"Ben, I should have died—there's no way anyone could survive that kind of battlefield?!" The Sergeant Major was astonished to find he could still think—but beyond thinking, he seemed incapable of any action. He couldn't even feel his own existence. This seemed like a surprising state, yet he was more concerned with how he had managed to survive.
Though back then, the Captain had mimicked that classic gesture from ancient Earth millennia ago. He'd given the Sergeant Major a thumbs-up before detonating his own suit. That sacrifice had pulled away hundreds of Flood. But it had only bought the Sergeant Major and his squad a few extra minutes.
They were out of ammunition and supplies, utterly isolated. Their main fleet had long since withdrawn, abandoning the planet to defend more critical locations. Their squadron—fifty-four Spirit Armor units in total—had been sacrificed as bait and rearguard, trapped in a desperate situation against a swarm of aliens numbering over a million times their own force, perhaps even more.
His comrades dwindled around him as the front lines steadily retreated. The Gauss machine gun mounted on his psionic armor had exhausted its ammunition, and his beam grenades had been spent days ago. His psionic cannon, weakened by excessive mental strain, was now unusable. Forcing a single shot would surely blow his own brain apart. Several greenhorns beside him had died precisely that way, lacking the experience to manage it.
Thus, by the final moments, they—the elite of the elite, the pride of the military, clad in the most advanced psionic mechanical armor—were reduced to the most clumsy, primitive method: drawing ion swords or psionic blades to hack and slash. Heaven help him, this sergeant major had served nearly eight years, always believing such weapons were mere decorations.
Yet despite their desperate efforts, the pile of slain Zerg they left behind could fill over a dozen fifty-by-fifty swimming pools. Still, defeat was inevitable. He'd wanted to follow his superior's example and detonate himself, declaring, "This is a man's romance!" But he didn't even have the strength left to do that...
"That cold-blooded bastard..." The thought made the sergeant major grind his teeth in rage at the fleet admiral who had sold them out. Strategically, the admiral's decision might have been justifiable. But don't expect him to ever forgive him.
So, he must have... been defeated and captured by the bugs? What would the bugs want with him? Specimens? Food? Modification? Hmm, since he was still alive, it must be the last option. So be it—he'd switch allegiances and rampage across the universe with the bugs. After all, every brother under his command was dead. He harbored no affection for the rotten, incompetent Federation government, the cold-blooded fleet admiral, or the other cowards who'd abandoned him and fled...
At this thought, the sergeant major sighed softly. "The Bugs are despicable, but at least these bastards don't betray their own kind." As he pondered this, he began to feel his body—a sensation of sliding through an extremely tight space. It was deeply uncomfortable.
"Damn it, what the hell is going on?! Breaking free from the cocoon?" The sergeant major thought, attempting to move his body. He sensed his body undergoing profound changes.
"Right. I've been modified. There should be an adjustment period..." He thought this while trying to open his mouth to say something—to call for help, or ask about his situation. But what emerged from his lips wasn't the High Gothic of the Covenant, nor the harsh, incomprehensible growls of the Flood. Instead, it was the cry of a newborn infant.
"That voice is wrong!" the Master Chief thought, then strained desperately to struggle and open his eyes. Yet no matter how hard he tried, his eyes wouldn't open... He heard a flurry of activity around him. He didn't know who was there or what they were doing. It felt like something had wrapped around most of his body. Then he heard someone speak a sentence in a language he couldn't understand.
"It's a boy."
An aged yet powerful voice declared. Then, the small body of the Master Chief was lifted. A psychic energy unlike any he'd ever felt swept over him, leaving him with the sensation of being completely exposed.
"What the hell?!" He struggled desperately, trying to break free from the person holding him. He even landed a hard punch on the face of the one carrying him. Thud! Though the force wasn't enough, the blow landed on the vulnerable eyeball. The person holding him upside down suffered a slight injury.
"What a feisty little one," the man chuckled lightly, seemingly unfazed. "Very healthy. And quite gifted. The Castane family has a worthy successor."
The latter remark was directed at the mother lying on the bed, her face an unnatural pallor.
"I hope he becomes a true child of the night someday," the mother managed a faint smile, her words tinged with sorrow that the smile did little to dispel.
"I believe that day will surely come," the aged voice replied. Noticing the sorrow on the mother's face, he sighed softly before asking, "So, what name do you wish to give him?"
At this, the mother seemed to grow even more sorrowful. After a long pause, she spoke again: "My husband told me before he passed... if it was a boy, he was to be named Valed. Valed von Kastanien."
"It's a good name," the elder nodded in agreement, then sighed and comforted her, "Wes died for our people. He died bravely, a worthy death. Don't grieve too deeply."
"But Father..." At this point, the mother finally broke down, weeping, "No matter what, he's gone. No matter how beautifully you put it, dead is dead. The man I loved is dead. Why should I go on living..."
Seeing his daughter weeping aloud, the old man grew flustered. Even the gesture of holding the infant stiffened. His heart ached with shared sorrow.
His son-in-law, the Count of Kastanien, had been a man of countless virtues in daily life. He was perfectly matched for his daughter. Though a political marriage, they had been childhood sweethearts, raised together since infancy, their bond deep and enduring. After marriage, their love grew sweeter than honey. A daughter was born a few years ago, and now a son. Yet no one could have foreseen that war would ultimately claim his life. The news arrived just as his wife neared her due date. The shock proved too much for her, triggering premature labor. Both mother and child nearly perished... ...
The more the old man thought about it, the heavier his heart grew. His arms, cradling the infant, tightened unconsciously. This discomfort prompted the little one to protest in the only way he knew how—by crying.
The sound of the baby's wail snapped the old man back to reality. He scrambled to soothe the child. Yet, it was this very crying that sparked an idea in his mind. He found the words to persuade the mother: "You still have children! Your children—Waleed and Isabella. For their sake, you must live on!"
Hearing the old man's words, the mother snapped out of her daze. She stared straight ahead, her gaze fixed on the infant in the old man's arms. The old man understood. He stepped forward and handed the child over.
"Valed, Valed, Valed... my child Valed..." The mother clutched the infant, now named Valed, as if holding onto her very life. She seemed almost unnatural, yet finally found calm. The old man breathed a slight sigh of relief, feeling somewhat reassured. Though reluctant to disturb her further, protocol dictated there were still duties to attend to...
In the mother's embrace, the sergeant major felt weariness overtake him. His consciousness grew hazy, on the verge of sleep. And in that twilight state, he faintly heard the broken prayers of those around him:
"May the truth of death we worship bless our new kin. May he be healthy, handsome, and of noble bearing; May he wield long swords and wands, ride mighty steeds; may he hold great power, may he rule over all...
May Death's blessings also strengthen our clan. We shall reshape this world according to Death's laws, with blades and magic, sweeping away all chaos and strife. Establishing absolute and eternal order..."
"This can't be... some kind of cult..." The last thought before the Sergeant Major fell asleep was precisely this.
He had no idea how much time had passed when he awoke again, finally able to open his eyes and see this world. By then, darkness had completely fallen, and there were no lights anywhere nearby. The room possessed only one pitifully small window, set three meters up on the outer wall. A faint, feeble moonlight filtered through, offering little practical illumination.
Yet under these conditions, the infant named Valed, for reasons unknown, could still perceive his surroundings. Whether it was the soft, black velvet bedding with its rolled edges, the dark red bedside table inlaid with gold thread, the blood-red greatsword hanging decoratively on the wall, or the kite-shaped shield depicting a bat-winged chalice brimming with blood—everything was crystal clear.
This struck him as deeply peculiar—it didn't seem like the ability of the Bugs—and he possessed neither compound eyes nor insect vision. The world he perceived remained viewed through human eyes. Only now, it was rendered with unparalleled clarity, down to the finest detail.
"Perhaps I've become entangled in something far worse than being altered by the Bugs," he mused, straining to lift his arm. He raised it before his eyes.
As expected, it felt exactly as he'd imagined—the arm of an infant.