Beyond the planetary exosphere, weapon pods hover in formation, awaiting orders. From my vantage point, they resemble somber, rectangular coffins. Yet to those on the planet below, if they were to look up, they’d see an array of strange constellations carving the sky with ruthless precision.

In a carefully calculated moment, the propulsion systems of all the pods ignite simultaneously, radiating blue light. They streak toward the surface, friction with the atmosphere igniting tongues of flame, blossoming like lotus petals shielding a core of blue fire.

Then, it becomes a spectacle the naked eye cannot discern. Pods disassemble midair, releasing tens of thousands of missiles, plasma cannons, particle beams, and miniature drones, each hurtling toward their predetermined targets. Electromagnetic pulses, high-energy beams, and precision detonations weave a luminous web of destruction, shockwaves rippling like heavy rain shattering a lake’s surface. Minutes later, the smoke clears. Save for a few resistant outposts reduced to craters, the planet’s appearance remains largely unchanged. A passing vessel might observe nothing amiss—except that all human activity has ceased.

As I lead the landing forces to the capital, the scene matches expectations: intact buildings, streets littered with fallen bodies—limp, like marionettes with severed strings. Unarmed, they fell without warning. The fatal wounds on their foreheads or chests, seared shut by high-energy lasers, are bloodless, sealed like grim sigils. Clean. Orderly. Preserving a final dignity before decay sets in.

“Proceed,” I command. The troops fan out, scanners active, advancing in formation.

We rely more on virtual imaging than direct vision—abstract lines and symbols stripped to essentials. Electromagnetic readings: none. Heat signatures: none. Life signs: none. Armored suits glide over street trees, lampposts, scattered hats, backpacks, and solitary shoes—urban relics crushed underfoot. Sealed within our cockpits, the sensors filter out extraneous data, making it feel as though we glide over smooth terrain.

Micro-drones uncloak, darting through the air like shifting black clouds, probing for anything missed. A startled bird darts into their midst; the swarm rearranges fluidly, allowing passage before closing ranks.

“Heads up, there’s coffee up ahead,” Milo’s voice crackles. “Latte art’s impressive. Olympus beans. Anyone fancy a cup of civet coffee?” Milo always cracks inappropriate jokes. I glance toward him—he’s pointing at a café, its sign depicting a frothy latte. Inside, antique items like clocks, old suitcases, shoe-shiners, and movie posters are on display. A chalkboard by the door reads, “Today’s Specials.” Clearly, the planet had indulged in a wave of nostalgic culture. Nostalgia infects like a virus, sweeping through star systems every few years.

“If it smells like civet, you’re lucky,” someone quips. “They’ve all been using synthetic guts—cleaner than your water pipes.” Dry laughter follows. For us, this mission is routine. Experience tells us the Quantum Intelligence’s battle planning leaves no survivors. This place is nothing more than an empty shell, a closed amusement park, a hollowed-out city posing no threat. Ours is a ceremonial sweep, a final verification of our victory—a hollow ritual to affirm humanity’s dominance in war.

My armor brushes against a hovering vehicle, toppling chairs outside the café. One table, improbably, still holds a cup of cold coffee, now spilled across the ground. I deactivate the virtual overlay, and the spilled liquid, shattered porcelain, and lip marks appear vividly, as if cutting into my eyes. Simultaneously, a high-priority directive comes through—a new order. I halt, struggling to suppress the nausea churning in my chest. The coffee morphs into crimson, spreading toward the lifeless bodies, as if to bleed in their stead. I quickly reactivate the overlay.

Catching my breath, I issue the new command: “Listen up. Mission canceled. Switch to search and rescue.”

A ripple of protest follows: “Rescue what? Trees?”

Milo sifts coffee beans through his armored fingers. “The beans say it’s dead here.”

Indeed, the battle plan of Quantum Intelligence leaves no survivors. But the micro-drones obediently shift to search and rescue mode, some scouring the skies, others delving into crevices.

“Scan all spectra,” I say, though I know it’s merely a formality.

Suddenly, a heat signature blinks on the virtual display—inside the café, under a pile of chairs and tables. A concealed, rapidly warming object. An unidentified device, using an ancient explosive technique beyond Quantum Intelligence’s detection.

“Someone brewing coffee?” Milo jokes, for the last time.

---

The day I joined the corps, I met Milo. New recruits were always hazed. I was being forced into a heavily altered simulation, while another recruit lay curled in the corner, babbling incoherently, soaked in various bodily fluids. Milo diverted the bullies’ attention, rescuing me.

He hailed from the Okinawa system—black hair, blue eyes, a standard build. He spoke with a deep nasal tone, lazily elongating his words. Unpredictable, offering cryptic opinions, he often left me bewildered. Yet over time, our differences created a dynamic balance. His madness tempered by my rationality saved us from death more than once.

We had undertaken missions in many star systems. Beyond extermination battles, most were shows of force—patrols, military exercises, or supply runs. Whenever possible, Milo would take me out to roam the streets. Casinos, hallucinatory lounges, synthetic beast arenas, extreme simulation chambers, exotic beast hunting contests, alien delicacies—the black market offered every ultimate sensory and spiritual experience. Eventually, I started exploring on my own, some places I visited could surprise him.

But what he loved most was gambling, and his luck was uncanny. I made a considerable fortune following him, though we usually spent it just as quickly. He was never flashy—wherever we went, he would win a modest sum and stop. “Don’t draw attention, don’t stir up trouble” was his rule. We both knew that the real rulers of the star systems were, on the surface, the major legions, but in the shadows, it was the syndicates. The legions controlled advanced technology, but their influence ebbed and flowed. The syndicates, though technologically behind, were deeply rooted, entwined with local networks and not easily shaken. Neither could be offended.

“So, does that mean if you wanted to ‘draw attention’ and win big, you could?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Not necessarily. It depends on timing and mood.”

I was skeptical. Gambling, one of the oldest pastimes, was all about probability. Dice rolls and card deals may seem random, but once human game rules are involved, the outcome is predetermined. No one beats the laws of mathematics, and no one changes the nature of human greed.

“You calculate probabilities. I interpret images. You see numbers. I care about meaning.”

I stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing at his feigned seriousness. “If you were really that skilled, you’d have made a fortune and left the Legion by now.”

“I can’t,” he said with a faint smile. “I want to go to Kunlun.”

He spoke with such nonchalance, yet his words left me filled with doubt. Kunlun? Was he referring to that Kunlun—the promised land of prophecy, the Shangri-La of the present, the Eden of the future? Kunlun—the pinnacle of civilization, predicted and constructed through Quantum Intelligence synthesizing all human mental activity across the Neutrinal Sea. It was the key to breaking through the millennia-long stagnation of civilization. Only those who fit the predictive model were invited to migrate, and those chosen were the elite in their respective fields. Yet, even some recognized geniuses never made the cut. The Quantum Intelligence’s calculations, like its battle strategies, were unfathomable to ordinary minds. Or perhaps there was a random element akin to gambling.

Another way to access Kunlun was through the upper echelons of the Legion. In the tense relations between the factions, Kunlun was the only platform where all sides could disarm and sit together. On the one hand, it was due to the gravity of this plan concerning humanity’s future; on the other, it was the allure of its advanced technologies.

But why did Milo aspire to it? It wasn’t something most people even considered. He didn’t answer that day.

Besides, his performance as a soldier was far from stellar. I had already been promoted twice, while he remained stagnant. On missions, I was his superior, and he dutifully fulfilled his role. Off duty, I still called him “Big Brother.”

His greatest obstacle to promotion was the psychological fitness evaluation. For a while, I was secretly involved with the military’s psychological counselor, so I managed to gather some inside information.

“He hasn’t been following the military’s prescribed psychological adjustment program.”

The program she referred to was a simulated scenario designed by the counselors. For those of us “spacefarers,” each leap across a star system left the homeworld decades or even centuries behind. Even if we were lucky enough to return, everything would have changed; if our loved ones weren’t already bones, they would be aged and withered. Humanity’s life-extension technology could never outpace the time dilation effects of relativity.

As long as humans remain bound to this mortal coil, they cannot erase the biological desire embedded in their genes. Long-term, stable relationships are the anchors of the heart, like gravitational forces maintaining the orbits of celestial bodies. Unless, like certain Legion elites, one replaced every human part piece by piece, leaving no organic material behind.

My family had passed away long ago. But their virtual avatars accompanied me. At the designated time, I would enter the simulation and spend a few weeks of civilian life with my loved ones in thirty minutes. Our childhood farmhouse stood beside a sea of dark green sorghum. Every morning, the aroma of coffee filled the house. After breakfast, my father would leave for work, while my mother stayed home to care for my baby brother. That little fellow’s cries were the loudest sound I had ever heard. Outside, the scent of fertilizer and soil lingered, and a winding path led to the town—the farthest place I had ever been. Sometimes the counselor kept me suspended in those childhood years; other times, she let me grow into the adolescence I had missed. By then, my brother had become a rebellious teenager, and through countless quarrels and reconciliations, it felt as though I had reconciled with parts of myself.

“Milo provided false information to me and the previous counselors. We couldn’t establish an effective program for him, so his psychological fitness never met the standard.”

Not only did he fall short, but he was also deteriorating, as if in a semi-dazed state every day. I was baffled. Even if the program’s efficacy was questionable, it was harmless at the very least. Why reject it? Compared to those extreme hallucinatory lounges he frequented, the counselor’s design was gentler than a rabbit.

One day, after a visit to a hallucinatory lounge, I probed. “There’s another rumor that someone has discovered a way to time travel,” I said. Milo, still in a daze, replied, “Yeah, we’re all traveling to the future, with no way back.”

“No, I mean traveling to the past and returning to the present intact.”

“Our ancestors wouldn’t approve.”

I ignored him and continued, “If it were possible, I’d teach a lesson to that petty drama club director who made me play the fool out of jealousy because Emma favored me.”

“If I could go back, I’d invest in Canberra.” Lately, rare resources had been discovered there, and land prices had skyrocketed, creating unexpected millionaires.

“No,” I said, “I’d send a message to my parents: ‘Our homeworld is about to be destroyed. Escape now.’”

Suddenly, Milo’s eyes lit up. “I’d stay in Hydra, never leaving.”

Then, I heard the name — Shaoran.