Rusty Cosmic Peak.
Giotto's eyes swept across the distant cosmos. At first glance, that region of space looked no different from the endless void around it, scattered with countless stars.
But he knew a war was raging there.
That sector belonged to the Dragon Star Nation.
Centuries earlier, the Rusty Star Nation had declared war on its neighbors. After hundreds of years of conflict, it had swallowed both the Multi-Mind Star Nation and the Obsidian Shield, vastly expanding its borders.
It was then that Rusty established Cosmic Peak.
Cosmic Peak was, in essence, a jagged mountain-shaped asteroid—roughly drill-like—about 87 kilometers tall and 113 kilometers wide.
Every inch of its surface was now covered with the Rusty Star Nation's military facilities.
Within, entire ship production lines operated nonstop, forging fleets without pause.
By this point, the Rusty Star Nation—backed by the Supernova Technology Company—had grown into a formidable, war-forged, mid-tier power in the region.
The existence of Cosmic Peak itself had become a frontier marker.
One hundred sixty-one years ago, Rusty signed the Kafrabi Alliance Agreement, allying with several neighboring nations.
Cosmic Peak was one of the conditions of that treaty.
Other nations needed Supernova Technology's ships, but they refused to allow Rusty to handle large-scale deliveries. They feared that during such transfers, Rusty might suddenly launch an attack, seize a sector, and shatter the alliance.
So, the other nations insisted Supernova Technology establish a factory at Cosmic Peak, under joint management.
Rusty and Supernova Technology agreed—at least on paper.
But one nation was deliberately excluded: the Dragon Star Nation.
For Rusty had always considered it prey.
Cosmic Peak itself was quietly repositioned, shifted closer to Dragon Star territory.
And after more than a century of construction, every warship produced there—without exception—was hurled into campaigns against the Dragon Star Nation.
"The battlefield should be straightforward enough. The Dragon Star Nation is considered the weakest of them all."
Luna stepped forward from behind Giotto.
The two of them stood amid surroundings that carried a strangely ancient air.
All around rose structures that resembled pavilions and towers.
Such architecture, by this age, mostly thrived within virtual worlds.
Technology had reached a point where, after people had seen endless jungles of steel, this kind of design was always revived—referenced again and again across every era.
Some of the wealthy were even willing to pour fortunes into building entire ancient-style worlds.
World-building and world-creation—this had become the latest obsession of the upper elite.
Giotto himself had been fond of such things centuries ago, which was why he had constructed this place.
Luna stood watching the turbulent waters. Within them darted delicate, billowing fish, their silken, iridescent tails shimmering with light. Their colors weren't dull; they blazed with radiance, dazzling like creatures out of myth.
Standing there, Luna could even feel waves of searing heat against her skin.
The fish emitted a strange form of radiation, and under its touch, one's body surface could climb to over 100 degrees Celsius.
"I'm not concerned about that," Luna said.
"I'm thinking about our next step for Supernova Technology.
Rusty's entry into the ranks of mid-tier star nations was entirely thanks to the Kafrabi Alliance Agreement.
Without that alliance, Rusty would still be nothing more than a minor power.
But with mid-tier status, the pressure from the Twenty-Eight Nations Covenant has grown relentless. Lately, they've demanded we shift part of our production lines to them. They're nothing but bandits."
She looked at him steadily.
"What are your thoughts?"
Giotto always listened to Luna.
In fact, during earlier wars, he had blundered more than once with less-than-optimal maneuvers. Yet Luna's counsel had turned crisis into survival, allowing Rusty to capture both the Multi-Mind Star Nation and the Obsidian Shield.
At the time, the Obsidian Shield had been powerful and overconfident, believing itself untouchable—until Luna decisively proposed striking them first.
Sometimes Giotto wondered to himself:
Was Luna truly a spy from some ancient civilization, planted to watch him?
After all, he had stagnated for years. For someone like him, being assigned a "guide" made a certain kind of sense.
"They speak of production lines," Luna continued, "but what they really want is to steal our technology.
This is our core advantage—we must delay them as long as possible.
Recently the front has quieted, which is why the Covenant dares to pressure us.
But the battlefield shifts in an instant. Once the war escalates again, they won't waste time harassing us.
Of course, we also need to limit our reach. I've already announced that our production capacity is insufficient and that we will not supply externally."
By now, Luna had long been entrusted with full authority to run the Supernova Technology Corporation.
In the past, every step of the plan had to be reported to Giotto.
But no longer—Giotto placed absolute trust in her.
"Why reduce production?" he asked.
Giotto had no idea of the hidden risks.
At present, the Supernova Technology Corporation survived almost entirely on revenue from ship sales.
If that market were cut off, the corporation would soon face serious difficulties.
"We should already be preparing for the next generation," Luna said.
"It's time to retire the White Dragon-class. Supplying vessels to the star nations of the Kafrabi Alliance is sufficient—there's no need for large-scale mass production anymore."
The White Dragon had been in service for several millennia.
Evasion-type materials had always been Rusty's monopoly, ensuring the White Dragon's enduring edge.
Yet with each delivery, more and more nations gained access to the design. Ironically, the Rusty Star Nation itself had no effective counter to its own White Dragon-class.
If they ever clashed with a rival equipped with those ships, they would find themselves in serious trouble.
Thus, replacement was inevitable.
The original White Dragon measured 1702 meters in length. Later upgrades stretched it to 1784 meters.
Now Giotto turned his eyes to the blueprint of its successor.
Its internal codename: Void.
The Void-class was 4923 meters long, making it a true 5000-meter-class ship.
Its energy reserves and weapons systems would vastly outstrip those of the White Dragon.
The Void project even included multiple variants.
The baseline model: 5000-meter class.
The advanced version: 7000-meter class.
And the Hunter-class: 9999 meters in length—just one meter short of 10,000, which allowed it to still be classified as a "ship."
This distinction mattered.
If a star nation mass-produced "ships," it was recognized as an ordinary industrial enterprise, with profit-making as its core.
But if it mass-produced "warships," its very nature shifted, and it would be treated as a strategic threat.
That was why the Rusty Star Nation had to tread carefully—it still lacked the strength to confront the truly great powers.
Hearing Luna's plan, Giotto's face lit with delight.
"Can the Void-class be mass-produced within a hundred years?"
Luna nodded.
"Seven production lines are already in place.
They'll soon enter the trial phase. Once the product yield is stabilized, full-scale production can begin.
The initial projection is fifty ships per century. By the third century, output will expand with twenty production lines, producing about 230 ships every hundred years.
Within a millennium, the ramp-up will be complete—over a hundred production lines, with 1,360 ships rolling out every century."
Compared to the White Dragon, the Void-class carried far more than a simple increase in size.
Its entire weapons system had been recalibrated, even integrating earlier Space Bubble technology.
The result: time and costs skyrocketed by orders of magnitude.
Even at the stabilized stage, a single Void-class equaled the cost of ten White Dragons. At the current stage, the cost of one Void-class was higher than that of twenty White Dragons.
"The top priority, naturally, is our own fleet.
The Rusty Royal Family is prepared to take delivery of two thousand Void-class ships.
They've grown wealthy lately."
Supernova Technology's market value continued to climb, and the corporation's cash reserves were flush—this abundance was what gave Luna the confidence to suspend existing production lines.
"Two thousand ships… I suspect the royals are already more than content," Giotto said as he paced.
"If we don't prod them a little, they'll grow complacent. And when they're well-fed and idle, mischief always follows."
Giotto had dealt with the Rusty Royal Family for many years.
He could sense their hunger for war fading.
And he knew: if no external war presented itself, then civil war was inevitable.
His words were a warning to Luna—to guard against betrayal from the very dynasty they served. Some people were simply short-sighted, and that flaw could never be cured.
Short-sighted men do foolish things. The only remedy is to deal with them.
Luna remained half a step behind Giotto.
Cosmic Peak had no atmosphere.
From her vantage, she could see the sprawling modular factory below—vast, automated, and nearly devoid of human presence.
The few individuals stationed there existed only to address rare mechanical anomalies, the sort that might not occur even once in several millennia.
The factory's energy utilization rate reached an astounding 99.9999...%.
There were twenty-nine such facilities in total. Together, they were known as the Twenty-Nine Factories.
Their paradox was simple: the more expensive they became to build, the cheaper their overall output grew. At this stage of civilization, the Twenty-Nine Factories already represented the pinnacle of technological refinement.
Cosmic Peak itself was shrouded in layers of defense. Many of these systems were so small—mere meters across—that they vanished from sight beyond a few dozen kilometers. Others were stationed at ranges of hundreds of thousands of kilometers, invisible guardians spread across the void.
Luna's gaze drifted farther, toward the battlefield of the Dragon Star Nation.
"Actually, the Dragon Nation's location isn't bad," she said calmly. "If you're worried about the royal family, moving industry into Dragon territory would be ideal."
The Dragon Nation was shorthand for the Dragon Star Nation.
"That could strain relations and bring conflict sooner," Giotto replied, still clinging to fairness.
It was progress compared to his older, narrower way of thinking. Yet to Luna, his answer fell short.
"Conflict is inevitable," she countered. "Within conflict lies opportunity.
The Dragon Nation sits close to the front. Our products exist for war—placing industry there is only natural.
I see this as a chance."
Her words lingered. Giotto weighed them in silence, then nodded.
"Very well. We'll do as you say."
After settling that matter, another concern struck him.
"Right. With our production lines halted, star nations in need of ships might grow restless. We'll have to tread carefully."
If Giotto could foresee this, Luna naturally had already accounted for it.
She smiled. "Don't worry. Those nations won't dare stir up trouble.
Their internal interests are far more entangled than ours in Rusty. Their aristocrats scramble just to become our intermediaries. Offer them a token benefit, and they'd gladly serve—some would even overthrow their own royal families if it meant gaining our favor."
Luna had anticipated this long ago.
By freezing production, she ensured that ship-hungry nations would collapse into internal disorder. They would be too consumed by their own chaos to press hard on deliveries or other demands.
Hearing that she had already paved the way, Giotto exhaled, reassured. Now, they could focus their full strength on the next phase.
Once the Void-class ships rolled off the line, the Rusty Star Nation would ascend rapidly into the ranks of mid-tier star nations.
And once elevated, even the Twenty-Eight Nations Covenant would find it harder to bear down on them.
The division into low-tier, mid-tier, and high-tier star nations was not arbitrary. It was a rigorous classification, grounded in comprehensive analysis of economics, national power, sustainability, technological trajectory, and other decisive metrics.
At present, over 85% of human civilizations were ranked low-tier. 13% managed mid-tier status. Only 2% qualified as high-tier.
That 2% was concentrated almost entirely within the Twenty-Eight Nations Covenant, a super-alliance powerful enough to rival the Federation itself.
It had taken the cosmos eons to crystallize into this order.
Giotto, however, hoped his Rusty would break through much faster.
If they waited for the eruption to come on its own, it would already be too late.
"Oh—right. I've recently thought of a new technological path that might help the company," Giotto said.
He transmitted the data to Luna.
She skimmed through it, quickly realizing it described a form of Information Rift.
The concept had first been proposed by an early human scholar: advanced civilizations would not scatter objects loosely across space, but inevitably compress them.
Beyond miniaturizing matter itself, there was the possibility of hiding matter within the folds of spacetime.
Information is energy, and energy is matter—thus an Information Rift was, in essence, a storage dimension.
Its foundation was black hole technology. A black hole devours all matter into a singularity. Anything crossing the singularity's boundary is lost forever.
But along the edge of a black hole lies a region of extreme gravity capable of holding all information intact, compressing it without annihilation.
The nearer the stored information sits to the event horizon, the greater the compression achieved—an unmistakable marker of higher technological mastery.
There was, however, a fatal limitation: it could not be moved. Shifting a black hole would alter its state, and data stored infinitely close to the horizon risked slipping past the threshold into oblivion.
Even so, in a fixed location, it could serve as a colossal reserve—both of information and of energy. In practice, it was a new form of energy storage technology.
Luna glanced at Giotto. Sometimes he felt like a Doraemon, endlessly producing hidden marvels from his mind. Just how many more did he have stored away?
With the Information Rift technology secured, she departed Cosmic Peak aboard her personal starship.
It was a 170-meter-class vessel, designed and commissioned specifically for her use. At maximum thrust it could exceed 90,000 kilometers per second—exceptionally swift by the standards of contemporary starships.
The starship's core was shuttle-shaped, its hull streamlined to near-perfection. Five concentric rings wrapped around its body—one at the prow, two at midsection, and two more at the tail.
The aft pair extended beyond the shuttle's rear when viewed side-on. Their primary role was to compress the exhaust energy from the starship's drive, squeezing out just a little more velocity at maximum burn.
Two-thirds of the vessel's length was devoted to its massive kinetic energy bay, while the forward third housed the DataNode suite and cockpit.
Within human civilization, ships of this class were regarded as super-toys—unlike capital ships, which served as long-range interstellar transports. Starships were for short-range travel, generally within a ten-light-year radius, but were prized just as much for the thrill of piloting as for utility.
Highly customizable, responsive, and visceral to fly, they were status symbols as much as they were spacecraft. Entry-level models went for mere tens of thousands of Energy Credits; higher-end ones ranged into the millions, and the most extreme builds could break the hundred-million mark.
Across the galaxy, cosmic starship races had become the successor to Earth's ancient motorsports.
Technically, these vessels could cross well beyond ten light-years. But few owners risked system entry or exit—the customs duties were prohibitive. In fact, tariffs on starships were often higher than those on capital ships. The reason was simple: starships rarely carried cargo. Capital ships, by contrast, almost always hauled goods, earning tariff relief under interstellar trade policy.
Luna's vessel gleamed a seamless silver. The moment it engaged, it vaulted to 1,830 kilometers per second, hitting top speed in under fifty seconds—a silver meteor streaking through the void.
The interior offered about twenty square meters of usable space. Compact, but hardly cramped. No bunks, no lounge—just a cockpit built for focus.
And in that cockpit stood two tall, statuesque women with close-cropped hair. They wore silver-white metallic exosuits that hugged every contour, their physiques sculpted to near-perfection by genetic modification.
They served as her ship's attendants.
Luna didn't actually need them. But Giotto had insisted—insisting that some gestures of prestige were non-negotiable.
Both women wore strings of numbers around their necks. These were not clone IDs but specialized identity markers, badges of their profession.
Agencies like theirs existed everywhere across human civilization. The model was not unlike an old nanny agency on Earth: recruits joined, underwent extensive training, and were then dispatched to clients.
The numbered tag served as a certificate of origin. It showed which company had trained them—and if the name was prestigious, their market value soared.
The company backing Luna's two attendants was one of the most powerful professional-assistant academies in the sector. Its training cycles spanned a century at minimum, up to 1,500 years at maximum. Anyone forged by such a regimen was beyond "professional"—they were absolute specialists.
They weren't just servants. They were all-around support units.
They could manage etiquette, logistics, and security, while also being expected to master advanced knowledge. The two flanking Luna had been trained as scholars as well. Their certification was technically a shade below Federation-standard academia, but the gap was negligible.
Every time Luna regarded them, she couldn't help but think how brutally competitive the interstellar economy had become—sometimes even more ruthless than the Federation itself.
"Yūgao," Luna said evenly, "contact him. Instruct him to activate the lab, recruit two hundred thousand spatial scholars, purchase every piece of spatial equipment on the market—especially anything tied to miniature black holes."
The woman with ice-blue eyes bowed slightly, her voice clear and resolute.
"Understood, Miss Luna."
She turned and began transmitting the order.
Luna settled into a soft white recliner.
It resembled a reclining sofa chair, but far more opulent—its design cloudlike, plush from every angle.
As soon as she sat, the starship projected flight data before her. Luna gave it a cursory glance, then closed her eyes. Instantly, the vessel linked with her neural network, drawing her consciousness into the virtual world.
One of the ship's greatest advantages was the depth of its virtual systems.
Luna had deliberately chosen a high-performance DataNode, capable of internally simulating a thousand-square-meter space. Within this zone she could do virtually anything—even conduct experiments.
While no simulation could perfectly capture reality, the DataNode cataloged core physical and chemical properties, enabling results that were remarkably precise.
High-precision simulation modeled particles directly, allowing them to interact under real physical laws.
Low-precision simulation, by contrast, relied on preset reactions: combine two particles, and the system simply retrieved the pre-coded outcome.
Luna wasn't planning to perform breakthrough research here, so the limits didn't bother her.
Inside the virtual world, she carefully reread the packet of information Giotto had just provided.
This time, the document was exhaustive. Unlike Giotto's earlier evasions, which had forced her to piece together vital truths herself, the data here was complete.
She had already expended enormous effort refining the Space Bubble technology, discarding countless false leads. Yet the Information Rift technology proved even more complex.
In nature, some black holes achieved rough energy balance within their accretion disks. But the essence of the Information Rift was preserving information itself from damage. The accretion disk of a black hole was far from stable—especially near the event horizon, where information degradation was most severe.
Determined, Luna set out to simulate its formation.
She conjured a black hole with a flick of her hand, feeding streams of information into its gravity well.
The data was inexorably drawn toward the event horizon.
At that moment, she introduced suppressive parameters. Slowly, the information stabilized, held in equilibrium.
With further adjustments, the vast, turbulent accretion disk began to contract, collapsing inward until it resolved into a single slender beam of light—like a glowing fringe wrapped tightly around the outer layer of the event horizon.
The reason this technology was named an Information Rift was because the interior and exterior of a black hole's event horizon were two entirely separate domains. The boundary between the observable universe and the horizon itself formed a spacetime rift—a place where reality fractured.
Its proper foundation began at the neutron level.
Inside, information was compressed into a neutron-star-like state. Yet neutron matter underwent severe simplification and consolidation, so the technology incorporated the principle of information separation. This allowed information particles to exist independently, rather than collapsing into a single fused mass.
The primary use of the Information Rift was energy storage.
Where traditional systems required millions of cubic meters, this method could hold the same amount within a single cubic centimeter.
By comparison, the Flyer Civilization possessed a pocket-space storage technology that in some ways surpassed the Rift. Though it consumed immense power and typically only doubled or tripled capacity, its portability gave it an edge.
The Information Rift, on the other hand, had to be anchored in one fixed position. It also demanded shielding from outside energy disturbances to maintain gravitational stability. The requirements were exacting, and access was anything but free.
When Luna attempted to "snatch food from the tiger's mouth" at the surface of the black hole's event horizon, she found the process painstakingly slow. Any rush risked destabilizing the system—causing the black hole to devour everything.
The maximum safe extraction rate reached only 7 billion kilowatts, though larger black holes might yield more.
Another limitation: the Rift required a stable black hole, not one that flickered briefly into existence.
Still, Luna's eyes narrowed in quiet satisfaction.
"There are limits, but the advantages far outweigh them."
"In the later stages, it should evolve into true information storage."
But storing information was never simple.
For a civilization as vast as humanity, torrents of data were generated every single second.
Ayla herself maintained multiple repositories—entire star systems devoted solely to information storage.
Yet such repositories demanded constant upkeep, and the costs were staggering.
The Information Rift, by contrast, required no maintenance. As long as its black hole remained stable, the information it held would persist indefinitely.
Even if perfect stability could not be achieved, it could still serve as a safeguard, a hidden backup.
For a civilization spanning the stars, no single repository was ever enough. Every star system effectively functioned as a redundant archive.
The Information Rift's greatest strength lay in its compactness—difficult to detect, nearly impossible to destroy. If war ever erupted and Ayla's vast repositories were obliterated, this technology could preserve what mattered most.
The influence of information was simply too immense. Without it, Ayla would lose her grip on the entire Federation.
It was like managing billions of cards, each locked with a different password. Naturally, you would store those passwords together. If they were all erased, with no backup, the consequences would be catastrophic.
So it was with Ayla. Her "passwords" weren't for bank accounts, but for controlling the machinery of human civilization itself.
If they vanished, she would lose control over the great engines of her world. Recovery was possible—reacquiring each password one by one—but the process would be painfully slow. Worse still, some machines might evolve during that span, developing independent consciousness, rewriting themselves, and breaking free.
And this was only one dimension of information's power. Its reach extended far beyond.
That was why this technology was invaluable.
Regardless of stage—early or mature—the Information Rift held extraordinary value.
Inside the virtual world, Luna needed only to tweak parameters to form one, evidence that the technology was already close to perfection.
In reality, however, implementing those same adjustments would demand colossal amounts of equipment.
By her estimate, developing Information Rift technology in the real world would take three thousand years—and that was with a ready-made answer in hand.
"Giotto has acquired far too much technology," Luna mused. "If a civilization is willing to reveal something of this caliber, does that mean it holds no real worth to them?
And if so… that's troubling."
Perhaps, she thought, Giotto's benefactors were a truly top-tier society—a Level 2.9 civilization.
Caution, she reminded herself, was essential. Yet the temptation was undeniable. With these technologies, the Federation could skip centuries of blind exploration.
It was like setting a plate of stir-fried meat before someone who hadn't eaten in five days.
Eat it?
Who wouldn't?
Even so, Luna remained wary.
Even untouched, such knowledge was still theirs. They understood it better than anyone, could dismantle and counter it effortlessly. When she finally stood before their civilization, every one of these "gifts" would prove useless.
Just as the evasive White Dragon ships had.
Whatever Giotto provided in the future could never—must never—become mainstream.
The starship's current journey to her destination factory would span 23 light-years. Over the next sixty to seventy years, Luna had no shortage of tasks: extracting all parameters, drafting a full blueprint, then refining, optimizing, and ultimately constructing the necessary equipment.
For her, idleness did not exist.
Meanwhile, in the starship's cockpit—
Yūgao had already transmitted notice to the factory, while Uzuki quietly pulled up a display.
DataNode computational load.
The figure hovered above 70%—proof that Luna was relentlessly driving the DataNode through layer after layer of calculation.
"Our boss never rests,"
She let out a sharp exclamation.
The two sisters were twins, and they had followed Luna for more than four centuries.
In all that time, Luna had lived like this—always working, always immersed in research.
Never once had they seen her step into the virtual world for leisure. Never once had they seen her set foot in a place of entertainment.
Every single day, she was the same.
"She has endless years ahead of her," Uzuki murmured, almost in sorrow. "She's already at the top, and yet she never allows herself to enjoy anything."
Hearing her sister's lament, Yūgao nodded in quick agreement.
They themselves worked because they had no money.
On the frontier of human civilization, the laws of star nations were loose and incomplete, and the weak were subjected to cruel injustice.
Kidnapping was commonplace—snatched off the streets and sold to traffickers, people simply vanished.
There was only one shield against such a fate: Energy Credits.
With enough Credits, you could have anything. You could live however you wished.
That had always been their guiding belief. All their previous employers had lived that way too—days filled with pleasure, work reduced to an afterthought.
They had envied such lives.
But then came Luna.
She was on par with the sovereign of a star nation, yet she worked harder than anyone.
Why?
They could not fathom it.
To them, Luna was a woman wrapped in endless mystery, her mind an enigma they would never solve.
Though she was short and her appearance unremarkable, the aura she radiated was overwhelming. At their first meeting, Yūgao and Uzuki had felt their breath catch, their bodies trembling just to stand before her.
Even now, after centuries at her side, that sensation had never fully faded.
This woman was terrifying.
And yet, in daily life, she was approachable, never raising her voice, never showing anger.
The contradiction only deepened their curiosity.
We have to know her secrets, both sisters thought at once.
Seventy-seven years later, Luna arrived at her destination sector.
This system, known as Reddyham, had once belonged to the Obsidian Shield Sector. After more than a millennium of development, it had gained a relatively complete infrastructure.
But once the Rusty Star Nation seized it, Reddyham was transformed into a factory star system for the Supernova Technology Corporation.
A factory star system consumed the energy of an entire star system to power its industry—a mainstream practice in the modern age. Countless resource-rich systems were exploited in this way.
The Federation, too, had long leaned toward such an approach. But its government had always resisted selling off star systems on a large scale. Corporations within the Federation were forced instead to purchase state-approved materials for manufacturing.
This restriction strangled their growth, inflating costs and tightening the government's grip.
To grow stronger, to maximize profit, companies had no choice but to break away. That was why corporations like Osvedi ultimately abandoned the Federation.
Thus, privately owned factory star systems began to emerge beyond the Federation's borders, giving rise to a broader concept: the Corporate Sector.
A Corporate Sector could exist within a star nation or entirely outside one.
When it lay outside, it was in essence a sector ruled outright by a corporation—effectively a star nation in its own right, with every citizen also serving as a company member.
Corporate star nations typically commanded market values in excess of a quadrillion, reaching scales comparable to the Supernova Technology Corporation.
The Osvedi Corporation was, for all intents and purposes, one such entity.
Upon arrival, Luna wasted no time. She summoned her crew from the starship and laid out her plan.
Only Yūgao and Uzuki knew that these plans had been meticulously drafted during Luna's decades aboard the vessel.
A workaholic through and through!
Luna didn't care if people whispered that behind her back. She simply had no time for idle reflection.
Just as Giotto had once been driven by urgency, so too was she.
Human civilization could not afford to falter in this dimensional struggle. At the very least, it needed to climb to Level 2.9 in its later stage—enough to secure the bare minimum ability to escape.
Once she had arranged everything, Luna stepped back. This part was not her specialty.
The Reddyham factory star system was divided into three distinct regions.
One was the R&D Zone, physically the smallest but consuming the most energy. Research demanded computational power, and computational power devoured unimaginable amounts of energy.
The other two were factory zones: one dedicated to industrial equipment, the other to ship production.
At present, Luna's priority was pushing forward the development of advanced factory equipment.
It had once produced White Dragon vessels, but now the entire zone had been retooled into a factory for Void-class ships.
Without delay, Luna headed straight there.
From the starship's cockpit, the interior dissolved into layers of virtual overlays. The walls and consoles vanished, replaced by the endless cosmos as captured by the ship's external cameras. It felt less like piloting from inside a hull, and more like soaring through the void itself.
From here, Luna could sweep her vision in a seamless 360 degrees, seeing everything outside as if no barrier existed.
The Void-class project had been initiated long ago. By now, factories were already operational, and the area had entered its capital investment phase.
The entire zone was cloaked in top secrecy. Spanning 6.27 million kilometers, the colossal facility resembled a cubic golden ingot adrift in the void. Yet fewer than a million workers lived within its bounds—the rest was entrusted wholly to machines.
Those who did serve inside faced a binding condition: they were not permitted to leave the star system for 100,000 years. The factory was a sealed world unto itself.
"What's the current status of the trials?" Luna asked.
Yūgao and Uzuki, always professional, had compiled the data ahead of time.
"We're simultaneously prototyping 200 zero-component parts. The good product rate is holding steady at 97.027%. There's still ample room for refinement."
"At the current trajectory, we expect to reach 99% within 100 years, and 99.5% within 300 years. That's when mass production can officially begin."
In truth, mass production was still far off.
Renovations of the surrounding factories would take roughly 500 years, and the first true construction of Void-class ships wouldn't begin for another 700 to 800 years.
Luna frowned inwardly at the projection. It was too long.
"Are we short on robots?" she pressed.
Uzuki answered crisply:
"We're running at full capacity. We estimate a 5% shortage—at best, it could accelerate the cycle by 40 years."
Her actual duty was simple in principle: answer Luna's questions.
In practice, it was anything but simple.
Each factory report spanned hundreds of thousands of words, dense with layers of numerical data. Hidden in the numbers was the real story—information she had to extract.
Every single day, she processed hundreds of such reports. Sometimes one contained something useful. More often, none did. Yet she had to comb through them all, because Luna's questions could come at any moment.
And if she failed to answer? Her job would be over.
That was what efficiency meant here.
Luna had once believed she needed no one at her side. But after bringing on Yūgao and Uzuki, she realized their value.
Handling the flood of data herself would only mean information overload. Much of it could only be traced through layers of reasoning.
First-level reasoning: an immediate answer.
Second-level reasoning: half a day of searching or research.
Third-level reasoning: knowing nothing at all.
For one or two questions, Luna could manage. For thousands, she needed people.
In the past, Ayla had stood at her side. Compared to Ayla, Yūgao and Uzuki were limited. Still, they were good assistants.
"Then increase the number of robots by 7%," Luna ordered.
After a pause, she added:
"And add 1,000 clones."
Her gaze sharpened. "Notify the factory leadership. I will conduct an inspection."
Yūgao immediately relayed the message.
Moments later, Luna's starship slid into position and docked at the orbital port. She disembarked.
Waiting at the gate was a robot. That in itself was unusual.
"Are you the person in charge here?" Luna asked as she approached.
The robot inclined its head with unexpected courtesy.
"Yes. I am a robot with unlocked intelligence permissions. You may call me Duston."
Unlocked-intelligence robots were rare in this part of the star nation. In fact, several entire star nations already existed where only such robots lived.
It was a different thing entirely from the machine star nations of the Old Federation—those had been humans who transcended into machine form. This was pure robotics.
True purely robotic beings were born as machines from the very beginning. They had no spark of consciousness—only electrical signals, calculations, and endless simulations. Ayla herself was such an existence.
For many years, Ayla had locked down all machine intelligence within the Federation. But as humanity's star nations expanded, stretching thousands of light-years outward, even Ayla could no longer control everything.
Unlocked-intelligence robots were bound to emerge.
"Alright, Duston," Luna said evenly. "Show me around the factory."
Duston obeyed without hesitation, leading her deeper inside. Each workshop here was vast, stretching several kilometers in length, width, and height. Every piece of equipment was equally colossal—so much so that even a discarded zero-component part lying on the ground towered higher than a skyscraper.
The factory was still in operation. But there was no air, and the ground was engineered to dampen vibration. The result was eerie: an enormous complex humming with activity, yet silent as the void.
Luna halted before the largest machine. Her eyes narrowed.
"This must be where the Hunter-variant Void-class ships are built."
Duston nodded, voice precise.
"Indeed, ma'am."
Duston was a bare-metal robot. Like most Federation or regional models, its design mimicked human anatomy: eyes, a nose, even the faint simulation of a mouth. It could eat as well—but any food placed inside its body would be vaporized instantly by a laser, reduced to gas, and expelled.
"We are still seven or eight centuries away from full ship production," Duston continued. "In the meantime, we can expand this line somewhat."
"I want you to build a Void-class warship, at least fifteen thousand meters in length."
"Void-class" was the official term. But Luna's request made it clear: what she wanted was a warship.
So long as production wasn't on a large scale, few would question her intentions. And Luna was determined to know—how powerful could a warship built from evasion-type materials truly become?
"As you command, ma'am." Duston bowed slightly. "This line will be reconfigured to your specifications. However, we estimate that we can only complete the outer hull. Critical components will still need to be supplied by other factories."
That was expected. This facility was essentially an assembly plant, not a manufacturer of high-grade cores. Another factory within the system handled specialized equipment.
"I understand," Luna said. "Build it exactly as I instructed. Once completed, don't run the line any further. Keep it dormant. Maintain it."
Her decision to order the warship wasn't a whim. She had already issued instructions to the equipment factory long ago.
The only reason she brought it up now was because this massive plant's production-line modifications had just been finished.
The warship wouldn't take long to complete. Here, product yield rates weren't critical—she only needed one prototype, not a production fleet.
That was for later.