Just as Xandar's Commodity Inspection and Review Division, General Administration of Customs, and security departments were thrown into chaos over the incident of an "unwelcome guest arriving with a nuclear bomb for auction," not long ago—
At the frontier of Xandar system's radiation control perimeter, in the lawless zone.
On a desolate planet within a certain star system.
A passionate, insanely catchy, high-energy melody was blasting through the air.
"Hey hey~"
"What's the matter with your head? Yeah, what's wrong with that little head of yours, yeah~"
"Hey hey~"
"What's the matter with your mind and your sign? What's going on with your thoughts and behavior?"
"And-aooh-ohh ah~ oh~ oh~"
...
Beside the smooth landing zone where a sleek small interstellar shuttle was parked, a portable cassette boombox—like the kind that had been wildly popular in the 60s and 70s—blared cheerful music utterly out of place with the surroundings.
Next to a barren pile of rocks, a group of people were engaged in lively outdoor merrymaking that looked very much like a bonfire party.
A tall alien beauty with red hair and green skin. A raccoon walking upright in clothes. A young tree-like humanoid hunched over a handheld game console. A tall, robust gray-skinned bald alien strongman covered in crimson markings—whether tattoos or racial traits was unclear. A pale-skinned woman with two delicate antennae on her head and a pair of sparkling, luminous eyes.
Among them, the most eye-catching was a moderately tall, fairly muscular brown-haired Caucasian man.
"♪ Come and get my love ♪..."
Dressed in a dark red Ravager-style mercenary outfit, he twisted his waist and jerked his neck to the upbeat and oddly rhythmic music, hopping around the bonfire like someone having a seizure. From time to time, he kicked away loose stones, scooped up a small alien creature that had been gnawing on food scraps, held it like a microphone, spun in circles, and hummed along.
"...So, they're the Guardians of the Galaxy? The bounty mercenary team that's recently risen to fame, known for a high mission completion rate and solid reputation?"
Witnessing all this from the shadowed side of a hill several hundred meters away, holding their breath in full-body camouflaged stealth mode, members of the elite strike squad of the Demon Inquisitors exchanged glances.
Looking at their comrades—fully armed with bolters, energy blades, power weapons, chainswords, plasma guns, melta weapons as basic loadouts, and even carrying Necron gauss disintegration cannons, cluster laser cannons, turbo Honkai annihilation cannons, black hole grenades, suppression needles, stasis fields, shield grenades, tactical antimatter missile pods, micro void shield generators, and other heavy killers...
Standing on high alert, fearing negotiations might collapse and the other side might turn greedy and resort to force, even preparing teleportation beams for retreat if necessary.
Then looking again at the guy still singing off-key in the distance, the Demon Inquisitors silently lowered their gun barrels while adjusting ammunition and reducing firing power.
Hiss... This mission seemed a little too easy. It didn't match the rumors.
"Yes." The intelligence analyst's voice carried a trace of disbelief, clearly mismatched with the report's tone. "According to the squad that went to Knowhere, and intelligence compiled from multiple space pirates, Ravager groups, and black market exchanges—it's them."
"The clown singing, dancing, and rapping is the so-called Star-Lord, leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy?"
"Yes."
"The gray-skinned, red-marked bald guy laughing foolishly with a wine cup in hand is the 'Destroyer'?"
"Yes."
"They're the ones who saved Xandar and were hailed as heroes there?"
"...Yes."
Xandar's orbital defense and military strength must really be lacking.
"Appearances can be deceiving. Stay alert. Do not be careless." Although the sergeant's expression beneath his helmet was equally strange, he restrained himself. Perhaps this was simply the eccentric temperament of geniuses and heroes.
"Sergeant." Straightening immediately, the strike team member looked toward Master Chief John—117, who had personally come to the front line, and made a hand signal. "Make contact?"
Cortana, monitor and support the battlefield at all times. Coordinate communications between the fleet and the deployed squad.
Understood.
After adding one final layer of insurance and receiving Cortana's response, Master Chief looked at the soldiers awaiting his signal.
"Don't tear our faces," he said, then swung his hand down decisively.
...
"Hey, hey, Quill, stop singing already. My head's starting to ache. Don't you have something calmer and more peaceful?"
Jumping down from a large rock, Rocket Raccoon tossed away a thoroughly gnawed bone and walked over to the boombox, snapping the tape out with a click.
"Are you questioning my taste? Joy and love—without limits!"
Without background music, his singing and dancing felt less effective. Star-Lord immediately stopped his awkward moves, casually tossed aside the saliva-covered alien critter, placed one hand on his hip, and spoke like a peacock displaying its feathers. His legs unconsciously angled toward the giggling red-haired, green-skinned beauty.
"What do you think, Gamora?" He flashed what he believed was a charming smile.
"Ugh. I think it's terrible, Quill."
Making an interstellar-friendly hand gesture, Rocket Raccoon rummaged through the cassette pouch while launching into sharp mockery. "You know what? Just now, you looked like our court jester—amusing us with ridiculous expressions and awful jokes."
"Quill, I think you should focus on the real matter. That guide-guarantee commission we accepted—this planet is the rendezvous point. Where are they?" Gamora set down her drink and asked thoughtfully.
"The employer? Relax. I checked—this is an uninhabited planet. Maybe there are ruins or something here."
Star-Lord shrugged. "These guys calling themselves the Divine Empress Order are generous. Even if they're not paying directly in credits, they can trade me a lot of items from Earth. Maybe they'll even gift us some weapons... Woohoo, cool. We really should upgrade our gear."
"Items from Earth, huh." Gamora gave a helpless smile.
She knew Quill's mother was from Earth. His childhood memories were rooted there. He had a deep attachment to things from Earth, often overpaying like a sucker just to acquire them.
"Hopefully it won't turn into another mess like that Sovereign job."
Just as she was smiling, Gamora suddenly noticed Mantis acting strangely. "Mantis, what's wrong?"
"I sense a chill." Mantis raised her head, her glowing antennae bending slightly as she frowned. "Not exactly life-threatening, but... very strange..."
Bang!
Before Mantis could finish speaking, Drax the Destroyer—who had been guzzling from an oversized beer mug—suddenly tilted backward as if drunk and collapsed flat on his back, legs kicking stiffly.
"Danger!"
Infected by the Guardians of the Galaxy's cheerful atmosphere yet still the most vigilant, Gamora immediately drew her energy blade and kicked Star-Lord—who was still lost in his ridiculous dancing—straight toward the shuttle's boarding ramp.
But just as she adjusted her stance, the hand gripping her energy blade froze in place, unable to move an inch. When she turned her head, her entire body was already engulfed in a massive shadow.
"Why so alarmed?"
The silver-gray giant clad in heavy power armor seized the hand holding her energy blade and lifted her effortlessly with one arm.
"I'm here to talk business. As for the Destroyer—transactions require preventing drunkards from causing trouble. I merely let him take a nap."
Only then did Gamora truly register it. This giant was far taller than her adoptive father—the master of the Dark Order, the 'Mad Titan' Thanos.
If she ever encountered such an enemy during a mission, her veteran assassin instincts told her only two viable choices existed: either avoid hostility altogether—or strike once and retreat immediately. Direct confrontation would be suicide.
"Gamora!" Star-Lord snapped awake, igniting his jet boots and drawing his wrist-mounted blasters. "Let her go!" He prepared to fire.
Thud!
Before he could show off, several towering shadows enveloped him from behind. The next instant, he was sent flying. His slightly plump face twisted in pain—even his half-Celestial physiology failed to withstand the blow.
"I am Groot!"
"Who are you people?!"
Watching Star-Lord crash into the shuttle ramp at even greater speed, the game-addicted tree youth abandoned his console with a roar. Vines and branches rapidly sprouted from his arms, sharpening into blades, while Rocket Raccoon grabbed for his weapon.
In response—bang!—without hesitation, Master Chief held Gamora in one hand and drew a finely crafted plasma pistol magnetically secured to his thigh with the other. He aimed at a nearby hill and fired.
Boom!
The plasma shockwave engulfed the entire hill in an instant. Scorching blue-white plasma energy melted stone like blazing fire. Orange-red molten rock churned and flowed as the surrounding temperature surged.
Then, Master Chief slowly turned the gun barrel toward Rocket Raccoon.
"..."
Clack.
"I surrender!" Rocket was decisive. He dropped the still-unloaded weapon and raised both hands high as the barrel—thicker than his head—pressed against his forehead. "Hey, hey, buddy, no need to be rash. Interstellar life isn't all about fighting and killing..."
"Ma'am, relax. We're not bad people."
"..." Surrounded by heavily armored giants wielding a heavy bolter in one hand and a chainsword in the other, what choice did Mantis have? Bad people always said they weren't bad people.
"Little sapling, be good. Listen. We mean no harm."
That came from an Inquisitor wielding a melta weapon, its muzzle venting small streams of molten metal and earth while intimidating Groot.
Dozens of fully armed Demon Inquisitors formed an effective formation, one hand gripping bolters at their waists, the other ready to draw fully charged melee weapons at any moment.
"Hss..." Gasping, cold sweat pouring down his face, Star-Lord finally struggled upright—only to find two or three activated power swords humming inches from his throat.
"Now, let's discuss the commission, Mr. Star-Lord."
...
Now—Xandar Spaceport.
The alarm sirens blared. Red, green, blue, pink—humanoid, non-humanoid—every variety imaginable.
Inclusive Xandar discriminated against no race. Here, one could see nearly half the intelligent species of the known universe. Yet at this moment, they fled in panic, as though some dreadful presence loomed over them.
It was quite the distinctive welcome ceremony for Master Chief and his party.
Soon, dense footsteps echoed. Hundreds upon thousands of patrol officers and security automatons poured out from barracks, converging from all directions toward the VIP transit corridor where Master Chief's group stood.
The Guardians of the Galaxy, having served as guarantors in a daze, now stared in shock.
"Jesus Christ or whatever god is listening—weren't you here for an auction? Why is this so huge? Did Ronan's remnants hire you to attack Xandar? What did you do?!"
Star-Lord's face had gone green.
"Nothing much. We registered a star-destroying weapon—the Atmospheric Incineration Torpedo—as our auction item."
Master Chief patted the silver spatial storage case in his hand, emblazoned with a skull insignia, ≡][≡, and the hollow diamond crest of Finality, then asked calmly, "Who is Ronan?"
"Ronan is—wait! You brought a star-destroying weapon into Xandar territory?!" Star-Lord's voice jumped an octave.
"Is there a problem?"
"Is there a problem?! That's a massive problem!" Star-Lord stared at the case. "You—you didn't plan to detonate that thing on Xandar's surface, did you?"
"Mr. Star-Lord, once again—this is an auction item. I intend to exchange it for funds to purchase large quantities of supplies."
There was nothing to hide. The moment the torpedo was sold, the money would immediately be spent—especially on high-energy food, nutritional products, and other logistical materials.
"Why else would we hire you? As a mercenary, your tactical proficiency is severely unbalanced—frankly unqualified. You're not even as competent as one of my basic troopers. But as a hero who once saved Xandar, your identity is sufficient to act as guarantor and save us considerable unnecessary trouble."
Master Chief spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.
"They're here. Now, Mr. Star-Lord, this is where you negotiate and fulfill your role." He looked toward the approaching Xandarian officials surrounded by Nova Corps soldiers.
"..."
Star-Lord wasn't sure whether he'd just been insulted or praised.
When he spotted familiar faces from the Nova Corps, knowing there was no escape, he muttered, "We're renegotiating the fee," before striding forward to launch into animated negotiations.
Watching the Nova Corps first display strange expressions upon seeing the troublemaking Star-Lord, then suspicious looks upon hearing he was merely selling a weapon at auction, Gamora turned to study the towering armored giants who stood out in the spaceport like cranes among chickens.
"The Xandar commission is complete. What about the guide commission?"
Master Chief glanced at Gamora and suddenly asked, "Star-Lord is from Earth, correct?"
"You... you're going to Earth?" Gamora froze.
As Thanos's adopted daughter—before her defection—she had participated in many of his plans. Though not privy to every detail, she knew Earth was an important piece.
"Correct. The guide commission requires the precise coordinates of Earth—the third planet of the Sol system."
Master Chief accepted the case handed over by a subordinate and pushed it toward Gamora.
Click.
Opening it revealed two smooth, aerodynamic claw-shaped pistols and a silver-gray light armor suit.
"This is the deposit."
"Finely crafted plasma pistols adapted for ordinary humanoid hands. Directed-energy weapons that fire superheated plasma—capable of semi-automatic fire or charged single shots."
Master Chief's steady voice sounded simultaneously.
"Energy shield armor. Partially forged from Orichalcum alloy steel. Critical sections can withstand multiple short strikes from energy blades. Rechargeable full-body barrier capable of resisting projectiles exceeding certain velocity thresholds."
"As mercenaries, I believe these are more suitable for you than simple currency."
Lacking local currency was not a problem. John—117 would simply use arms instead.
"To be concise—upon successful completion of the commission, enhanced exo-muscle fiber civilian-model power armor, energy weapons, shield equipment, emergency medical devices capable of limb restoration, cybernetic augmentations—take your pick."
Truthfully, Gamora was tempted. These were all mercenary necessities—items difficult to acquire even with money.
"...You... you're interstellar arms dealers?"
After holding back for a while, it wasn't sentiment toward Earth that troubled her—she simply couldn't grasp their identity.
"You may interpret it that way."
—
—
40 Advanced Chapters Available on Patreon:
Patreon.com/DaoOfHeaven