As a boy, he'd been obsessed with destruction. Not violence. Not blood. But the mechanics of it. The concept. The power.
He remembered sitting in dark rooms, watching old sci-fi flicks where planetary annihilation was just a button press away. He remembered the awe—not fear—as alien weapons vaporized cities, split mountains, or warped reality. None ofever seemed… enough to him. Nuclear bombs? Predictable. Crude. Messy. He wanted elegance. Precision. Devastation with grace.
So, when he grew up, he made it real.
.
He designed. He built. He sold.
And the 21st century was the perfect century for business.
Civil wars. Proxy wars. Power struggles. Eventually, the Third World War.
Countries weren't just interested in his inventions. They were desperate for them.
They bought everything—massive plasma cannons, shielding networks, energy disruptors. His weapons changed the very structure of combat. Mid-range and long-range warfare became obsolete once his shielding tech made conventional munitions near-useless. The world adapted. It had to. Personal combat returned to prominence. His innovations in plasma melee weapons—plasma swords, monomolecular blades, and cold weapons laced with energy cores—forced militaries around the globe to train soldiers for up-close engagements again.
And it wasn't just weapons. Anthony funded—and quietly sanctioned—dozens of human experiments under the pretense of research and military advantage. Gene therapy. Human augmentation. Synthetic evolution.
He wasn't just designing for victory. He was designing for dominance. Permanence.
But beneath it all, he had a secret motive.
He was dying.
A rare, aggressive genetic collapse had begun in his late thirties. Unstoppable. Untreatable. Not even with all his resources could he find a cure. His last years were a race—against time, against nature. And he lost.
That was the last thought in his mind before death took him.
And yet, here he was. In this impossible place. Facing an impossible truth.
"This has to be a mistake…" he muttered.
But it wasn't.
The numbers hadn't budged. And the administrator, still seated above, was watching him—calmly, curiously. As if he had already read every thought Anthony would have.
Finally, the administrator spoke again.
His voice was quiet, but firm. It rang through the silence like law.
"Indeed, that would be the conclusion. Normally.
If the universe functioned as simple cause and effect, you would not be here."
He paused and adjusted his glasses.
"But it didn't."
Anthony frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"
The administrator's next words hit like thunder, despite his calm tone.
"Twelve years after your death, Earth was discovered by an advanced interstellar species. They were known as the Fox Clan. Traders. Raiders. Conquerors. They viewed Earth as a viable life planet, rich with resources and unguarded civilization."
He paused for a moment, letting the weight of it settle.
"Their intention was enslavement. Colonization. Erasure."
Anthony's eyes widened slightly. He hadn't seen that coming.
"They came in force—fleets, carriers, annihilation-class cruisers. They bombarded cities. Demanded surrender. But Earth… survived.
Not by miracle.
Not by diplomacy.
It survived because of you."
Anthony blinked. "…What?"
"Your weapons, Anthony. Your shields. Your warships. The technology you left behind. The designs your company continued to produce and refine after your death. The systems you implemented.
They gave Earth time.
Gave humanity an edge."
The administrator leaned forward slightly.
"The Fox Clan was defeated. Routed. Some of their ships were captured. Their tech was reverse-engineered. Within twenty years, humanity became not just survivors—but contenders.
The Sol System was secured.
Humanity stood tall."
Anthony was frozen.
His mind struggled to process it. His entire life had been devoted to building tools of devastation, things that governments whispered about behind closed doors. He had expected to die hated, feared, maybe forgotten.
But instead…
He had saved them.
"Because of me…" he whispered.
"Because of you," the administrator confirmed. "And humanity did not forget. In your absence, they honored you. Wrote about you. Studied you. Worshipped you."
"Worshipped…?"
"Your name became a symbol. Your life, a doctrine. You were called the 'Iron Saint'—not for what you believed, but for what you made possible.
Your karma… your divinity… comes not from who you were, but from what endured."
Anthony looked down.
He didn't know how to feel.
Was it… redemption? Was it irony? Was it some cosmic joke?
He hadn't built those weapons to save lives. He built them because he loved destruction. He loved power. He loved invention.
As he pondered, he wasn't sure—was this redemption or irony? He didn't know, nor did he care. The reasons behind the development of those weapons meant little to him. Was it his love for destruction that drove him? Perhaps and most likely. Like he always said: he loved power, and he loved invention.
Who used his creations—or how they used them—was never his concern. Weapons were made to kill and destroy. If they did just that, and in doing so managed to save something—in this case, humanity—then so be it.
He felt no remorse.All he cared about was that his weapon worked—and even that was secondary.
What truly mattered to him was whether it caused destruction or not.
Whether that destruction was massive and devastating didn't matter; in fact, that was exactly why he had developed those weapons in the first place.
He had no grand ideals.
And yet, the result of his work—the unintended outcome—was the survival of his species.
He should have felt triumphant. But instead, all he felt was…
Confused.
A long silence followed. Then, finally, Anthony raised his head.
"…I don't care that they worshipped me," he said. "And I still don't think I was a good man."
He paused, then added, more quietly:
"But I'm grateful they survived."
The administrator nodded once.
Anthony took a breath. Then another.
"So… now what?" he asked. "Do I go back? Or vanish forever?"
"You are free to choose," the administrator said. "Your reincarnation would not be forced. It would be tailored—to your will, your desire. Any world. Any form.
Or, you may rest. Truly. Eternally. No more cycles."
Anthony looked out at the endless portals floating in the void. Each one shimmered. Each one waited.
But none called to him.
After a long moment, he looked back up.
"I think…" he began, voice slow, deliberate.