One Hundred and Twenty Star-Rings Ago – Parallel Universe

The void between galaxies was wrapped in a silence so absolute it seemed to devour thought itself.

Here, between the great star systems, celestial bodies thinned into near-nothingness—light-years upon light-years where not a single star was born.

Without the warmth of starlight, this stretch of space was colder than any other, the kind of cold that lingered in memory.

Against the pitch-black backdrop, only a few scattered rays from stars tens of millions of light-years away pierced through—motionless, like a universe frozen in time.

Everything here was dead and still.

Then, a faint gleam tore through the eternal hush—a sliver of radiant blue light gliding silently just below the speed of light itself.

Illuminated by its wake, shards of cosmic debris emerged from the dark, drifting without pattern.

Some fragments, drawn by the disturbance, shifted slightly in their aimless orbits.

Such fragments could never evolve into stars or planets.

They drifted endlessly in the corners of the void, invisible to most sensors—lethal to any traveller who strayed too close.

Yet the light moved with uncanny precision, as if aware of its surroundings, weaving gracefully through the drifting boulders.

On closer view, the glow came from the engines of a black, diamond-shaped spacecraft.

Its hull—matte and dark as the vacuum itself—melded seamlessly with the emptiness around it.

“Computer,” a low voice broke the silence. “ETA?”

[ETA: Twenty star-ring units, Captain.]

The synthetic tone of the ship’s AI filled the cabin.

Even for those accustomed to interstellar travel, the oppressive vastness of this place pressed down like a weight.

A golden-haired Teleopean stood before the main viewport, staring into the abyss.

He exhaled a quiet sigh, as if to ease the pressure in his chest.

His strange, glimmering eyes narrowed as he recalled the order that had brought him here.

Thirty-six star-rings ago, Teleopea’s intelligence division had intercepted an anomalous energy signal—its pattern matched the lost Ultimate Weapon.

In an age of endless wars, such a weapon could shift the balance of every civilization in existence.

Should it fall into the wrong hands, even Teleopea would face ruin.

Thus, under strict secrecy, High Chancellor Mien authorized an immediate retrieval mission, concealing it from the ruling Star Emperor, Lian. Xing. Lian.

As commander of the Special Operations Unit sworn to the Council, the golden-haired soldier had no choice but to comply.

His head throbbed.

He knew that if Emperor Lian ever learned of this covert mission, he would personally make his life a nightmare.

And when Lian decided to make something a “nightmare,” it was never metaphorical.

Why is it always me who gets sent to die? he thought bitterly.

For the hundred and first time, he silently cursed the Chancellor’s ancestors—one by one, to the eighteenth generation.

Feeling marginally better for it, he sighed again, long and heavy.

Then, out of the infinite blackness, a new point of light appeared on the display.

They had arrived.

Activating the internal comms, his voice—calm and without inflection—echoed through every speaker aboard:

[All crew, attention. Mission Sigma-1928 is now in effect. Report to the command deck immediately.]

Ending the transmission, the Teleopean commander turned his gaze back to the distant light, which now blazed ever brighter.

It was a Class-B high-density star—an extraordinarily rare body in this desolate region.

The star radiated immense energy, its brilliance shimmering in a piercing blue-white.

To Teleopean eyes—sensitive even to ultraviolet wavelengths—the light appeared tinged with violet, a color both beautiful and dangerous.

Fifteen planets orbited that star, most barren and lifeless.

Yet on the seventh world, faint biological signatures pulsed.

The same world from which the weapon’s signal originated.

The commander’s fingers brushed against the metallic cuff on his right forearm.

Reflected in his eyes, the star’s glow turned into something cold and sharp.

Hovering above the seventh planet was another ship—alien in design, its hull unmistakable.

Fenreiga… he realized immediately.

Thanks to the Teleopean vessel’s stealth systems, the enemy ship showed no sign of awareness.

“Computer,” he said softly, “destroy it.”

The AI obeyed without hesitation.

Moments later, a beam of annihilation lanced across the void.

The alien craft disintegrated soundlessly—leaving behind no debris, no trace, nothing at all.

It was as though it had never existed.

Such was the terror of Teleopea’s Anionic Cannon.

High Chancellor Mien’s command had been absolute: the mission was to remain classified.

No witnesses.

No survivors.

“Captain,” one of the approaching crew called as they entered the command deck, “was that weapons fire? Are we under attack?”

“No,” the golden-haired commander replied, his tone as flat as the vacuum outside. “Just an insect that needed to be swatted.

Three of you will accompany me planetside. The rest stay aboard as support.”

He paused, his expression unreadable.

“Remember—no one outside this team must ever know what happens here. That is an order.”

“Understood, Captain.”

All six troopers answered in unison.