Lord of Cosmos

The Old Scholar inclined his head toward one of the young men.

"Speak for me," he commanded.

The young man stepped forward. "We meant no disrespect by our silence in your presence, honored elder," he said. "But we are not ignorant of our own history."

He fixed the historian with a look of pure challenge, his lip curling in a sneer. "You claim that Al-Yajuri met the fifteenth Dayi. Yet Al-Yajuri was dead and buried before the fifteenth Dayi was even born. How, then, did they meet?"

The historian swallowed hard, his knuckles white as he gripped the book. "You are mistaken, boy. This text clearly states he lived in the era of the fifteenth Dayi. Countless other sources corroborate it! Not least among them the Encyclopedia of Ghlizan History, compiled by the most brilliant Frankish scholars!"

A ripple of laughter spread through the Ghlizans. Another man, broad-shouldered with a round face, cut in.

"You mean that encyclopedia? The one riddled with lies to justify your occupation of our world? The best use for its pages is wrapping Ghlizanian falafel for frying."

The laughter swelled again. The historian's face purpled with rage, his grip on the tome threatening to break its spine.

"Enough." The Scholar raised a hand. His voice, calm and heavy with authority, cut through the noise. "I have read all fifty volumes, respected historian. I remember the seventeenth volume intimately. I suggest you turn to page one hundred. Look to the very bottom."

He paused, letting the silence stretch.

"You will find this text: 'Al-Yajuri was born in the reign of the thirteenth Dayi and died when the fourteenth Dayi was but five years of age.' How, then, could he meet the fifteenth? The fourteenth Dayi was a child, years from marriage."

The Scholar's gaze hardened.

"Did you come here to rewrite our history before our very eyes, assuming we are primitives, dazzled by your cosmic sciences? We may not understand your technologies, but we know who we are. We are not ignorant of our past, as you so arrogantly assumed. Take your doubts and your distortions elsewhere. You will not find what you seek here."

The historian fumbled with the pages, finding the one indicated. He scanned to the bottom. The blood drained from his face, only to be replaced by a furious flush. He snapped the book shut and spun on his heel.

"This is a fabrication!" he hissed. "I will return with irrefutable proof!"

He stormed from the library, consumed by a blind rage, nearly colliding with a Frankish guard. The soldier fell into step beside him.

"You look... displeased, sir. Did the meeting not go as planned?"

The historian stared blankly at the landscape, at the endless green and blue hues blurring under the downpour.

"They are sharper than I was led to believe," he muttered. "This library... it is a cancer. A threat to all Frankish interests here. If these people continue to unravel the narratives we've so carefully woven, the small errors we planted to pacify them... it will only breed more resistance. More rebels will rise, more of our men will die. We will be driven from this planet in shame, having lost the Palladion."

His voice dropped, thick with fear.

"And then? Then the other Zurix empires will fall upon us, eager to repay the massacres of the old Emperor. The Palladion is all that protects us. It fuels our fleets, powers our star-defenses. It is the only reason they haven't annihilated us already. They fear us. They fear we will do to them what the Emperor did before."

The soldier glanced up at the rain-soaked sky, his hand tightening on the stock of his rifle.

"What's the play, then? The Prince of Ghlizan is a ghost, a menace to our entire operation. Our patrols hunt him across the globe and bleed for nothing. He's strong. As strong as one of our own Generals, they say."

A dangerous light kindled in the historian's eyes.

"We must burn it," he whispered. "The library. The great temples surrounding it. We must cut down this great tree that every Ghlizan on this planet looks to for hope. We must burn it to the ground."

The soldier's eyes went wide.

"Sir, that's madness. The Prince will come for us. The entire population will rise! Those temples... they are the most sacred places on this world."

"We shall see," the historian replied, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

***

Sairi faced the Saint, his thermal blade humming, blood weeping from a gash on his arm.

"You're faster than you look, old man," he breathed. "I underestimated you. That was my mistake. It won't happen again."

A thin smile touched the Saint's lips as he raised his own sword, its edge catching the unnatural light of the three moons.

"Ah," he said, his voice resonant. "How I have yearned for a worthy opponent."

The Saint lunged, a blur of motion. Sairi's thermal blade crashed against steel, parrying the thrust. Sairi countered with a vicious slash aimed at the Saint's head, but the old warrior was already airborne, leaping backward to safety.

Raising his left hand, Sairi tore stones from the very ground, suspending them in the air before launching them like cannonballs. As the volley of rock shot toward him, the Saint did the unthinkable: he sheathed his sword. He bent low, his right hand hovering over the hilt.

The moment the stones were upon him, his hand moved. It was a flash of light, a movement so impossibly fast it barely registered. The sword was out and back in its scabbard in an instant. The stones, every last one, disintegrated into a cloud of drifting dust.

Sairi froze, a cold dread seeping into him. He knew, with absolute certainty, that a single misstep would see him sliced to ribbons. He had no idea how to kill this man. But he could not lose. The fate of his people, the future of humanity, rested on him walking away from this oasis with that crystal.

The Saint gave his sword a ceremonial flourish, its hum echoing in the night air.

"You fight like a Lunix, boy. Are you one of them?"

"No," Sairi retorted, catching his breath. "I'm a Buddhist. A spiritual path from my world. Not many followed it."

The Saint's lips thinned.

"A Buddhist? Then why? Why this ferocity? Why bleed for the Lunix? For this crystal?"

"I'm not fighting for them!" Sairi snapped. "I'm fighting to take back my home. This crystal is the only way."

The Saint nodded slowly, pacing the edge of a moonlit stream.

"I am Zurix," he said, almost to himself. "But I admire these Lunix. Their faith... it is unshakable. On my homeworld, the sun of faith has set. I came here seeking fertile ground, a new chance to spread the Lord's word to the cosmos. I have spent lifetimes building temples, feeding the poor in His name, telling them of His love. I walked from village to village, island to island, preaching until my voice was raw.

"And for what?" He scoffed. "A handful of converts. A pitiful few. Their own belief is too strong. I envy it. My own people, the fools, they cast off faith like a heavy cloak. They philosophize, they doubt, they question... and in their arrogance, they call it 'freedom.'

His face darkened.

"I will never forget their crimes. The pogroms. I hid in the shadows and watched them drag monks and saints from their altars. Watched them behead them, gut them... the savagery..." His voice trembled with ancient rage. "I knew then they were demons, sent to make war on divine wisdom.

"But these Lunix," he continued, his voice regaining its strength, "they are stubborn. Rigid. I see in them a great army, if only I could turn their hearts to the true Lord. But I am thwarted by the very demons who accompanied me here, the ones who spread their filth across this pure world."

He stopped pacing and leveled his sword at Sairi.

"Give me the crystal, boy."

Sairi shook his head, a weary frustration settling on him.

"I told you, no. I understand your plight. I understand you feel that your life's work has been for nothing, that it's all an illusion. But did it ever occur to you that you are the one who is blind? That perhaps the truth lies elsewhere? That these Lunix might be closer to it than you will ever be?

"You call them stubborn?" Sairi laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "You are the one who is rigid. You don't want to save these people; you want to use them. You want revenge for what the philosophers did to you, and you'll make this entire planet pay the price. You'll force your religion on them, forge them into an army to show the Franks the 'power of faith' they abandoned. You'll use the crystal to perform a few cheap miracles to dazzle them, to cement their loyalty.

"And then what? You and your monks return to your thrones. You return to having people kiss your feet, beg you for absolution, and pile their wealth before you. That is what you miss. You miss the power. You miss the hypocrisy. And that is just one more reason I will die here before I let you have it."

The Saint's face contorted into a mask of fury. He didn't speak. He simply attacked, thrusting his sword tip straight for Sairi's heart.

Sairi dove to the right, slamming his right hand onto the ground as he rolled. The earth beneath the Saint exploded, a sinkhole opening instantly. The Saint's right leg plunged into the pit, throwing him off balance.

Sairi was on him in a flash, his thermal blade screaming down in a killing arc.

The Saint's left hand shot up. It was covered by a thick, metallic gauntlet. He caught the thermal blade.

Sizzling, acrid smoke poured from the metal as it began to melt, but the gauntlet held. Sairi stared in disbelief, struggling to free his weapon as the Saint, still half-stuck, brought his own sword around for a decapitating blow.

Sairi had no choice. He released his saber and threw himself backward.

At the same instant, the swarm of stones he had mentally prepared before his lunge shot forward, a second, massive volley. They hammered the trapped Saint. While the old warrior was forced to swat them from the air, Sairi extended his hand. His thermal saber ripped free from the smoking gauntlet and flew back into his grip. He landed lightly on his feet, his blade once again ready.