The VR simulation flatlined, then faded to black. The Reginald saga had abruptly ended. Carmelita shook her head, momentarily disoriented. The ruined Citadel, the rise of Wraith… it was a lot to take in.

She glanced at the data chip, suddenly curious about what came next. She sighed, removed her veil, revealing long red hair, and contemplated the connections. Zion, Wraith, Ruan Mei…

She dove back into the archived documents from the lab, finding more data chips. She was looking for a specific name, but Ruan Mei’s wasn't there. Disappointed, she tried again.

This time, she found what she wanted: data chips belonging to Zion himself, the leader of the Red Nation. She took a deep breath, put the VR headset back on, and prepared to explore their shared history.

“So tell me, Zion. What are you going to do when you grow up, and how will you achieve it? And most importantly… why?” Wraith’s voice echoed in Zion’s mind.

After World War III, a young warlord named Zion emerged from the ruins. He’d been shaped by a Spartan-like culture, forging him into a visionary with one goal: to build a better world. Zion wasn't just a dreamer; he was charismatic, ruthless, and determined to reshape the world in his image.

First, he needed allies and enemies. In North America, scattered tribes lived in huts, practicing a Stone Age-esque hunter-gatherer lifestyle. They called themselves tribes—a simple name for a neo-age, woke culture in the post-WW3 world. They valued community and freedom, which really bugged Zion. Their rejection of capitalism and money especially got under his skin.

Zion gathered his crew: Jozen, a technocrat with a leftover US Atlantic and Pacific fleet, and Kassandra, who’d invented an avocado-cocaine fusion. Why Kassandra? Because her avocados were essential for keeping his troops going. It wasn’t easy leading an army when they were constantly dodging poisoned arrows and bullets.

Zion laid out his vision: a new world order based on meritocracy, inspired by Roman civilization. This included some… radical ideas, like gender segregation. He called it a “farm,” where fertile women lived separately from average men to incentivize the men to fight harder and maintain the population.

Radical? Sure. But in a world falling apart, nothing seemed too extreme.

Despite claiming he wasn’t racist, Zion had a serious dislike for the tribal factions roaming the wastelands. “I’m not racist,” he’d say, “but I’d prefer they kept to themselves. They’re not a threat, they just hoard bodies and junk. It’s annoying, and I want it to stop.”

With a plan in place, Zion armed his colonists with the latest bolt-action rifles. With their superior tech, he was confident they could crush the tribes. They arrived at the nearest tribal base, dug trenches, and set up a heavy machine gun turret. The plan: drive the tribals into the line of fire.

It didn’t go as smoothly as he’d hoped. The tribes fought back fiercely. Zion’s forces took heavy losses from poisoned arrows, darts, even some medieval-style catapults, forcing a tactical retreat. He left some of his people behind.

“I’m not going to be like the US getting beat by the Afghans! No! I have to be better!” Zion yelled at his reflection, staring at a scar on his forehead from the encounter.

He knew he needed a new approach. Maybe brute force wasn't the only way.

As he retreated, he brainstormed. He had to be smarter. They kidnapped some tribal merchants to use as human shields while saboteurs moved in on the tribal stronghold.

They attacked again, decimating the tribes and sending the survivors running. Among them was Norman, a tribal member who’d switched sides. He said he joined the tribe for the orgies. Zion gave him a pistol to prove his loyalty, and Norman happily executed some downed survivors, clearly enjoying it a little too much. Kinky people, am I right?

“We’ve only destroyed one base,” Zion mused. “But the tribes will learn to fear us. They don’t yet.”

On their way back, they were ambushed. The attacker was Salamander, a one-man army with an anti-material rifle.

Zion wasn’t giving up anyone. He prepared to fight. Salamander was a serious threat, a crack shot who’d already taken out a whole squad. Zion decided to use a poison dart he’d scavenged from a tribal base. After force-feeding Salamander an avocado and some psychological torture, Zion threatened to cut off his avocado supply if he didn’t join him. Only Zion controlled the avocado drug market, after all.

Salamander agreed. Now he’d help Zion wipe out the tribal scum.

As his soldiers moved into position for the next assault, one soldier, Break, lagged behind. He’d lost a leg to some tribal traps and landslides.

While they attacked the tribal base, the tribes launched a counter-attack on Zion’s colony. Not a huge problem; Zion’s kill box would handle it. He even convinced a more “civilized” faction to join his crusade, and they showed up to help.

They were making progress, destroying tribal bases one by one, but each raid came at a cost. In their fourth attack, they lost many soldiers.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Zion muttered, trying to convince himself. “It’s easier this way.”

But the losses weighed heavily on him. Salamander died from his wounds, and Zion felt a pang of genuine grief. “Those sub-humans took you from us,” he said, rage simmering beneath his calm exterior. Even with his modern army, injuries were piling up. Some wouldn’t be coming back.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Zion’s resolve hardened. Modernization wasn’t enough. He needed a futuristic military.

Equipped with advanced weapons and armor, the injuries became less of a problem. They had the firepower to obliterate another tribal base. As his military deployed, Zion got some good news: he’d wiped out most of the nearby tribal bases.

Despite the overwhelming firepower of the bomber against the technologically inferior tribal factions, Zion felt it was still insufficient. He yearned to instill true terror in the hearts of the tribals, the kind of fear that grips a person when all hope is lost. That was the lesson these creatures needed to learn, and for that, he turned his attention to the power of atoms.

"The moral of the story," Zion mused, "is that I need nukes. But to get the nukes Daddy promised me, I have to complete a series of prerequisites. First, I must navigate the basic energy weapons tree."

He hastily assembled a collection of lab equipment he wasn't sure he'd ever use—after all, it was his first foray into lab work. Once he completed the energy weapons research, the option to develop the aptly named Liberator nuke appeared. However, he first needed to build a nuclear reactor. Although using remnants of the U.S. nuclear arsenal was considered taboo and forbidden in their religion—especially after the world had been devastated by the same weapons—Zion found a loophole in the scripture. While using old nukes for war was forbidden, creating new ones was perfectly acceptable.

Constructing that reactor was no small feat. He needed to piece together a research reactor, a reactor core, a turbine, a cooling system with pipes, a power transformer, and a reactor control computer. It was a monumental task, but now he could fire up the reactor and prepare his fuel rods for plutonium conversion.

"Why isn't my reactor generating electricity?" Zion grumbled. "Oh right, it is, but my batteries are still dead. I'm an idiot. While I wait for my fuel to deplete, I might as well attack a few tribal bases."

As Zion expanded his operations, he found himself frustrated by the landscape littered with trees. He cursed himself for not bringing incendiary rounds for his bomber; all he had were high-explosive ones that felt useless in this situation.

"Next time, remember the incendiary rounds," he reminded himself.

This base lacked the thick foliage of the last one, but the rain would soon douse any chance of his bombs igniting. Another mission down the drain.

"Oh, come on! They all survived? I just want to commit war crimes! Is that too much to ask?" he exclaimed in exasperation.

After exhausting his nuclear fuel, Zion finally had enough resources to create plutonium. He loaded it into the processor, knowing it would take months to finish.

"Back to what I do best," Zion muttered, gearing up for another round of… population control.

While he waited for more plutonium, Zion sent his ground forces west. Over the next few months, they systematically cleared out the remaining tribal outposts. Villages fell one by one, inhabitants scattered or forced into submission. Only three bases remained, belonging to the White Cat Curro. These guys worshipped a mutated cat that apparently changed color in high radiation.

"I'm a cultist. I'm here to sacrifice you to our cat god," one tribal yelled, charging at Zion. Zion, feeling surprisingly sporting, met him head-on with his firefighter axe. After cleaning off the axe, Zion surveyed the scene. His soldiers shivered in their inadequate gear. “They worship a cat?” he muttered.

“Their religion is… unique,” Jozen’s voice crackled through the speaker on his blue armor. “They believe this mutated cat is a divine protector against the radiation.”

The initial attack against the Curro was a mess. Zion’s bolt-action rifles were good at long range, but the Curro were experts at guerilla warfare in the icy terrain. They used hidden tunnels, ice traps, and poisoned darts, picking off Zion’s men. He was forced to retreat, leaving behind equipment and bodies.

“I will not be humiliated by these primitives,” Zion seethed, nursing a poisoned dart wound. He ordered the captured tribal merchants to be used as human shields.

The White Cat Curro made a desperate last stand, managing to kill one of Zion’s companions.

“No, Walton! Those savages killed one of our own,” Zion declared. “We’re trying to improve your lives by eradicating all of you. Can’t they see that?”

Just then, his plutonium was ready, but not enough for a warhead. He had to repeat the process, creating more plutonium (and the inevitable nuclear waste). A responsible leader would have stored it safely. Zion, fortunately, wasn't responsible.

He had some transport pods lying around, so they loaded up the nuclear waste and shipped it off to the nearest tribal settlement. With the help of his scientists and builders, they assembled a missile and, after getting more plutonium, a warhead.

Time for a test run. But the missile couldn’t reach any tribal settlements. After all that effort, the game wouldn’t let him wipe anyone off the map just yet.

So, pirates it was. A massive fireball erupted. “Yeah, I’d call that a success,” Zion mused.

To increase the missile's range, he needed a guidance system, which meant more nuking for data. He built another nuke, gathered more data, and finally, his third nuke was ready. He’d already nuked the nearby pirate bases, but some tribals were now conveniently in range.

“I don’t know how that happened, but we’ll take it,” Zion decided. “This time, I want someone to observe the effects of a low-yield nuke on tribals. For science, or something.”

They outfitted Norman with a questionable radiation suit. “I hope he survives. He needs to bring back the ship. That’s more important than him,” Zion clarified.

Norman arrived to witness the “cleansing,” and they launched the Tribal Liquefier 9000. “That was beautiful,” Zion exclaimed. “Like my eyes were blessed by the gods.”

With the guidance system complete, the White Cat Curro were officially in nuke range. But first, it was Lingard’s birthday. “Happy birthday, Lingard! We’ll celebrate the only way we know how,” Zion announced.

“Hope you had a good one, Linda,” Zion said, pressing the launch button.

They spent the next while launching ground assaults, making more plutonium, “gifting” the tribals with nuclear waste (and free cancer), and generally waging nuclear war until only one tribal base remained, located in the northern polar ice caps of Canada.

“Oh boy, do I have something special planned for them,” Zion grinned.

Low-yield nukes were an option, but high-yield was much more fun. Norman, back in his radiation suit, boarded a new ship (they weren’t about to risk the good one). He took off, traveling at what Zion considered a snail’s pace. “That’s three times speed, by the way, Norman! Pick it up! We’ve got genocide to do!”

Upon Norman’s arrival, they launched the final Liberator nuke. “Thank you,” Zion said.

Surprisingly, Norman survived the blast, though he was downed. No rescue mission, though. Too much fallout.

Zion, ever the fan of historical figures, mused, “I saw, I conquered. I depopulated, and my faction has a cool name: the Free World.”

With all the tribals gone, the world would finally know peace. His colony would thrive. But Jozen, his once loyal ally, had other plans. His fleet began raiding Zion’s coastal territories. Turns out, Jozen had been cozying up to pirates the whole time, and Zion’s little nuke spree hadn’t exactly improved his reputation. Zion watched his port get destroyed in disbelief. He learned a harsh lesson: “A traitor is worse than a tribal.” From that day on, any traitor in the Free World would face a fate worse than death: nuclear waste cleanup duty. A slow, agonizing, radioactive death.