It had cost Korr, not to say he had risked it, to achieve his goal, one in particular.
Finding the race with the appropriate technology to print what he wanted was a challenge, and doing so without Vorath's surveillance was even more complicated.
But here it was, in his hands, the only treasure he could keep as his own. And with that treasure, he sat down under the city's sunset, on the highest part of his fortress home. He thought for a few moments and then… he just decided to proceed with what he was about to commit, despite his unpunishable father's threats.
Anyway, he had been rebellious enough for a while. What other curses would fall upon him from his despicable progenitor for carrying a black notebook with a few pens?
So he opened the cover, placed the pen in his first hand, and then began to write the first thing that came to his mind.
"So… this is the year 4203 after Argal. Well, this is the Jesus of this world, although he probably lacked any love, much less for any other race.
So far, I have a little over half an orbit. About six cycles and a few segments. In a lifetime, this would translate to six years and four months.
Well, I guess this is a diary, and I'm writing and recording… everything, I have no choice.
I never thought I would do this. I hate writing; I feel it's a waste of time. Now I have plenty of time, enough to see human civilizations be born and fall. But I'm getting sidetracked.
Now that I'm experiencing this madness of a second life, in another body, in another world, I can only say, my situation is pretty fucked up, being honest.
Alright. If this ever gets lost or you read my diary, let me introduce myself. My name is Korr-Add. Or at least, that's the name I was given in this life.
Well, I don't even know what the hell I'm trying to write. I'm nothing more than a 54-year-old man, in the body of a child, an alien child.
All of this is becoming complicated for me to accept.
I am currently trapped on a planet where apparently, everyone can fly, break mountains with their fists and survive nuclear bombs or in space as if nothing, myself included, in time, of course.
It's like being on the planet of the blue guy with the red cape and the S on his chest, but without kryptonite.
I mean, it's a complete nightmare from any perspective, if we look at the matter from how things are currently around here, on the planet Viltrum.
Viltrum is impressive, fascinating, but dangerous, not because of the planet, but because of its predominant inhabitants.
For you to understand what I'm trying to tell you, we must first understand some academic terms that in another life determined certain events that marked the course of what was the modern society of Earth, humans, to be more specific.
First word: totalitarianism. If you don't understand it, don't worry, I'll summarize what this definition and its meaning are about.
In simple terms, totalitarianism is what can be known as a political system, in which the State seeks to eliminate all distinction between the public and the private, exercising absolute control over all aspects of its society. Its economy, its culture, its population census and even the individuality of the person themselves.
Note, do not confuse it with the political submission of authoritarianism.
Totalitarianism aspires to an active mobilization of the population to exercise a radical transformation of society according to an exclusionary ideology."
"Young Master Korr-Add, your father is waiting for you in the hall."
The tip of the pen drew a line crudely. Korr's thoughts stopped at that moment, as he closed the notebook in his hand, along with his deepest thoughts.
The boy looked toward the monotonous voice that had found him. There, levitating a few meters from his direction, was a robot operated by artificial intelligence.
There was contempt in the boy's eyes, so much so that he was inwardly grateful that that thing truly had no feelings.
For a moment he wanted to close his small fist wrapped in bandages and lash out at that thing. But he didn't.
That robot looked so much like her, like Syra-Vel, that it was outrageous. His heart hurt at the mere presence of such a device, and it was even crueler that his own father had decided to assign him the device day and night, exactly with the same characteristics as his deceased nanny.
That simple detail hurt his soul, and Vorath knew it more than anyone, having emphasized that detail as a good way to discipline his son.
This was inhumane.
"Young Master."
"I heard you, damn it," Korr interrupted him.
He took flight, and moved away from the artificial intelligence which had clearly decided to follow him, like a restless ghost seeking to torment him.
His father could not imagine how much he truly did it. Seeing her at all times only brought back those last moments of Syra-Vel, her head rolling into a corner, her blood staining his boots, without him being able to do absolutely anything.
The wounds, both those inflicted by hitting something indestructible like his father's body, as well as those his father had inflicted on him, were completely healed, although a large gauze patched his right cheek, and his hands remained bandaged.
Despite Viltrum's great capacity to erase wounds like those he had presented some time ago, his father had denied him access to said medical procedures and instead let the biological nature of his body, now awakened, do the work.
His body pushed itself into the void. However, the sensation of gravity, that tingling that ran through his stomach, along with that feeling of being pulled downward, never registered in Korr's body.
Nor could he explain in words how he was able to decide which direction to take within his spatial field, that is, his surroundings.
He was just there; it just happened, like when you simply inhaled air when breathing.
The dense current of the breeze hit his face, and his hair fluttered around him, while his ears rang from the currents. With a perfect rotational balance, Korr descended in a spiral around the fortress he called home, while his inner ear practically did all the work.
What does it feel like to fly? Korr thought about it for a moment, but could only reach one conclusion. Imagine balancing on one foot. That's what it felt like; the difference was that he was leaning omnidirectionally, if something like that made sense.
Stopping ignoring everything beneath him, he noticed how the city stretched like a circular pentagram, with three towers adorning the upper part, the central part, and the lower part of it, interspersed in a hexagonal shape.
A magnetic Dyson sphere levitated in the sky, serving as a landing and deployment base for local spacecraft.
However, the true wonder of the way everything was placed was that, at a certain point in the day, the sun reflected a colossal shadow that formed the symbol of the empire, seen from the stratosphere.
Everything here was too perfect, too Viltrumite.
Not to mention that all the inhabitants, Viltrumites, soared through the sky with almost mathematical order.
It was unmistakable that he was witnessing a view of the way the Viltrumites moved, generating traffic that made an unprecedented synergy with the city.
Traffic was arranged in a set of routes organized by flight spaces for each range of altitude and speed. High-ranking warriors soared through the upper currents without restrictions, while citizens below the top 20, all with supervisory functions or any other position on Viltrum, flew in lower concentric corridors.
There was no need for traffic lights. Although other forms of transport did exist, they were only for the second-class races, the slaves of Viltrum. They were diverse, many with a slight kinship in physiology and appearance, but completely different.
Korr clicked his tongue, deciding not to think about it, not to think about Syra-Vel.
He continued moving further down, to the lower level of the fortress.
He passed by the windows of other offspring of the elite whom he cared little to know.
Since Syra-Vel's death, he had been given multiple opportunities to have friends his age. However, he had no desire to do so; he wanted nothing, he only wanted to be alone and reflect.
The color of the fortress bothered him. How he hated having to see this attempt at a monolith, and restrain himself as much as possible from rising up against it until painting it with everything he held repressed inside him, his pain.
He thought he could endure more than that, but unexpectedly, he realized that he was helpless, to the point that he felt how this world seemed to want to begin to snatch away his essence, starting with color.
Korr adjusted his trajectory, calculating the angle of approach to the opening that served as the main entrance. As soon as he entered, his feet touched the floor of the great hall in a soft whisper.
The silent echo of his landing spread throughout the room. In the background, only a glimpse of what caused the inevitable hung in the background.
Of everything that was condemned from him, only one object could survive. It was that mural, the mural of the fucking zebra that he refused to look at directly, for fear of what it might provoke in him, seeing the only thing in common with his deceased nanny, no. Murdered.
At the far end of the room, a figure levitated half a meter above the ground, ironically, observing that mural with interest, his arms crossed over his chest.
Vorath did not even turn around to see his son. He was just there, in silence.
The general wore his campaign uniform, the white interrupted by the three bars that crossed his chest with honor.
However, he knew what he had to do, because he had no choice but to bite the dust and endure, for now, until one day, one day.
Korr took three steps forward and stopped his advance with the rigidity of an automaton programmed for obedience. His right hand closed into a fist and rose to the center of his chest, where his heart beat with a fury, a fury that demanded vengeance.
"For the glory of Argal, this native greets the great General."