Thanos was in no hurry to act.

Looking at the five empty seats where his subordinates should have been standing, and listening to the grim reports of the legion’s losses, Thanos felt a profound wave of exhaustion wash over him.

He had expected this weariness to bring a crushing sense of powerlessness, a feeling that all was lost. Yet, surprisingly, while he was exhausted, he was not defeated.

"My Lord, we have arrived at Melamos."

The voice of a subordinate pulled him back to reality, snapping the thread of his deep contemplation.

Melamos? Right... during the retreat from the battlefield, Thanos had indeed ordered the fleet to regroup there for repairs.

It wasn’t particularly close to the front lines, nor did it possess any formidable industrial technology capable of replenishing his armada.

"I understand. Let the men rest for now," Thanos replied.

Without waiting for the reactions of those around him, he left the warship, stepping out onto the soil of the planet below.

Sixty years ago, this world had been a desolate wasteland where life struggled to take root. It was a dumping ground for the dregs of the universe—refugees who had nowhere else to go, the victims of discrimination and exploitation.

Most didn’t come here to find a new life; they came hoping that, in their final moments, they wouldn’t end up as mere space debris. They wanted to die on solid ground. At the very least, their remains would provide a meager bit of nourishment for the starving earth.

Then, Thanos arrived.

At first, he felt nothing for the place. He had simply used it as a testing ground for one of Herta’s Curios.

It was the first location where he deployed the artifact, distributing the food it replicated to the starving masses.

They claimed they hadn’t come there to live, but when presented with the chance, who would actually choose to die?

All that talk of "accepting the end" was nothing more than a thin veil of fatalism born from having no other choice.

Consequently, the refugees’ hunger for survival was beyond imagination. They didn’t care if the food looked clean or tasted good; they would have devoured even the most revolting kitchen scraps with gusto just to see another sunrise.

Many reasoned that even if the food were poisonous, it was better to die on a full stomach.

Under Thanos’s hand, the power of the Curio flourished. Food that could multiply indefinitely was nothing short of a divine miracle for such a world. With food came the strength and the will to keep going.

Though they weren’t geniuses or scholars, the desire for a better life is a universal dream.

They cleared the wasteland, planted crops, repaired shelters, and fashioned clothes.

Life was no longer a grey blur of daily suffering. Thanos’s arrival had fundamentally altered the fate of everyone on the planet, and they were profoundly grateful.

That gratitude was directed not only toward Thanos but toward Herta as well. Thanos had never made any secret of the fact that the Curio was her creation.

Watching the transformation of the past sixty years—seeing a dilapidated settlement evolve into a bustling, vibrant city—a flicker of complex emotion crossed Thanos’s eyes.

"It’s Lord Thanos! It really is him!"

Perched atop a high building in the city, Thanos suddenly heard the voices of children.

He turned to see three youngsters of different species scrambling over a perimeter wall and onto the roof, approaching him with wide-eyed curiosity.

"He looks just like the statue! Except he’s not quite as tall," one child observed.

"I think his armor looks awesome," another added.

"Show some respect! If it wasn’t for Lord Thanos and Madam Herta, we wouldn’t even have enough to eat!" the third scolded.

Thanos was never one for favoritism. In his vision of the universe, neither the mighty oak nor the tender sprout received special treatment. But that cold impartiality was reserved for matters of his grand ideal.

In this moment, the sharpness in his gaze softened. He looked upon the children with a gentleness that made him appear, for all intents and purposes, like a benevolent benefactor.

"So, you know who I am. And you know Herta."

"Of course!" the child nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. They weren’t cut off from the rest of the galaxy, after all. "You and Madam Herta are the saviors of Melamos."

"...Is that so?"

Not cut off from the galaxy? Then how could they not know?

Thanos kept his thoughts to himself.

If they truly knew the ways of the wider universe, they would understand exactly what kind of monster he was. His deeds were no secret; his name was a word that made even the bravest tremble.

Someone had filtered the news.

It had to be Herta.

With her capabilities, placing an information blockade over a single planet—or even an entire star system—was child’s play.

Whenever something unexpected happened that worked in his favor, Thanos instinctively attributed it to Herta. It wasn’t prejudice; it was a strange kind of trust.

It was a delicate paradox—to trust someone so implicitly while simultaneously being driven to exile her from the universe.

He trusted her talent, her character, and her sense of restraint. Yet, that trust was built solely on his personal sentiment.

He knew Herta was self-aware regarding her genius, and he knew that as a scientist, she possessed enough humanity to never let her pursuit of truth endanger the cosmos.

But just as he never let personal emotion stay his hand during his tithes of blood, Thanos would never allow the "panic button" of a potential crisis to remain in someone else’s hands.

And yet, looking at his current state of absolute defeat, Thanos felt an inexplicable sense of melancholy.

"What’s wrong?" the children asked, sensing the shift in his mood.

"Nothing. I have simply lost the goal I have pursued for a long time."

For some reason, Thanos found himself being honest with them.

The children struggled to grasp his meaning. At their age, they couldn’t possibly comprehend the heavy burdens that weighed on the minds of adults.

"Can’t you just find a new one?" one suggested.

"If the bread I want most is sold out, I just have to pick a different kind of bread," another offered, trying to comfort the man they viewed as their hero in the only way they knew how.

Find a new one?

The innocence of the suggestion, so free of any real-world weight, made Thanos chuckle. It wasn’t a laugh of derision at their naivety, but a genuine spark of amusement.

Seeing him smile, the children grew excited. They felt a surge of pride, thrilled that they had managed to cheer up the great man their elders spoke of with such reverence.

After a moment, however, Thanos’s expression flattened once more. He fell silent, gazing out at the horizon and pondering things the children could never understand.

Seeing that he was no longer in a talkative mood, the children returned to their games.

They played riddles, word chains, and told ghost stories. Their boisterous laughter and the occasional sound of play-fighting weren’t an annoyance to Thanos.

He let the atmosphere of the city wash over him before finally standing up.

Perhaps it was time he paid Madam Herta another visit.

--+--

T/N: I have a Patreon!

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