Oblivion's Throne-Chapter 115: The Korathians

Humanity adapted.

But adaptation came with a cost.

The human body was too slow, too weak, too breakable. Infantry units were slaughtered in every engagement, their weapons proving little more than an inconvenience to an enemy that could tear apart a battle tank with its bare hands.

In desperation, military scientists turned to genetic augmentation. If humanity couldn't match the Selunirs naturally, they would force evolution itself.

Thus, the Genetic Boosters were born—children accelerated beyond human limits, grown in artificial wombs, subjected to neural conditioning from the moment they could comprehend sound. Their muscles, bones, and reflexes were enhanced to to the extreme.

But it was a failure.

The process was too unstable.

Most of these children didn't even survive their first few years. The ones that did lived short, agonizing lives—their bodies breaking down before they reached their thirties.

The process of augmentation was not just about creating super-soldiers; it was about accelerating both mental and physical development. Children subjected to these boosters not only gained overwhelming physicality compared to baseline humans but also had their cognitive functions forcibly matured. The refined versions, later perfected by the Archon Families, could turn a five-year-old into the equivalent of a thirteen-year-old—both in intellect and in physical development.

The Selunirs were faster, stronger, and more adaptable. Even with augmented soldiers, humanity was barely slowing them down. And so they built something bigger.

The first generation of mechas were clunky, barely maneuverable, their pilots often dying before they could even master the controls. But in time, that changed. The next generations were faster, stronger, more precise—machines that could go toe-to-toe with the Selunir in direct combat.

For the first time in the war, humanity wasn't just running.

They pushed back.

Entire Selunir warbands were destroyed. Cities that would have been lost held their ground.

Humanity dared to hope.

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However, the Selunir were not a race unprepared for war. They had faced countless enemies before humanity, and they had survived each conflict with terrifying efficiency. And so they adapted once more.

The war dragged on for decades, but the numbers did not lie. For every Selunir warrior that fell, a thirty million humans died. For every battle won, seven hundred were lost.

One hundred ninety-five billion dead.

Entire colonies wiped from existence.

Cities that had stood for centuries reduced to dust.

Worlds that had once held vibrant civilizations left as barren wastelands, never to be reclaimed.

The United Colonial prepared for its final stand, the last great battle where humanity would either hold the line or fade from existence entirely. It was supposed to be the end. The moment where history would mark the fall of mankind.

And then, without warning, just as suddenly as they came, the Selunir left, because another force had arrived.

The Korathians.

Another alien empire, one that had already been waging war against the Selunir long before humanity had ever set foot in space. Their war was greater. Their conflict was older. And in that moment, the Selunir made their decision.

They abandoned their assault on humanity, turning their fleets toward the true enemy.

The war was over.

Not because humanity had fought well.

Not because they had earned survival.

But because they weren't worth exterminating anymore.

The Selunir had simply found something more important to kill.

And in that moment, the truth of human existence in the galaxy became clear:

Humanity did not win.

It simply survived by accident.

The simulation chamber was vast, Orion glanced at the dome of an artificial sky, its ceiling embedded with projectors that painted a battlefield across the stars. Hundreds of chairs lined the arena in a descending amphitheater, each one occupied by a competitor, their faces hardened, their expressions unreadable.

The 95 teams had been briefed, but the true weight of the trial would only hit once the simulation began. Each pair was now assigned command of a fleet, given control of warships, resources, and personnel, this was humanity's last hope, and they were thrown into the heart of the greatest defeat in human history.

They were not here to win. That much had been made clear.

They were here to experience failure in its most absolute form.

And that was when the battle began.

The moment the simulation engaged, s sea of Selunir warships descended like a tide of death, their sleek black hulls cutting through human fleets with terrifying ease.

On each station's interface, the players were overwhelmed with data—incoming enemy formations, distress signals from burning colonies, fragmented communications from retreating fleets. Every screen showed the same reality: humanity was collapsing.

One team, desperate to hold ground, deployed their entire fleet in formation, banking on a last stand. Within minutes, the Selunir outmaneuvered and obliterated them, their forces wiped from the board.

Another team, seeing the futility of direct combat, chose to scatter their forces and preserve what they could. They abandoned outer colonies, consolidated their warships, sacrificing billions to delay their own inevitable deaths.

Every possible decision had a consequence, and none led to salvation.

Some hoarded resources, saving their strongest fleets at the cost of abandoning military outposts and thousands of soldiers who could have fought. Others spent everything too quickly, launching reckless counteroffensives that led to their swift destruction.

And then, there were those who simply froze.

The pressure was suffocating. The decisions were impossible. The test was designed to be cruel—not just in its mechanics, but in its psychological toll.

"You are in command of millions," Orion muttered to himself. "Every order you give decides who lives and who dies. You are no heroes. You are not invincible."

And for many, that weight was too much.

Some panicked, barking contradictory orders that left their forces in chaos. Others watched in horror as their decisions led to the deaths of entire fleets, their screens filled with casualty reports, the faces of simulated soldiers staring back at them as they begged for orders that never came.

There were no second chances. No restarts. Every mistake was final.

And then, as the last remnants of humanity's forces collapsed, the Korathians arrived.

The Korathians, an alien species locked in a war against the Selunir long before humanity even entered the stars, emerged from deep space. Their fleets tore into Selunir warships, forcing their ancient rivals to turn their attention elsewhere.

For some competitors, it was too late—their forces had already been annihilated, their simulations already terminated. For others, it was a lifeline.

Some saw the opening and immediately retreated, withdrawing what little remained of their forces to the most defensible positions. Others saw the Korathians as an opportunity, launching reckless offensives in an attempt to reclaim lost ground—only to realize the Korathians had no interest in aiding them, merely in fighting their own war.

The test was almost over. The decisions had been made.

As the last simulation pod powered down, the competitors sat in silence.

For many, it was the first time they had felt true helplessness. The realization that they had not just lost, but that humanity itself had never stood a chance, weighed heavier than any battlefield wound.

The judges entered, their presence commanding instant attention. They did not announce victors. They did not praise the ones who had survived the longest or criticize those who had fallen early.

This was not about winning.

Instead, the results were analyzed based on four categories:

1. Strategic Adaptability – Who adjusted their tactics in real-time instead of clinging to doomed strategies?

2. Judgment – Who understood when sacrifice was necessary, and when it was wasteful?

3. Resilience – Who maintained their composure, even when the outcome was inevitable?

4. Leadership – Who inspired their forces to fight, even when all hope was lost?

Some participants had cracked under pressure, their mistakes compounding until their forces were obliterated in mere hours. Others had been calculating, ruthless, sacrificing millions to preserve the war effort—but at the cost of their own humanity.

And then there were the few who had understood the true lesson of the trial:

Humanity had never won this war. They had only survived by accident.

The lesson was simple.

You are not invincible.

War does not care about your lineage, talent, or pride.

It only cares that you are prepared—or that you die.