Though people spoke of war breaking out, the galaxy had been embroiled in conflict for a long time.
This war had been raging for nearly twenty years; it had simply remained distant from the average person. But now, the flames of battle had truly reached everyone. After all, Star Beasts and Abominations cared nothing for codes of honor or strategic nuance—when they fought, they swarmed in unison.
When a starship fractured and exploded, the scene was so magnificent that even the most foolish photographer could capture a masterpiece for the ages. When a vessel suffered a sympathetic detonation, the expressions of the dying, even if rendered by the clumsiest painter, would provoke thoughts on the ultimate questions of philosophy.
‘Fire Wine’ tumbled through the void.
The starlit sky shimmered as the entity carved a long trail of fire through it, the flames spreading outward of their own accord. From a distance, it looked as if a giant flower bud had sprouted at the center of the galaxy, with a smaller blossom blooming beside it.
Fires burned in the vacuum, fueled by a continuous supply of immense energy. Filaments of flame reached out toward the stars.
A short while later, a golden light suddenly flashed into existence.
“I’m back.” Within the golden radiance, Lei Ting’s expression was flat. No one could tell that, not long ago, a psychic avatar of his had briefly regained its humanity.
‘Fire Wine’ seemed to be ‘looking’ at him. Its emotional reaction was so intense and complex that even Lei Ting could clearly receive the corresponding information.
“What happened?” he asked.
“...No, nothing,” Fire Wine replied quickly.
Lei Ting knew it was lying and that it was debating whether to say more, so he simply waited. After Fire Wine tumbled erratically through the vacuum for a few more rotations, it suddenly spoke, its voice echoing through their mental link.
“Some of the seats in the Consortium want to propose an alliance, at least to stabilize the Galactic Core first. That thing is man-made, you know? From the central black hole to the outer-ring weaponry—it’s all artificial.”
Lei Ting looked toward the Galactic Core in the distance.
“I know,” he replied.
The heart of the Galactic Core was a black hole, encased in a colossal spherical megastructure. Its design philosophy was to utilize the black hole’s gravity to accelerate certain forms of matter or energy. Of course, while that sounded high-end, it was essentially the most powerful, largest, and most primitive combination of kinetic and energy-based interstellar weaponry in the modern era—a long-range battery built upon the core of a galaxy. From the power of its bidirectional main weapons to the gravitational pull of the central black hole, its sole purpose was to deliver destruction to enemies using the power to shift stars and moons.
“When it was first built, its position in the war plan was as a member of the ‘Star River Defense Cannon’ array. Its designation was somewhere after 120,000, but they weren't even the primary fire support in that war... They were built only for contingencies.”
Fire Wine said softly, “Can you imagine? What kind of staggering power did ‘The Stars’ possess back then...?”
Lei Ting’s brow gradually furrowed. He imagined such a scene, and his simulated sensibility felt a heavy pressure because of it.
Over 120,000 galaxy-based long-range strike weapons—a civilization that could treat such vast territories and the megastructures standing upon them as mere ‘contingencies’ had now vanished from the universe without a trace.
Time spares no one. Whether strong or weak, individual or collective, it always takes something from you, then returns something else as compensation.
But after a civilization vanishes, does the concept of ‘compensation’ still exist? Even if it does, does it still have meaning?
Today, there were likely few people in the entire galaxy who still remembered the meaning of the term ‘The Stars.’ That megastructure, a testament to divine-like power, had become an eternal legacy.
In an artificial galaxy, man-made organisms—refined through generation after generation of genetic regulation—had developed their own civilizations.
And the beginning of it all had long since been lost to the sea of stars.
Lei Ting exhaled softly. A brief mist of frost appeared, only to be dissipated by the rolling heat waves surrounding him and Fire Wine.
“How do you know this?” he asked.
Fire Wine was not surprised by the question. Before speaking, it had already foreseen what kind of inquiry it would face.
“One day, you’ll know,” it chuckled. “Don’t be in a hurry, ‘Solar Star’... those were your own words to me.”
Having said that, it performed an emergency blink and vanished. Even though a golden light flashed in Lei Ting’s eyes as he reached out and snatched it back, the flames on the gelatinous sphere slowly died out.
It hadn't left even a shred of its will in this physical mass.
*Fine,* he thought, squeezing the clump of red slime. *Spatial locking is ineffective against the spirit.*
The slime made a squelching sound, looking like some sort of stress-relief toy. He tucked it away and turned to leave.
***
Thereafter, most factions across the galaxy sent their high-level espers.
The reason only high-level espers were sent was that most of them could perform interstellar flight or spatial transfers independently, whereas the methods used to achieve such feats would invariably crush ordinary people or low-level espers.
Regardless, the alliance plan proceeded steadily. The estimated time for the first phase was...
“Six hundred years,” Lei Ting said.
Currently, he stood at the head of a vast hall. The various seats of the Consortium flanked him—different humanoids, dragon-like cold-blooded creatures, and giant electromagnetic spheres. Originally, for the sake of a symmetrical composition, the remaining forces of the Consortium had intended to abolish the Human Union’s seat and declare that Lei Ting held full proxy over everything.
But the latter had refused the arrangement.
[“I cannot represent my civilization, and the reverse is also true,” the magnificent man had said, his voice steady and calm. “Even though I will fight for it and for them.”]
*Fine,* the audience thought.
The implication was clear: if there was blame to be had, he would take it himself; if his civilization was at fault, he would shoulder the burden for them. But if anyone wanted to move against him, they would deal only with him—and if they wanted to move against his civilization, they would have to go through him first.
Lei Ting didn't bother to count how many people at that moment thought, *Why isn't he one of ours?*
He simply said, “In an unmanned state, the maximum charging time for the ‘Star River Defense Cannon’ is roughly one thousand years. However, once the charging enters its middle to late stages, the galactic environment will be altered.”
“We must cancel its charge within six hundred years, or fire it prematurely,” he stated. “To that end, anyone who attempts to intercept this plan must die.”
This was hardly a speech. He hadn't said a single pleasantry, let alone bothered with unnecessary etiquette or tributes.
And the listeners all knew that compared to when he first arrived at the ‘Ringworld,’ this man had changed too much.
After leaving the hall, Lei Ting saw Angye waiting outside.
“Still haven't contacted that fungus?” he asked casually.
Angye followed him, his voice somewhat low. “No. And something happened to the Ringworld’s internal network.”
“I know.” Lei Ting nodded. He recalled the information he had heard from within ‘Chemister.’ “I have a general idea of what happened.”
“Then what exactly—” Angye asked subconsciously.
He then abruptly silenced himself and lowered his head.
Lei Ting stopped and watched him for a moment.
“Interesting. You didn't particularly like it, nor did you view it as a special individual,” he said flatly. “Your heart has simply grown soft. I didn't know your mission on the Ringworld had such a function.”
Angye broke into a cold sweat.
But Lei Ting did not pursue the matter. He simply continued walking. “You now govern over a dozen Ringworld sectors. Any thoughts?”
“I used to think being far from the Federation was great. Now I feel... well, who knows when it will all be gone,” Angye whispered. “Just like my home...”
Stars, like people, were merely fleeting moments on a cosmic scale.
“Sometimes I think about how, in order to find the beautiful days of the past, I’ve wasted so many years in a future I once looked forward to,” he said. “I didn't think this way when I was a boy... Back then, I was full of hope. I wanted to be a better person, together with the companions I had chosen...
“Looking back, my thoughts then were mainly about living the life I wanted, not about ‘companions.’”
Lei Ting knew who the ‘companion’ this fellow spoke of was. He tilted his head and blinked, but didn't respond.
Yet Angye suddenly laughed. He turned his head and looked up, using those ‘eyes’ filled with white fungus to stare at Lei Ting.
“If we measure you and me through him, we are probably no different,” he said. “Whether it’s you or me, we are both just the past he discarded.”
Lei Ting paused briefly, not looking at him.
“...But he is already dead.”
Angye spoke again. He ‘stared’ at the side of Lei Ting’s face. His gaze instinctively swept past those star-like eyes, and he felt a sharp, direct pain strike his mental strength.
“How did he look at you when he died?” he asked. “Did he beg you? Or did he smile and touch your face, as if you were giving him... a release?”
Amidst the blowing energy winds, Lei Ting seemed to have turned into a statue, motionless.
Angye’s smile slowly faded.
“...It seems he really is dead,” he whispered. “You killed him.”
“I killed him,” Lei Ting said, his voice bone-chillingly cold. “And I still hold the same view: I set him free. It is for the best.”
“...” Angye silently stepped back half a pace.
“Even knowing that the current you won't bother with unnecessary things, like my offense... because I am still useful to you and the Human Union...”
The white-haired man let out a long breath, as if this retreat had allowed him to dodge death. “...But honestly, to me, this is still a bit terrifying.”
“I thought you had done crueler things,” Lei Ting said calmly.
“No, what I mean is...”
Angye shook his head slightly.
“...This might be considered a sort of Uncanny Valley effect,” he said. “Over these years, you always make me feel like you are no longer that person—not even a ‘human’ anymore. I saw what you were like when you were young. Do you remember?”
As he spoke, he suddenly gave a bitter laugh. “Of course you remember. The memory of a ‘Double S’ surpasses everything. But the you of back then is too far from the you of now.”
Indeed—a passionate, sincere, fledgling warrior; a young man whose heart was full of kindness; a good person who could make everyone trust him from the very first glance.
Not a single one of those traits applied to the current ‘Solar Star.’
“Many people said you were a saint... once,” Angye said. “Even Yondel said so. Back then, he believed that as long as you could grow up normally, you would surely become the hope of this starry sky.”
“I never heard him say that,” Lei Ting said. “Probably because, now, that hope has been shattered.”
“No, hope is still there,” Angye countered quickly.
He sighed deeply, as if finally letting go of something.
“Hope is still there. I hope it exists now, existed then, and will exist forever,” he said, deep black and reddish veins gradually spreading around his eyes. “Even though I know that long ago, when I was blinded by conceit, arrogance, hatred, and power, I was already destined never to see it again.”
