Perhentian Islands, Malaysia – June 2035

My best friend married the daughter of Klaus Steiner. On the eve of the wedding, as the groom lay face-down on the bar, empty bottles lining the counter, I found myself in conversation with Klaus. He was the adjunct leader of the Western Forces, a man who had seen more of war than most.

"The Ukrainians and Russians refused to fight side by side. The Chinese and Japanese wouldn't either. The Turks barely tolerated the Greeks, and vice versa—both using the war as an excuse to spy on each other's gear. India was teetering on the edge of civil war just by sending men to fight the crabs. Some factions even believed the crabs were Devas, divine manifestations—harbingers of a new age. To them, if the creatures wanted Europe, we should simply hand it over. And just like that, 1.4 billion potential soldiers vanished from the equation.

The German army was gone, fought to the last man. What remained were five scattered battalions in the North Rhine region and three more holding the line in Denmark alongside the Scandinavian armies—Army Group KALMAR.

Western Germany? A graveyard. The battered Dutch and Belgians, Brits, the French and Americans barely clung to the North Rhine region, Frankfurt and the southern Rhine.

Half a million soldiers held the line—Dutch, Belgians, French, Americans. Another half a million came from Spain, Portugal, Italy, Morocco, Tunisia, Nigeria, Indonesia, and Malaysia. Twenty thousand more from South America. The Brazilians and Venezuelans knew how to fight, but the others? They weren’t to be underestimated. Some of the best infantry of the war came from places no one expected

By the day, tens of thousands more poured in. Reinforcements from North, Central, and South America. Southeast Asia sent men to Western Europe. East Asia funneled troops into Russia.

"Of course, the Koreans weren’t keen on sending their men abroad," Klaus said, swirling the last of his drink. "The North-South tensions were bad enough—no one wanted to deploy a brigade overseas just to have the other side stab them in the back."

"And how did they manage it?" I asked.

"Equal deployment. Both sent troops in the same numbers, balancing it out. Took them long enough, but somehow, they pulled it off. I’m still surprised they did." He exhaled sharply. "Russia, though… That was another nightmare entirely. The Americans, Finns, and Russians held St. Petersburg, but beyond that? One of the longest frontlines in history—stretching from there all the way to Crimea.

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Thank God the crabs didn’t push east. Even with three million Russians, two million Chinese, two million Ukrainians, and a million more from Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and Tajikistan—it was barely enough. The Japanese threw in another 200,000. One of the largest armies ever assembled, and still, they struggled."

"Did you have any role in coordinating all that?" I asked.

Klaus let out a dry chuckle. "No, thank God. I’d have died from an ulcer by now. I thought my job was bad enough until I met the poor bastard with my same title in Istanbul. He burst into tears telling me about the nightmare of keeping that unholy alliance of Chinese, Russians, Japanese, and all the ‘stans from killing each other before they even fought the crabs."

"The front from Vienna to Bratislava you had the Austrians and all the Balkans piling up there. Losing hundreds every day."

He shook his head, setting his glass down. "Hell of a war. But that was nothing compared to Bulgaria."

I raised an eyebrow. "Bulgaria?"

"A 150-kilometer frontline," he said, voice heavy. "Two million troops—Turks, Greeks, Syrians, Iranians. And still, it wasn’t enough."

"Is that when Operation Ramadan and Operation Volodymyr were drawn up?" I asked.

Klaus nodded. "Yeah. The names weren’t exactly subtle, but the strategy was sound. Volodymyr ensured that the Ukrainians and Chinese would push southwest, liberating southern Ukraine. The goal was to drive all the way to the Moldovan border and the Carpathians, sealing the crabs in Eastern Romania and Bulgaria."

"And Ramadan?"

He exhaled slowly. "That was the Turkish answer. With nukes generously offered by the Russians, they planned to strike deep into Bulgaria and Eastern Romania. After that, the advance would begin—pushing northward to Moldova to link up with the Ukrainians and Chinese. "We knew they didn’t have supply lines—not as we understood them. They terraformed the land they occupied, turning the earth into vast fungal fields, stretching for kilometers. Their fuel depots could be mistaken for lakes if you flew over them. The gasses of that creating clouds in the air. They had some kind of command structure—our first real clue was their ‘red units.’ They deployed them to deal with beetles that went rogue or to hunt down our LRRP teams. But beyond that? No officers, no generals. No logistical lines to bomb.

Just endless mobs, thousands strong, surging toward the front.

Their hatcheries were our only real targets. Some, like the ones along the coast, were easy to spot and hit. But most? Hidden deep, protected. Every kilometer they took was more ground to lay their eggs. That left us with just one option—brute force. There was no way to negotiate."

I exhaled. "So force was really the only answer?"

Klaus leaned back, staring past me. "Back in high school, there was this bully. A real piece of work. He messed with me for a year—teachers got involved, parents talked. None of it mattered. He didn’t care.

Then one day at a bus stop, I’d had enough. He was acting tough, so I kicked his ass. Or at least, I tried. We fought for five minutes, and I got my own ass handed to me. But after that? He never bothered me again.

Nobody likes a smack in the mouth. Especially bullies. Violence is the supreme authority from which all other authorities derive."

Klaus stood, finishing his drink. "Now, young man, take Dieter, get him to bed, and make sure he’s at the altar tomorrow morning."