Year: 2027
Four years had passed since the prototype incident. Four years of redesigns, failures, triumphs, canceled missions, and nights where Misaki Haruto stared at the stars from his dorm window wondering whether they were glaring back at him or waiting patiently.
AstraLink did not surrender to the failure of Prototype 07. They rebuilt, iterated, and streamlined. Space was unforgiving, so their machines had to become sharper than fear itself.
The result was a creation that would define the next era of orbital engineering.
Hikaru-09.
A one-man repair vessel, stripped to the essential bones of survival and perfected agility. Sleek as a blade, swift as a comet.
Only two pilots on Earth had passed the brutal certification to operate it:
Misaki Haruto.
And Junpei Ito.
Their names were etched quietly into the internal records of AstraLink—rookies no longer, but pioneers of a new design philosophy:
If the machine fails, let the human still live.
And today, in 2027, the two pilots woke aboard the research vessel Orion-1—the pride of Earth's interplanetary science division.
Orion-1 was not just exploring.
It was piercing the unknown.
The crew's mission:
Reach and study E-18-b, an Earthlike planet detected through long-range gravimetric mapping.
The journey would normally take centuries.
But Orion-1 carried something humanity had never attempted before:
Jump-Drive Navigation — a high-risk experimental method that allowed a vessel to "fold" its path through micro-rifts in spacetime. The ship could hop across vast distances, skipping like a stone across a dark cosmic lake.
The jump had hurled them three light-days away from Earth.
And into a void.
A region of space known only in old astronomical records as:
The Great Emptiness.
A place where no stars shone.
No galaxies twinkled.
No radio noise existed.
Only blackness.
The kind that swallowed imagination.
Even Misaki—who had dreamed of space since childhood—felt something in his stomach twist when he first gazed out the observation panel. It was too quiet. Too still. Space wasn't supposed to be silent. Cosmic radiation, micrometeorites, cosmic dust—space always hummed. But this place felt like the universe had forgotten to exist here.
Junpei Ito elbowed him lightly. "Don't look at it like that, dude. It'll stare back."
Misaki exhaled through his nose. "There's nothing to stare back. That's the problem."
Commander Kisaragi's voice crackled over the intercom—older now, still sharp, the same woman whose calm had anchored them through every simulation and every brush with disaster.
"All crew report to briefing. Hikaru-09 deployment in forty minutes. Haruto, Ito—suit up."
They exchanged a glance.
This was it—their first real mission using the new vessel.
They followed the corridor to the launch bay, passing engineers in zero-G harnesses, screens tracking anomalies in the Orion-1 hull, scientists whispering nervously. Something about this sector made everyone speak a little quieter.
The damage report was already waiting on a holo-panel.
Subject: Hull Breach – Section D12
Cause: High-density micrometeorite field
Severity: Critical but localized
Repair Required: Immediate
Junpei whistled. "That's a lot of red."
Misaki rubbed his chin. "Commander said this region has 'rock density beyond predicted models.' I guess the universe didn't read the model."
Alvarez—gruffer, more silver in his beard now, still the most paranoid engineer in the sector—strode into the room with a tablet in hand.
"You two are the only ones cleared for Hikaru-09. The research ship can't afford another hit before we jump again. You patch this hole, or we lose pressure in half the lower deck."
Junpei raised a hand. "Any chance we do this together?"
Alvarez shook his head. "Hikaru-09 is single-seat. We only have one unit active. Haruto deploys first. Ito stays on comms and monitors telemetry."
Misaki nodded without hesitation. "Understood."
But Junpei's jaw tightened. He wasn't worried about danger. He was worried about this place—the empty dark outside.
AstraLink had trained them for years, but nothing trained a person to face black nothingness.
They suited up in silence. Not fear—respect. Space demanded reverence.
Inside the launch bay, Hikaru-09 stood waiting. Silver-white, compact, cockpit shaped like an armored teardrop. Its arms folded along its back like a mantis ready to spring.
Misaki slid into the cockpit, strapped himself in, ran diagnostics.
Oxygen: optimal.
Thrusters: stable.
Hull integrity: 99%.
Comms: green.
Life support: stable.
Suit pressure: stable.
He exhaled. "Hikaru-09 online. Ready for deployment."
Junpei's voice came through the headset. "Don't scratch my ship."
"It's my ship too."
"If you break it, it's definitely your ship."
Kisaragi's voice followed. "Haruto… good luck. And keep your vector aligned; this sector's gravity is unpredictable."
"Yes, Commander."
The launch doors opened.
And the Great Emptiness yawned wide.
Misaki felt the familiar pull of zero-G as the clamps released Hikaru-09. He drifted out into the void like a small silver seed leaving its shell.
The Orion-1 was a monolith above him—lights illuminating parts of the hull, long corridors extending like veins across its structure. The research ship had been designed for long missions, but even it looked small against the ocean of nothing around them.
Misaki adjusted his thrusters. Hikaru-09 responded smoothly, like a living extension of his body.
"Junpei, I'm heading toward the damaged sector. No major debris on scans."
Junpei replied, "Copy that. Keep scanning every five seconds—the rocks out here don't follow polite physics."
Misaki smirked. "Noted."
He reached the fractured hull panel—a jagged wound where micrometeorites had torn through the plating. Beautiful, in a deadly way.
He extended the arms of Hikaru-09 and began measuring the breach, scanning stress fractures, preparing the repair resin.
Then—
A ping on his radar.
Small.
Fast.
"Misaki—look out! Vector eleven!"
He saw the glint—then bang.
A tiny rock slapped the side of Hikaru-09, spinning it slightly. Nothing serious. A bruise on steel.
"Junpei, I'm fine. Just a little love tap."
"You call that love? Space is mean."
Misaki rotated back to position.
Ping.
Another.
Ping.
A third.
A pattern.
These weren't random. This region had density spikes—clusters of debris moving too quickly for the ship's sensors to predict.
Then the fourth rock hit him.
Hard.
Hard enough to knock Hikaru-09 completely off alignment.
The cockpit shook violently.
Misaki gritted his teeth. "Junpei—hit with a bigger one—adjusting—"
Static.
Only static.
Junpei's voice crackled through the comm like a weak ghost. "Mi—sa—ki—can—hear—?"
Gone.
"Junpei? Commander? Anyone?"
Silence.
The Great Emptiness swallowed their voices like it swallowed stars.
Misaki felt Hikaru-09 drifting—slowly at first, then faster. The debris field pushed him off course. Thrusters fought, but the force was uneven.
"I'm—losing vector… adjusting thrusters…"
Nothing.
Something hit him again.
A rock the size of a fist. Maybe larger. Fast enough to feel like a punch from a giant.
The cockpit flared white for a second.
His head slammed against the padding.
A ringing sound filled his ears, then—
Darkness.
He didn't know how long he was unconscious.
Minutes?
Hours?
When awareness returned, everything was wrong.
Alarms blinked weakly.
Warning lights dimmed.
Oxygen stable—but lower.
Comms still dead.
"Okay…" Misaki whispered to himself. "Okay. Don't panic."
Hikaru-09 was built for emergencies. Emergency rations. Toilet system. Backup thrusters. Enough supplies for 48 hours.
He checked vitals. Everything hurt, but nothing was broken.
He tried the comm again.
"Orion-1… Junpei… Commander… anyone…"
Static replied.
He swallowed dry air. "I'm drifting too far… need to adjust thrusters…"
He reached for the controls—
Something slammed into the side.
A massive impact.
Not a micrometeorite.
A boulder.
The entire vessel spun uncontrollably. Misaki's vision blurred. The world spiraled into black spirals and white streaks—
Then reality tore open in front of him.
A circular distortion.
A shimmering whirl.
A cosmic whirlpool of compressed light and vacuum.
A wormhole.
Not a theoretical wormhole.
Not a simulated anomaly.
A living, hungry rift in spacetime.
Hikaru-09 was yanked toward it like a leaf into a drain.
Misaki didn't even have time to scream before the world folded, collapsed, stretched—
And he passed out again.
---
He woke on dirt.
Real dirt.
Earth… but not Earth.
The smell hit him first—wet soil, forest rot, old wood. The air tasted heavy, thick with moisture. His cheek pressed against moss.
He groaned and pushed himself upright. His suit was torn in one sleeve, his helmet cracked but intact enough to have protected him during descent.
A descent he couldn't remember.
Misaki blinked hard, trying to orient himself.
Trees surrounded him—tall, pale, twisted like skeletal fingers. Fog drifted low to the ground, curling around roots like living smoke.
The sky overhead was wrong.
Not black.
Not starry.
A strange greenish glow flickered overhead—like auroras dancing too close to the ground.
"What… where am I…"
He staggered to his feet. Hikaru-09 lay behind him—crashed, bent, half-buried. The machine that was supposed to save his life was now a broken relic.
Misaki's breath trembled.
His first thought wasn't fear.
It was loneliness.
He was alone in a world not mapped by any human chart.
He touched his comm. "Junpei… please… answer…"
Only silence answered.
The forest whispered around him.
Far off, something growled.
Not a machine.
Not an echo.
Something alive.
Something… not human.
Misaki's pulse spiked.
He took a breath, steadying himself the way he had been trained.
But this wasn't space.
This was something else.
A world.
A land.
A place where the air felt too still… and too aware.
Misaki Haruto had crossed the void.
And he had landed somewhere the living did not belong.
Somewhere whispered of in nightmares.
The land of the undead.
And the first night was already watching him.