty years raising them to adulthood. Only after exhausting every resource could they secure their child a spot in a Sapient-run university. From the order to open fire to the first shot—less than ten minutes. And just like that, they were dead. Dead on the path of fighting for Heteromorph rights. How could they NOT hate? So when news of the m******e spread, it sent shockwaves through the entire Heteromorph world. At first, there were isolated acts of retaliation. Gradually, the entire oppressed race united, launching organized counterattacks. Back then, the New Granit Empire was newly established, still consolidating its rule. But upon hearing of the m******e, its leader, Gilbert Brichtlofen, resolutely decided to strike back against the Sapient world. “Endless concessions will only embolden the oppressors!” With those words, the Hoffburg Declaration —a formal declaration of war against the Sapients—was issued half a month after the m******e. Heteromorph nations rallied to the cause, and the Sapients, forced to respond, issued the Inkblot Resolution. On January 11, 3208, Year 1 of the Evening m******e, the twenty-year world war between Heteromorphs and Sapients officially began. Though both species could broadly be called “human,” they now embarked on a war to the death. From initial offensives to stalemate, from defense to internal strife, then temporary ceasefires—then back to defense, to counteroffensives. Now, they called it the final phase. But they’d said the same thing a decade ago, before the civil war. Final phase, final phase —what, exactly, was being the Final? Perhaps, at the start, both sides had shown some restraint, targeting only military objectives. But in the end, all treaties and laws became worthless scraps of paper. Retaliatory strikes, assassinations, deliberate bombings of civilian districts, a***e of prisoners of war—yes, after so long, neither side could claim moral superiority. Every noble virtue had dissolved into bloodshed, leaving behind only ruthless demons. As that famous book had written: “We have witnessed the silent horror of rivers of blood, seen the deepest ugliness and the most beautiful sorrow. Beneath the artillery fire lies the charred skeleton of nations, burying our loved ones and our hesitation.” For him, at least, glory—and the so-called justice and dignity they’d fought for at the start—had long become meaningless. Three years ago, he’d lost contact with his parents. They had either starved, frozen, or been blown to pieces. In short, they were dead. The only thing driving him to keep slaughtering the enemy was vengeance. That hatred had become an obsession, the last thread keeping him alive. Once, he’d had a few close comrades to share the burden, to lick each other’s wounds. But now, even that obsession felt hollow. Kill all the Sapients, then kill himself? But the Sapients were endless—wave after wave, their soldiers only growing younger or older with time. A Heteromorph from Jiu Zhou Republic had once taught him to read and write so he could send letters home. He had come to understand the importance of knowledge, devouring every book and newspaper he could borrow. On his deathbed, that Heteromorph had gifted him a notebook. Since then, he had often written in it—diary entries, venting, even the occasional clumsy poem when he was in a better mood. But now? Just die. The underworld would be more comfortable than this hell. Damn it all, he even envied his parents for leaving before him. Before, he’d had to secretly save his military pay and usable spoils to send home, fighting on an empty, churning stomach. But after losing contact, all that had stopped. He had once thought that if he died, he’d mail the notebook home—at least someone would remember he had existed. But now, there was nowhere to send it. Nothing left. What was the point of living? And then, his sharp ears caught a sound—the click of a rifle being loaded. With his remaining right eye, he locked onto the source and fired. Another shadow fell, blooming a final spray of blood. Ah, yes. He looked at the blood-soaked ground and smiled, a twisted expression. Living might be meaningless, but I can’t die yet—not until I’ve killed more Sapients. The Sapients can never be wiped out. That thought sent a surge of thick, black hatred through him, so intense it felt like it would tear his chest apart. It coalesced into the final fragment of his left eyeball. The world before him sharpened into focus. With those silver-white eyes, sharp as blades, he glared at everything. Then he picked up his rifle and charged out of the trench. 2. When the shell exploded beside him, the first thing he registered was a ringing in his ears, followed by the sensation of his ribs fracturing, the violent jerk of his left arm, and then the warmth of viscous fluid splattering across his face. Pain had long been numbed by years of accumulated desensitization, but now, a strange weightlessness washed over him. It felt like an eternity—or maybe just a few breaths. His vision swam with shifting, prismatic shadows behind a watery veil, gradually morphing into the thick oranges and leaden yellows of an oil painting. He couldn’t see, but his other senses stretched infinitely: the rush of blood in his veins, the thunderous pulse in his ears, the deafening crash of sweat hitting the sand as it beaded and fell from his skin. His exposed flesh was flayed layer by layer against the grit. The stench of rotting corpses mingled with the damp, cloying sweetness of blood and marrow. From deep crimson to pale scarlet, then bright white—after the blinding flash, everything turned to darkness. A heavy shadow enveloped him, like the sky of some long-forgotten childhood memory. The black, swirling heavens still loomed above, but his body was no longer pressed into the bloodied sand. He floated in the air, weightless as a feather, ethereal as mist, peeling free from the earth and spiraling upward toward the horizon… Finally f*****g over, right? Then another wave of suffocating pressure slammed into him, snapping his wings and sending him crashing back into the filth and gore below. A dazzling burst of electricity shot from his fingertips to his brain, and pain—long absent—suddenly seared through him. His body felt like it was being torn apart, the explosive agony pushing him to the brink of collapse. It reminded him of what he’d done to some prisoners. He could almost feel the phantom teeth of beasts gnawing at him, broken bones still embedded in his flesh. He tried to open his eyes, but his left eye erupted in a fresh wave of stinging pain. Instinctively, he tried to raise a hand to cover it, but his limbs refused to obey. The pain in his legs and chest twisted together, indistinguishable in its intensity. He remembered being shot. Every wound he’d ever suffered was now resurfacing all at once. Yet, through some inexplicable force of will, he suppressed his scream into a low groan. The pain burned through his nerves inch by inch, and just as he was about to pass out, it began to recede, fading into a dull, manageable throb. He finally caught his breath and tried to assess his situation. Where am I? Lying on his back with his eyes closed, he became aware of something smooth and cool—like silk—covering his limbs. There was no burning, no sticky sensation of blood seeping from wounds. His left arm even seemed mobile. Wait… Am I dead or not? Logically speaking, being riddled with specialized Xurila bullets and taking a direct hit from an artillery shell at close range should have killed even the most resilient Heteromorph ten times over. This made no sense. Fighting against the exhaustion gluing his eyelids shut, he forced them open with sheer willpower. White. But not the celestial halls of myth. He strained to look around, testing his limbs—his left arm moved, though stiffly. The clean, crisp sheets of a hospital bed covered him. The scent of disinfectant and medicine filled his nose, underscored by something floral. He had survived. The floral scent drifted in through the window—something light and crisp. The breeze was cool, carrying with it a few delicate white flakes that settled on his silver-gray eyebrows and hair, melting into tiny droplets. Snow? And that fragrance… plum blossoms? It’s already winter. Footsteps approached, quickening when they noticed his blinking. He turned his gaze toward the door. A Beast-like Heteromorph entered—gender indeterminate for now. Pale-furred, with a feline face, wearing a white coat, a soft tail flicking behind, and several slender tentacles extending from its back. They approached his bedside and spoke in a gentle voice: “Mr. Schwarz, hello. I am your attending physician, Helga Müller. Today is January 15, 3229. You have been undergoing treatment at Lune National Hospital for 46 days. It has been 47 days since November 29, 3228, when we achieved our great victory in the 20-year war.” Ignoring his own condition, his first reaction was disbelief. His voice came out hoarse: “Wait—we… won?” “Yes.” Helga nodded immediately, her catlike face breaking into a proud smile. “Thanks to your contributions to the Heteromorphs’ great victory, we have indeed triumphed. We have seized control of all reactionary Sapient regimes across the continent of Chaos.” It felt like a hammer had struck him between the eyes. His heart, which had been steadying, now pounded violently, threatening to knock him unconscious again. The doctor quickly patted his back, offering him a glass of water to calm him. But it wasn’t necessary. Years of war had honed his reflexes and willpower to a razor’s edge. He steadied his breathing almost instantly, skipping past panic and straight into cold, analytical thought. “How did we win? Which unit finally marched into Lune? Who liberated Jiu Zhou Republic —Liu Zhaohuan or Zhang Zhongyin?" The doctor smiled again. "It was General Gonzalez’s 7th Armored Division and General Butcher’s 15th Infantry Regiment who took the capital. Jiu Zhou’s situation was more complicated—it seems the Sapient president was executed by his own people. In the end, General Liu’s forces peacefully took over, and General Zhang arrived later to convene a grand assembly for electing a new president. But yes, we won. Everything is being rebuilt. It will be better now." He nodded, though inwardly, he scoffed at the notion that "it will be better." "Ah, I must inform you—your left arm isn’t fully functional yet, correct? Despite our best efforts, the damage from the specialized high-impact shell was irreparable. So, we’ve fitted you with a new alloy prosthetic. It will take time to adjust." He immediately lifted his left arm with his right hand. It was no longer flesh—instead, a sleek silver alloy limb, intricately designed with glowing blue circuit-like patterns. The interface where it connected to his remaining upper arm had already fused with his nerves. He could twitch the fingers slightly, and pressing down even registered faint pain. He nodded in thanks, then asked, "How do I pay for this?" Helga’s smile widened, taking on an almost eerie quality. "Pay? No, no… We used the most advanced technology and finest materials on the continent—all to ensure your satisfaction. Officially, I’m not the one meant to tell you this, but I’ll let you in on a little secret— "You are a true hero of the Heteromorphs, Nikolas Schwarz. The one who brought you here was General Gonzalez’s adjutant. He said the current leader of the Granit Empire wishes for you to return home as soon as you’ve recovered. Not only will you be honored, but you will also be entrusted with an important mission." "So, as of now, you have been promoted to major." Another promotion. A new mission awaited him. He would return to his homeland, assume a high-ranking position. This was the glory countless Heteromorph soldiers dreamed of—now his alone. He SHOULD have been elated. But all he felt was an endless, hollow desolation. Yes, the absurdity and numbness of the battlefield still clung to him. Had victory given any of it meaning? Was this blood-soaked outcome what anyone had truly wanted? A hero? Trusted and revered? He couldn’t shake the feeling that the war wasn’t over—that the true victor hadn’t yet been decided. The brutal battles, the flesh of his comrades, the despairing wails of enemies, the countless lives extinguished… The line between life and death had blurred long ago. Victory and defeat were indistinguishable. The sacrifices piled high. This so-called victory was just another repetition of history, a brief pause in the endless cycle of conflict between Heteromorph and Sapient. It felt like fate, as if his destiny had already been carved into some ancient stone tablet. History was an unbreakable loop—oppression and resistance, rise and fall, war and peace, all following the same script. No matter how hard they fought, no one could escape this cycle. Even now, he faintly sensed it: every step laid out before him would lead down a path of inevitable destruction. But in the end, he only sighed, closed his eyes, and said: "Fine."