[Note: The current text describes the Duchy of Thieves planet Talia. I'm calling the star system that hosts it the Talia Star System. If that clashes with later lore, treat it as a coincidence—after all, a cosmic junkyard can't be the only one, right?]
Screwllum is a genius, so even the gear he marks "obsolete" is carefully chosen. Screw Star belongs to him; no matter how outdated the equipment, it's still the absolute pinnacle of universal tech.
The machines are not only reliable—they sit in a sweet spot: advanced enough to be transformative, yet not so far ahead they're incomprehensible.
You walk one step at a time; stride too far and you've got cavemen waving lasers—pure waste.
Naturally, Screwllum had thought of that.
Hitting the brakes in time is essential.
Time flew while everyone stayed busy. Terra Star changed before their eyes.
Rows of simple but sturdy houses replaced shacks and caves. Purified water reached every settlement through new pipelines. Communal canteens served plain but filling, nutritionally balanced meals.
The industrial zone thundered day and night. The towering zaku were no longer the only steel giants; construction machines joined the work, doubling the speed of clearing trash, leveling ground, and digging foundations.
Sorted scrap metal and other materials were melted and machined into fresh building materials and parts.
"Wow… this is the same trash-covered planet we landed on?"
March 7th exclaimed.
"I've sent down a batch of reliable managers. Terra needs to breathe; grow too fast and it'll blow." Leaning on the rail, Caelus watched the factories rise. "Omikron's running things now—should be fine."
"Omikron…"
March 7th's face fell.
"Our scrap iron—gone!"
"Then let's go pick a fight with equilibrium."
Caelus looked like a kid whose console had been confiscated and replaced with an "educational" learning pad.
"E-equilibrium, the Aeon of equilibrium?"
March 7th scratched her head.
March-head-scratch.JPG
"Hey, I've got a question for you."
"Shoot."
"What Path would you say we're walking?"
March 7th flipped through a book, looking wise.
"Trailblaze, Preservation, Destruction—any of those fit. Oh, Harmony too."
"Whaaaaaat?"
"Paths don't work like that. By your logic, anyone who crushes trash all day is a Destruction Emanator."
Caelus spread his hands.
By that measure he could qualify for Finality.
Terra shifted into high gear. Basic industry took shape; recycling and processing capacity soared. Selected employees trained fast and could now operate and maintain most equipment on their own.
It was time to plan the next step… A formless spiritual flame drifted, issuing a hollow laugh both wistful and delighted.
"…Oh?"
The flame's gaze settled on one planet.
Someone was actually trying to rebuild Order here.
A Path belonging to no side? No—Erudition seemed involved, but clearly as an outsider.
Chaos, decay, self-destruction—those were what she loved to see, yet a swarm of insignificant humans thrived instead of wallowing in the mud to die.
An ethereal laugh echoed through the void.
On a ruin bound for Destruction, someone dared sow hope?
"Heh… amusing toy." Phantylia's airy laughter rippled, cat-and-mouse. "Let's see how many waves your sandcastle can take."
She took no immediate action. To her, annihilation was an art; crude crushing was direct but dull, unworthy of her aesthetic.
Guide prosperity toward madness, let hope drown in the thoughts it breeds.
First, anxiety… *Smack!*
Caelus slapped hard in fury.
"Huh? Boss, why'd you hit me?"
An employee under Lancelot stared, stunned.
"Did I tell anyone to work overtime today?"
"N-no, sir."
"Didn't you finish your quota?"
"Y-yes, I did."
"Any major technical breakthrough to report?"
"No…"
"Machine trouble?"
"None…"
"Personal problem?"
"No…"
"Then what the hell are you staying for? Want overtime pay?"
"Boss, I feel I should work unpaid overtime!"
The man shot to his feet, pumped.
That stirred the hornet's nest; everyone paled, and Caelus nearly fainted, hopping up to jab a finger in his face.
Someone—anyone! You dare to hustle? This is rebellion! Seize him! Drag him out for proper reflection—first make him game for half a system hour, then binge dramas for another half. Let him repent through a full system hour of entertainment!
Phantylia:?
Is this person sick?
She had imagined many reactions—fear, fury, defiance, even breakdown under pressure—and she would have enjoyed them all.
Isn't unpaid overtime supposed to be welcomed, even encouraged, by management, until the workers are crushed and resentment festers?
...Heh." Phantylia's ethereal laugh rang out again, now laced with cold seriousness. "So, not an ordinary toy after all... Interesting.
She decided to switch tactics. Since direct mental nudges were blocked by those inexplicable 'company regulations', she would start from something more tangible.
A few days later, Terra Star's newly built Third Industrial Zone.
A heavy crane hoisting a massive component suddenly emitted an ominous, faint cracking sound from its key load-bearing bearing. The noise was swallowed by the roar of machinery; no one noticed.
Phantylia's ghost-flame watched quietly from afar. One 'accidental' equipment failure would cause casualties, stall construction, and—more importantly—sow seeds of fear and doubt: distrust of new tech, questioning of managerial competence.
Yet, just as the component was about to topple—
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Three standby zakus moved almost in unison. Their huge frames showed agility belying their bulk; massive arms caught the heavy component with steady precision, letting out dull metallic thuds.
'D-7 crane bearing stress anomaly. Flagged. Maintenance crew, proceed immediately.' Omikron's calm, level voice came over the public channel.
'Copy!' The on-call engineering team sprinted to the crane with toolkits in hand.
'Everybody clear—quit blocking!' Rogal Dorn's rough voice boomed through the kampfer's loudspeaker. 'Hold it—lower slow!'
The whole sequence flowed like water: from fault to fix to maintenance, under thirty seconds. No panic, no chaos, not even a ripple in the neighboring zones. Workers simply stepped aside for a moment, then returned to their tasks as usual.
Phantylia: '...'
Her carefully staged 'accident' had dropped like a pebble into a deep pond—a tiny ripple, then nothing.
This wasn't right.
Why were these mortals so numb to looming danger? Why did they place such... blind trust in their managers?
Several days later, the newly built water-purification plant.
Phantylia targeted a young technician in charge of water-quality monitoring. Quietly she magnified his hidden worries for his family's health and his job security, guiding his attention until he misread a critical data point.
Once that erroneous figure was accepted, the plant's chemical dosing would skew—harmless at first, yet enough to spark public panic and rejection.
Omikron chimed.
'Data anomaly.'
'Initiating Protocol-B monitoring. Physical re-test of water sample.'
'?'
Phantylia was dumbstruck.
No way.
Why is it you again, ruining my plan?
Wait.
She probed—and sensed a machine running, radiating power no weaker than hers.
Impossible.
This dwarf galaxy is hiding an Emanator?
How have you stayed so well hidden?!
And that style, that Path energy... equilibrium?!
The flame of Ruin reassessed. Crude sabotage and mental nudges were useless; the foe had incomprehensible early-warning and counter-measures. Time to strike something deeper—belief.
Those Terrans, and Caelus's employees, felt for him a mix of awe, gratitude, and dependence.
That imposed divinity was the frailest fulcrum.
Drag the god from the altar, turn hope into a joke, make faith collapse upon itself!
...A month later, Phantylia was numb.
Her proud tricks simply didn't work on Terrans.
How could these Terrans be so flawless?
Of course, they weren't invincible; tempt a Terran and he would soon stand glassy-eyed, ready to be a puppet—until a 'good buddy' or 'good sis' arrived swinging the Personality-Correcting Palm, yelling 'You need fixing!' and delivered two ringing slaps, then turned to the doorframe and asked, 'Anything wrong with smacking you?'
Those deeply bewitched by Phantylia would, after a few days of labor, return with eyes clear and bright.
These people were downright uncanny.
Yet the crucial point was that Omikron.
You're an Equilibrium Emanator—why so happy helping mortals? Where's your equilibrium now?!
You can't blame Phantylia for being incompetent; her specialty in Destruction is precisely scheming and manipulation.
The problem is that the behavioral patterns of these Terra natives are just too counter-intuitive.
Exactly—counter-intuitive!
She tried to convince the populace that the Emperor was no god, that they mustn't worship Him as such, hoping to spark dissent. Instead, everyone nodded in agreement. Caelus, passing by, also nodded—what she said made perfect sense—then they all went back to their business. Faith… or rather, affection… didn't wane in the slightest!
It left Phantylia utterly bewildered.
What is wrong with these people?
Outrageous!
Still, Phantylia refused to personally intervene; the moment for direct destruction hadn't arrived.
Besides, must a puny planetary civilization really require her own hand?
'I refuse to believe your Great Crusade isn't riddled with corruption and crushing labor…'
Frankly, Phantylia was getting flustered and angry.
No good—she had to study Terra's statutes, grasp its mindset, only then could she shatter it.
'Regulations on Strictly Prohibiting Unpaid Overtime and Malicious Involution'
'Mental-Health & Mandatory Recreation Time Management Measures'
'Daily-Necessities Rationing & Security Ordinance'
'Terra Primary Industrial Zone Safe-Production Code'
Every clause reeked, to Phantylia, of incomprehensible softness and indulgence. Baffling. What do you take humans for—cherished heirlooms? They're everywhere in the universe!
Reading it made her irritable.
You lavish more care on them than the Interstellar Peace Corporation's executives lavish on their pets.
She'd never seen mandatory fun and mandatory rest written into law and enforced top-to-bottom.
Running a kindergarten, are we?
As for undermining Caelus's status… Phantylia reviewed the past month.
She wasn't sure of Caelus's exact strength, but how can an Emperor wield wrenches and shovels alongside his lowliest men?
What kind of Emperor are you?
Why is your standing so low? Shouldn't an Emperor Order subordinates about? Aren't you afraid the people will find you undignified and overthrow you?
Everywhere she looked reeked of counter-intuition, so she hunted for loopholes, for the oppression and injustice that must lurk beneath this 'benevolence.'
What she found were only more detailed, more 'outrageous' protections: minimum wage, maximum hours, injury compensation, survivor pensions, free skills training, transparent promotion paths… What are you, some interstellar philanthropist?
She began to suspect Caelus was some unfathomable entity in disguise. Which rational ruler spoils laborers like this?
And that damned Omikron—an Equilibrium Emissary, no less—abandoning macro-cosmic balance to play butler for a scrapheap planet, and micromanaging everything! That's outright cheating!
'Hahaha—'
It was a laugh of sheer exasperation.
She quit trying to rot it from within; those counter-intuitive rules and that meddling Emanator made the road too hard. She would apply pressure from outside, then wreck it from within.
The Talia Star System has never been peaceful—teeming with exiles, pirates, rejects driven out by major powers. Chaos and slaughter are its norm.
A rising, orderly power is like a bonfire suddenly lit in a dark forest, inevitably drawing countless greedy or wary eyes.
That wisp of spirit-fire quietly vanished.
'Let me teach you what this trash heap, abandoned by the rest of the galaxy, is really like.'
Thus Phantylia thought.
Look—she can't take it anymore.
This Lord Ravager is a textbook cooked duck—tough mouth, nothing else.
Exaggeration, provocation, fear-mongering—Phantylia deployed half her usual skill, meaning she was getting serious.
Rumor is the cheapest yet deadliest weapon: no facts needed, just a shadowed corner and a willing ear.
She painted Terra as a living hell, a factory you enter but never leave. Truth was, any pirate who came got either shot on sight or sent to honest labor.
Yet the tale always ended with—the Emperor sits on incalculable wealth gleaned from countless ruins.
And in this poor, chaotic star system, wealth outshines life itself.
The spark of greed ignited; scattered pirate bands and desperate exiles began converging on a single goal.
Phantylia 'admired' it all with satisfaction. She needn't lift a finger—pluck human heartstrings and the symphony of destruction plays itself… Soon her face darkened.
She had wanted the whole system to turn on Terra, assuming the Omikron likely wouldn't intervene. She never expected Caelus to outdo her entirely.
'This is Terra calling. Cosmic Junk Company now hiring…'
You're broadcasting galaxy-wide now?!
Though the effect surpassed her hopes, Phantylia knew she'd lost round two—while her opponent hadn't even noticed!
Caelus had beaten her twice without realizing it!
Twice—twice!
She nearly exploded with rage.
Dark forest, except Caelus's swinging an axe.
Time to chop some trees!
Phantylia felt like Briar & Bramble watching Bald-Head Qiang buzz-saw the forest.
Caelus's fleet landed on the new planet and started promoting at once.
Phantylia seized the chance, sowing panic among natives and exiles at this 'invasion.'
'…'
Something's off.
The more she watched, the wronger it felt.
Where's the enslavement? Colonization? Invasion?!
No slavery, no colonization, no invasion—just free aid. You people follow Abundance or what?!
'Hey, hey! You in the zaku—back up! Crash a local's house and we pay damages!' Caelus barked through a megaphone. 'Careful—we're civilized folk!'
'Folks, don't be scared! We of Cosmic Junk Company are here to talk business! See those transports? Food, medicine, clean water. Trade us whatever you don't need, or come work for us—room and board included, only four system hours a day, plus weekends off!'
The cargo doors opened, revealing neatly stacked crates. The scent of food and medicine drifted on the wind; skinny, ragged exiles swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the goods.
Panic? Resistance?
Against real supplies, those could wait.
'We… we can really trade?' a bold exile quavered.
'You can even try working with us. No stolen goods, no living cargo. And if you've got abandoned kids, we'll raise them.'
'Will you force us to convert?'
'Convert to what?'
'You know… faith.'
'Your belief is your freedom—we don't care. If you join us, memorize the employee handbook.'
'Employee… handbook?'
'Here—company rules inside! Four system hours daily, one and a half days off each week, room and board, insurance, double pay for overtime, no involution, no unpaid extra shifts, annual leave and team-building trips! Oh, and a talent show at year-end!'
March 7th produced a stack of booklets.
'Since you lack synesthetic beacons, we'll hand them out!'
Under Terra's logistics and Caelus's command, the new planet developed in orderly fashion.
Phantylia's face was black as a cauldron base.
No choice—she had to act personally.
She'd start with Terra's supply ships—seize their cargo and crews under her control!