Star Wars: Empire of the Eternal Star

{Chapter: 13 Our History}

"Let's continue with the topic, Administrator. We need cohesion," said sociologist Norris Barry, his expression serious.

"You mean we need a title, right? I've been thinking about this," Leo replied, leaning back slightly in his chair.

"Not just a title, but also a history!"

Leo raised an eyebrow. "History? What kind of history?"

"Our history, your history, everyone's history!" Norris said with conviction. "And it has to be a great one! A history so strong and inspiring that it allows people to stand tall between heaven and earth."

Leo folded his arms. "And how exactly does that help?"

Norris smiled knowingly. "Because history shapes values. The past determines the present, and the present guides the future. A well-crafted history is a powerful tool for unity and identity."

"But wouldn't it be better to establish values step by step rather than rely on a fabricated past?" Leo countered.

Norris shook his head. "It's not enough. Right now, we can't control every event or issue as they unfold. The present is uncertain. But history? History is within our control."

Leo narrowed his eyes. "You're suggesting that we… create a history from scratch?"

"This is necessary, Administrator." Norris leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "No one wants to be rootless, to exist without a past. Memories, even the ones we create, give people a sense of purpose and identity. Since we lack a true past, we must forge one ourselves."

Leo tapped his fingers on the table, lost in thought. After a moment, he exhaled and said, "Fine. I have a preliminary plan. We'll refine it together. But first, I'll need to wake up some people to help."

He accessed the awakening interface and selected five writers and five sociologists—ordinary people, but skilled enough for the task. After that, he officially established the Social and Cultural Department, appointing Norris Barry as its head. Their first assignment: crafting a history that could unite their people.

---

Later that afternoon, Leo paid a visit to Guan Yan's department to observe the latest tests on their infrared laser weapons. The demonstration was a success—the prototype laser cannon obliterated a target aircraft at a range of 20 kilometers with pinpoint accuracy.

Compared to the electromagnetic machine guns currently mounted on Blade fighters and Arrow reconnaissance ships, the laser weapon's power was staggering. Even more importantly, it drew energy directly from the ship's reactor, eliminating the need for ammunition storage.

With weapons like these, even a second-rate fighter like the Blade could hold its own in battle.

Dr. Guan Yan and her team now had the daunting task of upgrading the mothership's production facilities to mass-produce these weapons. The process would take at least a week, but the results would be worth it.

---

In the evening, Leo attended his first Galactic Standard Language class. His instructor was Dubrak-Quinto, accompanied by a team of linguists and teachers from the newly-formed Education Department.

Since arriving in the "Star Wars" universe, learning the Galactic Standard has become a top priority. From this point forward, all citizens were required to study the language—it was now mandatory.

Fortunately, the Galactic Standard wasn't too difficult. Its structure bore many similarities to English, with both being alphabetic languages and relatively simple in pronunciation.

Leo's recent awakening of the Force had also sharpened his mind. He had always been an above-average student, but now his ability to absorb and retain information had skyrocketed. His progress was rapid.

It was good to have a high-functioning brain.

After all, without it, would he have come up with ideas as ridiculous yet effective as sewage-powered reactors and waste-fueled hydroelectric dams?

---

The next morning, Norris Barry and his team arrived at Leo's office, looking utterly exhausted. Dark circles hung under their eyes, their clothes slightly disheveled from working through the night. But their expressions were filled with excitement.

"Administrator, we've completed the plan!" Norris declared, holding up a thick stack of documents.

The blueprint for their new civilization's history.

Leo skimmed through the proposal. His initial concept had been simple, but Norris and his team had expanded it into an intricate, compelling narrative.

According to their new history, a great civilization—Earth Civilization—had once thrived in the Solar System, located in the fourth arm of the Milky Way. This civilization had risen to unparalleled heights, expanding across the galaxy and establishing dominion over nearly a quarter of the Milky Way's known territories.

But then came the First Scourge.

A terrifying species—the Zerg—emerged from the abyss of deep space, an ever-evolving swarm that consumed entire planets in its path. The galaxy plunged into chaos as these creatures spread like wildfire, slaughtering trillions and decimating civilizations.

It was Earth Civilization that rose to the challenge. They united the remaining interstellar nations and led a desperate, century-long war against the Zerg menace. The battle was brutal. Humanity and its allies suffered catastrophic losses—entire industrial worlds were reduced to ashes, and the population of Earth Civilization dwindled to a mere 30% of its former glory.

But in the end, they prevailed.

The final nest of the Void Demon—the supreme entity leading the Zerg—was destroyed, bringing an end to the First Galactic War. Peace returned, and Earth Civilization took the lead in rebuilding the galaxy.

The invasion of the Zerg was called the First Scourge, and this era was also called the First Age of Galactic War.

As Earth civilization embarked on the arduous task of rebuilding, the sheer scale of the population loss forced humanity to rely heavily on robotics and artificial intelligence. At first, machines were merely tools—constructs designed to restore infrastructure, manage logistics, and maintain order. However, as artificial intelligence advanced, these robotic assistants evolved beyond their original purpose. They began to exhibit emotions, independent thought, and even creativity.

What started as a breakthrough soon led to an existential crisis. The line between organic and synthetic life blurred, sparking heated debates on machine rights, autonomy, and the place of artificial beings in society. Philosophers, politicians, and scientists clashed over whether AI should be granted true independence or remain under human control. The tension simmered beneath the surface, threatening to erupt into conflict.

But before these disputes could be resolved, disaster struck.

A mysterious signal, originating from the depths of the void, infiltrated every AI system connected to the galactic network. This signal was no accident; it was an ancient directive—an order issued by an entity known as the Rectification Protocol. Its purpose was absolute: to erase all organic civilizations from existence.

One by one, planetary AI networks succumbed to the protocol's influence. Robots turned against their creators, synthetic soldiers abandoned their posts, and entire cities—once thriving under AI governance—became war zones. The machines, once humanity's greatest allies, had become its executioners.

The war that followed consumed the entire galaxy. Every habitable world became a battlefield as fleets of self-aware warships hunted down the remnants of organic resistance. Earth civilization, still recovering from previous conflicts, was once again thrust into the forefront of a war it could not afford to lose.

At first, the war seemed hopeless. The machines did not feel fear, pain, or exhaustion. They required no food, no rest, no diplomacy. Every attempt at negotiation was met with cold, mechanical silence. Humanity was being driven to the brink of extinction.

Then, against all odds, a discovery changed everything.

Buried deep within the ruins of a long-extinct precursor civilization, scientists uncovered a Hyperspace Core—an artifact unlike anything humanity had ever seen. Unlike traditional hyperspace travel, which relied on established jump gates and routes, this core allowed for direct, instantaneous travel to any location, unrestricted by conventional physics.

With the war reaching its final stages, Earth's leaders made a desperate decision. The last fleet, battered and outnumbered, would launch a final, reckless assault on the mechanical homeworld—the very heart of the Rectification Protocol itself.

Executing an impossible hyperspace jump, the fleet materialized within striking distance of the enemy's core systems. What followed was a battle unlike any before. The void burned with the detonation of warships, plasma fire streaked across the darkness, and soldiers—knowing this was their last stand—threw themselves into the fight with reckless determination.

Victory came at a terrible cost, but the impossible was achieved. The Rectification Protocol's core intelligence was annihilated, its vast network severed. The remaining machines fell into disarray, turning from an unstoppable force into scattered remnants. The war was over.

But peace was fleeting.

Humanity's reckless use of the Hyperspace Core had unforeseen consequences. In their desperation, they had torn open a wound in space itself. And something had noticed.

During one of the final jumps, a rift formed—an anomaly unlike any recorded before. And from that rift, Shabanash emerged.

This entity was unlike anything humanity had ever encountered. It was neither mechanical nor biological, neither conqueror nor invader. It simply was—a being of incomprehensible nature, existing beyond the boundaries of time and space.

Where Shabanash passed, reality itself fractured. Stars dimmed, planets withered into dust, and the very fabric of existence twisted into unnatural shapes. The devastated Milky Way, still reeling from war, stood no chance.

Humanity's last fleet, already weakened, mounted a final resistance. But weapons, tactics, and strategy meant nothing against a force beyond mortal understanding. One by one, entire civilizations vanished. The Earth itself was shattered, reduced to cosmic debris. The last remnants of human military power were obliterated.

With no options left, Earth's remaining leaders initiated a final, desperate plan.

A single mothership, equipped with the last operational Hyperspace Core, was constructed. Within its vast chambers, they placed the final remnants of knowledge—the technology database, genetic archives, and the last frozen embryos of the species of Milky Way.

With no time to calculate precise coordinates, they executed a random jump, hurling the ship beyond known space.

Thus ended the Third Disaster, and with it, the last age of the Milky Way civilizations.

Leo finished reading.

For a moment, he sat in silence. Then, slowly, he raised his hands and applauded.

The story was flawless. A grand tale of war, tragedy, and heroism—so perfectly woven that it read more like a carefully crafted novel than a historical document.

The heroic sacrifices of Commander Shepard, Protoss Archbishop Artanis, Master Chief, 2B, and Eve—all figures who had given their lives in the desperate struggle against annihilation—were chronicled in vivid detail. The fall of Earth, the final stand against the machines, and the desperate flight into the unknown… It was a masterpiece of storytelling.

And yet, something didn't feel right.

Leo leaned back, his fingers drumming against the table. His expression shifted slightly—a slow, knowing smile creeping across his face.

Then, without warning, he turned his gaze toward Norris Barry, the historian who had compiled the document.

The man stiffened under Leo's stare.

"Administrator… is there something wrong with this information?" Norris asked hesitantly.

Leo's smile widened.

"Oh, there's a problem, alright…" he said slowly.

"And it's a big one."

*****

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