But the most critical issue remained: Kesiba had not yet directly observed the so-called artificial particles.
For now, it was just speculation—nothing more.
And the trail had gone cold.
The only way forward was to push deeper—into the super-microscopic scale.
Kesiba needed to probe beyond particles—he needed to probe the strings themselves.
Why couldn't the observation zone be rendered an absolute vacuum? Why only a relative one?
Not just because of the ever-present particles—even if all particles were eliminated, strings would still persist within the vacuum.
And disturbances in those strings could spontaneously trigger the emergence of a particle, seemingly out of nowhere.
Or perhaps it was a fluctuation in the quantum field instead.
Either way, at such minuscule scales, the concept of a "vacuum" becomes meaningless.
To this day, human civilization has never succeeded in creating a true vacuum.
Because an absolute vacuum implies absolute zero—a state where matter ceases all motion, and time and space themselves are essentially frozen.
Even the dimensional gateways humanity has developed only achieve relative vacuum conditions.
Gravity is still present—just diminished, subtle.
Kesiba replaced the probe needle.
The previous needle had a diameter equivalent to 20 quarks. The new one measured just 0.5 quarks.
Its composition? No longer ordinary matter. Technically speaking, it didn't even exist in nature. It was made of an artificial particle, or perhaps even an incomplete particle.
This ultra-thin needle would emit both open and closed strings, disturbing the space around it. These disturbances would then reflect back, allowing the device to construct an image from the feedback—much like echolocation in bats.
The principle sounded simple. But as always, technological difficulty is never defined by theoretical simplicity.
Just like particle research: all it takes is smashing two high-speed particles together.
Simple in theory. But building a functioning particle accelerator? Incredibly difficult.
The instrument Kesiba used was HHHI Corporation's most advanced micro-world observation system.
Within the Federation, it might not be the absolute top tier—but it wasn't far behind.
Even more powerful devices were under long-term development—but they might require tens or hundreds of thousands of years of uninterrupted investment to yield breakthroughs.
Without a true scientific revolution, advancement becomes a matter of sheer accumulation—of time, resources, and perseverance.
With the new needle installed, Kesiba accessed a more refined level of perception.
Put simply, what previously looked like two specks of rice now appeared as two eggs.
Still microscopic—but undeniably clearer.
Strings, of course, are far smaller.
But this was the current observational limit.
The present resolution was 10⁻²² meters.
Strings exist at the Planck scale—10⁻³⁵ meters. There was still a trillion-fold gap.
Kesiba couldn't observe individual strings—but he could observe their collective effects.
Like watching the surface of a pond react when water molecules strike it.
By directing enough hydrogen and oxygen atoms at the surface with sufficient energy, the ripples could be studied, revealing information about the strings beneath.
So—why are artificial particles so hard to produce?
Because humanity still cannot directly control or manipulate a single string.
The Planck scale remains the forbidden realm—God's domain.
A Type II Civilization barely touches God's heel.
And yet, even this 10⁻²²m precision was enough for what Kesiba needed now.
Once again, he saw what Lorc had once glimpsed.
The entities responsible for the quark collisions and oscillations weren't quantum fields, nor were they strings.
They were a kind of incomplete particle.
But now, Kesiba's vision was sharper than Lorc's had ever been.
"No… That's not an incomplete particle. It's a complete one."
"In fact… it's not a single particle at all—it's tens of thousands of them."
This was an aggregate entity—a formation of tens of thousands of particles.
Under coarser observation, the mass appeared incomplete.
But with higher resolution, they were clearly complete and fully-formed.
Kesiba measured their mass—near zero.
These particles exhibited bosonic traits.
When they "contracted," they weren't compressing individually—but rather merging with one another, co-occupying the same quantum state.
If they were bosons, then they themselves wouldn't pull on quarks.
Instead, it must be the force carriers within them doing the pulling.
But what kind of force was this?
Operating at such minuscule distances?
Kesiba named it: "Shrinking Force."
A force that gave the illusion of contraction—making two particles appear to collapse together.
Its effective range? Likely no greater than 10⁻²¹ meters.
Any wider, and the system wouldn't need tens of thousands of particles to mediate the effect.
But where were the source particles of this force?
Kesiba searched—and found no trace of fermions.
"Could this force be intrinsic to the bosonic structure itself?"
He ventured a bold hypothesis.
At macroscopic scales, there are two known forces:
– Electromagnetism
– Gravity
At microscopic scales, two more:
– Strong force
– Weak force
Of course, electromagnetism and gravity exist at the quantum level too, but their influence is negligible compared to the strong and weak forces.
But at super-microscopic scales?
Might there be other forces entirely?
Forces that shape how particles form?
The answer, clearly, was yes.
And not only that—an advanced civilization had already learned to harness this force.
Not create it—utilize it.
That alone revealed a staggering truth.
Creating a force requires energy.
But using an existing force cuts costs exponentially.
In engineering terms: it's the difference between generating power and tapping into a river.
That kind of efficiency implies one thing:
This civilization operates on an entirely different level from the Federation.
"If they can create particles in a space this small... could they actually live at this scale?"
The thought hit Kesiba like a bolt of lightning.
And yet—it wasn't far-fetched.
The Flyer Civilization had long explored similar pathways.
But even they remained anchored in relatively macroscopic environments—nowhere near the atomic scale, much less sub-particle domains.
This… this might be a "Flyer Civilization but Better".
Just as Kesiba prepared for deeper analysis—
He felt the needle twist and crack.
A horrifying force surged back through it—rushing toward him.
"They've arrived."
The attack had come.
Later than Kesiba had expected—but not by much.
If this was the threshold, then Lorc had seen far more than he'd initially revealed.
The entire observation array activated its emergency defense protocols.
Outside, Moffat and Lorc both received the alert.
"DataNode, has all data been transmitted?" Moffat asked quickly.
But the DataNode did not respond.
It had already been consumed by the attack.
Moffat had prepared extensively to ensure Kesiba's observational data could still be retrieved, even in the event of his death or memory erasure.
If the adversary was a civilization, then its methods—while advanced—still had limits.
To that end, Moffat had constructed a signal reception station 20 light-years away from the observation site.
DataNode would transmit the data Kesiba gathered to this station, where it would be stored and simultaneously copied into dozens of variations—each with differing confidentiality levels and data sizes—and then sent to different individuals to prevent a total data breach.
One of those copies would also be transmitted to HHHI Corporation's headquarters within the Federation.
Moffat had ensured there were no loopholes.
Assuming, of course, that the data could actually be transmitted.
...
The entire observation device was now under attack.
Kesiba could feel it.
After integrating himself with the system, the device had become an extension of his own body.
Though his control over it was limited, he could still sense it—like how a human can't control their appendix, but can still feel the pain when something goes wrong.
And Kesiba was feeling something very wrong.
Thankfully, the machine's defensive systems had activated and were proving somewhat effective. The entire structure hadn't yet been destroyed.
According to the original plan, Kesiba should've already disconnected and retreated.
But he wasn't willing to stop here.
"I must obtain more information."
"How many chances like this will I ever get?"
He knew clearly that he was now racing against time.
In the outer world, things were steadily unraveling.
No one knew exactly when that civilization would make its next move.
It could be tomorrow.
If he disconnected now and waited for repairs, it could take years—maybe even decades—to restore the machine.
That was time he simply didn't have.
"Change the needle."
There were spares.
Kesiba requested a replacement to continue his work.
However, the original vacuum environment had been compromised. A large influx of free particles had entered.
The precision of his readings was now degraded.
But this also presented a once-in-a-millennium opportunity: new matter had entered. How would the original particles react?
Kesiba watched closely.
As the new fundamental particles entered, they seemed to seek out partners—forming pairs.
The interesting part was, Kesiba observed bosons.
And the bosons remained unaffected.
Meanwhile, he saw the new particles attracting each other, likely under the influence of the strong or weak force. They began to line up, and then formed something entirely new—an atom?
These atoms resembled isotopes of known atoms. Their proton and neutron counts stayed the same, but the number of quarks within those protons and neutrons had doubled.
Once formed, the atoms began to combine on the atomic level, slowly building macroscopic matter.
That macroscopic matter turned out to be the shell of Star City 5.
An incredible discovery.
These changes were driven by a more powerful, more elusive force.
That was the macroscopic realm—Kesiba pushed deeper into the super-microscopic world.
There, the Shrinking Force still operated, and particles began to enter a collision phase again.
Interestingly, these collisions didn't disturb the atoms' stable state.
Perhaps the distance between them was simply too small.
Over time, each particle in the system reached equilibrium and began to synchronize. As the probe needle struck the strings, the system started to destabilize.
Synchronization began to drop.
As it did, Kesiba noticed something strange: some particles merged.
No—after collision, one of them simply vanished.
"Where did it go?"
According to the law of conservation of energy, if a particle disappeared, its energy must've been transferred somewhere else.
Kesiba didn't think it had gone far.
This "informational" particle likely transferred its energy to a very specific destination.
"Transmitting information consumes energy... Could this be it?"
Kesiba ventured a bold hypothesis.
But what could a single particle of information accomplish?
Could the other side deduce anything from just one?
A lone particle might be disposable—but its energy was minimal. Only if hundreds or thousands disappeared could it form a readable message.
"Is the disturbance I'm causing simply too weak?"
Kesiba directed more atoms to the interaction zone.
When these atoms came into contact with the complete atomic system and the shrinking particles, they underwent a radical transformation.
A large number of quarks vanished—only to recombine as new quarks, forming entirely new particles.
Kesiba had been right.
The energy hadn't vanished—it had simply reappeared elsewhere.
Earlier, his observation range had been too limited to notice.
But now, with broader scope and more samples, Kesiba finally observed the phenomenon—lasting just a nanosecond:
Particles disappearing—and reappearing!
How was that even possible?
Kesiba's confusion didn't last long.
At first, he even suspected quantum fields might be involved. But they weren't.
What he encountered was something far more terrifying than fluctuations in the quantum field:
Space itself.
Space was spewing out particles.
Kesiba deliberately chose the word "spewing" because that's exactly what he witnessed: a spatial aperture tearing open before his eyes.
Or perhaps it would be more accurate to call it a white hole.
White holes are the theoretical opposites of black holes—while black holes devour matter, white holes expel it.
Despite their name, white holes aren't actually white. They're black too.
Kesiba was convinced he had just witnessed the emergence of a white hole.
But… was that the only explanation?
If this really was a white hole ejecting matter, then logically, the particles must've originally been consumed by a black hole.
Yet Kesiba hadn't detected any evidence of such a black hole—no trace of a matter ingestion event.
So then, where did the particles come from?
To find out, Kesiba introduced more atoms into the experiment, hoping that a larger sample would reveal a pattern—some clue buried in the data.
And it did.
He quickly noticed a bizarre anomaly: a large number of paired particles within the atom were vanishing.
The pairs collided first—then fused.
Two quarks, both fermions, had somehow merged.
But then, one of the quarks' energy levels dropped sharply upon fusion, and the other quark vanished—within a yoctosecond. The point where it had existed was now just... empty.
What kind of force could cause this?
It seemed the process of wavefunction collapse had been interfered with.
Particles are quantum waves—only when observed do they "collapse" into stable particles.
If the collapse mechanism was being disrupted, could the particle briefly revert to a wave?
Its disappearance wouldn't be a true vanishing act—just the crest of the wave inverting into a trough.
And the trough, hidden on the far side of the quantum field, would be effectively invisible.
So where had the vanished quark really gone?
Possibly... it was carried away by that wave trough—transported across the quantum field to another side, another domain.
It sounded insane.
And yet, this might explain how two fermions could merge—something considered impossible due to the Pauli exclusion principle.
In that fleeting moment, some unknown force had overcome the repulsive pressure keeping them apart, forcing them to merge.
But that force lasted only an instant—after which the natural repulsion kicked in, flinging the fermions away from one another.
The original fermion may have been violently displaced—to another location entirely.
That location could be a meter away—or a hundred million light-years. Even a billion light-years.
But the presence of this so-called "white hole"—ejecting the displaced fermion—suggested it wasn't just somewhere else in this universe.
No, it seemed more likely that it had been transported through the quantum field… to another world.
This "white hole" wasn't a true astronomical white hole. It was a synthetic event—an artificially triggered phenomenon.
No law of physics requires the universe to eject a fermion simply because one disappears.
Kesiba pondered the origins of this phenomenon.
He was determined to find the truth.
But it was already too late.
The second wave of attacks struck instantly.
This time, Kesiba wasn't so fortunate. Every layer of his defensive shielding was breached.
And he took a direct hit.
His body collapsed in mere moments.
Kesiba felt himself unraveling—his very existence being wiped away.
He had braced himself for the worst—yet in that final moment, fear gripped him.
Death meant the unknown.
He only knew who he was now, in this fleeting moment. What version of himself would the main server restore, if any?
Even if the consciousness copied was the same... would it still be him?
That question echoed through his mind.
And in that instant, he realized something terrifying:
His inner self had failed the test.
Fear consumed him. Not entirely, but enough.
A part of him felt strangely fortunate that fear had arrived so late—late enough that he'd made no hesitation, no misstep.
The complexity of life revealed itself in that single heartbeat.
And then, in an instant, Kesiba was gone.
Outside, Moffat turned to Lorc and said coldly,
"Your friend is dead."
"He broke our agreement—he wasn't supposed to probe a second time."
"Our equipment couldn't handle a second strike."
But Lorc wasn't surprised. He had always known this was a possibility.
Though his recent memories were fragmented, his older memories of Kesiba remained intact.
And one thing was certain: if Kesiba set his mind to something, he would follow through with everything he had.
There may have been another reason too.
Maybe Kesiba had been trying to reach someone—someone on Dawn's side.
Maybe he had hoped to get closer to the truth. To what he was searching for.
Lorc could only guess.
"So... will he come back?" he asked quietly.
Moffat shrugged. "I don't know."
"Even if he does, the other side may have ramped up their surveillance over that region."
They could only wait.
Logically, Kesiba should have been restored instantly.
He would lose many of his memories—details of the mission, of the moment—but the body should be reborn.
Moffat deployed robots to enter the core of the device.
The machinery was dismantled, layer by layer.
What they found inside was utter devastation.
Instruments had melted completely.
And these weren't ordinary instruments—they were rated to endure temperatures in the hundreds of thousands of degrees Celsius.
So whatever force had hit them… had been beyond comprehension.
Tiny in scale. Titanic in power.
"No biological traces detected," the robot reported.
Moffat stared at the transmission, momentarily stunned.
He had calculated this possibility. But the odds were so low...
"Brace yourself," he told Lorc.
Lorc didn't move.
Just like that... he was gone?
What kind of cruel joke was this?
The event happened so fast that Lorc was left speechless, momentarily unsure of what to say—or do.
He only had fragments of information. Eight years of his life were still missing.
Maybe, when those memories returned, he'd finally know what his true purpose was.
But before the mood could fully settle into grief, the robot's connection cut out.
Suddenly, the entire HHHI Corporation headquarters was thrown into chaos.
[ALERT! ALERT! The company is under unknown attack. All personnel are advised to evacuate immediately!]
DataNode broadcasted the warning across all systems.
Moffat and Lorc both turned sharply toward the inner sectors of the facility.
There—someone was flying out of the ruins.
It looked like… Kesiba.
Lorc instinctively shouted his name.
The figure immediately reacted to his voice and changed course—rushing straight toward them.
"That's not Kesiba," Moffat muttered, unease creeping into his voice. "Something's wrong."
But Lorc shook his head. "No. I'm sure it's him. Some of his core biological data still matches."
"It's just… someone's occupying his body."
Moffat snapped into action. "Can we contain him? Don't let anyone get close."
Lorc nodded grimly. "We can't make contact. From what Kesiba told me, these entities can kill with sound alone—wipe out a mind completely."
This was HHHI's headquarters. It wasn't short on defensive measures.
Even if those measures weren't designed for humans, they were more than capable of handling extreme scenarios.
"Yes," Moffat said, connecting to DataNode. He issued the command:
"Engage all energy field systems. Contain any anomalous individual."
DataNode complied instantly.
Within seconds, every energy-based containment system in the company activated—locking onto the intruder midair.
The figure, hovering inches above the ground, froze—completely immobilized.
But there was more. Other intruders had breached different sectors of the headquarters.
They were all outsiders.
And the moment they were restrained, they began to self-destruct.
A piercing, ultrasonic screech erupted throughout the facility.
Within moments, over half of HHHI Corporation was engulfed in that deathly resonance.
Through high-level access, Moffat watched as bodies across the company—tens of thousands—collapsed in seconds.
If he hadn't spoken with Lorc earlier and taken precautions to suppress his own auditory intake, he would've been among them.
"Bastards… absolute monsters," Moffat growled through clenched teeth.
He'd survived—but at a terrible cost.
His career was likely over.
But there was no time to worry about that. More enemies were approaching from outside.
"They're not even hiding it anymore," Lorc muttered. "If they're acting this boldly, it means Star City 5 is slipping out of our control."
A dangerous thought surfaced in his mind:
Should I escape while I still can?
But he buried it just as quickly.
Kesiba was dead. Would fleeing now be betrayal?
And besides—was death really something he feared anymore?
Lorc hesitated, but only for a moment.
Then he turned to Moffat. "Can you grant me some access to DataNode?"
"I want to analyze Kesiba's body. His consciousness might still be in there."
If Kesiba's mind was merely trapped, there might still be hope.
And even if he was truly gone, studying the body could offer clues about how the enemy had taken control.
But Moffat shook his head. "I can't. Don't be fooled by the fact that I run this place—I'm just a middle-tier manager."
"The real executives are Federation elites. They operate from remote star systems and don't stick around."
"I don't have the authority to give you full access."
Lorc's expression darkened.
But then Moffat grinned.
"Who said I planned to run?"
"Don't forget—I'm also a citizen of the Eternal Cycle Star Nation."
"I'll take care of it. I know this place like the back of my hand. And I'm damn good at what I do."
"You? Just stand back and learn something."
He intensified the lockdown on Kesiba's body, using the energy field to destabilize its internal processes and prevent self-destruction.
Lorc watched him work.
And then, something clicked.
"So that's how it is…"