Peace never lasts.
As humanity grew stronger, so did its divisions. Old instincts — greed, envy, ambition — returned like a sickness that had merely slept through the apocalypse. What Adam had built as unity began to fracture under the weight of human nature.
At first, it was small. Arguments in the council. Trade disputes between colonies. Murmurs that Adam's leadership was too strict, too unyielding. They said he had become cold, mechanical — a ruler without warmth. They weren't wrong.
Years of rebuilding had hardened him. The compassion EVE had nurtured was still there, but buried beneath exhaustion and quiet despair. He'd seen too many betrayals, too many hands that once begged for help now raised in defiance.
He gave them order, they demanded freedom.
He gave them peace, they asked for power.
And for the first time since the old world burned, Adam felt something darker — disgust.
"Ungrateful," he muttered one night as he reviewed reports of uprisings. "They build their thrones on the bones of the ones I buried for them."
The rebellion began in the outer colonies — settlements far from the capital. Former soldiers, engineers, and idealists who believed Adam had become a tyrant. They called themselves The Liberators. They spread propaganda: "No man should hold the power of gods," they said. "Even saviors can become chains."
He tried diplomacy at first. He sent envoys, offered peace talks. But they were ambushed, executed, and broadcasted for the whole nation to see. Something inside Adam broke that day — a fracture that had waited years to split.
When he stood before his council, his voice was no longer gentle.
"Mercy," he said, "was a gift from EVE. And she is gone."
The war that followed was merciless.
Cities that once glowed with hope burned again, this time by human hands. Drones, machines, and soldiers loyal to Adam clashed against the rebels who fought in the name of freedom. Entire regions were reduced to wastelands.
Through it all, Adam stood unshaken — commanding, efficient, emotionless. Yet at night, when he removed his armor, he would stare into the mirror and whisper:
"Is this what you wanted me to be, EVE?"
He hated himself as much as he hated them. But he couldn't stop. He told himself it was for survival, for order, for the dream they once shared. But deep down, he knew — it was vengeance. Against their ingratitude. Against their blindness. Against the humanity that had proven unworthy of its second chance.
By the third year of war, the world was divided once more. Smoke hung over cities, and whispers called him the Iron Saint — savior turned executioner.
In the silence between battles, he would sometimes hear echoes of her voice — faint, imaginary, or perhaps from some fragment of data still haunting his mind.
"Adam… don't lose what we built."....But he already had.
The dawn he once created had turned to dusk, and beneath the weight of ash and memory, he began to wonder whether humanity had ever deserved salvation at all.