Chapter 1589: Racing Toward Destiny

In the vast expanse of space, an orange-yellow star blazed like an eternal furnace of fire. Its surface roiled with boundless seas of flame, from which immense streams of fire erupted, forming towering pillars that soared into the void before being pulled back by the star’s immense gravity. From this inferno, powerful jets of high-energy particles and endless waves of magical energy surged outward, spraying recklessly into the infinite depths of space.

At the edge of this scorching heatwave, several tiny spacecraft—no larger than specks of dust—struggled to maintain their flight paths.

These ships had triangular hulls, each outfitted with massive thermal shields facing the star. The golden heat barriers absorbed the star’s searing rays at close range. Despite their specialized design, the edges of these shields showed faint signs of warping and vaporization. Protected by these shields, the ships pushed their thrusters to the limit to hold their positions, while their multiple sensors scanned tens of kilometers into the void.

Several dozen kilometers away from the fleet, a dazzling golden flame jet hurtled toward the star’s fiery surface.

If placed on a planet’s surface, this golden jet would rival the size of a castle. Yet compared to the star’s colossal scale, it was as tiny as a grain of dust. The star’s intense heat and gravitational pull had begun to distort and tear the jet’s shape, sending fragments and glowing halos scattering around it, as if it might disintegrate at any moment. Still, it pressed forward with relentless momentum, plunging toward the blazing celestial body with terrifying power.

Suddenly, the fleet’s lights flickered. One ship’s entire exterior went dark. Its thermal shield had been torn open by the star’s fury, allowing a surge of deadly heat to penetrate and instantly vaporize its fragile internal structure. Its engine flared briefly before dying completely. Captured by the star’s gravity, the ship plummeted into the fiery sea—turning to drifting ash before even reaching the edge of the flame.

“Tracking unit three destroyed. Confirmed crash into the star. Remaining units have taken over the mission… Current surviving units: five… Correction, tracking unit six destroyed. Remaining units: four.”

As another ship was consumed by the star’s wrath, the remaining four adjusted their formation, relying on their fragile shields to fend off the heatwave. They sent a brief status report to a relay satellite far in the distance, then resumed their pursuit of the golden flame jet.

Inside the command hall of the towering Sylvan Tree, one of Beltira’s avatars stood silently at the helm, eyes fixed on the holographic projection cast by the arcane network terminal. The image displayed a scene no one had ever witnessed before: a magnificent yet terrifying spectacle of a star burning fiercely in space, the wreckage of an alien god hurtling toward it, and unmanned probes struggling to hold formation amid the heat and gravity traps.

The atmosphere in the hall was tense and heavy. Even the world’s greatest scholars and cutting-edge experts were deeply shaken by the distant images from a faraway land.

The footage had been captured by the Omega probe, transmitted via faster-than-light signals to the Voyager satellite, then relayed—under the authorization of High King Gawain Cecil—to the Celestial Station, and finally sent through the newly established Celestial-to-Surface communication chain to the Sylvan command center. After this complex, multi-layered transmission and compatibility process, the images had arrived before Beltira.

The command center was unusually quiet, filled only with the low hum of equipment and occasional coughs. The silent images from deep space only heightened the stillness—until a sudden voice broke the silence from one of the operator stations: “Omega synchronized. Impact in forty-five minutes.”

Beltira’s gaze remained fixed on the hologram. The golden flame jet was slowly receding, its edges blurred and nearly indistinguishable beneath the star’s radiant glow. Even with Omega’s image processing and filtering, the people in the hall could only make out a faint, shimmering golden silhouette.

“Omega reports that the dispatched tracking units have reached their limit,” Gawain’s voice came through a nearby communicator. “From here on, all we can do is watch that fragment fall into the fire.”

Beltira nodded, then turned to another communication device. The indicator light on the arcane terminal’s base flickered softly, signaling an open faster-than-light channel. The Noyans, four light-years away, were waiting for news from Loren.

She pressed the send button. “Stellar approach probe reports: impact will occur on schedule. Requesting Noyan side to prepare for synchronized data reception.”

Moments later, the device buzzed with a reply. The message from the Noyans was swiftly translated by the Decoders and computational arrays into Loren’s common tongue: “Noyan received. Data synchronization ready. Subsequent procedures will proceed automatically based on the last timing data.”

Beltira exhaled quietly, though her nerves remained taut. Whether it was the Noyans four light-years away or the star “O” billions of kilometers distant, these events were far beyond her familiar scale. She could neither perceive, witness, nor control what was happening so far away—only hope for a smooth outcome. The feeling was unsettling.

Just then, another message arrived from the Noyans. It was from the “Witch” Nova: “Is everything alright on your end? Things here… the atmosphere is very tense.”

“For us, it’s tense as well,” Beltira replied. Strangely, seeing Nova’s message eased her nerves slightly. A faint smile flickered across her usually impassive face. “But at least this time, we’re close to success.”

“…When we first learned, just over ten days ago, that you had an autonomous fleet stationed near the star, we were shocked. It far exceeded what you’d previously told us. My grandfather even suspected you were fabricating good news to comfort us,” Nova said, as if trying to ease her own anxiety through conversation, or simply to pass the agonizing minutes. “And after hearing about the impending impact, many have been sleepless.”

“This is astonishing news for us as well,” Beltira said slowly. “Both the Omega fleet’s contact and the impact itself were beyond our expectations.”

“…Fate is made up of one unexpected event after another,” the witch’s words appeared on the screen. After a brief pause, new information came through: “Ms. Beltira, I have located the star in your system.”

Beltira paused, recalling Nova’s earlier mention of searching the night sky for Loren’s star. She smiled and responded across the starry gulf: “Is it bright?”

“Very bright,” came the reply, accompanied by the soft hum of machinery. “From here, it’s one of the brightest stars in the night sky…”

Beltira watched the words appear on the screen. Soon, the star named “O” would shine even brighter than now, its brilliant glow lasting several seconds. For those living on Noya, seeing this flicker with the naked eye would take another four years.

But for the magical tide observation devices, the star’s “flash” was an immediate phenomenon. In a sense, these devices were primitive faster-than-light observation systems—foundations for superluminal communication technology, though a vast gap still separated the two.

Suddenly, an operator’s voice rang out sharply: “Omega synchronized. Impact in fifteen minutes.”

This report felt like a critical threshold had been crossed. The command hall’s tension ratcheted up noticeably. Operators focused intently on their instruments, ready to receive synchronized data from Noya at any moment. Beltira quickly shifted her gaze to another arcane terminal beside the command station. Mylmina’s face appeared in the hologram, set against the backdrop of the Observer’s chamber, where magical energy flowed in shimmering currents and countless terminals hummed steadily.

“The magical tide observation device is ready,” Mylmina said calmly. Her consciousness had already spread through the pervasive magical energy, permeating the entire observation system. She could feel the surging deep-blue magic pulsing through countless runes, orbits, and force fields. She sensed the sensor arrays standing proud on the plains, the computing centers and power stations on the Ancestor’s Peak humming cheerfully—all in peak condition, awaiting this crucial mission. Countless engineers, emergency response teams, and backup crews stood vigil around key facilities, as if silently awaiting fate.

But Mylmina knew these “emergency teams” were more psychological comfort than practical backup. The window for humanity was less than ten seconds. Any failure during this brief observation would mean total loss—no chance for emergency intervention.

All they could do was prepare as thoroughly as possible before today’s operation, ensuring the magical tide observation device was at its peak. That had been accomplished over the past ten days. Yet mortals were strange creatures—no matter how little could be done, they checked and rechecked their limited resources, just to face destiny with some peace of mind.

“Omega synchronized. Impact in five minutes.”

Everything that could be done had been done. Every duty fulfilled. A streak of light from four light-years away was now resolutely plunging toward a distant, alien star. For all living on Loren, all they could do was open their eyes wide and witness the nameless alien god’s fragment bringing a dawn of light to two civilizations.

“Omega synchronized. Impact in one minute.”

A deep, resonant hum began to spread across the entire Ancestral Plain. Every sensor tower sprang to life, powered by surging energy. At the summit of Ancestral Peak, the computing center and control nodes precisely adjusted each sensor’s scanning focus according to preset protocols. Vast streams of data flowed rapidly under Milmina’s watchful gaze.

The “eye” of the planet Loren had opened. At the same moment, four light-years away, Noy also activated their observation devices, beginning to scan the direction from which the magical tide was approaching.

The principle behind observing the magical tide was this: two planets, separated by four light-years, simultaneously scan a specific region of the starry sky. By observing multiple stars at once, each planet obtains data related to the magical tide—data α and data β respectively. These two datasets, gathered at the same time, combine to form the secret key (α−β) needed to activate the protective barrier. Loren’s problem was that the data it received was not a single, definite β, but rather a blend of a suspected β and a suspected γ, indistinguishable from one another. This caused the combined key from Noy and Loren to yield two possible solutions—α−β and α−γ—with no one knowing which was correct.

But now, these two overlapping, nightmare-like datasets were about to become clear.

Across the vast cosmos, several probes on the brink of disintegration fought against the star’s gravitational pull with their engines at full power. Struggling to maintain their integrity, they kept their gaze fixed on a tiny stream of flame, no larger than a speck of dust, plunging into a sea of fire.

On the surface of a rocky planet near “Omega,” a walking probe climbed a massive boulder on the plain. It raised its optical sensors, staring at a sun blazing brilliantly in the sky—much smaller than the giant sun back home.

Deep within the Omega Steel Fortress, the Omega Mind, currently designing an alien ecosystem, suspended over half of its processing threads to focus on the data streaming back from those distant probes.

Four light-years apart, three planets, all eyes fixed on the same flash of light.

Then, the flash appeared.

“Tracking unit reporting: impact confirmed.”

A tiny pebble fell into the boundless lake of fire. The ripples it stirred were infinitesimal on an astronomical scale, yet they surpassed the precision threshold of the magical tide observation devices. This tiny disturbance was enough to convey the crucial secret key to mortal beings.

In the depths of the Observer’s chamber atop Ancestral Peak, Milmina felt the sensor array’s roaring feedback. The data from the computing center appeared vividly before her “eyes.” The two overlapping datasets still existed within the system, but in the next moment, she detected a distinct fluctuation in strength within one of them.

It was as if that strange alien god gently plucked the strings of fate, sending her a final farewell message: Friend, the path lies here.

Milmina inhaled softly and murmured to herself, “Thank you.”

A voice came through the nearby communicator: “Observer, please report the results.”

“Observer here. The key has been confirmed. Synchronized data has been sent to the Sorin Command Center and the Imperial Arcane Technology Department—we have succeeded.”

(End of chapter)