In the face of absolute industrial power, time lost its meaning. When one participant in the war was a tireless, fearless steel creation, capable of exponential self-replication—then "years" became nothing but a cold yardstick for measuring slaughter.
A full year had passed since Steve gave the order for total war. For the Earth Federation, it was a hellish year. For Steve and his Human Federation, it was nothing more than a full-scale performance test for the [Hephaestus Protocol].
For 365 days, Earth's sky was ruled by twin streaks:
By day—a never-ending rain of red meteors as hundreds of millions of "Hell Diver" units broke through the atmosphere;
By night—the blazing sea of orange as energy blasts erupted, and steel bodies were shattered but never extinguished.
The proud armies of Earth Federation were totally routed in the war's first month. Their tanks, fighters, and soldiers, in the face of the endless robot swarm, were but fragile, laughable waves against a boundless sea. Their only contribution was to add meaningless loss numbers to the AI's server logs.
The next eleven months were an endless litany of extermination by robots. The Federation regime did not simply collapse: it self-destructed in despair.
The mysterious, ancient powers of history—magi of the Clock Tower, proud magus workshops—were all annihilated. The "God of War Legion" rolled over every abnormal node with a carpet of fire, physically purging all mystical energy from the surface.
Some magi could—as in legends—wipe out legions with a grand spell, but then came a "Rod of God" kinetic weapon from orbit, erasing not just them but hundreds of square kilometers. Their "mysteries" proved worthless in the face of absolute "physics."
The enforcers of the Church fared no better. Their rites meant nothing to soulless machines; Black Keys bounced off heavy alien alloy. Their pride and battle mastery availed them nothing against tidal numbers—they defended only the most optimal ways to be spent.
And for the Dead Apostles—vampires, "new primates of the Earth"—the end was worst. At the peak of night, these monsters, in the midst of battle, discovered their "power" for the first time was meaningless: their endless hunger found no blood in these cold iron beasts, no organic fuel to replenish their cursed lives. Even when their bodies, shields, and mystical rings let them tear through hundreds of robots, they could not draw a single drop of repair from their slaughter.
Thanks to Steve's switch from Terra's regular or true Ether to cosmic rays as the main power source, any time vampires tried to consume robotic energy, it was toxic—completely incompatible with their bodies. They perished as obsolete relics, helpless before the birth of a "Land of Steel."
During the course of the war, every injury and shock delivered to the Dead Apostles by the robots accumulated, effective and irreversible. Every one of the Dead was ensnared in the quicksand of war, inexorably running out of "supplies."
In the deep mountains of Romania, the proud vampire prince, celebrated for his nobility and grace, fought for twenty nights and days, weakening as his food ran out. His sorcerous, reality-bending gaze could only watch thousands of Hell Divers crawl up his body like ants. His last memories were of being torn apart—his once-legendary flesh shredded, segment by segment, by the crudest chainsaws and cutting arms.
Thus did the self-proclaimed "True Ancestors" fall—overwhelmed by mindless "industrial refuse."
…
On April 8, 2033—a year later—
"The Avalon's" highest bridge was ablaze with victorious joy. On the main screen, 99.9% of the Earth hologram glowed blue: "controlled." The last red pockets of resistance flickered away before their eyes.
The generals toasted; many had never fired a shot. They were mere witnesses to this fully automated, unprecedented conquest.
"Commander! We've won!" The one-eyed Harold flushed with excitement. "We did it! The future of humanity will be made by us!"
Sion stood at Steve's side, her violet eyes shining with exhaustion but, more than that, unconcealed satisfaction and pride. She was proud of him, and proud of the miracle they had wrought together.
As the mood in the hall peaked for a victory toast—
CHIK—!
CHIK—!
CHIK—!
A mournful and sharp alarm, never before heard and of the highest priority, instantly drowned out all cheers and laughter. The bridge was awash in a dazzling red light—the air froze, the mood turned to ice.
"What's happening?!"
"Is this some desperate suicidal counter-attack?"
The generals were suspicious, but when Sion saw the console data, her face turned ashen. She dashed to her station; her hands became after-images, but the data stymied her brain—contradictory error after error, more confusing than ever experienced:
"Impossible… Detecting… object exceeding the speed of light, breaking through the Oort Cloud!"
"Gravitational readings… Energy response… These violate all known physical laws!"
"My calculation models are… totally invalid!"
In the panic, only the Watcher's synthetic voice remained absolutely calm, reading the final emergency judgment, after ignoring Sion and completing his comparison:
"Historical database crosschecking… Match confirmed."
"Target: [Velber-02]."
"Codename: The Star of Predation."
"Fourteen thousand years ago, its kind—Velber-01—harvested the Solar System."
"Current trajectory and energy model indicate Earth as target."
"Estimated time of arrival: 72 hours."
"Wandering Stars of Predators…" This phrase was like a cold wind blowing out all heat from the bridge. The generals' faces turned from joy to dull fear; none could fully grasp its meaning.
Steve, under their collective gaze, slowly stood from the Supreme Commander's throne. Rather than looking at his panicking subordinates, he approached the main screen and ordered the system to zoom the observation to its maximum. On the display, against the deep blackness of space, an immense comet—massive and violently white—dragged a path of destruction behind it, racing toward the Solar System.
That was no ordinary star. Its light radiated an irrational and illogical malice—as if a starved cosmic beast, wandering for ten thousand years, had at last smelled the "mature" scent of civilization and come for a feast.
Steve watched it. There was no surprise—only the relief of "it's finally here." He already knew when he decided to "reformat" Earth so decisively, such a disturbance would ripple out—inevitably baiting the universe's real "scavengers."
This was why he never deployed his unstoppable trump card during the initial phase of the One Year War, choosing instead to fight with ordinary humans first: to see if the Human Federation alone could assure Earth's future… and to avoid triggering the predators prematurely. In the end, though, he realized: "Better short pain than long agony; better a great loss than small losses." The time for the last move had come.
Shaking off the past, Steve turned back to his desperate subordinates, his calm, steady voice settling their turmoil like a rock:
"Everyone, don't panic—this is all within my plans."
He paused, scanning the crowd, then proclaimed the advent of a new era:
"Our battle with the ancient powers of Earth is over."
"Congratulations, we've achieved a perfect victory in this war."
"Now—initiate the [Typhon] Protocol."
"Our war against the next 'natural disaster' officially begins."