The No. 1 Hunfen King in the Entire Server [Interstellar] Chapter 81

At the Second Research Base on the main star, the tense and oppressive atmosphere finally drove a blond researcher to his breaking point. His breath came in rapid gasps as he widened his eyes and screamed, “Impossible! This is impossible! How could anyone create a black hole?!”

His female colleague, her expression filled with concern, tried to calm him down. “Garen, take a deep breath.”

Garen lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot, and his voice trembling. “No, Jennifer, I can’t calm down. I refuse to believe that such a gravitational force was created by a single person. It’s impossible! How could Laixiya have created a black hole?”

Jennifer looked at her rambling colleague with sadness in her eyes. “Garen…”

He muttered to himself, “Impossible. Impossible.”

Jennifer clenched her teeth and shook him back to reality. “Garen, nothing is impossible. Denial won’t solve anything.” Her gaze was sorrowful. “Laixiya isn’t just a person—she is the final product of the God-Making Project. A genius capable of developing the Aurora’s warp drive, breaking through to faster-than-light speeds… why wouldn’t she be capable of creating a black hole?”

Garen’s eyes were bloodshot. He let out a shaky, almost deranged laugh. “So, is she planning to drag us all down with her?”

Jennifer bit her lip, unable to utter another word.

Garen kept laughing, regret flashing in his eyes. “She’s a lunatic. A complete and utter lunatic. Why did the Empire ever think she was a puppet they could control?”

Jennifer took a step back, her face pale. She found herself asking the same question… Yes, why?

Deep within the valley, at the main base, butterflies flitted over a sea of flowers. When Mother Lin set foot here once more, the golden sunlight momentarily stung her eyes. As she gazed over the vast hills of hyacinths, a dazed expression crossed her face.

“It’s been a long time, Vivian.”

Mother Lin stopped in place and looked ahead at the familiar voice.

Dean Chang had been waiting for her at the entrance, greeting her with a warm smile.

Mother Lin returned the smile, her deep blue eyes filled with gentleness. “It has been a long time, Teacher.”

“Did Lin Heng not come with you?” Dean Chang asked as they walked into the base.

Mother Lin shook her head. “No. As soon as he arrived on the main star, the Lin family called him over.”

Dean Chang sneered. “You mean the all-powerful Imperial Grand Judge? I’ve never understood how someone as refined as Lin Heng could be his biological son.”

Mother Lin chuckled softly. “The elderly tend to have more rigid ways of thinking.”

Dean Chang scoffed. “Don’t try to speak well of him. Back then, he didn’t hesitate to give me a hard time. It still amazes me—he and Bernard always opposed each other like fire and water, yet that one time, they actually stood together.”

Mother Lin sighed bitterly and fell silent.

The complete fallout between Father Lin and son had stemmed from that parliamentary vote. Even after living on Hailan Star for so many years, she still didn’t know how to face her father-in-law.

She had watched Xu Wanzhi grow up with her own eyes—from the very moment he was placed in a test tube, she had documented every change he underwent, day after day. After years of companionship, she had long since come to see him as half her child. That meeting had been cruel and cold, and the only thing she could do was sit in the shadows, clutching her ballot, fighting to secure the last shred of life for that poor, innocent child.

When they arrived inside, Mother Lin noticed something unusual. “Why is no one here?”

Dean Chang lowered his head and let out a long sigh before replying hoarsely, “Something happened at TI90.”

“TI90?” She was sharp, and almost instantly made the connection. “The Black Tower?”

Dean Chang pressed the button for the third floor and said, “Yes. The Black Tower is now generating an incredibly terrifying gravitational force. If it isn’t stopped, before long, it will form a black hole large enough to swallow the entire solar system.”

Mother Lin stood frozen, her eyes widening in shock. “Then has the Empire sent anyone into the Black Tower yet?”

Dean Chang’s expression remained grim, his voice weary and aged. “They have. It was useless. They can’t activate the control panel to shut it down. Laixiya set the access level… to 3S.”

The elevator doors opened.

The familiar yet distant hallway of the third floor stretched before Mother Lin once again.

This place had been abandoned for a long time, covered in a fine layer of dust.

Mother Lin’s mind was still blank from Dean Chang’s words. She stood rigidly for a long time before regaining her thoughts and rasping, “Teacher, was this all Laixiya’s doing?”

Dean Chang was silent for a moment before saying, “Yes. The Black Tower has been drawing energy from the planet’s core. Not long ago, it reached the activation threshold.” The old man lifted his head and said, “This plan was set into motion a long time ago.”

Mother Lin’s mind had already shut down. She followed Dean Chang through the door like a lifeless husk.

Inside, the machines had not been active for years, yet they remained spotless, untouched by even a speck of dust.

The blue liquid inside the test tube had long since lost its luster. Its radiation had been completely depleted, leaving behind only a lifeless pool of water.

Dean Chang pointed at it and said, “Vivian, look. This is where we created a god.”

Mother Lin’s lips trembled, her eyes turning red.

Dean Chang’s gaze stretched far away as he spoke calmly. “Wanzhi, Laixiya… the Empire has always been so arrogant in its assumptions about them.”

“At first, they treated Laixiya as nothing more than a doll to be controlled. They dictated her education, her social life, her career, her marriage. Laixiya never resisted—not once—because she didn’t care. She merely watched everything unfold with quiet indifference. This divine detachment was almost merciful.”

“But some in the Empire mistook that mercy for weakness. They grew complacent. They pushed further and further. Do you remember that monstrous proposal?”

“In order to create more 3S-level psychic power users, they decided Laixiya should abandon her work in the scientific field… and become nothing more than a breeding machine. Because, to them, that was in the ‘best interest’ of humanity.”

Dean Chang no longer reacted with the same youthful fury, but when he brought up this matter, his tone was still deeply laced with sarcasm. He spoke calmly, “Fortunately, at the time, there wasn’t enough Ti90 extract, so the proposal didn’t go through. Otherwise, humanity might have perished along with her long ago.”

Mother Lin’s expression grew sorrowful.

“Laixiya was never the obedient, gentle doll they imagined her to be. She was a blade, the most dangerous weapon.”

“The Aurora explosion was a slap in the face, one that completely woke up those self-righteous fools.”

Dean Chang continued,

“The ridiculous part is that, after realizing their mistake in understanding Laixiya, the Empire immediately replaced one bias with another when looking at her child. It was like jumping from one extreme to another. They had once been convinced of Laixiya’s weakness, and now they were certain of Wanzhi’s madness. They believed that sooner or later, Xu Wanzhi would repeat his mother’s mistakes and bring irreparable disaster to the Empire. So, they decided to execute him.”

“Bernard and his group, following their own assumptions, imposed a set of emotions on him. They decided that he was selfish, narrow-minded, and harbored hatred for the Empire—that he was a ticking time bomb.”

Dean Chang let out a dry, mocking laugh, his voice hoarse. “But that child never hated.”

As he said this, he coughed violently, his expression growing even more aged.

“I know him too well.”

“To the Empire, the explosion was earth-shattering. But to him, it was just fireworks. The blood feuds and painful past that outsiders imagined— to him, they were just irrelevant memories. I’ve always been curious: why do Bernard and his people insist on trying to understand their own creation through human perspectives?”

Mother Lin lifted her gaze, her eyes calm.

It felt like just yesterday that the boy had lain quietly sleeping in the test tube.

After a long silence, she closed her eyes and murmured, “Yes, that child never loved or hated.”

That was also why she opposed Lin Jing falling in love with Xu Wanzhi.

She had recorded his growth, understood that his coldness stemmed from his very blood and genes—it had nothing to do with childhood, origins, or even personality.

Dean Chang’s back stiffened. After a moment, he glanced at her and said, “The Empire has been summoning me to District One. I refused. I don’t want to see those people ever again.”

Mother Lin hesitated. “But, Teacher…”

Dean Chang seemed to know what she wanted to say. “Don’t worry. Wanzhi will stop the Black Tower.”

Mother Lin froze, her words caught in her throat.

Dean Chang gently placed his fingers on the small test tube and said softly, “Vivian, your son must have told you what happened between them, right?”

Mother Lin pressed her lips together and nodded.

Dean Chang smiled faintly. “If you knew what happened in their first game, perhaps your thoughts would change a little.”

***

TI90 was still some distance from the main planet, and its gravitational influence had yet to reach here.

Ordinary citizens carried on with their busy but mundane lives, yet the upper echelons of society were thrown into chaos, scrambling in panic.

Lilith was peeling an apple for her grandmother. Outside, birds chirped in the garden.

Her grandmother was chatting with her second uncle. Lilith lowered her gaze, listening absentmindedly to the familiar yet distant words. But the moment her uncle uttered “Laixiya,” her knife slipped, slicing her thumb. Blood dripped down.

“Miss?!” The maid arranging flowers nearby gasped in shock and rushed over to disinfect and stop the bleeding.

Lilith, as if waking from a nightmare, shook her head in a daze. She refused the maid’s help, stood up, and walked to the window.

She stopped a meter away from her grandmother, hesitating for a long time before softly calling, “Grandmother.”

The elderly woman sat in her wheelchair, her back rigidly straight. Despite her old age and disability, the former matriarch of the Osmond family had lost none of her imposing presence.

“Lilith, you heard, didn’t you?” Her grandmother put down the phone, picking up a framed photo. She gently wiped its edges, her voice hoarse and mocking. “I told you Bernard would regret it. Your father will regret it.”

Lilith’s lips tightened, her fingers clenching.

“If, back in that meeting, they had chosen to let Laixiya’s child die, then all of humanity would be perishing with him now. He has finally realized just how arrogant he was.”

The old woman spoke of Bernard not as her son, but as if he were an enemy she longed to tear apart.

Her shoulders trembled violently. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to the cold edge of the photo frame, tears seeping into her dry, wrinkled skin. “He’s finally paying the price.”

Lilith, as if in a dream, murmured, “The price?”

The elderly woman’s whole body shook. Her voice, half-laughing, half-crying, carried a bitter, bloodstained sarcasm. “Yes, he’s finally paying the price.”

“I raised Bernard myself. I know exactly what kind of person he is. He doesn’t need power, doesn’t need family, doesn’t even need praise or flattery. He’s like a madman, living in his own world, convinced that everything he believes is ‘right.’ Strip him of everything, shatter him to pieces—none of that would be punishment to him. The only way to truly drag him into the abyss is to force him to kneel and admit he was wrong.”

District One.

The political, military, and scientific communities were all in turmoil.

Lin Heng returned to the Lin household after many years, never expecting it would be for the sake of a child. Years ago, he left because of Xu Wanzhi. Now, he was back because of Lin Jing.

Recalling what his wife had told him, Lin Heng sighed softly.

Unlike his wife, who had lost sleep over this matter, he had no intention of interfering with Lin Jing’s decision.

The affairs of the young should be left for them to handle themselves.

He walked through the estate with familiar ease and ascended to the second floor. His father, as meticulous and rigid as ever, sat at the long table.

Lin Heng straightened his posture and greeted, “Dad.”

The glow of the lights fell upon the silver strands in the Grand Justice’s hair. The Lin family patriarch merely held his pen, not even glancing up as he said, “Do you know that Bernard is now in the hospital, his life hanging in the balance?”

Grandfather Lin continued indifferently, “He had already regained consciousness, but after yesterday’s events, he was so enraged that he collapsed again. Serves him right.”

***

The explosion at City Hall and the arrival of Eternal Night completely shattered the will of Rode’s residents.

While Filna Star blocked out radiation, it also chose to block out light—panic, violence, chaos, and fear descended upon this place.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly.

On this backward planet, the streets of Rode’s main city were still teeming with an alarming number of homeless people.

In the unending darkness, the Oasis became like a beacon drawing in fireflies, attracting all the homeless as they surged forward, screaming, shouting, and waving banners high in the air, begging for refuge.

This only made the already chaotic situation inside the Oasis even more frantic and desperate.

When Lin Jing stepped out of the base building, everyone on the street was rushing about in a hurry.

The air still carried the scent of gunpowder.

Bored, he played with his phone. The last message he had received was from Lu Xingyu, who excitedly shared that he had finally won over his goddess and would treat Lin Jing to a meal when he returned. After that, all outgoing communications had been cut off.

Lin Jing lowered his gaze and chuckled. “Not easy at all.”

His conversation with Brandt had ended in a long silence.

Neither of them spoke again. Brandt had asked him to persuade Xu Wanzhi, but Lin Jing found it ironic and absurd. Persuade him to do what? Xu Wanzhi had never hated the Empire to begin with.

All the love and hatred were nothing but the delusions and projections of those people, forcefully imposed upon him.

Lacking the ability to empathize, incapable of loyalty—how could he possibly hold such deep-seated resentment?

They really shouldn’t take themselves so seriously.

Lin Jing was eager to return home, but at a certain turn on his way back, he ran into someone.

A familiar voice came from beside him.

“The simulator says Filna Star might see some rain later.”

The woman’s voice was soft and seductive, her breath carrying a hint of roses.

At the same time, a small, cold gun pressed against his back.

Lin Jing stopped in his tracks and lifted his head, his gaze cold as he looked at the woman under the streetlights.

She wore a red dress, a narrow black belt cinching her waist. Boots on her feet, her features strikingly vivid. “Long time no see, Lin Jing.”

After stepping out of the game, Elena’s appearance had hardly changed. Her curly hair cascaded down her back like a red coral swaying in the ocean depths.

When she smiled, her eyes gleamed like the aurora.

***

“Where are you taking me?”

The Oasis was in a flurry of activity, and the experimental base was deserted.

Lin Jing clutched a journal, following behind Elena.

Given his current state, he was no match for an SS-rank mental power lunatic, so he sensibly gave up on resisting.

The woman who used to chatter at him like a lunatic in the Ancient Codex hadn’t gotten any saner.

Dana twirled a small gun in her fingers, lips curling into a smile. “What do you think? Obviously, I’m taking you to your death.”

Lin Jing: “Oh.”

Dana continued, “Filna Star rarely sees rain, but when it does, it lasts for days. I remember the last scene in that game—it was a rainstorm too, wasn’t it? The Carnian Epoch rain that lasted two million years. Shame I never got to see it.”

Lin Jing had no intention of reminiscing with her.

Dana, unfazed by his reaction, smiled. “An even greater shame is that I didn’t kill you back then. But that’s fine—I can be much more thorough now.”

Lin Jing lifted his head, speaking slowly. “I don’t recall ever doing anything to wrong you.”

Dana kept walking toward the base center. “You didn’t. But do you really need a reason to drag someone down with you?”

“Drag someone down with her.” Lin Jing turned the phrase over in his mind and finally understood—this woman standing before him had lost her sanity.

The road to the base center was agonizingly long. The place was deserted, and Lin Jing had no idea how Dana had gained access. Yet, she moved through the facility unhindered. Passcodes, fingerprints, DNA—she passed every layer of security with ease.

She led him all the way to the descending passage at the base’s core.

At the end of the passage laid the first-generation Aurora.

Dana lowered her head, her curly hair cascading over her face, casting shadows. Her pale fingers pressed the down button, and without caring whether Lin Jing wanted to listen, she began speaking: “My father used to work here.”

She lifted her gaze to the sterile white mechanical ceiling, her voice laced with distant nostalgia and bitter sarcasm.

“Aurora consumed half of his life’s efforts. He used to lift me up, proud and excited, telling me how great his work was. When I was little, I dreamed of becoming an outstanding engineer, just like my father.”

“But who would have thought—the very thing he devoted everything to was what ultimately took his life.”

Lin Jing listened silently, offering no comments.

Dana continued, “I still remember that day. My mother woke up early, made breakfast, and smiled as she took me to brush my teeth and wash my face. She even braided my hair and dressed me up nicely. She told me it was a special day, that my father was a hero, and that he would wave to us from the television.”

“After breakfast, we sat on the couch, watching the broadcast without blinking. The buildup was long and elaborate, but my mother didn’t find it dull at all. She excitedly introduced every speaker to me. She said my father would show me the farthest depths of the universe. She told me to be proud of him.”

Dana’s expression flickered briefly before she let out a soft laugh. “And yeah, I saw it. The depths of the universe turned out to be a massive vortex, like a gaping maw that devours life.”

“Aurora exploded in that vortex. The sound couldn’t travel through space, but at that moment, my ears felt like they had gone deaf from the silence.”

“It took my father.”

“Then, later, it took my mother too.”

“It destroyed my family. And it completely destroyed me.”

“I watched that footage over and over, like a lunatic, unable to understand.”

She lifted her head, eyes tinged with red, and smiled.

“Tell me—why?”

Her voice was soft, but each word carried a weight that felt like the edge of a blade.

“My father—what did he do wrong? What did I do wrong?

“Why did we deserve this?”

“The researchers must have gone mad too, arguing heatedly right in front of me. And that’s how I learned the name Laixiya.”

“I spent years investigating the truth. I learned how Laixiya was created, how the Empire used her, and how she was driven insane. But so what? In that incident, she wasn’t the only one who went mad.”

She finished the last sentence coldly, yet the heavy, crimson tear in the corner of her eye never fell.

The small gun pressed against the door. The final door suddenly glowed a bright red, displaying an old name—Bayer.

Dana stepped forward, and Lin Jing followed behind her, once again seeing the first-generation Aurora.

It still laid there silently, like a sleeping behemoth, its surface reflecting a sharp, icy light.

Dana stopped and pressed her gun against the thin barrier surrounding it.

The moment she pulled the trigger, an explosion shattered the silence. Countless fragments flew into the air.

Lin Jing never expected that one day, he would sit in Aurora’s co-pilot seat under such circumstances.

“What are you trying to do?”

Dana smirked. “Let’s have another explosion.”

Lin Jing tilted his head. “Like the one you planted on the submarine in the game?”

Dana: “Exactly. Though, unfortunately, Xu Wanzhi found out.”

Aurora took off. The first-generation model was incomplete, and in his current predicament, Lin Jing had no time to appreciate its internal structure. As his view gradually elevated, his fingers clutched Laixiya’s diary tightly.

Dana: “I can’t kill Xu Wanzhi. But I can make him feel what I felt back then. I’ll let him watch as his dearest dies in a madwoman’s revenge.”

Lin Jing: “That explosion killed more than just your father.”

Dana tilted her head. “Yes. And this one will kill more than just you.”

Lin Jing sighed. “Do you think you’ll succeed?”

Dana’s tone was as casual as if discussing the weather. “Success or failure, it is what it is. After so many years, there should have been a conclusion by now.”

The altitude of their ascent had already surpassed the pipeline.

Suddenly, Dana said something cryptic. “Actually, Survivor could have been a killing game from the start.”

Lin Jing was startled. “What?”

Dana controlled the mecha and said, “The initial version had no KK, no matching system—just a bunch of unevenly skilled players thrown into the game, left to figure things out on their own. The core principle of Survivor is radiation. But back then, the institute hadn’t determined how much the radiation should be weakened. During the experimental phase, the intensity was strong enough to directly separate a player’s consciousness from their body. At that time, if someone committed suicide in the game, they would actually die in reality.”

Lin Jing murmured, “Suicide… death?“

Dana chuckled. “To be precise, it wasn’t really suicide—it was a breakdown. Mental power is tied to a person’s thoughts and emotions, linked to their intangible consciousness. Under that level of radiation, if a player emotionally collapsed and ended their life in the game, they would die outside of it as well.”

Lin Jing took a deep breath. “That’s impossible. No one would actually kill themselves in a game.”

Dana nodded. “Exactly. No one would take a game that seriously. It’s all fake. It would take an extreme emotional collapse for someone to do that. And even then, they’d have to have an incredibly high synchronization with the game world. Only players whose mental power resonated highly with radiation—at least S-rank—would even be capable of that. That alone eliminates most people.”

Lin Jing eyed her warily. “Why are you telling me this?”

Dana smiled faintly, not answering directly. Instead, she said calmly, “I tracked Xu Wanzhi into the game back then to use this method to kill. But I didn’t expect the system to have already been reformed. They had weakened the radiation several times over.”

Her red lips curled slightly as she said coldly, “Probably because of that murder case back then.”

She tilted her head. “Lin Jing, when I said Xu Wanzhi was dangerous, I didn’t just mean that he himself was a madman. I meant the environment around him.”

Now, Dana spoke as if chatting with an old friend. “There were actually a lot of people who wanted Xu Wanzhi dead. Years ago, many in the main star’s research base hated Laixiya. Most of them were involved in the God-Creation Project, core members of the mental power research base, holding all the secrets of Survivor and TI90. The explosion of Aurora humiliated and enraged those scientists, so they secretly retaliated against her child.”

“Xu Wanzhi was once forcibly wiped of all his memories in a game. Players won’t break down and commit suicide—but what if he lost his awareness and truly believed he was a character in the game? Hahaha… But obviously, that plan failed.”

“When the truth came out, the research institute’s director was furious. Those responsible were punished, and Survivor underwent a massive overhaul.”

At the moment Aurora left the base, the auroras of Oasis lit up the sky.

Sure enough, it started to rain on Filna Star.

The torrential downpour agitated the vagrants outside even more. They pounded on the doors, screaming wildly, as if they were trying to force their way in.

Lin Jing fell into silence, her words echoing in his mind. Survivor’s reformation… the final game…

Dana said, “Buckle up.”

In an instant, the entire Oasis went into alarm mode.

Amidst the heavy rain, Lin Jing vaguely heard someone inside the Oasis cursing furiously. They had been too busy dealing with the Black Tower, coordinating with the main star, and managing the restless vagrants outside. Only now did they realize that the most critical door of the base had been opened.

Panic. Screams. The black rain flowing freely. And the flashing, blinding red lights spreading in all directions.

“Get down!”

“I don’t care who you are! Get down NOW!”

A military officer’s voice came through the broadcast, cold and emotionless.

Countless red targeting lasers locked onto them—heavy artillery, poised to fire.

From above, Lin Jing saw scientists staring up at them in horror and despair. They had finally realized the truth. People poured out of the high-rise buildings, running desperately, their eyes fixed on the long-buried secret awakening beneath the earth.

Dana asked, “Guess why they haven’t fired yet?”

Lin Jing said nothing.

Dana smiled. “Probably because of your boyfriend.”

She steered the mecha forward, her eyes reflecting the storm. Fixing her gaze on the tallest tower ahead, she spoke softly.

“Laixiya built this Black Tower, too. Anything she created is dangerous. When I blew up City Hall to get in, the whole Oasis went into a frenzy—why? If my guess is right, it’s because of her.”

Lin Jing took a deep breath and calmly said, “You’re right.”

Dana burst into laughter. “How ironic. The ‘God-Creation Project’ ended up creating a demon instead.” She gripped the control stick, gazing up at the Black Tower. The smile on her face faded, her eyes dark and cold. “Then let everything the demon created perish with it.”

“What are you doing?”

Lin Jing abruptly turned his head.

Dana’s eyes gleamed crimson as she smiled. “I said—perish together.”

With that, she tightened her grip, pulling the speed control lever to its maximum. The indicators on the control panel fluctuated wildly, and the energy level spiked to its peak.

The cockpit was bathed in flashing red light.

Outside, alarm sirens screeched through the torrential rain.

Beep—beep—beep—

“Stop!”

“Stop right now!” The officer finally lost his composure, and at his command, an arsenal of heavy weapons locked onto them and fired.

The projectiles tore through the storm, friction igniting sparks and lightning, even shattering the barrier above the Oasis. But all the attacks were intercepted by Aurora’s formidable defense system.

Dana scoffed. “The only thing that can destroy Aurora is itself.”

With the barrier broken, rain poured down in torrents.

“Stop! You are not allowed in!”

But the refugees outside had already lost all reason, swarming in. Chaos broke out as soldiers attempting to maintain order opened fire.

“Aah!” Screams mingled with the gunshots.

That night seemed destined to be washed in blood.

“What do we do now?” The question came from the mayor of Rode, his expression panicked as he turned to Brandt. The governor stood in the rain, water streaming down his deep green eyes. He said nothing, his expression cold.

At the same time, a sleek silver starship launched from the base, its speed so rapid it resembled a shooting star, darting through the hail of bullets, closing in on Aurora.

“That is…?” The mayor’s gaze was drawn to it.

Brandt’s lips paled.

“Unidentified aircraft approaching.”

“Unknown energy source approaching.”

Dana glanced at the screen displaying the new arrival and smirked mockingly. “Your lover has come for you.”

Lin Jing’s deep brown eyes quietly observed the scene outside. “Will the Black Tower be destroyed?”

Dana replied, “We’ll know once we try.”

Lin Jing: “But I don’t want to try.”

Dana sneered. “You think you—” But before she could finish, her words stuck in her throat.

At the moment Aurora’s energy level reached its peak, combat mode had already activated. This was humanity’s ultimate weapon for space travel. Even its prototype was nothing to be underestimated. Piloting Aurora also required significant mental power.

Dana stiffened as she watched Lin Jing press a button on his seat, then input a string of numbers she didn’t recognize. Immediately, the flashing red lights turned a deep blue.

“Activating automatic navigation system.”

“Obstacle detected ahead.”

“Adjusting trajectory—”

Dana’s eyes widened in fury. “You—!”

Lin Jing placed Laixiya’s journal aside and said calmly, “Maybe I can’t beat you on land, but inside Aurora, I know far more than you.”

He had spent his days reading Laixiya’s notes and journals, studying her concepts, her designs, and her thoughts. Laixiya was Aurora’s creator, and he knew every hidden access code she had left in the control cabin.

Dana glared at him, her fury lasting only a moment before she let out a hoarse laugh, her voice bitter. “You and your lover are equally infuriating. But it doesn’t matter. My goal in destroying the Black Tower was simply to bury the Oasis. Bringing you along was just a way to recreate the past—to make Xu Wanzhi truly understand my memories. But now, it seems none of that is necessary.”

She raised her gun. “I just need you to die.”

Lin Jing’s fingers flew across the control panel, swiftly inputting another sequence.

Suddenly, the pilot’s seat underwent a transformation—two metal rings extended from either side, locking Dana’s arms in place, while restraints clamped onto her legs.

“What is this?”

Dana’s pupils shrank in shock.

Lin Jing took a deep breath. “I told you—I know Aurora far better than you.”

Twisted hatred contorted Dana’s face. Outside, fire and rain cast eerie reflections in her dark, hollow eyes.

Lin Jing stopped once she was fully restrained. He sat in the co-pilot’s seat, watching as Aurora autonomously adjusted its course, navigating around the Black Tower on its own.

Dana stared, then slowly realized something was wrong. She let out a wild, unhinged laugh.

“Lin Jing, you can’t control it anymore!”

“Your mental power isn’t even enough to access the piloting authority!”

Lin Jing’s deep brown eyes remained impassive. “That’s right.”

Dana straightened, her wavy hair hanging over her shoulders like coiled snakes. Her gaze was venomous. “Perfect. We’ll die together after all.”

Lin Jing: “No, we won’t. Xu Wanzhi is right behind us.”

Dana: “So what? He can’t interfere with Aurora’s trajectory, nor can he open this door.”

Lin Jing: “Are you so sure he can’t?”

Suddenly, Aurora’s control cabin emitted a chilling warning.

[Warning! Unidentified energy source approaching!]

[Warning! Energy wave exceeds system recognition limits!]

Dana’s head snapped up.

Smoke, gunfire, black rain, explosions, blood.

That night, the Oasis was a vision of h*ll.

“He’s planning to crash into it?!”

The voice belonged to Millie. Her face was pale, her small frame wavering as if about to collapse. Already overwhelmed by the crisis with TI90, this was the final blow. The Aurora incident was the last straw crushing her under its weight. She stared blankly at the white starship.

It was like a sword, reckless yet unwavering, charging straight for Aurora.

No one knew the answer.

“Has he gone mad?!”

In the control room, Dana screamed.

Lin Jing remained silent.

[Warning! Dangerous target approaching.]

[WARNING! 150 meters]

[WARNING! 100 meters!]

Lin Jing closed his eyes for a moment before finally stepping forward and pressing a few keys on the control panel. Back when Laixiya designed this emergency response system, it was precisely for situations like this—for others to have a means of defense in case Aurora was taken over.

Now, it was finally proving its worth. The moment he rose from the co-pilot seat—beep—the emergency escape hatch opened.

“Lin Jing!”

At that moment, Dana was finally consumed by pure rage. She lifted her head, her eyes so red they looked ready to bleed.

[WARNING! 50 meters!]

Lin Jing stood at the threshold.

The torrential rain engulfed everything, mingling with blood and smoke.

His long lashes trembled slightly as he gazed down in silence.

Below, the military had formed a perimeter. Beyond the circle, a swarm of frenzied vagabonds surged forward, while inside, trembling scientists teetered on the edge of collapse.

Standing at the open hatch, the fierce wind and rain whipped at the edges of his white shirt, making him look as fragile as a sheet of paper.

The people below saw him. Someone seemed to be shouting his name, but Lin Jing could no longer hear anything. He had trained for high-altitude falls and knew exactly how to position his body to land without dying. His fingers, pale from exertion, gripped the ship’s edge, his mind eerily calm.

[WARNING! 0 meters!]

BOOM!

At the exact moment the trajectories crossed, a white flash cut through the midnight sky. A thunderous explosion erupted, its shockwaves ripping through the entire Oasis. Below, everyone was caught in the blast, shielding their eyes as they stumbled backward.

Aurora wasn’t just hit. It was also being forcibly overridden by a remote energy wave. The dual impact made its system crash instantly.

The moment the system collapsed, Dana’s restraints were released as well.

The instant she regained her freedom, she grabbed her fallen gun in a single motion. Her hair was wild, her expression deranged. She charged toward the hatch, gun aimed directly at Lin Jing.

No hesitation.

Bloodshot eyes.

She pulled the trigger.

Bang!

A gunshot rang out.

But it wasn’t from her weapon.

Blood splattered across her forehead, staining her curls red. Her pupils dilated as she stared straight ahead.

Lin Jing, in the midst of his fall, felt an arm wrap firmly around his waist.

The prototype Aurora was only an experimental model, much smaller than the final version. But even so, its explosion was terrifying.

Metal fragments scattered like paper scraps, torn apart midair by the blast.

Amidst the inferno, Dana’s gun clattered to the floor. She remained in a kneeling position, staring blankly downward.

As if fate were mocking her, she suddenly recalled the image on television long ago—fireworks beyond the Milky Way. Now, she was inside one. The sound left her ears ringing.

Her vision blurred.

Tears that had never fallen finally spilled from her eyes.

They had been so close.

Xu Wanzhi had leaped from the starship, catching Lin Jing mid-air.

Dana stiffly lifted her gaze toward Xu Wanzhi, taking in the man standing tall and striking in the rain.

He looked down at her with cold indifference, his sharp aura like a blade. Even the teardrop mole at the corner of his eye seemed like a warning sign.

Just like the gun in his hand.

“Xu Wanzhi…”

She whispered his name, her voice hoarse and broken, filled with years of hatred, resentment, jealousy, and murderous intent.

Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, smudging her heavy makeup.

In the gleam of her tears, a memory surfaced—

A little girl in a pristine white dress, her dark curls bouncing.

Her father lifted her high, eyes brimming with joy.

He had told her excitedly, “Soon, Daddy will take our little princess to see the worlds beyond the galaxy! Won’t that be exciting?”

Exciting?

Dana’s dress and hair burned in the fire. Red as blood-stained roses.

At the moment of her death, her eyes grew desolate. She looked at Xu Wanzhi and trembled with a faint smile, her voice barely audible.

“Actually, I never wanted to see the depths of the galaxy.”

Bang!

Xu Wanzhi’s expression remained frigid as he fired another shot, this time at the Aurora prototype’s control console.

Accelerating its final disintegration.

At the same time, he tightened his hold around Lin Jing’s waist, descending with him through the storm.

The acrid scent of smoke filled the air, mingling with the screams and the howling wind.

Lin Jing’s body, already weakened from the energy waves, tensed in pain. He clutched desperately at Xu Wanzhi’s clothes.

The first-generation Aurora exploded completely. Amid the blinding light, Lin Jing thought he heard Xu Wanzhi’s distant voice—detached, yet as if answering an unspoken question.

Or perhaps, simply talking to himself.

“But I want to see the end of the universe.”

***

“Because my little princess has never seen anything. He’s too pitiful. When I grow up, I must take him to see the world outside. To see cities, mountains, fireworks… and the edge of the universe.”