To the Imperfect World, I Offer Doraemon

"What on earth happened here?"

When nearby communities of the gene-stealers sensed something amiss at the nest, they hurried back, only to be struck speechless by the scene before them.

"By the Emperor…"

What lay before them was no longer a functioning hive, but a ruin.

The makeshift buildings, constructed from cheap materials, were riddled with cracks. Many of these fissures had crumbled into powder under immense stress. As they ventured further in, they found the lifeless bodies of their kin strewn across the ground, many clutching their ears with an expression of pure agony.

"May the Emperor's four hands guide you back to His throne." The leader knelt, closing the wide-open eyes of one of the fallen. He refrained from imagining the torment they must have endured in their final moments.

As they ventured deeper, more corpses appeared before them. But none of them showed fear—not one.

Faith burned brightly within their hearts. They had long surrendered themselves to their belief, and no amount of death could sway them. The sight of fallen comrades only ignited a stronger flame of vengeance.

But as they moved deeper, the corpses began to change.

"That's—"

"It's one of the angels, the Emperor's angel!"

The group froze in awe before a blackened, lifeless form sprawled on the ground. Despite the faint twitches of its body, a quick inspection confirmed that even this celestial being had met its end, its final movements a mere vestige of nerve activity.

Even the angels had perished?

They allowed themselves a brief moment of mourning before their thoughts turned elsewhere. If the angels could be slain, what of their leader?

Driven by urgency, they broke into a sprint, following the trail of devastation until they reached the central chamber of the nest. What awaited them was a scene that stopped them dead in their tracks.

Their leader, their spiritual beacon, their divine link to the Emperor's will—their patriarch—lay motionless, his enormous form shattered beyond repair.

"Quick, check for survivors—now!"

The group scattered, desperately combing the wreckage for any signs of life. After some time, a few faint cries rose from among the debris.

"There's one over here!"

"And here too!"

"Another one here!"

The survivors were gathered in a corner, their injuries examined by a transmitted—a gene-seed healer. This role, endowed with the Emperor's blessing, was tasked with ministering to the gene-seed community. Despite their usual reclusive nature, even they could not remain isolated under such circumstances.

One by one, the survivors stirred under the transmitted's ministrations. The first to awaken was Putana, a boy of the fourth generation whose appearance bore no visible mutations.

"He's awake!" A purple-skinned attendant with three arms crouched beside Putana, clasping his hand. "What happened here? Who attacked our angels?"

Putana's eyelashes fluttered as he slowly opened his eyes. Struggling to form words, he whispered:

"Heretics…"

"The heretics? Those vermin spreading plagues across the hive?" The attendant's eyes darkened.

Believing Putana's words without question, the attendant gently laid him back down before moving on to inspect the others.

The second to wake was Kia, a girl scarred from head to toe. Upon opening her eyes, her first reaction was to snarl through gritted teeth: "Those damn heretics… Kill them all! Every last one of them!"

"What kind of weapon did they use?" the attendant asked. "Ordinary humans couldn't possibly harm our angels."

"Their weapons were powerful, but at first, we had the upper hand," Kia replied, her voice trembling. "Then… they used some kind of sonic weapon, something we couldn't comprehend. It tore through everything."

Her hands clenched into fists, her voice rising with fury: "When we take our revenge, let me lead the charge! I'll cut their heads off with my own hands and drain their blood as an offering to the Golden Throne!"

"You need rest first." The attendant gently patted her head before moving to another figure—Roy, who sat propped up by his comrades, clutching the four-armed scepter that symbolized their patriarch's authority.

"The heretics wielded an unknown power," Roy rasped, his face pale. "They summoned warriors who fought for their blasphemous gods. We resisted… but failed. In the end, their warriors vanished as mysteriously as they appeared."

"This was not your fault," the attendant reassured him. After all, if even the patriarch and the angels had fallen, what could anyone else have done?

"In his final moments, the patriarch told me something," Roy continued. His voice was faint but steady. "He said he had found a remnant of the dark technological age—a machine—a robot. He believed this machine had the means to cure the plague. That's why the heretics struck, to silence this hope."

"A robot?" The attendant froze, his expression unreadable. But after a moment, he nodded. "If this was the patriarch's will, we must honor it."

"Where is this robot?" he asked.

"Near the entrance to the lower hive," Roy replied. "By the alley next to Isha's home."

"Are you certain?" The attendant's eyes narrowed. "A robot… That could be dangerous."

"The patriarch's word is law. He believed this robot to be the key to salvation." Roy's voice carried conviction, despite his evident exhaustion.

The attendant hesitated only briefly before nodding. "The patriarch's will is the Emperor's will. We will obey."