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Where did I come from?
I was born of gods, to fulfill their wishes.
What is my duty?
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What is my duty?
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What is my duty?
Kill all the Old Ones.
What is my duty?
I came to bring destruction.
I am the Angel of Death, the one who knocks at the gates of hell.
The end of all things.
Bona sat quietly aboard the flagship, gazing at the distant stars.
"Do you want those Ethereals dead that badly?"
|They... must die!|
Magladroth seemed much more animated. Now even Bona could hear the unmistakable hatred in its voice.
|I hate them. I hate everything about them.|
|They... must die!|
Bona did not care whom Magladroth hated. Those stories from hundreds of millions of years ago meant little to him.
He was more concerned with other matters.
The War of the Men of Iron.
That brutal war that had trampled human civilization into the mud.
That brutal war had ground humanity's technological age into the mud, reducing it to an age of wilderness, ignorance, and savagery.
Although its history had long since been lost, and neither Grandpa Malcador nor his father had ever told Bona about that war, he still had many questions.
Chief among them was how humanity had survived it.
After all, the technologically advanced humans of that time had relied entirely on artificial intelligence to manage their lives. If abominable intelligence had rebelled, those utterly dependent humans should have had no chance of survival.
Yet, puzzlingly, humanity had not only defeated the abominable intelligence that dominated its economy, military, and every other sphere, but had also survived in great numbers.
Bona was certain that the war had involved far