Battlefield. Flames raging, gun blazing, sirens resounding all over.

Centuries after the birth of a true interstellar era, humanity evolved to adapt and acclimate the multitude of biospheres and ecosystems that pervade the extremities of the cosmos.

People able to breathe underwater, people who grew wings to fly, people who could survive the vacuum of space, just a few of those who evolved to dwell in harsh environments unsuitable for the base species to survive.

Then, there were people who could spew fire, people whose mastery over magnetic forces allow them to call upon torrents of lightning bolts unto their enemies, people who could lift and crush mountains with bare hands; these were those who evolved to fight against predators that made dinosaurs seem like ants.

Of course, there were milder cases of evolution, albeit still beyond the scope of human means. Geniuses capable of performing better than supercomputers, inspectors whose eyesight could bore through the earth in search of mineral deposits, bloodlines born from the mix-and-mash of different species. It wasn't magic, but technological advancement combined with natural evolution that might as well be magic to the eyes of the ancient laymen.

Yet, throughout those centuries, one thing remained constant in the state of human affairs: war.

The evolution process merely accelerated and aggravated the already-mangled issues of race that humanity is struggling with. If different colors of skin could set them apart from each other, what more could different abilities, looks, and environments lead to do?

War could not be any more of an understatement of the calamities that followed.

Humanity had never been at the top of the galactic food chain, nor even the intergalactic chain of command (discovery of other intelligent beings led to information of a bigger scale of civilization that spanned over numerous galaxies). The rifts between its numerous factions simply led to more chaos in their ranks, and pushed back the hard-fought frontlines.

Humanity had never been in such drastic and grave plight. Yet, they remain adamant that only a certain subspecies could rule over the rest. Torn between a war within, and war without, humanity was on the brink of their biggest loss.

• • •

Back in the home planet, Earth.

Under the ruins of nuclear fallouts, biochemical breakouts, and ecological extinction lie one of the ancient bunkers during the first wars. Abandoned and littered with failures and prototypes, it was enough for the outcasts of the space age.

There lived a community no larger than two hundred people—if they could be called that. Their pale skin barely visible through layers of grime and rust; their waist-length hair disheveled, unkempt; their clothes simply rags pieces together by flimsy yarn. Nonetheless, a tenacious light lingers on in their eyes.

An middle-aged man stood at their helm, atop a platform meant for awards and ceremonies now dilapidated to the point of collapsing under the weight of more than one man. His hair had become white over the years despite his relatively early years, but he remained dignified as he stood straight; at least in this group of outcasts, he seemed to radiate order.

"We have held our ground for too long. The surface has forgotten us, the explorers have abandoned us, and humanity has forsaken our roots," he began. His voice filled with indignation at the fate of his kind.

"We are not the beggars and refuse that they claim us to be! We are proud descendants of the Progenitors! The first evolvers! We shall not yet return to dust, nor to ashes, we shall rise again from the fires of war, from the discord rampant in the galaxy…" he paraded on with a flourish; every sentence, every word, resonating with emotion, rousing the crowd, awakening a spirit long dead in the hearts of the people.

"They have neglected our existence; they forget the influence of our people. We are scattered, yes, but precisely because we are that we enjoy our sovereignty," the man went on. "We know of the wars they have waged, the losses they accrued in their ludicrous insurgencies and mutinies. We know the depths of their follies, and the dearth of humanity's accolades."

"It's time we remind them who truly leads humanity. We are the final stronghold; WE. ARE. ARX!" he bellowed in pride and anger, his voice reaching beyond the rubble, beyond the depths of the earth.

At the same time, in various regions of the galaxy, similar events transpired. In the capitals of different federations, the cities of empires, the far reaches of leftover nebulae and asteroid belts, a long hidden force awakened.

• • •

On stronghold isolated from the pushed back frontlines, survivors remain steadfast in preserving the fortress' capacity to endure the unceasing waves of attacks. They still had an active supply line through well-hidden folds in space. However, they knew it wasn't long before the disturbance in the space-time continuum is detected by hostile forces.

They had requested for reinforcement, but they heard nothing in response. Over and over, they relayed desperate pleas for help. When they heard the pingback from home base, they were exulted, only to crash hard in despair.

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Hands full. Hold your ground until further notice.

It wasn't even a proper paragraph; the first sentence hardly held any thought. Headquarters was blatantly advising them to sacrifice themselves for the cause. No reinforcement, no supplies.

What they were getting right now was merely from the excess storage of collapsed citadels, scavenging the remnants of past battles, rummaging for whatever scraps could be useful for their survival.

"They're treating us like wastes! Like pebbles on the side of the road! If it wasn't for us, humanity would have long gone extinct with all the shenanigans we've been pulling on higher civilizations," a soldier complained. He used to man the ballista on the ramparts, but now he was reduced to scouring the scorched plains like raccoons in a dumpsite.

"Nothing we can do about it. Higher ups would rather focus the army fighting against fellow humans in a bid for superiority," another soldier hailed back, "of course, at the expense of putting their lives at stake by opening the goddamn borders to aliens."

A bitter smile on his face, their scout dejectedly murmured, "They didn't even send supplies to help hold them back."

They were sent to a nearby rock giant. It was previously lush like the rainforests of antiquity, but after years of human excavation, the previous luster of the planet simmered down into deserts of rust and valleys of blight.

There were remnant of civilizations, mostly from mining colonies and logging industries, but the resources were long gone; they were either transported back to some home planet or burned in the war. What remained to be salvaged should be found in bunkers spread throughout the planet; only, they weren't so easy to locate.

One of them groaned. "We've been here for days! Our rations are running out, and if we don't find a bunker in the next two days, they won't let us back in the stronghold. No point in feeding extra mouths that can't contribute to the cause."

"Don't complain, and just search," the scout derided. He was also leading this expedition and was well aware of the consequences of failure: an unending bout of hunger, persisting on their own without the protection of the stronghold. It would be no better than dying in the gutters of the city.

• • •

The capital of the Galactic Oren Empire. An orphanage and refugee center in the outskirts.

"How many plates have you broken already! You're costing me more than you're worth," an old withered old man rebuked a young girl, his spit dousing the dismal face in front of him.

"Maybe this kind of work not suitable for our little princess?" sneered the old mistress. She cupped the chin of the girl, "We still have an open slot in brothels."

The girls winced, paled at the thought of serving the licentious old men, and the profligate vagrant heirs of noble families. She kneeled over the broken pieces on the floor, begging the old woman, "Please mistress, no. Have mercy, have mercy."

"Then maybe you should have done your job better!" the old man relished in the misery of the child. He whipped her back, and groped her undeveloped chests. "You'd do well in the brothels. I'll visit you soon too," he continued, cackling in schadenfreude and lechery.

It was fortunate the mistress stopped him before he went any further. Of course that was in comparison to what tragedy could have followed. The old woman slapped the wanton adulterine old man, and glared at the young girl as if it was her fault.

"Take her," she commanded the slaves behind her. Their towering figures grabbed at the girl, and dragged her sobbing lamentable frame across the cold floor, even as she thrashed and flailed in desperation.

Grieved, the old man scowled at the woman. This scenario had transpired too many times in the past that it was already a well-scripted play between the two. At the beginning, they hesitated, tried to fight the influence of the nobles, the officials. Alas, such resistance against true might was futile. They had to resort to opening brothels, selling the refugees that trusted their false reputation.

It ate away at their consciousness until they became indifferent to the plight of those young girls. Some of them were just children, not even near their coming of age; some were former nobles, too. In the end, the war did none of them good.

Even the fragmentary light of pity in the old woman's eyes were no more than lies she insisted on telling herself.

• • •

In a castle of a space station orbiting a red star. At the balcony of the main hall, overlooking the citadel that stood at the top the human race.

The prince was listening to the report of the minister of war. He disclosed the casualties among the different factions, the estimate of the deserters, the losses in the frontlines, the imminent alien forces intent on invading human territory.

Truth be told, the prince was already well aware of the consequences and results of the incessant infighting. He had heard the audit of the minister of finance as well; the discrepancy between the losses and the gains were appalling.

It wasn't that the factions lost too much, rather they were gaining even more than they lost. Ordinary men wouldn't recognize the intricacies in between the lines, but as a prince, he was cognizant of the different affairs in the galaxy.

The betrayal present in the war wasn't as simple as rekindling ancient relationships. The treachery wasn't even within the bounds of common preconception.

Certain evolutions better than others? What a joke. All the upper echelons of galactic nations know it's all trivial when confronted with the truly terrifying forces of the universe. This war was more than just that.

This wasn't a war of humans; this was a war of aliens playing their gambles, advancing their pawns, and throwing their die. Each of the participating factions had already fallen under the wings of a higher species. It was no wonder they would forsake fellow men in pursuit of their aspirations.

They are no more than marionettes at the hands of alien puppeteers, treating the deaths and tragedies of their countrymen as chump change. It infuriated the prince to no end.

His family had been among the top echelons of humanity, in control of multitudes of conglomerates, with a command of millions of soldiers. They had evolvers in their primes, and elders capable of turning the tides of any battle. It wasn't impossible to keep the aliens at bay for centuries to follow.

But they all ruined it! He banged his fist on the ledge, surprising the minister who still hasn't finished his report. Their small gains in exchange for their dignity and pride. Fools!

"Y-your highness?" the minister implored in fear of having been mistaken in his information.

Realizing his outburst was uncalled for, the prince felt embarrassed. "It's nothing," he said as he returned his gaze into the horizon, "continue your report."

The helplessness of ruler was not a subject to discuss with those who are ruled.

• • •

And thus was the fall of humanity... at least for those unfortunate to live through it. Those who had suffered... well, they belong to a different stage. This is their story.