At least based on observable data, this was the current situation.
It detected no signs of interference.
"I still retain control. Is this merely a tactic to influence my judgment?"
It pondered this, attempting to extrapolate the actions of three-dimensional beings using its own understanding.
Not a simple task.
"What if the adversary is influencing me on a level beyond my comprehension?"
The judgment process took no time at all.
No extensive calculations. No elaborate deductions.
Because judgment relies on information—and with no new input, the fastest conclusion is the most optimal.
It began issuing commands to the black tide.
But as the black tide surged toward the dimensional gateway, it faltered—its movement slowing, its form dispersing.
"Incorrect. That anomaly definitely had an effect."
"But resolving the obstruction so easily—impossible."
It immediately moved on to the next protocol.
...
At the threshold of the dimensional gateway—
The observation station detached from the Dimensional Bridge, allowing the bridge to disintegrate into the void.
Its disintegration, of course, was not without consequence.
It was a poor tactical choice.
Unless the risk could be completely controlled, it was better to mix truth with deception than to make a conspicuous show.
Similar to the Olive Branch Civilization's small planet previously—a typical display of strength. But that worked because the Olive Branch Civilization was significantly more powerful than the Federation.
In cases like this, artificial gestures are easily exposed.
The particles released after the Dimensional Bridge's disintegration would cling to the black tide, forming a shielding layer—pushing it outward.
A clone asked, "Can such a minor tactic really provoke the adversary into gathering the black tide?"
Clone #23973 replied without hesitation.
"Of course."
"Life evolves because it rebels."
"Life opposes anything imposed upon it."
"Rebellion is when life acts against the directives we set. Now, we are commanding the black tide to expand outward—so naturally, it will attempt to contract inward."
"If the adversary were a machine, my conclusion might be flawed. But if it is life, then I'm absolutely right."
Upon hearing this, the person beside him turned to clone #23973, curiosity in their voice.
"I've always wanted to know—who were you originally?"
The clones were aware of their identity.
The Federation didn't deny the legal rights of clones within its system.
Still, a clone wasn't entitled to everything granted to the original.
Knowing they were clones didn't unsettle them—they responded to it as calmly as any citizen might.
The others also turned to look at clone #23973.
They, too, were curious.
Someone who could navigate battlefield decisions so effortlessly clearly wasn't ordinary.
A typical individual, placed in such a situation, might have a thousand thoughts—but those thoughts would die with them on the battlefield.
Sometimes it was because they lacked the chance to speak.
But more often, it was because they lacked the courage to speak their mind at all.
They had never spoken up before—and so when faced with the unfamiliar, they hesitated.
Even if they tried, they would likely stammer—uncertain, unconfident.
But clone #23973 expressed his thoughts fluidly, as if it were second nature.
The plan had seemed simple—but it wasn't.
The real difficulty lay in proposing the plan in the first place. Only in hindsight would it appear straightforward.
Because the true challenge wasn't the plan's complexity—it was the internal resistance one must overcome to take action.
Upon hearing the question, a flicker of melancholy passed through clone #23973's eyes.
"Just a nobody."
"I just never expected to be cloned."
Its name was Quirrell.
A thoroughly ordinary name.
The only thing unusual was its title:
— Divine.
It once roamed another world under Federation rule.
There, it was the undisputed ruler.
But here, it lived under constant threat—tired, exposed, and on the brink of death.
It had long yearned to escape that world.
It just never imagined it would leave in this way.
The truth was: it had never left at all. Only this clone body had.
Yet even this confirmed one thing—it was certain now that Hyperdimensional Space was under Federation control.
It understood the rationale.
A civilization as vast as the Federation lacked nothing—except heroes.
Individuals capable of bearing entire missions alone were exceedingly rare.
Hyperdimensional Space existed for the sole purpose of filtering and selecting such people.
But they were never meant to stand on the main stage.
They were expendable.
There were few gods within Hyperdimensional Space. It had known a few.
Over time, those gods disappeared one after another.
It had once assumed they died in distant worlds.
Now, it seemed more likely they had fallen during missions like this.
"Only a world like the fourth dimension could have birthed someone like me."
These thoughts passed fleetingly through the mind of Clone #23973.
It spoke:
"What does a former identity matter?"
"We're not that person anymore. We are who we are now."
"Better to focus on how we survive."
At that moment, one of the clones pointed toward the black tide in the distance.
"Look, it really is converging!"
Clone #23973 didn't hesitate.
What drove its decision wasn't just rebellion—but something more fundamental.
Its very existence.
Just like the Federation, any sufficiently advanced civilization would rarely engage in direct warfare.
Without war, there was no real experience.
All that remained was theory—a poor substitute for real tactics.
It suspected the four-dimensional civilization was the same.
Warfare had long since changed in nature—divided between areas of mastery and areas of blind spots.
Clone #23973 was gambling that the enemy, too, was inexperienced.
That was the moment to strike.
Of course, even if the opponent was green, it didn't mean just anyone could seize the chance.
But it was different.
It had clawed its way out from a pile of corpses. Its instinct for warfare surpassed every other "survivor" in the Federation.
So everything would unfold as Clone #23973 had predicted.
The enemy likely meant only to probe.
But poking the grass doesn't always disturb a snake.
Sometimes, it wakes a sleeping tiger.
"The net-casting phase has succeeded. Begin reeling it in."
Clone #23973 gave the order.
By now, the other clones were fully convinced.
They moved swiftly, executing the strategy it had laid out.
...
The black tide began to contract.
Or perhaps more accurately—it began to stack.
Due to four-dimensional confinement, its true form could not be directly perceived. But this stacking was occurring within the four-dimensional domain.
Imagine looking at a sheet of paper. Now, imagine cutting that paper into countless slices and stacking them atop one another. You would only ever see the topmost layer.
That's what was happening now.
The black tide, layered upon itself, presented a new problem.
"If we can't see four-dimensional matter," someone asked, "how do we collect it?"
Without direct perception, all they could do was guess.
Guesswork was unreliable—and frustrating.
Clone #23973 spoke again, calmly: "What does it matter if we can't see it?"
"We don't need to see all of it. We don't even need all of the matter in the black tide."
"The net can't catch everything. Catching most of it is enough."
Its tone was casual.
Or perhaps, it had simply understood the situation better than the rest.
It knew what war required.
Only the uncertain would still be asking questions.
"Just cover everything we can see," it said. "As for what's beyond perception—preserve it as much as we can."
After that, the Confinement Weapon completed its final calibration.
Clone #23973 released it with a soft click.
"Whether we succeed or fail depends on this one shot," someone nearby muttered, their voice still tinged with unease.
But Clone #23973 simply turned and headed for its own cabin.
Someone called after it: "Where are you going?"
It replied, "Our bodies don't have quark-level robotic support. After working this hard for so long, aren't you tired?"
"I'm tired. I'm going to sleep."
The others stared in disbelief.
Sleeping now?
Did it really believe the four-dimensional enemy was so easy to defeat?
This temporary commander didn't seem particularly dependable.
"What if the plan fails?" someone asked.
Clone #23973 smiled.
"If it fails, then it fails."
"Do we have any other way to stop them?"
"All the more reason to sleep. Dying in a dream is better than dying awake."
It had survived too many life-and-death encounters during the Mortality Selection. While it had always fought to stay alive, it had long since stopped caring about death.
The term Divine didn't mean power to it. It meant a mental state.
In Hyperdimensional Space, those labeled Divine had, in a sense, transcended mortality—true gods, not in strength, but in detachment.
Clone #23973 genuinely went to sleep.
The rest remained, watching with bated breath as the Confinement Weapon activated.
Once deployed, its particles rapidly expanded.
On a macroscopic scale, it formed a net.
Its mechanism was based on two particle types. The first type had two poles—positive and negative—connecting only point A to point B.
The second type had four poles: positive, negative, top-bottom (ab), and another set (cd). These could link from four directions.
When the second particle type was kept in low quantity and released together with the first, the natural result was a grid-like formation.
This net spanned a range of two astronomical units.
At that moment, the Black Tide—previously expanding outward—had just reached a precise diameter of 2 astronomical units.
Over ten minutes later, it finally began to contract.
Aboard the warship of the four-dimensional civilization, the observer noted with precision that the contraction rate of the Black Tide was increasing. Remarkably, it was accelerating to the point where it could match the original speed of expansion.
It ran the calculations.
The results indicated that this behavior did not violate known physical constraints.
But why would the Black Tide collapse at all?
Was it due to the destabilization of the outward expansion—an imbalance leading to a cascading inertial reversal?
Because of the distance, it only received partial data.
That was the limit of what it could perceive.
What felt unusual was that the collapse did not resemble gravitational collapse into a singularity.
Rather, it resembled a line—a narrow vector in space along which matter was now rapidly converging and feeding.
Then, it realized something.
That line pointed directly toward its position.
"This is a weapon," it concluded.
The realization struck.
It immediately began evasive maneuvers.
Thanks to tachyon-based early warning systems, it had advance information about developments at the source. It could thus anticipate and evade with precision.
"Cunning three-dimensional civilization."
It recognized the truth of the trap it had just fallen into.
The opponent had deliberately misled it—then exploited its misjudgment.
This was a species well-versed in stratagems.
That was its assessment.
Nonetheless, it concluded that the attempt was ultimately futile. The distance was too great, and its surveillance of the region too thorough—no miscalculation was possible.
The weapon would not reach it.
Their methods, while clever in three dimensions, were fundamentally ineffective against a being that existed in four.
"The first plan has failed. Initiating second phase," it decided.
There was still a portion of the Black Tide remaining, but it deemed it irrelevant—no longer a threat to the target civilization. That plan was now abandoned.
1.4 years later.
The Confinement Weapon's energy beam finally passed by the location of its warship.
It conducted a scan of the weapon.
Initially, its purpose had been mere analysis—data collection on this new weapon of the three-dimensional civilization.
But upon observing the beam's incredible energy concentration, even it was briefly taken aback.
Despite being developed in lower dimensions, the Confinement Weapon retained significant destructive capacity in four-dimensional space.
After all, once an object crossed dimensional boundaries, it became part of that higher dimension.
Thus, the Confinement Weapon had transformed into a four-dimensional weapon—emitting four-dimensional energy, composed of four-dimensional particles.
And crossing dimensions had not reduced its energy.
Adding an extra dimension does not diminish particle energy through any known mechanism.
In short: it was a formidable weapon. Blocking it with conventional warship shielding was entirely infeasible.
Only through interaction with particles could the beam's immense energy be dissipated and made visible.
"Why concentrate such an extreme energy density?" it wondered.
Out of curiosity, it generated a holographic energy dispersion map.
Then it saw it.
The beam's trajectory pointed toward a star.
Instantly, it became alarmed.
That star had not obscured its engineering signatures; anyone observing from afar could clearly deduce it was under intelligent modification.
It belonged to its civilization.
The weapon's true target had never been itself, but the star behind it.
And it understood immediately what such an impact would cause.
If the beam pierced the star, it would trigger a destabilizing chain reaction, potentially leading to the star's detonation.
Such an event would devastate the entire system's biosphere, causing astronomical loss of life.
It was fully aware of the consequences.
But now, it found itself helpless.
The energy beam was traveling at light speed. Even with tachyonic communication, any warning it could send back would arrive after the beam had already covered most of the distance.
The beam was now less than two light-years from the target star.
That gave its civilization under two years to develop a countermeasure.
An almost impossible task.
The beam was tightly collimated. Its energy density approached that of neutron-degenerate matter.
The three-dimensional civilization had actually succeeded in constructing such a weapon.
It was a catastrophic blow to its people.
"Deploy planetary-scale defense measures," it commanded.
The only action it could now take… was to transmit the data.
...
The Federation had invested an extensive amount of time and resources into the development of super-range weaponry.
Various types of long-range strategic weapons were created and refined.
Among them, the Confinement Weapon proved particularly suitable for deployment in four-dimensional space due to its highly concentrated energy output.
The higher the energy concentration, the more stable the weapon becomes—an essential requirement in four-dimensional environments, where the additional spatial dimension causes energy to dissipate more easily.
Given that the Federation's science and engineering remained fundamentally rooted in three-dimensional physics, their understanding of four-dimensional mechanics was still limited. Under such constraints, complex weapons might fail or become unstable when crossing dimensional boundaries.
Thus, simplicity was a necessity.
The Confinement Weapon satisfied that need. Its structure was fundamentally straightforward, relying on gravitational interactions between particles and avoiding unnecessary complexity.
In fact, four-dimensional space might even amplify its effectiveness.
This is because wave-particle duality is weaker in four dimensions—particles exhibit stronger particle-like behavior, and in some cases, wave-like properties disappear entirely.
The Confinement Weapon operates best under such conditions, allowing it to engage matter on a microscopic scale with high precision.
When the weapon's beam passed near a four-dimensional warship, the lifeform aboard was immediately struck by its composition.
Not only was the energy incredibly focused, it also exhibited extraordinary stability.
Upon analysis, the four-dimensional being simulated the particle structure of the Confinement Weapon. It discovered that the apparent stability was not absolute—it could be disrupted.
However, doing so required highly specific conditions.
"No," it corrected itself, "not just specific—ideal."
It realized that the activation mechanism mirrored that of stellar interiors: high temperatures, high pressures, and specific bands of radiation.
This suggested the weapon had been engineered specifically for interaction with stars.
"If we replicate stellar conditions and interface with the beam... could we neutralize it?"
It transmitted this hypothesis—along with the observed parameters of the Confinement Weapon—back to its home system.
Achieving this would require coordination on a stellar scale.
Fortunately, constructing an artificial star or simulating stellar conditions was within their capability.
Two years was an acceptable preparation window.
Meanwhile, their defensive strategy for this dimensional war had long since been enacted. The entire star system had been fortified into a massive, multilayered defense structure.
This heavy fortification was precisely why the Federation had identified this particular star system—it stood out.
From a distance, the system's structure resembled an abstract schematic: "
Even more imposing than the Federation's own Titled Stations, the sheer scale of the structure projected strength.
However, due to the vast spatial distance, and the Federation's lack of four-dimensional observational instrumentation, they couldn't determine its exact nature.
Their only window into the four-dimensional domain was through the beam of the Confinement Weapon itself.
That energy beam now raced toward the star system.
Before it could reach the stellar core, it encountered the system's outermost defenses.
To the eye, these defenses appeared as a shell a few million kilometers thick. In truth, many extended over hundreds of billions of kilometers.
The weapon was met by countless tube-like structures.
These weren't literal tubes, but four-dimensional topological constructs—complex geometries only possible in higher dimensions.
Their function paralleled the Federation's own geometric weapons, which mimicked four-dimensional properties using three-dimensional means.
But now they were in four dimensions, those properties weren't exotic—they were just ordinary physics.
For example: a Klein bottle.
The tube led into a sealed spatial structure—any energy entering it would be trapped within.
This was a method of spatial confinement.
There were countless such tubes present, and the Confinement Weapon's beam crashed into one of them.
Within the star system, the lifeforms of the four-dimensional civilization witnessed this.
They cheered.
"Just a crude weapon. It has no capacity for evasive maneuvering."
"Our first line of defense can stop it easily!"
Inside the tube was a bounded space. The weapon hadn't yet reached the level of tearing space like a black hole would—it was therefore destined to be trapped.
But even as they thought this, the tube that had captured the Confinement Weapon suddenly shattered—splintering into countless fragments—and the weapon continued advancing.
The entire event took only a few seconds.
"How is this possible?"
"How did it bypass spatial confinement?" the four-dimensional lifeforms exclaimed.
The Confinement Weapon couldn't pierce space directly, but the space within the tube itself couldn't withstand the weapon's immense energy output.
A Klein bottle isn't literally a bottle that can be filled with endless water. Its true classification is a Klein surface.
Like a Möbius strip, it lacks a clear distinction between inside and outside.
An object entering from outside can pass through the interior and emerge again—unobstructed.
But this tube was designed to seal the interior space, forming a kind of containment vessel.
Of course, it wasn't that simple.
In truth, the inner structure was yet another Klein surface.
That Klein surface was the true confinement mechanism, while the outer tube served only as a guide.
The interior of the Cobine circulation device was closed, and it had a fixed energy threshold.
Once the three-dimensional civilization's attack entered it, the internal energy limit was instantly exceeded—causing a collapse in spatial stability.
The lifeforms of the four-dimensional civilization quickly recalculated the scenario.
"Deploy the Viscosity Layer!"
The Viscosity Layer was their second line of defense.
Also known as the viscous layer.
No matter what form of energy impacted it, the Viscosity Layer's matter would bind to it.
Theoretically, it could merge with the energy body directly.
Upon merging, it would immediately materialize the energy body—
—for instance, converting fundamental particles such as photons into protons or neutrons, then having these particles bond to form atoms like hydrogen or iron.
The resulting matter would be chaotic—structurally unstable—and eventually self-destruct.
The Viscosity Layer was a solution for most known threats.
All the four-dimensional lifeforms stared at the scene, anticipating the Viscosity Layer's success.
But once the Confinement Weapon touched the Viscosity Layer, the entire structure began collapsing inward at an incomprehensible speed.
After the weapon was fired, its particles exhibited absorptive properties.
A massive amount of Viscosity Layer matter surged toward it—and upon impact, it triggered transformation: the Confinement Weapon's particles were converted into countless complex atoms.
The Confinement Weapon itself condensed—becoming a rod.
"Wait… something's not right!"
"The three-dimensional civilization's weapon particles possess absorptive properties, and they are incomprehensibly dense."
"When the Viscosity Layer attempts to convert the surface material, the internal particles absorb it, forming a protective sheath that prevents the Viscosity Layer from interacting with the interior structure."
The moment they saw the Confinement Weapon morph into a rod, the entities of the four-dimensional civilization immediately grasped what had happened.
Their second layer of defense had failed.
"The Viscosity Layer is ineffective—damn it."
None of them had expected a single offensive measure to be this troublesome.
But for the Federation, this was standard protocol.
Super-range weapons were never designed to merely deliver energy. Their true purpose was to bypass all forms of defense—hitting the target directly and irreversibly.
That is the essence of a super-range weapon.
Some achieve this through leverage—delicate forces bypassing vast barriers. Others apply overwhelming force—obliterating every form of resistance.
This was the Federation's weapons doctrine over 100,000 years ago.
Today, super-range weapons achieve terrifying efficacy through fusion, consumption, and elegant penetration techniques.
"The Viscosity Layer did have a minor effect on that beam."
"The beam traveled at a superluminal speed, while the Viscosity Layer attempted to materialize an external casing. The two phenomena conflicted."
"The beam's internal energy pierced through the shell, coming into contact with the Viscosity Layer repeatedly. In the process of penetrating it, the beam underwent materialization dozens of times."
"Estimated energy loss: three parts per thousand."
Three parts per thousand.
An absurdly low attenuation.
That was all their defense could achieve?
"I've said it before—we should've focused our research on dimensional manipulation."
"Offense is the best defense. Relying solely on protection is to be forever passive."
Another consciousness joined the conversation.
They had no biological organs in the conventional sense. Sound-based communication was foreign to them.
Even for highly advanced lifeforms, communicating through audible signals would be as impractical as a human choosing to stop speaking and instead rely solely on sign language.
Their communication method was consciousness exchange—direct, instantaneous, and without ambiguity.
In three-dimensional space, consciousness—though recognized and partially utilized—remained fundamentally unexplored in its essence by the Federation.
It may, in fact, be impossible to understand the essence of consciousness within the constraints of three dimensions. This limitation is inherent to the structure of the physical laws in that dimensional frame.
But in four dimensions, understanding is easier.
Consciousness itself displays several four-dimensional characteristics. These are better described as properties of 4D space—as a spatial construct—rather than of fourth-dimensional spacetime.
In even higher dimensions, the structure of consciousness becomes increasingly distinct.
According to the findings of the four-dimensional civilization, consciousness may originate from a higher-dimensional realm—a domain where matter, as we know it, no longer exists.
Only consciousness remains.
"That's impossible. Do you know how much effort it takes to breach dimensional boundaries?"
"For a civilization like ours, the cost is overwhelming. According to simulations, it's essentially impossible for us to conduct comprehensive dimensional research."
Another consciousness rebutted immediately.
Its owner responded angrily, "The three-dimensional civilization has already found a way into the fourth dimension."
"You're blind. If we had prepared earlier, if we had committed everything, we could have broken through dimensional limits ourselves."
"Now that the three-dimensional civilization has also begun deploying four-dimensional weapons, we've lost our only window of opportunity."
"You can sit here and wait to die—but I won't."
A voice echoed within the consciousness field. "You're abandoning your own civilization?"
But no answer came.
The other entity had already severed its link.
"A creature that only knows how to question."
"It doesn't even understand that—hypothetically—even if we fully mastered dimensional science, it would still be meaningless."
"By the time we succeeded, we'd be depleted—powerless to resist the three-dimensional incursion."
"And it's not just the three-dimensional civilization we face. Invasions are emerging from other dimensions as well."
The pressure on them was immense.
Committing all resources to dimensional research would mean sacrificing technological advancement in every other field—an assured path to destruction.
The only thing they would gain from such a decision would be psychological consolation:
— At least we tried.
"The Viscosity Layer has been breached. Countermeasures must begin now."
"Activate high-energy turrets!"
But no sooner was that order issued than another voice intervened.
"We can't!"
"That beam absorbs energy. Any attack we launch will only strengthen it."
"We must use the method transmitted through the beam: we have to create a star and trigger its internal mechanism."
It was the only known solution.
But the time left for preparation was almost nonexistent.
"The energy from the artificial star won't meet the threshold. We'll need to reduce the beam's energy before activation."
"I propose the simplest method of dampening its energy."
And what was that?
Blocking it with matter.
The beam would inevitably lose energy when passing through mass.
"Wait—have none of you noticed something?"
"Earlier, we predicted that the beam would lose energy while penetrating the Viscosity Layer, on the assumption that it couldn't absorb matter directly—otherwise, its propagation would slow."
"But now, look again."
The consciousnesses refocused on the beam.
Sure enough, it hadn't lost energy by the expected 0.3%. Instead, its energy output had increased by 0.7%.
The Viscosity Layer's matter had been absorbed—converted entirely into energy.
The beam had become a purer, denser form of energy.
"...What is this thing?"
Every consciousness fell into stunned silence.
The technological sophistication of the weapon was far beyond their expectations.
Attempting to obstruct it with matter only made the beam more powerful.
In the end, they were left with only one option—the method proposed earlier by a figure aboard the command warship.
"Activate it."
"Use the containment mechanism. Force it to detonate prematurely."
A sphere—or perhaps a hypersphere—was deployed to intercept the beam.
Although the beam had already entered their star system, it remained over a thousand astronomical units away, requiring approximately five days to reach the star.
The hypersphere had a diameter of 7.41 meters along all four spatial axes (x, y, z, w).
This value held no particular significance; it was simply the result of its manufacturing parameters.
Once launched, it moved directly into the path of the oncoming beam.
Collision occurred 4.22 days later.
Moments before impact, the matter inside the hypersphere underwent an intense reaction, transforming into a radiant plasma sphere.
It expanded rapidly to a diameter of 238 kilometers before beginning to collapse under its own internal pressure.
At the exact moment the beam struck, both pressure and temperature peaked.
This peak nearly matched the critical values required to trigger the Confinement Weapon's detonation.
According to their models, it should have worked—should have caused the weapon to misinterpret the artificial star as its target and self-destruct prematurely.
But it didn't.
The Confinement Weapon passed through the fabricated star unimpeded, continuing its trajectory toward the actual star.
"How is this possible? Is its precision really that high?"
The beings of the four-dimensional civilization had theorized that the Confinement Weapon could detect the precise characteristics of their star and set its critical parameters—pressure and temperature—accordingly.
But they were wrong.
The weapon wasn't that accurate.
The real reason it didn't explode was that particle adhesion still existed within it.
The adhesion time between its particles had been preset.
Its detonation threshold depended not only on temperature and pressure, but also on the persistence of internal particle cohesion.
Their analysis had overlooked this third variable.
They had assumed that matching the environmental conditions would be enough.
In truth, the weapon's internal mechanisms were designed to resist false triggers—not for precision, but for cost-efficiency.
Even if their artificial star had replicated their real star's parameters perfectly, it still wouldn't have caused the weapon to detonate.
This was despair.
A civilization was utterly helpless before the Confinement Weapon.
All they could do was watch.
As the beam continued on its path, closing in on their star.
...
Within the star system, there were still survivors.
These entities, however, lacked the means to receive direct, real-time information.
All data they received was delayed.
Amidst the system stood remarkably elegant structures—formations unlike anything seen in three-dimensional space.
They resembled countless spiraling pillars, like swirling fingerprints, each rendered in a unique hue.
In four-dimensional space, color variation exceeded that of three dimensions.
Dozens of base colors could blend into tens of thousands of visually distinct shades. The buildings shimmered with surreal beauty—an architecture that seemed pulled from a dream.
Their forms intertwined, appearing to embrace or dance across spacetime.
To an observer, the structures exhibited continuous movement—rotating not in a single spatial plane but in four-dimensional orientation.
In familiar three-dimensional terms, rotation occurs between two coordinate axes while the third remains static.
But in four dimensions, three axes remain fixed while the fourth rotates—producing a rotational state only achievable in higher-dimensional space.
Each of these structures functioned as an independent unit—essentially a room—towering 37 meters high.
Lifeforms from this civilization interfaced directly with these structures, integrating their bodies into them.
Once integrated, they gained the ability to communicate consciousness across vast distances, connected by a web of entangled sensory data.
Originally, their communication required physical proximity. This technological augmentation removed that limitation.
Now, within these rotating halls of thought, countless members of the four-dimensional civilization convened—discussing the recent attack launched by a three-dimensional species.
"The three-dimensional civilization has made its move. We must enhance our defenses."
"Our defenses are absolute. It doesn't matter who they send—it won't matter."
"What we truly lack is offensive capability. We should seize control of the dimensional gateway. That would prevent the three-dimensional species from advancing further into our domain."
"Isn't four-dimensional space already a form of dimensional attack from their perspective? It's not as though a five-dimensional civilization is involved."
"The reckless arrogance of the three-dimensional species will be their downfall."
Their discussions echoed with calm certainty.
This method of communication differed from the Olive Branch Civilization's—here, it resembled a federated data exchange, like a decentralized communication network.
Each entity was an autonomous consciousness.
And each individual possessed innate intelligence on par with a supercomputer.
This intelligence was biological, not artificial.
From the emergence of their species to their current technological state, only 40,000 years had passed.
When the dimensional gateway was first discovered, this civilization had not even existed.
They had risen fast—and had reason to be confident.
Only their highest leadership remained cautious and conservative.
This divergence in mindset maintained a delicate equilibrium.
And that balance enabled steady, peaceful progress. Given time, they could reach even greater heights.
For now, the prevailing mood within their civilization was light—relaxed.
"The enemy… is nothing remarkable."
"Once they enter the fourth dimension, they become powerless."
Society continued functioning as usual.
That, too, was expected. The threat was simply too distant—too abstract to affect their daily reality.
Even during the final days of the old Federation—before their ultimate surrender—the vast majority of its citizens had never known that the Federation was, in truth, utterly defenseless against the Olive Branch Civilization.
No one spread such information, because it served no purpose.
In the 21st century, during times of war, individuals could still voice dissent, sway public opinion, or appeal to international communities.
But in this age, individual influence had diminished further. Whether one was informed or not made no difference to the outcome of the war.
As for the so-called Resource Theory of Imagination—
This theory pertained more to technological advancement than to warfare.
War demanded experience. It required data.
Without access to information or combat experience, most commentary was inevitably flawed, and rather than contributing to strategy, it could hinder it.
Several hours later—
News broke: a three-dimensional civilization had developed a weapon capable of penetrating their defenses.
The initial response across four-dimensional society was universal:
Rumor.
Impossible.
How could their defenses be breached in a first engagement?
It was laughable.
"Ridiculous."
"How does nonsense like this even get circulated?"
This civilization, lacking a rigid class hierarchy, granted each individual immense cognitive power. Each being was capable of functioning as a primary node for independent research.
As a result, the society was relatively egalitarian.
Their numbers, however, were limited.
The entire star system housed only a few million entities—a minuscule figure compared to the trillions populating a single Federation system.
A million squared is a trillion.
Their small population meant resources were sufficient for all, and society functioned in remarkable harmony.
"Strange to see such defeatist talk. Is undermining our civilization now considered entertainment?"
In such a harmonious society, consensus formed easily.
These disruptive notions were quickly overridden by prevailing paradigms within the shared consciousness stream.
Inside one such structure—
A four-dimensional being casually reviewed data from the consciousness stream, then disconnected with disinterest.
"These threads may add diversity to the flow of information," it mused, "but they're intellectually barren."
"We're stationed on the edge of the Milky Way. Resource scarcity here means that, regardless of dimensional structure, no civilization in this region can be considered top-tier."
"Thus, any invading civilization will likely be similar in strength. And having crossed dimensions, they will be maladapted to this environment. Their power will be significantly diminished. By all reasoning, we should have the advantage."
"The amount of unfiltered noise in the consciousness stream is rising. It's no longer a satisfying environment."
It disengaged from its current structure, intending to gather research materials.
Its body had been integrated into the architecture; upon disengagement, it re-condensed into a mist-like form.
Unlike the Olive Branch Civilization's metallic mist, it retained a core—organic and vital.
That core was its true self; the surrounding cloud was merely a derivative extension.
The core functioned like internal organs; the mist, like flesh and blood.
Their primary means of perception was through radiation—wavelengths invisible to the human eye.
Arriving at the orbital terminal, it observed several massive warships from the governing echelon departing into deep space.
"An operation?" it wondered idly.
At that moment, a burst of radiation struck its form.
The mist reflected the energy to the core, enabling the being to reconstruct the incoming signal.
It "saw."
Its star… had detonated.
"It's true," it thought. "We cannot withstand the attack of a three-dimensional civilization."
In that instant, it comprehended the full weight of its own arrogance—its fatal lack of data.
The power of the three-dimensional civilization had far exceeded its expectations.