Two hours after the first Purple Sun Devouring.
The news had spread to every corner of the globe. Over five billion people—whether they chose to or not—were now caught in a storm of panic and chaos. More than forty nations had declared states of emergency. The rest weren't indifferent—they simply lacked the means to control their own territories.
It was at this moment that the second device in front of Ethan Cole—designated QA9677, a micro energy container loader—began flashing a fierce red light.
"Energy loading complete. All systems ready. Let's send our test subject on its way."
Ethan stepped toward the "Micro Jump Channel Generator," a machine that looked disturbingly like an electric chair.
Jonathan Fields, strapped into the seat, suddenly widened his eyes.
"Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!…"
As Ethan approached, his gaze fixed on the lever beside the chair, Jonathan's mind flashed back to the moment two hours ago when the sun had dimmed—right as Ethan pulled a similar lever.
He knew. This was it. The moment everything would change. Or end. His panic surged. His body strained against the restraints with desperate strength.
Kindred castaways…
Ethan paused, watching Jonathan's face flush purple with fear, tears streaming uncontrollably. With a sigh, he stopped mid-motion and gently peeled the tape from Jonathan's mouth.
"Please! I'm begging you! Let me go—I'll give you anything! I swear I won't say a word! I'll serve you for life! I've got a family—kids—please…"
The moment the tape came off, Jonathan's pleas poured out—lines he'd repeated for three days straight. Ethan could recite them by heart. But this time, Jonathan broke down halfway through, choking on his own sobs.
You think you've got it bad? I've got no one. No kids. No legacy.
Ethan's sigh deepened.
"Jonathan… this isn't personal. We don't know each other. I've got no grudge. But I'm trapped too. We're both just… unlucky."
His voice cracked. Even Ethan felt tears welling up.
"Let's talk about something else. You saw what happened to the sun. You've seen this place. Honestly? I've got no clue what these machines do either. If something goes wrong…"
He pointed to the chair.
"Any last wishes?"
Jonathan's tears came harder.
"Is there really no other way? No chance at all?"
Ethan shook his head, full of regret.
"I'm sorry."
"Then… maybe… I've been here three days. I must smell awful. It's disrespectful to you. Could I go home, take a shower, change clothes? I swear I'll come right back—please, don't—!"
The tape went back on.
No more words. Ethan pulled the levers—first the micro-field stabilizer, then the jump channel generator.
No flash. No portal. No gust of wind.
Just silence.
Jonathan Fields vanished. Or rather, the chair was now occupied only by a neatly folded shirt, tie, watch, and slacks. His body was gone.
A moment later, the clothes and restraints collapsed to the floor.
"Fuck."
Ethan stumbled backward.
Did he just… burn to ash?
"This is spatial jump," QA9677's voice echoed in Ethan's mind. "Particles disassembled, compressed, transmitted, and reassembled at the destination."
Burned, then flown away?
"In a way, yes."
So… I'm going to die like that too? Naked and vaporized?
Ethan stared at the empty clothes, dread creeping in.
"As long as your mental imprint is intact, the body—your vessel—can be reconfigured. Clothes don't jump. Blame your primitive planet. These machines are crude, but they work."
"Mental imprint?"
QA9677 had mentioned it twice. Ethan sensed its importance.
"Yes. The essence of life. DNA, soul, consciousness—all unified. Only living matter with a mental imprint can jump. Dead matter? It disintegrates. Unless…"
"Unless?"
"Unless you use mental energy to imprint every particle. Then, after the jump, they can be reassembled. But your current capacity only covers… about 20 grams."
"Fuck."
Ethan looked at the scattered clothes, then at the bizarre machines around him. A chill ran down his spine.
"Correct," QA9677 confirmed. "With your current ability, you might carry a dozen components."
"Fuck!"
Wasn't this supposed to be a classroom? A transport system? A one-way ticket? Am I saying goodbye to Earth forever?
"Just a jump tool. If Earth can build it, imagine what advanced planets can do. Besides, Earth's still useful—70 billion times more than you. You've got time."
Then comes the real goodbye.
Ethan had no idea how dangerous these machines were. They didn't just dim the sun.
If any alien with half a brain saw these four devices, they'd flee the solar system instantly.
Not because the machines were flawed. On the contrary, QA9677's "crude" tools were structurally sound, tested and approved by interstellar coalitions.
They could safely transmit any mentally imprinted matter across vast cosmic distances.
But that safety came with a catch: These devices were designed for peaceful, orderly universes—where civilizations cooperated, and space was governed.
In such realms, these machines were common.
But Earth wasn't in such a realm.
These tools were loud. Obvious. Unmasked. They screamed across the void.
The micro energy extractor altered the sun's glow—like lighting a torch in a pitch-black wasteland. The energy loader compressed 17 million years' worth of planetary fuel into a cubic meter—like igniting a billion-degree fireball in the snow. The field stabilizer anchored the solar system to the void—like blasting a thousand sirens in the dead of night. The jump generator created a raw, unshielded beacon—like a bunny dancing in front of lions.
Through these four suicidal steps, Earth had exposed itself.
To the entire universe.
To the dark forest.
To predators.
To war.
To extinction.
From orbit, the planet was dying.
The ground was crawling with grotesque insects. Dirt, stone, water, metal—even shattered machines and weapons—were shredded by razor-sharp mandibles and fed into bio-reactive stomachs, stored in grotesque organic vaults.
The air was filled with the endless hum of consumption and the roar of explosions. Above, swarms of winged drones ferried resources between colossal broodmothers and tireless ground crawlers. The planet's mass was vanishing. The crust trembled. Volcanoes erupted. Earthquakes tore the land apart. In the north, the final continental plate sank into the sea, engulfed by magma and waves hundreds of meters high. The last city—still broadcasting rhythmic electromagnetic signals—was swallowed whole.
This was the end.
The final hour of the Zymor civilization. The 75,239,113th victim of the Zaga Swarm.
Seven astronomical units away, in deep space, a vast formation of insectoid warships patrolled in silence. At its center, a young brain bug—Zerg 9-A37, barely thirty million years old—watched the dying world. It had seen this before: surprise, rage, resistance, desperation… and finally, silence.
Another signal escaped the planet's gravity. It passed through the swarm, unfiltered, untouched. Zerg 9-A37 watched it go, just as it had watched every other message from Zymor for the past three centuries.
It waited.
Waited for any response from the stars. Any reaction. Any sign.
Each signal added to its genetic library. All it needed was patience.
A hundred years. A thousand. A million. It had never been disappointed.
But then—something changed.
A psychic storm tore through space.
"Mental imprint. Spatial jump?"
Zerg 9-A37, motionless for thirty-seven years, suddenly twisted its three-thousand-kilometer body. All 32,767 psychic limbs pointed toward a single coordinate.
Within 0.7 light-years, trillions of insects erupted in frenzy.
Flying drones dropped their cargo. Ground crawlers released their prey and latched onto each other. Broodmothers expanded their bellies, swallowing entire colonies. Then, in perfect sync, they turned toward the same point in space.
Three minutes later, the brain bugs launched.
A shadow fell across the planet, blotting out the sun.
Every insect—brain, broodmother, drone, crawler—was headed for one place:
X347.14, Y788.14, Z985.52, H11.57 Or in simpler terms: Milky Way. Third spiral arm. Solar System. Third planet.
On the surface of Zymor, the last command center halted its calculations. The number of departing insects matched the total population. The final AI, overclocked for 71 orbital cycles, suddenly had processing power to spare.
It dissected 751 insects left behind. Their data pointed to the same coordinate.
The message was clear:
"Seek. Assist. Unite."
From the rubble, a battered micro-fleet launched into the void.
🩸 Elsewhere in the Void: Bloodspace
A jagged mountain range twisted through the cosmos. Atop its peaks stood ancient castles, shrouded in mist and battered by astral winds.
A flash of white light. Three figures appeared: a gorilla, an alien, and a massive Godzilla. All were wounded. Godzilla's head was split in three, leaking red and white fluids.
"Blood Lord, heal us. Deduct the mana from my account."
Three beams of light descended. The gorilla and alien recovered instantly. Godzilla's healing took two full minutes.
"Damn it! I told you those filthy, rotten, banana-stinking natives couldn't be trusted!" The gorilla roared, spittle flying.
"Without him, we'd have lost the first checkpoint," the alien muttered, flexing its limbs.
"So what? If the rookies died early, we'd save mana and artifacts."
"Enough!" Godzilla's voice rumbled. The wounds were gone. "Compared to the dwarves and frogs, we're lucky. We've got six months left."
"Captain, check the next mission…" the alien said nervously. "We lost two veterans. The next one should be easier, right?"
"Let me see… Damn it! A-rank mission! No spatial exchange!"
"What?!"
Godzilla shared the mission briefing:
Mission Space: Elma Aquatic Conquest Difficulty: A Adjustment: 0% Background: Elma is a water-dominated planet ruled by the Fishfolk. With 95% ocean coverage and advanced naval tech, they've entered the post-nuclear age. Average Species Rating: C- Main Objective: Occupy the planet. Establish a spatial beacon. Type: Cooperative. No killing. No looting. Time Limit: None. Return only after beacon is placed. Warning: Any mention of Bloodspace—spoken, written, or implied—will result in immediate erasure. Special Warning: No spatial exchange allowed. All powers, items, weapons, and abilities from Bloodspace are disabled.
"Occupy a planet? With no powers?" The alien's claws dug into the steel floor, leaving deep gouges. "Are they trying to kill us? Even at full strength, we'd barely survive a nuke!"
"It's worse than nukes," the gorilla growled. "I've seen this movie. That planet's loaded. Most species have nukes. The Fishfolk have railguns, orbital lasers… We're toast without our gear."
"This kind of mission… it's not random," Godzilla said, rising to full height. "It's tied to Bloodspace's true purpose."
"Captain, what do you mean?"
"I nearly died twice before joining the main squad. Then I heard a terrifying theory…"
"What theory?"
"Missions that disable spatial exchange… they're tests. Previews. They simulate real universes—places where powers don't work, or cost too much. Bloodspace sends elite teams to scout these worlds. To claim something it wants."
"You mean… this nightmare isn't a one-off?"
"The old captain said his batch went through twenty-three of these."
"Twenty-three?! Ten years?! How many teams does Bloodspace have? Did anyone survive?"
"No one knows. All we know is that 99% of squads were wiped out. Only the bronze-tier rookies—too weak to qualify—lived to tell the tale."