“Ms. Heron, could that so‑called Zerg Maiden...”

Aphelia watched it all unfold, stunned, thoughts drifting like lanterns over dark water. In those memories, no partner ever appeared; Heron’s “daughter” couldn’t be blood.

Not born of her, yet Heron chose to show this memory; the intent felt clear, like fog thinned by dawn. Still, Aphelia held back wild guesses and turned toward the source like a thirsty traveler to a well.

“Yes. You guessed right. That was you.” Heron’s smile warmed like spring rain as she cut the memory’s current.

As the planet’s governor, Heron never found a partner. It wasn’t high standards or gossip; on a wind‑swept terrace of power, who could truly block her path to love?

She called herself open to love, waves accepting many shores. But after taking office, her ask grew strange: she didn’t mind bodies meeting, yet she craved a soulmate—two flames sharing one lamp. In the Newborn Civilization, no one’s years outlasted hers; a candle to her star.

Even with lowered bars, no “lover” came. The Newborn Civilization leapt into interstellar seas, and Heron’s ledger overflowed like a river in flood. So her heart sought a harbor in the Zerg Maiden—Aphelia.

No lover? Then let there be a beloved child.

“I see... When you said I was your daughter, that’s what you meant.” Relief rose like a small fire, then cooled to ash.

Joy brushed her heart, but emptiness followed like a hollow bell. So she was adopted; she’d hoped to find where she came from, yet fog rolled back in, and her origin twisted farther from shore.

A Zerg Queen in star‑spanning wars—who could know a tale like that?

Once, Aphelia was only a Hero, laughter light as sun on village fields. She fought for those she cherished, and when gloom bit, she hunted legendary beasts; failing that, she thumped wicked nobles like drums. Who knew a single storm would flip her whole table?

Names stacked like cold stones: Aether, True Gods, substitutes.

Loss fell like winter: lover, friends, kin.

When does this night end? Without Violet and Lilo, why am I still swinging my blade? Old answers, once firm as carved wood, wavered in the wind of her origin. This tragedy without shore—when will the tide break?

“Heron... what am I standing here for?”

Her gaze grew misted like rain on glass. She exhaled a heavy breath, as if to shrug off a mountain pack; but the weight was branded into bone. She was Aphelia. She was the Zerg Queen. These were marks seared into her, not to be scrubbed in any lifetime.

“You shouldn’t ask me, my child—” Heron coughed, iron tasting like blood on snow.

Heron’s body shivered; scarlet beaded at her lips, and the Aether around her frayed like torn silk. Aphelia snapped awake, bit her tongue, and hauled herself from the haze like a diver breaking the surface.

Crimson Fire flared in her palm, then shrank to a thread of ember. She wasn’t here to assassinate Heron; that flame chews spirits like acid. She remembered how Heron came to be like this. One wrong spark could hurt her.

Aether shifts like weather, yet in Aphelia’s hands it felt only like a storm of spears and ruin.

“Are you okay, Ms. Heron? Hold on!”

Aphelia smoothed the Crimson Fire, turning it toward balanced Aether, hoping to lend her strength. Heron coughed deep, then slapped Aphelia’s hand aside, braced on her, and rose slow, eyes brightening like ink deepening in water.

“It’s fine. My time’s almost up. I can’t keep this form long. That search into Origin made me taste bitter fruit.”

Heron offered a wan smile. A white‑skirted girl drifted to her side, gaze cold as glass, a machine without heartbeat. The sight pricked Aphelia’s chest; this girl looked more like Heron’s daughter, yet her eyes carried frost.

And Heron’s words tangled Aphelia’s thoughts.

“Exploring Origin—what do you mean?”

“Literal. After our outward exploration and wars ended, we turned inward and reached for our beginning, hands dipping into the well we shouldn’t. Laughable, isn’t it? I, whose strength comes from Origin, tried to stain Origin itself.”

Sadness and regret pooled in Heron’s eyes; red threads webbed her gaze like cracks in obsidian. To Aphelia, this gentle “mother” held a gap in the heart that no balm could seal.

When the cosmic push ended, the Newborn Civilization swept most others like a tide flattening sandcastles. It wasn’t sheer savagery; it was the iron step of expansion. Not every people welcomes a brighter torch, and not every seat treats newcomers kindly.

Civilizations like the Star Remnant were countless, jackals nipping and laying snares. They aimed to force the Newborn Civilization into their rhythm, to bargain by their own flute. Maybe that works in crowded courts; before Heron...

Sorry—we blew them to pieces, like smashing clay idols.

By the late phase of expansion, the Aether Civilization’s tech dazzled like constellations. Aether systems replaced most industry, and the forge reshaped armies. Thermal weapons bowed off the stage, and Aether arms took the lead lights of war.

Civilizations still bound to their home systems often surrendered at the shadow of our fleets. If they didn’t, Heron lobbed a planet‑killer like a thunderstone; worse, she hand‑wove a black hole and threw it. She didn’t care what whirlpools it birthed in those stars.

Under such domineering winds, some bent the knee. Most burned to ash under battle groups, leaving resource worlds like stripped orchards. In that firelit world, outward war drove Aether tech forward like bellows on a forge.

War sharpens civilization; the grindstone makes the blade.

Yet speed bred unease in Heron’s chest. People woke to Aether’s shine and dug for veins; talent is a rare ore, and not all can climb her peak. So the surging Aether Civilization fixed its gaze on the forbidden tree—Origin.

Humans are the most reckless. What good could probing Origin bring? I pushed the Aether Civilization with Origin’s tacit nod; when we turned to bite Origin, Origin slapped us like a breaking wave.

Heron’s smile tasted bitter; a midwife became an undertaker, cradle to coffin in one life. Even now she wondered: if her self of countless years ago knew this grave’s path, would she still stoke those fires?

That question stays carved as a question mark on stone.

Was her vision of progress truly best? The end was ruins under smoke, and her toil dissolved into vapor. Ridiculous, and painfully so.

“Origin’s power outruns human imagining. When we crossed the line, the Aether we wielded looked like a candle before the sun, a joke to Origin’s Executors.”

“Origin’s Executors?”

Aphelia frowned; the word flashed like a fish in a dark lake, then sank, ungraspable.

“Yes. Embodied forces of Origin. To erase the line‑stepping humans, Origin sent seven Executors who embodied the end, scythes for a final harvest. I chased mythic traces tied to Origin and foresaw our day of deletion.”

Thinking of the battle that ended the Aether Civilization, Heron’s heart clenched like a fist. The Executors brought annihilation to bear, pouring a god’s wrath like a wildfire. Common Aether turned to ash in their Aetherfire, burning its wielders in reverse.

Aphelia jolted, eyes widening like a hawk at dawn, fixing on Heron.

“Ms. Heron, you mean the Crimson Fire!”

“Exactly. Aphelia, you are also an Executor of Origin, so that flame is yours by right. And what you hold outstrips theirs, because you wield the fire’s Origin—humanity’s last hope, the Primordial Flame.”