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SCL Chapter 145: From Ruins, Revolution
🕑 Added 2025-07-09 03:07:06 +0000 UTC2489.7.12, Umoja, New Styrling.
“This was a long-planned subversive operation against the government. The wicked, irredeemable Angus Mengsk is the leader of the largest cult in the Koprulu Sector. He has used both psychological and physical poisons to control 45 million Korhalans, enslaving the tormented people of Korhal and forcing them to join his rebel force—an army armed with pamphlets and drugs.”
“In the glorious Battle for Tarsonis, our brave warriors fought to the death, shedding their last drop of blood to defend Tarsonis and heroically battling to eliminate the insurgent threat to our Confederacy. We will now play ‘Glory of the Confederacy,’ ‘Our Great Confederacy,’ and the ‘Interstellar Anthem’ to honor these valiant fallen soldiers.”
“Long live the Confederacy!”
“Change the channel.”
In a cubicle at the New Styrling City Hall—its four walls riveted with pickaxes, safety helmets, and windproof coats—Arcturus Mengsk sat on a worn-out sofa, sipping from a glass of port wine. In front of him stood an LED billboard torn from the main city district of Styrling, the capital of Korhal. It still played 2D visuals instead of a proper holographic projection.
The voice-controlled smart receiver automatically recognized Arcturus’s command and switched to the next channel, rotating through UNN Interstellar Television and several local Terran Confederacy colony networks.
“Augustus, son of Angus, is another leader of their cult and the head of the rebels. He orchestrated every act of terrorism against the Confederacy government and its citizens to date. Augustus must be held accountable for the deranged massacres he carried out—over 600,000 Confederacy citizens lost their lives in this disaster, and their deaths lie squarely on his shoulders.”
“Change the channel.”
Arcturus could usually hold his liquor, but it was clear he was drunk. Normally, even out in the mining zones, he would shave daily and get regular haircuts. But these days, Arcturus had let it all go. His stubbled face was unkempt, greasy brown hair matted together, and his cold grey eyes were shot through with veins of red.
“This is Mike Liberty, reporting for UNN Interstellar Television from the crash site of the battlecruiser Gothic Century. The explosion’s shockwave leveled over 40% of Queen Mary District’s main infrastructure. New Lance Cathedral, Mengsk World Trade Tower, and Vilia’s Roof of the World were all destroyed in this unprecedented catastrophe—an immeasurable loss for human culture.”
“—Who the hell wrote this script? People are dying, and you’re worried about a bunch of historical monuments that haven’t even been around a hundred years? —Enough. Just read the damn script. I told you this was live. No mistakes allowed!”
“The blaze that spread to East Welsh Starport in Tarsonis continued until dawn the next day, killing over 420,000 Confederacy citizens and leaving 1.3 million with varying degrees of burn-related disabilities. A spokesperson from the Confederacy Department of Defense claimed the fire was caused by a deliberate arson attack on a vespene fuel storage well, orchestrated by Korhalan rebels.”
“Even after the rebels retreated, localized firefighting efforts remain ongoing—how are private fire brigades expected to handle this alone? Where is our military?”
“Change the channel.”
Arcturus felt no sympathy for the people of Tarsonis—if anything, he found it deeply satisfying. About a week ago, after returning to the mining operations on Planet Pick Peak, he received word that Korhal had fallen. Even though he’d mentally prepared for it, learning that Korhal had been struck by a nuclear attack still filled him with uncontainable rage.
Korhal held a singular meaning for Arcturus. He loved his homeworld. Like every member of the Mengsk family, he cherished that beautiful planet—its stunning landscapes, its temperate climate. Even if it had been blasted into ash by nuclear warheads, he would rebuild it no matter the cost.
“The instigator of this terrorist operation is Angus Mengsk. His younger son, Augustus Mengsk, masterminded this brutal attack. This vile family must be held responsible for the wave of insurgencies. As of today, Augustus Mengsk has risen to second place on the Confederacy Investigation Bureau’s most-wanted list—just below his father.”
The anchorwoman from Velitia Prime Global Television concluded her impassioned indictment of the rebels' many crimes with a cold, bureaucratic reminder: “As of today, seven core worlds have officially placed both Angus Mengsk and Augustus Mengsk on their most-wanted registries. If you happen to encounter either of these fugitives, please call the Velitia Prime Central Police Bureau. We will transfer your call to the Confederacy Navy—”
“Augustus... The more they hate you, the more they slander you, the more it proves you're walking the right path.”
There was no one else in the room. Arcturus was simply speaking to himself.
“Umoja is no longer safe. The Confederacy’s Ghost agents will find this place eventually.”
Arcturus knew he was already in too deep. His father and brother had both made it onto the Terran Confederacy’s most-wanted list. The Mengsks were seen as the architects of the great uprising. After the fall of Korhal, there was no way—nor any reason—for Arcturus to stay uninvolved.
He’d seen this day coming, yet tried to run from it. Angus, for all his sins, deserved whatever punishment he got.
But his mother. His sister.
They would be caught in the crossfire.
And that—
That Arcturus could not, and would not, ignore.
Augustus had figured it out long before Arcturus ever did—even if they drove a blade through their father’s heart, even if they assassinated him in broad daylight, the rebellion on Korhal, now roaring with revolutionary fervor, would not stop.
“Change the channel.”
Arcturus set down his empty wine glass. He reached for the bottle, about to pour himself another, when a smooth, graceful hand rested on top of his.
“Speaker Angus’s fleet has arrived at Umoja’s orbital starport.”
Dressed in casual home clothes, an apron around her waist and a scarf over her hair, Juliana Pasteur had entered the room without him noticing—as light-footed as a cat, even after having borne a child.
His mother, Katherine, had always hoped that Arcturus and Juliana might rekindle what they once had. And even after all these years, Juliana still loved the man she had entrusted her entire life to.
But Arcturus had long since grown tired of the game called love.
“Where did he get that many ships?”
Arcturus frowned. The tangle of emotions he harbored toward Angus—and his own pride—meant he instinctively recoiled at even the mention of the man.
One of the main reasons Arcturus still refused to join the Korhalan Revolutionary Army was that he simply didn’t believe in Angus’s revolution. This wasn’t just a matter of right and wrong. Ten years ago, Arcturus had left home in protest against his father, detesting everything the so-called 'revolution' stood for. And now, even for the sake of pride, he wouldn’t change that view.
“They say the Confederacy fleet pulled out in such a rush, they abandoned eight battlecruisers that couldn’t jump. Several ships had their life support systems damaged. The captains onboard ended up requesting aid from the revolutionaries. So Colonel Lundstein personally led a boarding team over in a shuttle.”
“Hmm. What’s happening with the troops on those ships? Those captains could still be useful,” Arcturus said. “But if they didn’t remove the battlecruisers’ signal trackers, then the Umojan Home Defense Force is going to end up clashing with the Terran Confederacy. When that happens, we’ll need to make sure Umoja commits to full-scale war—”
“The elected assembly will never let you interfere.”
Juliana sat beside him and shook her head.
“The members of parliament are the wisest elders of every administrative zone. Some of them were governors and dominion lords from a century ago, still kept alive in stasis chambers, monitoring every decision the assembly passes with unwavering attention.”
“Then by those standards, Angus counts as an elder too.”
Arcturus’s bloodshot eyes remained fixed on Juliana’s slender figure, yet there was no desire in his gaze.
It was as if, behind her, he saw the hunched, white-haired elders of Umoja’s parliament watching him in silence.
“There are 25 million Korhalans living in Umoja—that’s one percent of the entire population of the Umojan star system. According to Umojan law, the people of Korhal are entitled to a seat of their own.”
“You want the Korhalans to become an official ethnic group of Umoja?”
Juliana blinked her charming eyes, but Arcturus remained unmoved.
“Why not?”
Arcturus stood, looming over Juliana, who was still sitting on the sofa.
“We deserve rights equal to the price we’ve paid. Korhal hurled itself headfirst against the Terran Confederacy’s fleet for the benefit of the Umojan people. If you had seen what became of Korhal, you’d understand what we sacrificed.”
“The Plains of Martial Field used to be a gorgeous grassland, home to Korhal’s most enchanting lake. The water there was sky blue. At night, swarms of silver lanternfish made the surface look like a sea of stars turned upside down. Now it’s all withered grass. Nuclear dust clings in thick layers to the riverbanks. The only things still alive there are microorganisms.”
Arcturus’s voice remained calm.
“The Maple Forests of Styrling—where many of my ancestors are buried—are now nothing but thousands of barren stumps.”
“Everyone who stayed behind is dead. Patriots, traitors—it didn’t matter. Even the symbol of the Mengsk family, the wolves of Styrling, wandering the dying forests, will soon become mutated beasts from radiation.”
“The Confederacy turned us all into monsters.”
“Things will get better,” Juliana said softly. She could feel the grief in him.
“Sure. I’m not expecting the Umojans to act out of righteousness. But I have other ways.”
Arcturus had been drinking regularly, but never enough to lose control. He always maintained a cold, sharp clarity.
“Umoja is already doing everything it can to help the people of Korhal—they…”
Juliana tried to defend the place that had raised her.
“At least they don’t look like ragged refugees, right?”
Arcturus suddenly shook his head.
If Juliana’s father—Ailin Pasteur, member of the Confederate Senate—and the Umojan Parliament he represented were watching, then Arcturus was putting on quite the performance: “Sorry. This isn’t your fault. It’s not Umoja’s fault. It’s not even Angus’s, or the Korhalans’.”
“The fault lies with the Confederacy. With the Confederate Senate and the Old Families behind them. They will not die in peace.”
“You should say that to the senators yourself,” Juliana teased with a playful wink.
Even now, in front of Arcturus, she still looked like a girl in love.
“Is that your parliament’s position, or your father’s?”
Arcturus laughed.
“I overheard him talking with another councilor. They’ve agreed to let you attend the next session,” Juliana whispered.
“Well done.”
Arcturus praised her.
“You haven’t disappointed me, Juliana. I knew you were the one the moment I saw you.”
“Oh~ Out of the thousands of women in Styrling, right? That’s what your letter said.”
Juliana clicked her tongue.
“But when we first met, the only ones there were your mother and sister.”
“I don’t remember writing that letter.”
Arcturus gave the memory just a quarter of a second’s thought before abandoning it entirely.
“Anyway. Let’s get to the real matter.”
“Is Valerian still crying for his father?”
Arcturus attempted to steer the conversation away.
“Our son stopped crying a long time ago. And it’s been over a month since he last mentioned you.”
Juliana crossed her arms.
“These days, all he talks about is his Uncle Augustus.”
“That’s good. I think about Augustus every day myself.”
Arcturus smiled.
