You know, there's an old saying among mortals, when misfortune strikes, it doesn't simply arrive, it crashes down like a hammer. And lately, it feels as though that particular truth has chosen all of us as its target.
"I understand that you can go without food for months, perhaps even years," the General reprimanded, his voice weary yet firm. "But that is not the case for the rest of us. We're meant to be expendable for a reason. Hundreds of us can die in a single operation, just to feed a million others for a few days. Even if you train us, it won't matter if most of us die anyway. Humans are the most abundant resource we have, and that is simply how we are expected to be used."
"What about producing corpse starch from the heretics?" Tom suggested cautiously. "Although I'm still against the idea, this sort of cannibalism feels wrong but at least it might help you preserve your own people for now."
"Their numbers aren't enough," the General replied with a tired sigh. "But their strength far surpasses ours. And even if you help us… one way or another, you will leave this planet. How many can you eliminate before that time comes? And even if you manage it, they will strike back eventually."
"…Alright," I said, exhaling slowly. "Then let's conduct a test."
"A test?" Both of them looked at me in unison, confusion etched across their faces.
"Since we're outmatched in raw strength and limited by our own moral boundaries," I explained, "we'll need a strategist, someone capable of taking over our roles once we're gone. A successor. So tell me… how many computers do you have available?"
"A few too many, I would say," the General murmured.
"Bring them all," I said. "And I want every child you've drafted into the military to take this test as well. Let's find your new leader."
At the General's command, three hundred computers were arranged across thirty rooms within a few hours. Every able-bodied soldier sat down to face the series of tests I had prepared for them.
Yet even though the tests had no correct answers, the results were… horrifying.
"Who in the world tries to dig under a tree to bring down a kitten stuck on its branches?" Tom asked, baffled as he flipped through one of the response sheets.
"Read the entire answer," I told him, already moving on to the next question.
"Oh." His expression darkened. "He planned on eating it once it fell…" Tom let out a defeated sigh. "Why is this worse than we expected?"
"There are a few good ones," the General admitted as he skimmed through the data on his monitor. "But most of the promising candidates are the ones far too willing to sacrifice everything. I assume you want those… eliminated from consideration?"
"Eliminate all the ones you think are 'good,'" Tom said flatly, not even glancing his way.
"…Death would have been kinder than this," the General muttered under his breath.
"Hm? Tommy—come look at this," I called, having finally found something worth my attention.
Tom quickly pushed back his chair and walked over to stand beside me. We studied one of the answer sheets together.
"This was written by a kid?" Tom raised a brow as he scanned the responses. "You sure you don't have a secret son somewhere? Because if you did, I'd bet money it's this guy."
"…I'm not even an adult yet," I reminded him dryly. "But never mind that. We should start training him as soon as possible."
However, as we scrolled up to check the name of the respondent, both of us froze.
"T-3?" Tom blinked. "Huh… I always wondered how he stayed alive with that brittle body of his."
"To think he'd suggest digging trenches like this to trick the enemy…" I murmured. "Clever enough to be useful. More than useful, actually."
Although T-3's morality wasn't much different from the others, he was still the best candidate we had found so far.
"So how do you want to do this? Teach him from scratch?" Tom asked.
"No. That would only make the others jealous of his sudden progress. Favoritism, especially here, could spark conflict later," I replied. "Instead, send them all out on a single mission separately. Small teams, minimal members. Assign T-3 as the leader of one group, then have each team carry out a coordinated plan to wipe out a heretic campsite."
Tom folded his arms, listening carefully.
"With the teams split, each soldier will have limited power on their own. They'll be forced to cooperate, and naturally they'll choose their own leader. If T-3 truly has what it takes to rise above the rest, he'll prove it without us pushing him. If he does, then we start training him properly," I continued. "I'll stay on standby in case the situation turns dire, but you get the gist."
"We can most definitely proceed with that," the General said with a nod.
That marked the beginning of yet another hellish campaign for the mortals, one they had naively hoped to avoid simply because we were here.
We knew we could wipe out every heretic camp on this planet and reshape their world for the better within the time we were given. But as the mortals love to say, give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day; teach him to fish, and he'll never go hungry again.
Except in this world, if we gave them the fish, the moment the heretics returned, that fish would be under new management, and resistance would be minimal. Yet if we taught them to fish… even if the heretics showed up demanding their catch, they would at least know how to fight for it.
Don't ask me why mortals make statements like these. Their metaphors are even stranger to me than my mother who died right after I was born...