Earth—Location Unknown.
Year 17 of Heaven's Descent.
05:30.
A piercing electronic buzz, sharp as a steel needle, stabbed through every corner of the 10-square-meter standardized living unit, slicing through the man's shallow sleep.
No gentle fade-in, just an instant blast at max volume.
Enough to jolt any creature's nerves wide awake!
As expected…
The man's eyelids snapped open, pupils contracting in the dim light.
But even so, his eyes held no trace of groggy confusion—just the raw, physiological stress of being forcibly woken and a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
Why not linger in bed?
Please.
That was a luxury for the weak of the old world, a potential stain on one's moral record.
His arm shot out in sync with the alarm.
His fingers slammed the stop button embedded in the wall—
The screeching noise cut off.
But…
The ringing silence left behind was somehow even more suffocating.
He sighed.
His gaze shifted to the narrow medical bed beside him.
A pale, frail old woman lay there, her breathing faint.
His eyes locked on the gray-white wristband on her arm, watching until the tiny indicator light steadied into a faint green glow.
Only then did the breath he'd been holding ease out, carrying the weight of a sleepless night.
"Grant."
The old woman's voice called out.
But the young man didn't react. He was used to it.
Eight years ago, after his father, Slade Wilson, vanished during the Resource Optimization Campaign and his mother became a vegetable…
Grant had resigned himself to a lifetime of hearing her murmur his name in her sleep.
Thud~
He pulled two sealed tubes from a wall compartment.
One was his "Daily Balanced Nutrition Paste."
The other was his mother's "Special Medical Nutrition Paste #7," along with a few colored pills.
Grant twisted open the cap.
The tube held a thick, uniformly colored paste.
He squeezed his portion into his mouth without a flinch, his taste buds long numb. All he could make out was a mix of grains and synthetic protein, like chewing waterlogged cardboard—no flavor, no depth.
Then, with practiced ease, he propped up his mother, carefully feeding her the paste and slipping the pills into her mouth, washing them down with small sips of water.
The whole process was quiet, quick, efficient.
Because…
Beep~
A sleek, one-meter-tall white cylinder stood in the corner.
Its top emitted a faint blue scanning beam, silently sweeping over the empty tube in Grant's hand and the pill bottle by his mother's bed:
Ding~
"Zone C Resident, Level 3 Data Entry Clerk: Grant Wilson, and his dependent."
"Both parties have taken medication and met nutritional requirements."
"Data uploading…"
---
Inside the standardized commute capsule, a oppressive sea of gray-blue.
Grant was packed in with others in matching gray-blue uniforms, his body swaying slightly with the magnetic levitation's acceleration.
The cabin was dead silent, save for the low hum of the AC.
No one spoke. No one even coughed.
Everyone kept their heads down, eyes fixed on their shoes or glued to the tiny screens in front of them, where a news anchor droned on in a flat tone, praising "His Majesty, the Emperor."
Eye contact was dangerous, after all.
Any unnecessary facial expression could be flagged as "non-standard social behavior" or "emotional instability."
And that meant a swift dose of sedative from the ever-present "Moral Enforcer" robots.
Grant's face was a numb mask.
But his peripheral vision stole a glance at the capsule's narrow window.
This was the only time he could sneak a moment to take in the view.
Not that there was much to see—
Massive, oppressive geometric buildings loomed outside.
The streets were spotless, not a leaf out of place, everything orderly but bone-chillingly cold.
Metal and synthetic materials gleamed across the city, alongside the ubiquitous, softly glowing giant "K" emblem.
And, of course…
Countless white Moral Enforcer robots, their blue scanning beams like tireless eyes watching the steel jungle.
Those bastards.
Grant looked away, careful not to linger too long on anything.
But…
As the capsule glided silently past an unusually wide, sparsely populated plaza…
His pupils contracted sharply.
A figure slipped into his blind spot, then moved directly into view.
A person in a long, pure black trench coat.
In a world where everyone was forced into compliant colors—gray-blue, off-white—that stark, unreflective black stood out like a stain on snow, almost defiant.
What shocked Grant even more…
The figure in black seemed to tilt their head up slightly. Across over a hundred meters and through the fast-moving capsule window, their shadowed eyes…
Locked onto his.
Though he couldn't make out the details, that brief eye contact pierced straight through his nerves!
"!"
Grant's soul nearly left his body. He ducked his head instinctively, heart pounding so hard it hurt his ribs.
He saw me? Why me?
Who is he? A new Moral Committee disguise? A test? A trap?
Am I exposed?!
A flood of terrifying possibilities choked his mind, stealing his breath.
The cabin stayed dead silent. No one seemed to notice his momentary panic—or if they did, they'd never show it.
It took half a minute, as the capsule glided through two more blocks, for his racing heart to calm.
That overwhelming fear even sparked a twisted curiosity.
Unable to resist, he slowly— agonizingly slowly, as if just stretching his stiff neck—lifted his head, cautiously glancing back toward the plaza.
Outside, the plaza was unchanged.
Gray-blue "worker ants" hurried along.
Moral Enforcers glided at steady intervals, the giant "K" emblem glowing coldly.
And the figure in black…
Gone.
Like a drop dissolving into the ocean, leaving no trace.
Was that just a hallucination from his overstressed nerves? A trick of his exhausted eyes?
Grant swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry.
---
Noon:
11:30.
The massive office on the third basement level of the Archives Bureau was a hive of hundreds of cubicles.
Grant sat in his tiny assigned space, facing a spotless console and a giant digital screen.
His job?
Digitizing the near-endless, fragmented paper records from the "Great Purification" era—scanning and manually entering them for the central AI—
E.L.
—to "purify" and categorize.
His fingers tapped rhythmically on the optical keyboard, producing soft, steady clicks.
Grant's face mirrored his coworkers'—numb and focused.
But…
His eyes worked like high-precision scanners, moving far faster and sharper than the job required, catching fleeting bits of data streaming across the screen:
A document tagged "Purified - Technical Blueprint" from the old world.
A mid-level resource allocation officer's file.
A brief maintenance record about an unscheduled shutdown of a climate control tower in a remote agricultural zone.
These trivial scraps were seared into his memory with stunning clarity.
His work was like panning for gold in a desert.
Risky.
But he couldn't stop.
---
12:30.
The vast, empty cafeteria was oppressively quiet.
People sat in assigned spots, silently chewing their rationed lunch.
Today's meal: a synthetic protein slab.
Yup.
Cockroach paste, as it was nicknamed.
Amid the faint clink of metal utensils on trays and the ever-present hum of Moral Enforcers gliding by…
Grant wolfed down his food, its unforgettable taste lingering as always.
He stood, heading to a bathroom stall.
No lock.
But his movements were swift and sure. He pulled a tiny device, no bigger than a fingernail, disguised as a button, from his inner pocket.
His fingers tapped it rapidly.
Done, he strolled to the sink, pretending to wash his hands. With a flick of his finger…
The "button" slid silently into a hidden, long-abandoned vent seam in the wall.
No sound.
Delivery complete.
Data sent.
Grant left without hesitation, not knowing who—if anyone—would retrieve it, or if it would sit there forever.
---
12:30.
The afternoon shift was a grueling repeat of the morning.
Fatigue gnawed at his nerves, his eyelids heavy as lead, but his brain had to stay razor-sharp.
Grant's fingers danced across the keyboard.
He had to maintain a typing speed above the system's "efficiency threshold" to avoid triggering a "low productivity" alert, while still sifting through the endless data stream for dangerous fragments, burning them into his memory.
Every time the faint hum of a Moral Enforcer's wheels passed behind him…
His back muscles tensed instinctively, his breath catching for half a second until the sound faded.
This constant mental strain was a hundred times more exhausting than physical labor.
---
17:30.
Grant squeezed into the stifling commute capsule again, his body swaying with its motion.
This time, the exhaustion hit like a tidal wave, submerging him completely.
He could barely stand, leaning against the cold cabin wall for support.
But even so, he didn't dare close his eyes.
The Moral Enforcers' blue scanning beams were always watching. Closing his eyes before designated sleep hours…
That was laziness.
Ding~ "Attention: Unexpected delay. Capsule train delayed one to three minutes."
"Hm?"
That wasn't standard.
An unusual stillness spread. Though no one spoke, many subtly raised their lowered gazes, a faint flicker of confusion in their numb eyes.
Grant's peripheral vision darted to the platform outside.
Something was happening.
Two Moral Enforcers…
Their sleek white cylinders stood blocking a mother and her young son, about five or six years old.
The mother wore a standard gray caregiver uniform, her face pale, clutching the boy's hand tightly.
In the boy's other hand, he gripped a crumpled sheet of drawing paper.
A cold, synthetic voice rang out, just loud enough for those nearby to hear:
"…Unauthorized creative activity detected. Per Article 14, Section 3 of the Artistic Expression Regulation Act, producing non-standard, unapproved imagery constitutes a Level 2 moral violation."
"Per protocol, the offending work will be confiscated, and the creator will undergo mandatory aesthetic correction training."
Here we go again.
Grant's eyes fell on the boy's drawing.
It showed a standard, boxy Heaven housing unit, with neatly drawn windows and doors.
But outside one window, in the blue sky, the boy had clumsily drawn a…
Winged creature in yellow crayon.
A bird.
One Moral Enforcer's mechanical arm snatched the paper from the boy's hand with ruthless precision.
The boy's small hand grasped at the air, his eyes welling with tears, lips trembling, but he didn't dare cry out.
It was pointless.
Another Enforcer glided forward, its cold arm clamping onto the boy's thin wrist.
"Per protocol."
"The violator must immediately undergo a seven-day 'Standard Aesthetics' correction course. Caregiver, please comply."
The mother's body shook violently, her face ghostly white.
Her grip on the boy's hand tightened instinctively, then released like she'd been shocked.
Under the silent stares of Grant and the other passengers, all traces of struggle and pain were erased from her face, replaced by a…
Disturbingly perfect, standardized—
Smile.
A smile of "active compliance" and "understanding the greater good," per caregiver regulations.
But her hollow eyes were chilling.
"Thank you for the Committee's correction. My child… will learn properly…"
Her voice trembled, but she forced it steady.
The Enforcer effortlessly led the boy away, his small figure vanishing behind the platform's cold pillars.
The mother stood frozen, her rigid smile like a crumbling statue.
Grant forced himself to look away.
He took a deep breath, his chest aching so badly he could barely breathe.
How tragic…
A fictional bird from a child's innocent imagination was enough to be a crime?!
Enough to tear a young soul from his mother for cold, rigid "correction"?!
In a society where even imagination was strictly regulated, every stroke of color needing approval…
He wanted to scream, to tell everyone in this numb cabin, to tell that forced-smiling mother, to tell the boy being taken away—
It's not wrong! Drawing a bird isn't wrong!
In the forbidden, erased past…
The skies were once filled with real, free-flying birds!
Not just in eco-domes!
They were real! They soared in the sky!
But…
His lips were welded shut by the strongest steel.
Not a single sound escaped his throat.
He could say nothing.
He was powerless.
Like everyone else, he quickly, almost fearfully, lowered his head, dodging the mother's empty gaze, burying himself deeper into the gray-blue crowd, as if he'd never seen that forbidden bird or the heartbreak it caused.
The capsule doors finally slid shut, sealing off the platform.
The cabin accelerated, as if nothing had happened.
Grant leaned against the cold wall, the chill seeping through his clothes, straight to his bones.
---
18:18.
Pushing open the standardized door, the 10-square-meter space offered a twisted sense of home.
His first move was to rush to his mother's bedside, checking the green light on her wristband was still steady.
Then, like clockwork, he pulled two nutrition paste tubes and a small box of synthetic vegetable mush from the wall cabinet—
The best rations they could get.
He mixed the vegetable mush into his mother's paste, hoping it'd make her meal a bit better.
"Mom, the Archives Bureau put out a notice today," he said, feeding her, his voice flat and monotonous, reciting only approved news.
"The Third Shipyard boosted efficiency by five percent. His Majesty commended it… Interstellar expedition supplies are progressing well… All for the glory of 'Heaven'…"
"'Heaven' is thriving, growing stronger every day."
"Under His Majesty's leadership, humanity's light will shine in every corner."
Grant droned on, saying a lot but…
Not even sure what he was saying.
---
19:30–21:00.
The wall screen flickered on, mandatory, playing a program from the Imperial Propaganda Bureau.
The Emperor appeared onscreen.
Dressed in a crisp white uniform with the "K" emblem, his face stern, eyes cold.
He preached the necessity of "purification," the blessings of "order," and the grand purpose of the "interstellar expedition."
Below, a data stream scrolled with uniform "support" and "praise" from citizens nationwide.
Grant sat expressionless in his assigned chair, his gaze seemingly on the screen, but his pupils lacked focus.
---
21:30.
After settling his mother for sleep and double-checking her vital signs wristband, Grant tucked her in, his movements the only gentle ones of the day.
---
22:00.
The lights dimmed to the lowest legally allowed setting.
Grant sat by the sealed, slightly yellowed reinforced glass window.
Through it, he looked outside.
The night sky was sliced by the Empire Tower's spotlights and patrol airships, no stars visible.
Boring. Quiet.
But…
This was the only time in the day—nominally his own—when he wasn't forced into a schedule.
He let out a long breath.
His shoulders slumped, his rigid spine finally curving, his whole body sinking into the chair.
That breath seemed to drain every ounce of strength that had carried him through the day.
"Another… day survived," he murmured, voice hoarse, laced with the faint relief of escaping disaster.
And an endless, bone-deep exhaustion.
In that rare, fleeting moment of relaxed nerves…
Maybe out of a lifelong habit of cleanliness, or a subconscious need to cherish this tiny connection to the "outside," he absentmindedly lifted his hand, brushing a speck of dust flickering on the window.
A reflex.
But—
His strength had grown again.
Crack~
A slight increase in pressure, and a hairline fracture appeared on the glass.
Beep—! Beep—! Beep—!
A shrill, ear-splitting alarm exploded behind him!
Careless!
After ten years as a model citizen…
Was this the day it all fell apart?!
Grant's expression faltered.
The Moral Enforcer in the corner, its once-gentle blue light now extinguished, blazed with a piercing, flickering red, locking onto him like a demon's eye!
A cold, emotionless synthetic voice echoed in the tiny room, each word a spike to his heart:
"Citizen Grant Wilson (ID: 73-8C-11) detected engaging in 'non-standard cleaning behavior.'"
"Code, Article 7, Section 3—"
"Unauthorized maintenance of public standard interfaces, suspected pursuit of non-standard aesthetics, constituting the sin of arrogance."
"Violation Level: 3. Immediate standardized correction required!"
"Citizen age: 28, suitable for Zone A, Fifth Shipyard labor needs."
"Correction measure updated."
Grant's pupils shrank to pinpoints!
Icy fear poured over him, washing away all exhaustion and relief!
The Fifth Shipyard…
That was the main hub for the interstellar expedition!
Even a seven-day labor penalty there could mean getting shipped off Earth with the fleet at any moment!
Whoosh—!
The Moral Enforcer's base hissed with high-pressure air.
It glided toward him with menacing buzzes, its mechanical arm rising, the sedative needle gleaming coldly in the dim light.
Grant sprang from the chair, dodging, his mind blank.
No choice left?!
He yanked a metal rod from the trash bag.
A homemade electromagnetic pulse device, painstakingly crafted over five years from Archive Bureau schematics.
One pulse would disable a standard Moral Enforcer and fry the chip embedded under his skin.
"Sorry."
"I have to survive."
He whispered, unsure if it was to the robot or his sleeping mother next door.
Click!
The moment he pressed the button, half the housing block's lights went dark.
The Enforcer froze.
But then…
A piercing alarm blared through the Seventh Housing Zone!
Bang!
Grant bolted out the door, plunging into the night.
"Wilson… GO."
"Wilson…"
His comatose mother murmured in her sleep. But he had no time to notice.
His escape had begun.
A decade in the making.