Chaos Empire: Heteromorph Revolution

Aslan

"Time to get up, little duke. Your brother's going to be angry."

The raspy male voice was more grating than the morning birdsong.

Aslan Kates swatted away the claw reaching to pinch his cheek, rubbed his eyes, and sat up in bed. The bedroom was spacious and comfortable; it was just the other person currently in it who was particularly annoying.

"It's summer vacation. Why does he care? Besides, we're in a cold war right now," he mumbled, his brain still foggy as he looked at the large shadow perched on his bedside. "And why are you here again?"

A flick landed smartly on his forehead. Good breeding was the only thing that stopped a curse from escaping his lips.

"Why CAN'T I come?" The man on the bedside grinned. "I'm your uncle!"

"That's messed up," he retorted helplessly. The man before him, a Heteromorph with brown hair and blue eyes named Benjamin Toulouse, had a roguish way of speaking and looked a bit roguish too, yet didn't seem much older than Aslan, a university student.

That was a Heteromorph trait: slow growth and long lifespans meant parents and children often looked similar in age. They were of the Human-like Race, growing even slower than the Beast-like Race with their animal features.

By the way, even among the Human-like Heteromorphs, distinctive traits set them apart. Beyond their towering stature, there are details like Aslan’s snake-like green eyes, Richard’s sharply tapered ears, and Toulouse’s retractable claws.

But to call Toulouse his "uncle"? The generational gap was indeed skewed. "You were my brother's comrade-in-arms, his peer. Why do I call him 'brother' but have to call you 'uncle'?"

"If you like, you could call Richard 'Dad' too. Isn't he acting as your dad now?"

He instinctively wanted to argue, but realized it wasn't wrong: because this "uncle" wasn't a blood uncle, and the "brother" certainly wasn't a blood brother.

His origins were something this very man had told him.

His "brother," Richard Kates, seemed naturally taciturn, especially towards those who should be close. His care and concern always showed in actions; yet he'd found his "brother" a whole bunch of "uncles" – or rather, these "uncles" had all once had the chance to be Aslan's "brothers."

He was a war orphan. Born during the Great War between Sapiens and Heteromorphs.

Twenty-five years ago, just turned six, his parents perished in a Sapiens artillery shell aimed at a civilian district.

At the moment of the explosion, his mother had shoved him out of the blast radius. His legs were shattered by the shockwave, the pain threatening to plunge him into unconsciousness.

Back then, he didn't fully grasp what had happened, just knew dimly that he would probably never see his mom and dad again. Unable to move, wracked with pain and grief, he began to wail. The tears were salty and copious, quickly drying sticky on his face and seeping into tiny cuts, only adding to the agony.

He cried and cried. His tears dried up, his voice turned completely hoarse, until he could only retch dryly.

Night fell, making everything feel more terrifying. The surroundings were deathly quiet, the night sky hung low, the stars dim and lifeless. The darkness was like the pupil of Death, an abyss that swallowed everything, more frightening than any legendary beast – less about a child's fear of the dark, and more because he vaguely knew: no one would find him at a time like this.

His hand clutched tightly at a scrap of cloth, part of his mother's clothing.

The day's tears had dried, leaving mottled traces that, like the pain from his wounds, were dark tendrils creeping up his chest, sapping his remaining vitality.

It was truly despairing, yet the residue of warm memories lingered stubbornly inside him. Defiantly, he cried again. Weakened, the sobs came in fits and starts, echoing eerily in the empty ruins.

He should have given up hope. Yet, just as his consciousness was fading, believing he would sink forever into that darkness, a pair of strong hands lifted him from the rubble, pulling him from hell into heaven.

Calling it heaven wasn't accurate: during that war, everywhere was hell; where could heaven be?

But that's how it felt to him. Looking at now, he was grateful fate had granted him the right to happiness.

"Your brother was the first to hear you. At first, the guys thought it was a trap set by those Sapiens bastards! You know, those scumbags loved pulling that trick – playing recordings of babies crying over loudspeakers, waiting for us to go rescue them before lobbing in another shell. Sneaky as hell.

"Your brother was our platoon leader; we listened to him. He listened and thought something was off.

Broadcast cries are always loud and clear, 'cause the enemy wants the sound to carry far to lure more people in. But your crying was broken, hoarse, and thin – clearly you'd been at it for ages and had no strength left.

So he sent two guys to scout, confirmed it was safe, and then went himself to pick you up."

He knew this story inside out, even the subsequent steps were painfully familiar.

Richard, then a Second Lieutenant, was leading his squad from the 2nd Platoon, 5th Company, 3rd Battalion of the Heteromorph 7th Infantry Regiment near the St. Johannis border city of Crete. The east was the former commercial district, the west was the civilian sector. They'd entered from the east, fought through urban combat for half a day, and pushed into the civilian area.

During a brief lull that night, Platoon Leader Richard, unable to sleep, heard the crying and found him.

Richard carried him back just as dawn was breaking – so everyone saw: the fully armed Lieutenant wasn't holding a rifle, but a sleeping child.

It was miraculous.

Behind him was still the war-ravaged city: yellow dust hung in the air, walls pockmarked with bullet holes and scorch marks, shattered window glass littered the ground like dull, scattered pearls. Dark red scars were etched into the earth – congealed blood, once boiling, now lifeless. Lampposts, vehicles, household items, and toys lay strewn about, crushed, transformed into symbols of an irretrievable past.

But above his head, the sun, the king of the sky, was poised to leap from the horizon beyond the ruins; the first rays of dawn were warm and gentle, illuminating his sharply defined face, instantly turning it radiant, as if edged with sacred gold.

On one side, the iron-blooded cruelty of war; on the other, a gentle, brilliant miracle.

Truly miraculous.

"He really did look like some kind of god back then. Made a bunch of grown men who saw it cry."

Everyone immediately decided they would protect this child with their lives. But they were in the middle of urban combat; of course, they couldn't stop.

What to do with the child? They taped the little boy securely to their chests, taking turns looking after him as the whole squad ran with him. When he was hungry, they'd soften hardtack or canned food with water, mash it up, and feed him.

After fighting their way out of the city, Richard found a group of Heteromorph civilians being evacuated under the protection of the main force. He gave them a family heirloom – a ruby pendant – along with a letter, entrusting the child to their care.

After the war ended in victory, Richard, now promoted to Captain, searched nearby cities for a long time before finally finding the child he'd saved.

He gave the civilians who had cared for him a large sum of money and took the child home, formally adopting him.

This brother-guardian renamed him "Aslan": Ancient language for "dawn" and "morning light," representing the dawn when he was found, and symbolizing a glimmer of hope in that dark wartime era. It showed deep affection and regard.

He understood, of course, the deep meaning behind this care, and the place he held in the hearts of these men. So he constantly pushed himself, wanting to shoulder responsibility, achieve something worthwhile, so that if he couldn't make them burst with pride, at least he wouldn't disappoint them.

But Richard now held a high position, had even gained a title through family connections.

His protective instincts towards his younger brother were strong, as were those of his comrades who had come through the war with him. They were all dedicated to keeping Aslan away from so-called "adult" work, away from the path they had walked, wanting to place him in a carefree ivory tower.

He SHOULD understand all this.

But he refused to be a hothouse flower. He was an adult now, determined to help his family, determined to walk the same path they had. He really wanted to tell everyone: stop using "for your own good" as an excuse to deprive him of the chance to grow.

But what solidified his resolve wasn't just a desire for growth, but his observations and understanding of reality:

Even though he was currently just a university student with good grades, even though his memories of the war were hazy due to his young age, even though his experience didn't yet allow him to fully grasp what had happened in the twenty years since the victory – from the state of the streets, the news, the expressions and words of his brother and uncles, he had sensed something.

The smoke of hot war had cleared, but the contradictions and crises within the Heteromorph world were far from resolved: inequality, misunderstanding, and oppression between Heteromorphs and Sapiens; feudalistic thinking; backward political systems in practice...

Even if this generation didn't solve them, the next would inevitably face them.

The Heteromorphs had won, but the order they established was far from flawless; some parts weren't even "passing grade": like St. Johannis now, where a hereditary monarch was still the head of state; or the increasingly bizarre political systems elsewhere.

He had asked Richard to explain these things to him, asked for someone to answer his questions, or tell him what responsibility he himself bore.

But his brother always gave him one word: "No."

Hamza and Toulouse said it was his rebellious phase. But was that really it? Wasn't he part of the Heteromorph people? Didn't he need to shoulder responsibility and contribute to the world?

A few days ago, he had argued with his brother about this again and had stayed holed up in his room ever since. But no signal of reconciliation had come from the other side.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” Aslan thought bitterly.

Honestly, he knew that guy wouldn't initiate a conversation. But if this went on much longer,

HE was going to c***k.

Last night, he had thought long and hard, even prepared various plans and talking points, ready to take the initiative the next day. But he hadn't been asleep long before this "uncle," who barged into his room uninvited, woke him up.

"So what's the matter anyway? Why is he angry again? Why isn't he coming himself? I thought he had no schedule today?"

"No schedule? Normally, no. But your brother's tied up right now; he's very busy." The man grinned. "Alright, up you get, little duke. If you were one of my soldiers, I'd have trained you to death. Hurry up, I still have to take you to the tailor's to try on your custom suit and buy some ready-to-wear. We need to be quick."

"Wait... what suit?"

"The Chairman of the New Granit Empire Security Council and the Commander of the Central Army Group are coming to your house for dinner. Tomorrow night." Toulouse's smile turned teasing. "What, you forgot? It was arranged a month ago."

"Shit." This time, the curse did escape him.