Apocalypse Gachapon

“Sit.”

Jikesu motioned to Ye Zhongming, granting this outstanding trash an unusually high privilege.

Among the mask warriors, few had the honor of being offered a seat in front of the Chief Technical Officer.

But Ye Zhongming didn’t know this. Since he was told to sit, he sat—plopping directly onto the chair. Spotting an identical cup to the one before the old man, he picked it up and drained the liquid inside.

Bitter at first, then a surge of sweetness flooded his mouth.

Jikesu watched with an amused smirk, finding this little fellow quite interesting.

“Weren’t you afraid it was poison?”

Ye Zhongming glanced at the old man’s cup, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“I’ve drunk plenty. This is Fragrant Sap—refreshes the mind, heals internal injuries. But too much will numb your nerves, slow your reflexes.” Jikesu lifted his own cup and drank, making Ye Zhongming internally grumble about his stinginess.

The King of Cloud Peak had been injured earlier. After drinking this, he felt noticeably better.

“Feigning recklessness isn’t a good method of self-protection.”

Jikesu wasn’t fooled. Someone who could improve an innate skill while retaining two-thirds of its power was no fool.

Unfazed at being seen through, Ye Zhongming laughed. “My homeland has a saying: ‘The loudest baby gets the milk.’”

Jikesu pondered the meaning, then chuckled heartily.

“Speak, then. What ‘milk’ do you want?”

“And you are…?”

Jikesu introduced himself and briefly outlined the Star-Eye Clan’s structure: two leaders, three mask-warrior divisions, and functional departments like Training, Technology, and Logistics.

Simple, yet likely highly efficient.

Strictly speaking, this wasn’t how a true race should be organized. Governing an entire race involved far more than these few departments. Ye Zhongming found it strange—it felt more like a corporation.

Perhaps sensing his confusion, Jikesu grew solemn.

“Where we are now is beyond your planet, in the cosmos. This place… is actually a semi-biological, semi-mechanical artificial fortress.”

He tapped the table. What Ye Zhongming had assumed was a metal surface suddenly lit up, projecting soft, flowing light upward. Varying in brightness and hue, it formed a holographic image.

A spherical… structure? That was the only term Ye Zhongming could use—its artificial markings were unmistakable. Like skin stretched over a metal orb, with sections revealing a distinct sheen.

Ye Zhongming studied it, then abruptly asked: “How big is this sphere?”

Jikesu paused, swiped on a three-inch wristband, and replied, “Roughly 3.564 times the size of your planet.”

Ye Zhongming nearly toppled from his chair.

This massive? Man-made?

Earlier, he’d had no idea this was a fortress—he’d assumed it was just another planet.

Jikesu gave a bitter smile. “We had no other choice.”

Regaining composure, he continued, “You may call it ‘Kibubu No. 5.’ ‘Kibubu’ is a term from a certain race’s dialect. Translated into Darkstripes’ language, it means ‘Survivor.’”

Survivor No. 5?

Ye Zhongming narrowed his eyes. The name itself spoke volumes.

“There are seven such artificial stars in the universe.”

“The Thousand Races of the cosmos are all concentrated here.” The words struck Ye Zhongming like a shockwave.

The Thousand Races didn’t live on their home planets but on these artificial constructs?

Then where were their homeworlds?

“Already destroyed.”

Ye Zhongming’s lips parted, but no words came.

“Because of the Wheels… and the Slave Race.”

Beneath the table, the King of Cloud Peak’s hands trembled. The answer he’d sought since his rebirth was finally within reach—and now, he felt something akin to stage fright.

“You know of ‘gods,’ yes? Your home planet must have such legends.”

Jikesu rapped the table, triggering some mechanism. The two cups slowly melted into the surface, reappearing seconds later, refilled with Fragrant Sap.

But Ye Zhongming barely noticed, his focus locked onto the old man.

“Gods… have little to do with power, and everything to do with faith.” After this cryptic line, Jikesu continued, “They are merely a mysterious, immensely powerful race beyond our comprehension. To us, they seem omnipotent. They guide primitive lifeforms off their home planets, into the universe, to truly understand the space they inhabit.”

“The creators of the Wheels?” Ye Zhongming ventured.

“Yes. The creators of the Wheels.” Jikesu’s voice turned somber, as if discussing something grim.

“But gods, too, are selfish.”

“Their goal was never just to elevate civilizations. They sought… soldiers. To fight their enemies.”

Jikesu downed his cup in one gulp, as if swallowing bitter resentment.

“But forging soldiers demands a price.”

Silence hung between them until Ye Zhongming, voice strained, asked:

“A virus? The zombie plague?”

Jikesu nodded slowly. “Not the same terms, but the essence matches.”

“The universe operates on survival of the fittest—a natural rule. But our gods compressed this process into an instant. Then they used that same rule to sift through survivors, selecting those who could serve them.”

Ye Zhongming clenched his fists. His mind flooded with images of the apocalypse—faces twisted in agony as loved ones mutated into monsters.

Before bestowing gifts, the gods had been ruthless.

Ye Zhongming refused to believe such advanced beings lacked gentler methods. Why this brutality?

Were lives so cheap in their eyes?

It wasn’t mere sentimentality. The gods’ choice was brutality incarnate.

“Have you never… confronted them? Demanded answers?”

Ye Zhongming’s eyes were faintly red as he stared at Jikesu.

The old man sighed. “We cannot find the gods. We can only follow their directives, abide by their rules, operate within their framework.”

“Can’t find them?” Ye Zhongming was baffled. If they were unfindable, how had the Wheels reached Earth?

“And their enemies? Can’t find them either? Then how are they enemies?”

Jikesu shook his head. “The enemies are real. They oppose not just the gods, but all life.”

A name flashed through Ye Zhongming’s mind. He spat it out:

“The Slave Race?”

“Yes. The Slave Race.” Jikesu tapped the table again. A new projection emerged—a stretch of cosmic void. The old man pointed.

“There. That is the Slave Race.”