The universe is boundless, where the sun and the moon take turns illuminating the world with such brilliance. In this unimaginable cosmos, how much life truly exists? In previous millennia, civilizations created wonders of the world—the Great Pyramids of Egypt, the majestic Colosseum of Rome. But what actually happened before the history recognized by humanity today was even written?
Since ancient times, when mankind still sought refuge in stone caves and wore robes made of hunted animal skins, their eyes were always fixed upon the midnight dome. They gazed at the flickering points of light in the silent sea of emptiness, wondering if gods resided behind that dark veil. The sky was an absolute mystery, a sacred boundary that seemed to mock the mortality of creatures on Earth.
For tens of thousands of years, the land was where humans were born, fought for territory, built sects of power in the form of kingdoms, and eventually aged into dust. Yet, the desire to touch the heavens never truly extinguished within the mortal soul. Finally, the River of Time flowed, bringing forth change.
Man no longer relied on holy mantras or hollow prayers to pierce the horizon; they used the enlightenment of material laws—a path of metal alchemy and fire they called science and technology. This radiance of enlightenment reached its peak in the mid-twentieth century, an era where the Mortal World was split between two giant empires racing to establish their supremacy.
In that race for dominance, humanity succeeded in forging fire-powered flying artifacts capable of tearing through the invisible shackles of Earth, which they called the law of gravity. During that time, a metal sphere the size of a cauldron, known as Sputnik, was cast into space, becoming the first man-made object to orbit this pale blue star.
It echoed signals across every corner of the earth, as if announcing to the gods in the sky that humanity had awakened from its long slumber. It did not stop there; the arrogance and courage of man burned even brighter. They built massive metal towers, filled them with highly pure liquid fire, and launched humans of flesh and blood into the airless embrace.
Names like Yuri Gagarin were etched into the tablets of history as the first explorers of the void—mortals who witnessed the curvature of the earth from above the highest clouds. The pinnacle of this breathtaking madness occurred when the Apollo Ark Project was launched by the Star Exploration Pavilion in the far west, an assembly of high scholars known to the world as NASA.
They sent three mortal knights to cross the dark sea for hundreds of thousands of miles toward an ancient silver satellite that had always lit the nights of humanity: the Moon. There, upon a grey expanse of dust untouched since the dawn of creation, humans planted their banners. It was a step that, for one man, was but a small footprint, but for the human race, it was a giant leap across the universe.
They brought back fragments of moon rocks, analyzing them within pavilions of modern alchemy, realizing that celestial bodies were nothing more than dead matter waiting to be conquered. Decades passed since that landing on the silver plains. Humanity was no longer satisfied. NASA, along with an alliance of scholars from across the globe, began launching Divine Eyes into orbit.
They released the Hubble Telescope, a giant mirror that captured light from the past, revealing the forms of cosmic mists, the birth of new stars, and galaxies millions of light-years away. They also launched the Voyagers, soulless messengers carrying golden discs engraved with images, sounds, and melodies of Earth, cast far beyond the boundaries of the solar system into eternal darkness.
The Wheel of Time turned without mercy, indifferent to falling empires or changing leaders. Now, the human calendar has reached the year 2026. In this year, the earth is home to over eight billion souls. Cities are built from forests of steel and glass, piercing the clouds with neon lights that shine brighter than the stars at night. Streets are no longer lit by paper lanterns, replaced by the flow of electricity coursing beneath the ground.
All information, whether ancient knowledge or news from distant continents, can be channeled through small artifacts in the palm of a hand within the blink of an eye. Humanity in 2026 feels it has reached the zenith of mortal civilization. Yet, amidst all the glamour, the eyes of mankind once again turn toward the sea of stars with a thirst far more feral than in the past. The failures and the quiet years are over; a second awakening toward the cosmic void is rumbling with great force.
In 2026, the exploration of the heavens is no longer a monopoly of empires or state pavilions. Wealthy merchants and clans of tech-nobility have intervened, forging their own metal arks with abundant riches. Giant corporations launch their rockets, which are capable of landing back on earth as perfectly as a sword being sheathed—something considered a mere fantasy in previous decades.
The NASA Pavilion itself has reactivated its grand design, a massive operation named the Artemis Mission. If Apollo was a brief visit to touch the moon, Artemis is a campaign to stay. In this year, within tightly sealed research halls, engineers assemble bases that will float in lunar orbit, building a foundation so that humans can live, breathe, and mine the lunar essence for long durations.
And their gaze does not stop at the moon. The Red Star that has emitted an aura of war since ancient Roman times—the planet Mars—has become the next target. In 2026, iron-wheeled vessels ceaselessly roam the barren lands of Mars, firing lasers to incinerate rocks in search of ancient traces of water.
The ultimate artifact, the James Webb Space Telescope, positioned far from the earth's shadow, has opened its golden eye. This divine eye gathers ancient infrared light hidden from mortal sight, staring straight through clouds of dust to the time when the universe was newly born, attempting to steal the secrets of the beginning.
They search for life. They grope in the darkness, casting radio wave signals toward thousands of different star systems, hoping that at least one of the newly discovered exoplanets will answer with a greeting.
Humans in 2026 have sent their scientific prayers into the cosmic sea, listening with great anticipation through giant signal-receiving dishes, yet the sea of emptiness still answers with a deafening silence. The laws of the physical universe remain absolute for them. The speed of light is an eternal, impenetrable wall. The distance between stars is so vast it could drive even the most brilliant scholar mad if pondered for too long.
In one of the highest observatories in the Andes Mountains, where the air is so thin it resembles the border between earth and sky, a group of elite astronomers stands watch under the shadow of an open metal dome. It is here that human contemplation of their position in the universe often culminates in a haunting stillness.
An old professor, with hair as white as cotton and eyes holding decades of wisdom, stares at a glowing screen, standing side-by-side with a young researcher from the Eastern Star Pavilion. The observatory room is cold, filled with the low hum of server towers cooling their quantum processor cores—tools used to translate the numerical light captured from the edges of the cosmos.
The professor holds a cup of black coffee that has begun to cool. He looks out the window toward the Milky Way belt, which appears like a river of milk studded with diamonds dividing the night sky.
"You know, Dr. Wilhelm," the professor's voice breaks the silence of the night, hoarse yet deep, as if carrying the weight of an unsolved mystery. "In 1990, when Carl Sagan saw the photo of our Blue Star taken by Voyager 1 from six billion kilometers away, he called it a Pale Blue Dot. He said that every emperor, every hero, every religion, and every tear ever shed, all happened on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam."
The young researcher named Wilhelm turned, shifting his gaze from the rows of numbers scrolling on his screen. "And now, in 2026, we have the James Webb which can see far beyond Voyager's range, Professor. We have discovered thousands, tens of thousands of exoplanets. We are preparing humans to walk on Martian soil. Haven't we moved beyond being just dust?"
The old professor offered a thin smile, a bitter one containing a sense of helplessness. He pointed toward the main screen displaying ancient clusters of galaxies, formed hundreds of millions of years after the Big Bang phenomenon believed by human science.
"We are indeed moving further, Wilhelm. Our steel ships, the robotic probes crawling on Mars, the base that will orbit the Moon... those are the highest achievements of our mortal race. But look at those numbers again." The professor walked slowly toward the giant screen. "This cosmic sea is nearly fourteen billion Earth-years old. Our solar system is but a small, remote edge among trillions of other galaxies. Human civilization? Even if we pull it from the time our ancestors first discovered fire until this very second in 2026... it is no more than a single blink of an eye in the history of the universe. Less than one second on the cosmic calendar."
Wilhelm fell silent, letting the stillness reclaim the observatory for a moment. The hum of the quantum machines seemed to be a complementary melody to their conversation.
"Then, what is it you actually worry about, Professor?" Wilhelm finally asked, his voice lowering slightly. "The success of the Artemis Mission next month is all but guaranteed. Funding from the global merchant unions is flowing heavily into fusion propulsion research. We are on the path to mastering the solar system."
The professor turned, his eyes piercing through the walls of modern human pride. "What I worry about is this silence, Wilhelm. For years, we have been throwing stones into the abyss of darkness, waiting for an echo to confirm how deep that abyss is. SETI has swept the skies for decades. Our radio telescopes on every continent are pointed in every direction of space."
He took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly to form a thin mist in the cold air. "Have you ever thought about the Fermi Paradox? With billions of stars older than our sun, with the probability of trillions of planets having water and atmospheres... why is the sky so silent? Why hasn't a single ancient race or spacefaring entity left a footprint at the doorstep of our Earth?"
"Maybe we are the first. Maybe we are the luckiest form of life," Wilhelm answered, trying to hold onto the rationality he had studied.
Professor Arthur had not yet replied to that argument when a high-pitched, harsh, and ear-piercing drone suddenly shattered the silence of the observatory. The sound did not come from a weather alarm or an internal system warning, but from the emergency communication console linked directly to the global microwave transmission network.
A red indicator light flashed aggressively in the corner of the room.
At the main control desk, Dr. Aris, a telemetry expert who had been quietly monitoring data flow from the space stations, suddenly stood up so abruptly his chair skidded back and slammed against the floor. Aris's face was pale, as if all the blood had been forcibly drained from his head.
"Professor... Wilhelm..." Aris's voice trembled, his hands hovering over the keyboard without daring to press a single key. "There is an incoming transmission. This... this doesn't make sense. It's a Level One security bypass, directly from the Artemis Lunar Gateway and relayed through the James Webb network."
Professor Arthur immediately set down his coffee cup. The black coffee splashed slightly, wetting the table, but he didn't care. His aged steps moved quickly across the room. Wilhelm followed close behind, his rational expression now replaced by thick confusion.
"Lunar Gateway? They shouldn't be making emergency contact unless there's a structural failure on a station module," Wilhelm said rapidly. "Open the channel, Aris. Route the audio to the main speakers."
Aris pressed the confirmation key. There was a crackle of space static—a distortion of radio waves mixed with cosmic radiation—before a human voice finally broke through. It was the voice of Commander Hayes, the head of operations for the Artemis station orbiting the moon. However, the tone of the usually calm and precise military officer was now chaotic, breathless, and filled with raw panic.
"...Andes, Houston, Geneva... anyone receiving this frequency. Please confirm receipt of our telemetry data. Repeat, please confirm. This is not an instrument anomaly. We are seeing it directly through the station's optical lenses, and the Webb telescope just sent a scan from millions of light-years away that is impossibly synchronized with our vantage point. Please tell me our optical systems have been hacked!"
Across the room, Dr. Sarah, the head of astrophysics for the observatory who had just walked in from the archives, froze at the doorway upon hearing the transmission.
"Commander Hayes," Professor Arthur grabbed the microphone, his voice straining to remain steady. "This is Professor Arthur from the Andes. We are receiving your transmission. Take a breath, Commander. Report what you are seeing. Is there a solar storm? Or a massive meteor projectile breaking away from the asteroid belt?"