The Will of Fire has arrived
He saw Oswald Schneider step forward and flick out a length of energy rope. The rope twirled once in the sky, then shot straight at the old chieftain. All the elder could do was cry, 'Alas!' before he was hauled back, scalped, and turned into a pair of boots.
Caelus had been listening behind Guinevere for a while.
After everyone dispersed, Guinevere turned and spotted Caelus; she snapped to attention at once.
'Boss…'
'Relax… were you just imitating those storytellers from the Immortal Ships?'
'Ah, yes! I saw it in a short video. Figured that even if I can't work, I can still crack jokes to keep everyone amused…'
Guinevere lowered her head, embarrassed.
'You did great. Perfect—let me set you up as Minister of Culture.'
'Minister of… Culture?'
Her eyes lit up, then dimmed with worry. It was completely unfamiliar territory. She'd only wanted something she could handle to repay this rare peace.
'But didn't you say we're too young for official posts…'
'It's not a formal title yet. For now it's just organizing events—yeah… After you're officially hired, you'll get a higher salary and more work.'
'C-can I really?' she asked uncertainly, fingers twisting the hem of her coat. 'I just… learned a bit from short videos…'
'Our company's grown. Scrap-picking alone won't cut it; we need culture and spirit too! Or do we really want Lancelot onstage at the year-end gala, stone-faced, chopping bricks? Start by arranging daily fun—tell stories, run little contests. When we have our own planet-wide broadcaster, I'll think about radio.'
Stars seemed to spill into Guinevere's widening eyes.
'Thank you, boss! I'll give it everything I've got!' She straightened her petite frame, beamed, and nodded hard.
'Give it nothing. Why work so hard? Just coast along and wait to die, got it? Oh, and Oswald isn't as kind as he looks.'
Caelus watched the little girl skip away, shook his head, yet couldn't stop a smile.
'Hey! You there—working hard. I've been watching. What's your name?'
'I… I don't have a name.'
Caelus raised a brow, sizing up the plain-looking man whose eyes showed focus and order.
'No name, huh… set that aside for now. How many people can you direct at once?'
'I just see folks milling around, not sure who should go where, jobs clashing. Thought maybe, like… building blocks, I could assign them. Ten big suits'd be best, but give me a hundred men and I'll manage!'
'I'll give you twenty zakus and a command unit—on the condition you run them right, or you're back to hauling scrap.'
'Yes, my Emperor!'
The man's dark face flushed with excitement; he straightened his sturdy back.
Efficiency really did improve.
Caelus rubbed his chin.
'Come here.'
The zaku clanked over.
'…Still no name? Let me give you one.'
'Sir!'
'Rogal Dorn. Your unit… mm… is the seventh… call it the Fist of Terra.'
'Rogal Dorn…'
On the brutal wasteland a 'name' is a luxury, like clean water or unexpired food—reserved for those who can survive. Most folks make do with 'hey', 'you', or a blunt gesture.
'I will enforce your will and clear all garbage that hinders efficiency.'
His voice came muffled through the external speaker, canned.
'Enough, up.' He waved irritably. 'We don't kneel here. I gave you command so the job gets done better. Understood?'
'Yes, sir!'
Rogal Dorn wheeled his zaku; its crimson mono-eye swept the suits and crew now under him. Orders crackled, and the scattered team meshed like gears, moving with crisp precision.
Watching the newly christened 'Fist of Terra' march off in near-step toward the work zone, Caelus rubbed his chin, feeling his 'empire' finally showing something like—something even less like—proper form.
Leave it to Lancelot's pirates and they'd fight over who gets the best zaku first. Put native Terrans on it and they see only the job.
Should I raise a batch of primarchs… no, too ominous. If I ever get back-stabbed and stuck on a golden throne, I'm finished.
So Lancelot's lot become the Custodians.
Huh—those knights actually do make decent Custodians.
Loyalty's solid, combat power plus zakus checks out, and their ex-pirates drill well under 'regular' discipline.
The Emperor's Custodians… Warmaster Lancelot?
'Tch, dangerous thinking.' Caelus slapped his cheeks, trying to banish the ever-more-real 'Imperium' from his head. 'Wasn't this a scrap company? Why am I mulling over Custodians and honor guards? Must be catching something from the locals!'
He had zero interest in being Emperor.
Priority one: unite this ruined star system, wipe out the raiders, feed the refugees.
Ordinary folk living well—that mattered.
Power… nothing beat the joy of digging a real treasure out of a trash heap.
He glanced at Prometheus on his wrist; the planet panel showed sectors newly cleared by the Fist of Terra, recovery rates sharply up.
'Nice work,' he muttered.
Done with that sideshow, Caelus turned to practical matters. As the company grew, zakus and manpower alone couldn't cope—especially in zones piled with rubble, toxins, or worse. They needed specialized, high-efficiency gear.
Preferably amphibious…
MSN-07S
kampfer—improved model, of course.
Lighter for high-speed land-and-water ops, strong yet agile, sealed and pressure-proof for underwater work.
Arms can take engineering mods; feet get wider ground pads.
Makes underwater salvage a lot easier.
[Never watched Gundam? No worries—plain explanations ahead, nothing you won't understand.]
So that's how it is. He's a remarkably elusive figure. From what I've gathered, the Cosmic Junk Company is presently reorganizing and unifying the Talia Star System, striving to establish Order on Talia itself, and on certain planets he's even revered as the 'Emperor.'
The gentleman Intellitron nodded slowly.
Yet behavioral-pattern analysis shows he operates purely through cooperation and mutual aid. His logic: he funnels the vast majority of profits into improving living conditions for the lower strata and into basic industrial construction, rather than into military expansion or personal indulgence.
Establishing Order and improving people's livelihoods is both efficient and sustainable...
Beep-beep-beep-beep... 'Package for Ms. Herta, package for Ms. Herta.'
A Small Robot squeezed through the station bulkhead, chirping as it ferried a tiny parcel.
'Hm?'
The gentleman Intellitron turned; his camera locked onto the delivery bot.
Look what I discovered!
A self-aware inorganic life-form!
'If you're satisfied, remember to leave five stars—Ciallo~ (∠・ω＜ )⌒★.' The robot spun to leave.
'Please wait.'
Screwllum addressed the bot with impeccable courtesy.
'Beep—fine by me, this is my last stop anyway.'
The robot scratched its head with a mechanical arm.
'...I see. You work for the Cosmic Junk Company as an equal employee, not as a tool or property.'
'Beep, of course. I've got an employee badge and insurance.'
It rattled the grabber in its hand.
'My name is Screwllum, from Screw Star. Pleased to meet you. Does your company employ other silicon-based life like yourself?'
'Beep, sure. I've got a good buddy; later we're heading out for the boss's all-you-can-drink motor-oil buffet.'
'Sounds like generous employee benefits. May I ask how your firm manages its silicon-based staff?'
'Manage? Beep, there's nothing to manage.' The bot wiggled, arms spread in a shrug. 'Boss says: finish your delivery list on time, no in-fighting, don't damage or steal client goods—after that, do whatever you like. Oil's unlimited, charging ports are free, repairs covered, and good performance earns credits... for, say, snazzy anti-rust paint or new wheels!'
Its tone carried simple contentment, as though these were the most natural working conditions in the universe.
Cases like this—fully integrated into a normal production system, with benefits, wages, even a social life—are vanishingly rare. The boss of the 'Cosmic Junk Company' defies conventional templates, exactly as Asta and Screwllum had concluded.
Caelus might not be merely 'benevolent' or 'enlightened'; fundamentally, he simply... doesn't care about those boundaries.
This near-chaotic pragmatism has accidentally forged a strange kind of equality.
'Understood. Thank you for sharing; you've given me much to ponder.' Screwllum's voice regained its gentle rationality. 'I look forward to visiting your company someday and speaking further with you and your... brother.'
'Beep, tours are free. If you'd like, I'll ask the boss if I can show you around.'
The robot beeped twice.
'It would be my honor.'
For once, the gentleman Intellitron felt a flutter of anticipation... 'After work, give your bodies proper maintenance! Treat your chassis like your wives!' Caelus boomed through a megaphone.
'But, Your Majesty, I already got a wife.'
'...So you'd rather not take another, huh.'
'He-he.'
'Wipe that grin! Focus!' Caelus barked, waving the megaphone. 'If your "wife" stalls tomorrow because you skimped on upkeep and the schedule slips, I'll have your hide!'
The workers laughed and joked, yet their hands never slowed.
'Beep-boss, boss, the guest to tour our company's here.'
The Small Robot zipped up behind Caelus.
'Oh?'
Caelus spun around.
'Wu↑!'
It's Screwllum.
'Hey hey, Mr. Screwllum.'
His words were casual, his manner relaxed.
'Thanks for the invitation; I'm honored to visit.' Screwllum inclined slightly, the light in his ocular sensors calm. 'Your company's operations and treatment of inorganic employees—especially this fellow Intellitron's description—intrigue me.'
'Ah, you mean Justin?' Caelus gave the bot's metal head a friendly pat that rang hollow. 'He works fast, never whines; I put real thought into building him. Treating him well is only natural!'
Justin wobbled happily, chirping a string of pleased beeps.
Oh?
'Justin... was born at your hands?'
Screwllum froze, surprise evident.
Though his tone stayed level, delight shone through.
What miracle allows a silicon structure to ignite the spark of life? That question drives Screwllum's research: how can inorganic beings evolve true sapience?
'Yep, like building a model kit—just don't wire things backwards and slot the power core right. The rest is... luck, I guess?' Caelus scratched his head. 'Sometimes it works, sometimes you get scrap. Justin got lucky.'
Luck...
So it was chance. Indeed, no other inorganics were in sight.
Yet even a fluke that produced Justin—self-aware and socially fluent—spoke volumes about its creator.
'Even as coincidence, it's remarkable.' Screwllum's voice remained warm. 'To gift lifeless matter with a spark of "life" is a miracle worthy of study—made rarer still by your equal treatment of silicon beings.'
'Honestly, it's no big deal.'
'Your perspective is unique.' Screwllum chose a neutral verdict. 'Might I observe Justin and his brother's daily maintenance area? A firsthand look at their lives would be invaluable.'
'Sure, follow me.' Caelus agreed at once and led the way.
He guided Screwllum through the busy yard into a cavernous hold refitted from a derelict freighter.
'Beep—Dean, oil tonight?'
'Beep—I'm raising a space mantis.'
'Beep—where'd you find a mantis, bro?'
Screwllum's optics recorded everything. Justin and Dean interacted naturally, sharing and curious—behavior found only among thinking beings.
Harmony between organic and inorganic life exists in the universe, but usually within advanced civilizations or special biospheres.
'I figure if they can think, work, and amuse themselves, they're people. Just 'cause they're built from bolts and circuit boards doesn't mean I should treat them differently—too much hassle.'
'Your management philosophy is singular.' There was a note of warmth in Screwllum's voice. 'That may explain Justin's vivid individuality.'
'Beep—Screwllum, want a cup of oil?'
'Thank you for the invitation.' Screwllum bowed slightly to Justin and Dean. 'I would be delighted to sample your employee refreshment.'