On the floor beside her, the Stelle, who was almost in shock from exhaustion and lay motionless, was the most direct proof of this fury.
To make this idiotic and meddlesome Trailblazer fully understand the adverse impact they had caused and pay a "small" price, Stelle, over the past few sleepless days, had "voluntarily" thrown herself into a new round of pressure tests in the simulated universe, with unprecedented intensity, fueled by extreme "enthusiasm" and "dedication."
The sheer workload was enough to strip the skin off any legendary adventurer.
At this moment, Stelle lay there like a boneless blob of mud, her eyes vacant, traces of dried drool seemingly still at the corners of her mouth, truly "unable to get up again."
However, even such a "just" punishment failed to completely dispel the lingering gloom on Ms. Herta's brow.
She still sat on the large main control chair, her face grim.
Before her, a virtual image of extremely high clarity floated.
The figure in the image was extracted from Stelle's chaotic memory bank through special means—the true appearance of the mastermind behind it all.
To be honest, at first glance at this reconstructed image, Herta, who was always known for her calm rationality, uncharacteristically felt a ripple in her heart, even suspecting that Stelle's memory module had a serious error, or that the extraction process had been subjected to unknown interference.
Why?
Why would this mastermind, whom Stelle called "Sister Herta" and who orchestrated all of this... have a face... so similar to her own?!
It couldn't be said to be exactly the same; after all, those dark purple, lightless eyes, gray-white long hair, and that dark gothic Lolita attire were vastly different from Herta's own style.
But the contour of that face, the arrangement and exquisiteness of those features, were strikingly eight-tenths similar to hers!
This surpassed the realm of coincidence.
Was it some highly skilled individual among those damned Masked Fools deliberately impersonating her to have fun?
Or... was there truly another being in the universe whose appearance could rival hers (she grudgingly admitted), and who was audacious enough to provoke her?
Herta found it hard to imagine that, besides herself, there could be a second individual in the universe who could compete with her in the attribute of "beauty"—this was not narcissism, but an objective recognition based on her own perfect structure.
Moreover, according to Stelle's rambling but consistent testimony, this person was the thief who had previously entered her Space Station as if nobody was there and stole her doll!
(Imitating my face, invading my territory, stealing my things, deceiving my people, spreading rumors about me, and even daring to touch my people...)
This series of combined information forced Herta to temporarily set aside the pure accountability of the Masked Fools and fall into a deeper contemplation.
Behind this, perhaps, lay a truth more worthy of investigation than a mere "joyful" prank.
Her violet eyes narrowed slightly, her fingertips unconsciously tapping the armrest.
(No matter who you are, no matter where you come from... you have successfully piqued my greatest "interest.")
Asta's Cabin
Meanwhile, Asta, the station master of the Space Station, was walking alone back to her cabin.
Her head was bowed, her steps somewhat heavy, and her usually meticulously styled pink long hair also appeared a bit dull.
Her mood was very low.
On one hand, the doll that was sent by the impersonator, which she had once cherished greatly, had been handed over to Ms. Herta.
On the other hand, and what made her even more upset, was that she had been so easily deceived, which in turn had enraged Ms. Herta and caused quite a stir at the Space Station.
A mix of shame, loss, and worry entangled her.
(Ms. Herta... must be very disappointed in me...)
She thought silently, walking to her room door.
Identity authentication passed, and the metal door slid open silently.
She didn't even have the energy to turn on the lights. Using the faint light from the corridor, she habitually walked towards her desk, intending to put down the data pad she was carrying.
However, just as her gaze fell on the desktop, her movements instantly froze.
The desk was not empty as she had expected.
A... doll, was quietly placed there.
It was a Ms. Herta doll.
But unlike the previous doll, this doll's design was entirely based on Ms. Herta's classic gothic-themed everyday image.
The craftsmanship was extremely exquisite, every detail perfectly reproduced, even the curve of the exaggerated large witchs hat was restored without a single flaw, and it was made with the highest quality soft fabric and delicate stuffing.
It sat there quietly, radiating an incredibly familiar dignity.
Asta was completely stunned.
She blinked, almost thinking she was hallucinating due to excessive guilt.
Hesitantly, she approached the desk step by step, her gaze fixed on the doll.
Then, she saw a folded note pressed beside the doll.
Her heart involuntarily sped up. She reached out, somewhat trembling, picked up the paper, and unfolded it.
The handwriting on it was one she knew all too well, belonging to Ms. Herta, with just a few brief sentences:
[It's for you.]
[Next time, have a little taste.]
No signature, as concise as ever.
But these two short lines of text, like a warm current, instantly washed away all the grievances, shame, and unease that had accumulated in Asta's heart.
She suddenly covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes quickly reddening, an unspeakable emotion welling up in her heart.
Ms. Herta... hadn't given up on her.
She had even... comforted her in this way.
She carefully held the new Herta doll in her hands as if it were the most precious treasure in the world, pressing it tightly to her chest.
Feeling the precise stuffing beneath the soft fabric, she seemed to feel, through it, a subtle warmth hidden beneath the cold exterior of that Genius Envoy.
(Mm! Ms. Herta! I will... I will definitely have better taste in the future!)
She swore vigorously in her heart.
Astral Express
Deep in the night, the Astral Express, like a giant cradle in the tranquil star sea, had most of its carriages asleep.
March 7th rubbed her sleepy eyes and crept out of her room.
Her pink hair was a bit messy, and she was wearing cute pajamas with star and moon patterns.
Perhaps it was because the day had been too eventful, or simply because she drank too much water before bed, she tossed and turned unable to sleep. She decided to go to the Party Car to get something to drink, and maybe some snacks to soothe her empty stomach and restless heart.
She groggily walked through the quiet corridor and pushed open the distinctive sliding door of the Party Car.
Only a few ambient lights were on in the carriage, the light dim and soft, and the glass of the liquor cabinet behind the bar reflected a faint glow.
In this hazy light, March 7th immediately spotted a familiar back sitting in front of the bar—shoulder-length gray hair, a slightly casual posture.
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