“We would more hope that humanity would remember the war. So, how is humanity?” the Marshal queried.

“After the war, approximately two billion humans were migrated to the Devourer Empire, about half of all of humanity,” Fangs answered, activating the large screen of his portable computer. On it pictures of life on the Devourer appeared. The screen revealed a beautiful grassland under blue skies. On the grass a group of happy humans was singing and dancing. For a while it was difficult to distinguish the sex of these humans. Their skin was a soft, subtle white. They were all dressed in fine, gauzy clothes and on their heads they all wore beautiful wreathes of flowers. In the distance one could make out a magnificent castle, its appearance clearly modeled on something from an Earth fairytale. Its vibrant colors made it look as if it were made of cream and chocolate.

The camera's lens drew closer, giving the Marshal a chance to study these people's countenance in detail. He was soon completely convinced that they were truly happy. It was an utterly carefree happiness, pure as crystal. It reminded him of the few short years of innocent childhood joy that pre-war humans had experienced.

“We must ensure their absolute happiness,” Fangs said. “It is the minimum requirement for raising them. If we do not, we cannot guarantee the quality of their meat. And it must be said that the Earth people are seen as food of the highest quality; only the upper class of the Devourer Empire society can afford to enjoy them. We do not take such delicacies for granted.” Fangs paused for a moment. “Oh, Marshal. We found your great-grandson, sir. We recorded something from him to you. Do you care to see it?”

The Marshal glimpsed at Fangs in surprise, then nodded his head.

A tender-skinned, beautiful boy appeared on the screen. Judging by his face he was only 10-years-old, but his stature was already that of a grown man. He held a flower wreathe in his feminine hands, having obviously just been called from a dance.

Blinking his large, shimmering eyes, he said, “I hear that my great-grandfather still lives. Then I ask only one thing of you, sir. Never, ever come see me! I am nauseated! When we think of humanity's life before the war we are all nauseated! What a barbaric life that was, the life of cockroaches! You and your soldiers of Earth wanted to preserve that life! You almost stopped humanity from entering this beautiful heaven! How perverse! Do you know how much shame, how much embarrassment you have caused me? Bah! Do not come looking for me! Bah! Go and die!” After he had finished, he skipped to join the dancing on the grassland.

Fangs was first to break the awkward silence that followed. “He will live past the age of sixty. He will have a long life and will not be slaughtered.”

“If it should have anything to do with me, then I am truly grateful,” the Marshal said, smiling miserably.

“It does not. After learning about his ancestry, he became very depressed and filled with feelings of hate toward you. Such emotions prevent his meat from meeting the standards,” Fangs explained.

As Fangs looked at these last few humans before him, genuine emotions played across his massive eyes. Their spacesuits were extremely old and shabby and the many years past were etched into their faces. In the pale yellow of the Sun they looked like a group of rust-stained statues. Fangs closed his computer and, full of regret, said, “At first I did not want you to see this, but you are all true warriors, well capable of dealing with the truth, ready to recognize,” he paused for a long while before continuing “that human civilization has come to an end.”