Message to the Creators
One spaceship alone couldn't take on those bastards. And this was just an exploration vessel to boot. Despite its enormous size—like a space battleship—it wasn't built for combat. The giants surely had dedicated warships somewhere. As I stewed over it, Yadong gurgled.
This ship had been automatically reporting back to their home planet all along, he said, and there was no way to stop it. Designed for scouting and relaying intel, it couldn't block its own signals.
"So what? You want us to just sit here and die when they come charging in?"
I snapped in frustration, and he gurgled back.
"Huh? Yeah?"
It was somewhat reassuring, at least. The situation wasn't utterly hopeless. The silver lining? This planet was so damn far from their homeworld that the signal would take centuries to arrive by local time.
Fine, safe for now. But then it hit me—centuries here were just a few years back on Earth. No comfort at all.
"This is bad. If they scan everything we've done here, they'll know I'm human. Any chance we could turn enemies into friends?"
If they weren't foes, no need to fight. But Yadong, gnawing on a pig trotter leg, gurgled that giants had no friends. To them, they were the creators; everything else was just created chattel. In other words, giants were the researchers, and all other lifeforms were lab rats or guinea pigs—same difference.
"You fucking dogshit pricks!"
Oh, they loved playing God. Perverted experiments that killed each other off. Acted like nobility now, huh? They made planets, made life—so you lot are slaves, and we're gods. Delusional bullshit.
Han Yaseong had zero interest in being a slave. He didn't even buy into religion—his pride wouldn't let him. Worshipping giants as deities? Hard pass.
Fuming, he glared at the screen and scowled.
"You think you're so hot shit? Everyone not your kind is just created trash, slaves? Creators, my ass. You show up with your civilization and act all high and mighty. But guess what? I've got it too. The primordial stuff from the universe's birth, right in my body. You'll see it eventually. Bring it on if you wanna fight. I won't run. But if you wanna be friends? Welcome aboard. No reason for beings like us—or god-races with cosmic matter—to throw down. Think it over. I don't dodge fights."
Finished, he let out a sigh. Pure bravado, really. He had no clue how to wield that cosmic matter yet... What if he just pissed them off and gave them an excuse to invade?
Anxious, he cleared his throat and spoke politely to the screen again.
"I have no intention of fighting you. The giants here are all dead, so I'm just temporarily running things. If you have orders, send a signal later. I'll take responsibility and complete the mission. I respect you, rulers of the universe, and will follow you forever. Stay well."
Another sigh. Damn, what am I even doing? Fight or not wouldn't be decided for years anyway, so he shoved the giants to the back burner. At least three or four years before they could show.
By then, he needed to master that cosmic matter.
"And wipe out those fuckers too."
The national flags jammed into the ground by various armies grated on his nerves. Pisses him off, foreigners planting flags on someone else's turf like they own it. Still raging from the giants, he itched to vent on them.
Pretty female soldiers and researchers in sight? Kidnap 'em, make slaves. But couldn't let them spot the ship... Needed a separate women's camp somewhere. Lock up the captured prizes as war spoils, pick 'em off one by one.
"Heh heh heh, sounds fun."
Chuckles alone, then Yadong—stuffed to bursting—lay panting.
"What've you been up to this whole time?"
Gurgle: roamed the forests, even went outside into space.
"For real?"
Han Yaseong blinked in surprise. Suit lets you exit the planet? Flying through space possible too.
"That's awesome."
Lots of small asteroids orbiting this world. Tour 'em later. And if he took the suit and flyer back to Earth? Moon, Mars—no problem. Pose with kimchi in front of NASA's rover on Mars? Hilarious. Those NASA eggheads would flip, screaming "alien!" At first they'd hide it. Hell, maybe forever—NASA only teases, never drops real ET proof.
Snapping pics in front of satellites? Gold.
"But fuck those giant bastards!"
That joy might end in years. Ship beaming everything to their planet right now.
"Please don't come. I'll live quietly here."
Praying the homeworld giants stayed put. Suit on, flyer loaded—nuclear-sealed box complete, signal chimed.
Quick dinner of bread and drinks, then install it. Or have the ship do it? Input command first.
> Install sealed box on portal in Forest 173. Ensure no one can exit the portal. Reinforce to withstand 10 nuclear blasts.
Input, converted to giant script, executed. Response: needs stronger box. Damn—built for one nuke only. Can't remake now, so order 5000 overlapping layers.
Resource shortage. Send mining drone for metal ores? Yeah. Space has asteroids tougher than steel by ten thousandfold—this ship's metal too. Fetch one whole.
Ship launches drone instantly into space. Damn, well-built ship—does whatever, no fuss. Loaded one ready box onto a mini-shuttle.
Han Yaseong followed by air to check. Night, pitch black, but helmet vision lit it like day.
Thirty minutes flight to Forest 173, US camp. Fully pulled out—camp traces, junk left behind.
Mini-ship drops box at spot. Portal there, now sealed. Anyone crosses? Trapped inside. Starve over a hundred days, crawl back.
Ship keeps stacking as it builds more. Han Yaseong flew off into night sky.
Next: Forest 88, Rising Sun and Japanese flags. Time to vent on those trotter-eaters.
Japs clearing road, hacking trees—forest devastation insane. Caged wild animals in a dozen iron bars.
About 600 total: 400 troops, rest scientists, medics, explorers. Night—camp resting. Helmet scan showed all.
Them too: bikes, jeeps, trucks assembled but ditched uselessly.
Bonfires, big lights illuminating camp. Han Yaseong hovered 500 meters over Forest 88, eyeing Japanese camp under Rising Sun flags.
"You idiots! How long you gonna squat this forest? Keep sending troops to other woods!"
Ishii, colonial expedition head—a bellowing major general—chewed out subordinates.
In huge tent conference room, a dozen Self-Defense Force brass sat ramrod straight, mute as clamped clams.
Sixty-something Ishii, gut jiggling, bald pate gleaming, gripped baton, face twisted.
"Half a year here, and you've scouted two forests? Homeland demands more intel. More animals, plants—but can't explore properly, can't send shit. You call yourselves officers of the Great Japanese Empire?!"