Prologue: The River of the Past

Laedai–Moloren System

The Federation Navy's heavy cruiser Hope glided slowly past the wreckage of the once-mighty Constitution, as if traversing the slumbering remains of an ancient god in the void of space. Through the portholes, the proud flagship that once stood tall now lay reduced to a rust-stained, scar-ridden shell, drifting silently in the emptiness like a voiceless tombstone among the stars.

All around it, layer upon layer of shattered vessels floated in solemn stillness—an immense grave mound formed by the fallen souls of countless battles. Twisted debris clung tightly to the Constitution's broken hull, as if unwilling to let go, bound by memory or mourning in the endless dark.

This vast wreckage drifted silently through the starry sea, like a city long since dead. Tens of thousands of fragments floated weightlessly, gliding through the void and reflecting pale starlight—like scattered ashes of paper, suspended in time.

Countless homeless souls wandered this battlefield, lingering like lost spirits trapped in forgotten dreams. Even after the fires of war had faded, they refused to depart—silently, instinctively fulfilling a duty etched deep into their very nerves: to guard their mothership, until the stars themselves burned out.

The Hope cruised through the eerie stillness of this graveyard, trailing a stream of white plasma behind her. The long arc of her wake traced a graceful yet austere curve between the wrecks—like an elegy offered to the fallen, or a silent eulogy written in light.

Below, a planetary orbital station hung silently in the void, shrouded in the shadow of the wreckage. Its surface was weathered and scarred, with exposed structures still under repair—yet it seemed forever frozen on the day the cataclysm ended. Every crack, every scorch mark etched into its hull read like an epitaph of war, carved into metal.

Above the planet, the debris-strewn orbit resembled a sky torn and diseased—a broken canopy turned upside down, casting its shadow not only over the world below, but over the future of the Federation itself.

Through the inner viewport of the ship's hull, an old man with silver hair sat alone, leaning quietly against the back of his chair. His gaze was calm, as deep and still as water. Reflected in his eyes were the drifting remnants of the starry sea beyond—shards of twisted metal gliding past like the bones of fallen comrades, appearing one by one, only to vanish again into the void.

They were fragments of a bygone history, eternal echoes buried deep within fading memory.

"General, we're about to leave the safe corridor. Beyond this point lies the unmapped wreckage zone," came a soft voice from behind. It belonged to a young woman in uniform—gentle in tone, yet marked by the clarity and restraint of a soldier.

The old man's fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, the muted thuds echoing like a silent ritual. He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he continued to gaze out the viewport, eyes fixed on the lifeless sea beyond. Slowly, his expression grew distant, as if through the ruins, he could still sense something lingering from long ago.

"How many years has it been... Every time I pass through this region, I can still hear their voices."

He finally spoke, his voice heavy—like rusted iron.

"When I close my eyes, I see them.

When I open them... all that remains are the memories that tear me apart."

He lowered his head, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes etched a silent elegy beneath the shifting light. His shoulders seemed to tremble, just slightly—but soon steadied once more. It wasn't fear, nor sorrow. It was a weariness—the kind that only time could leave behind.

The woman said nothing. She lowered her gaze, and her long black hair fell like a curtain, concealing her expression—as well as the fleeting sorrow that welled up in her eyes through quiet empathy.

Of course she understood what he was searching for. As a soldier who had walked through the chaos since the earliest days of the civil unrest, she knew all too well what lay waiting upstream, along that river of memory—and she understood, too, why this man, no longer young, had come here once more.

"Deploy all drone squadrons again. Begin a new round of scans across the wreckage zone."

After a long silence, the old man finally spoke. His voice no longer sounded distant—it carried a quiet, unwavering resolve.

"Expand the search radius. Push into the uncharted sectors... Colonel, you know why I'm doing this."

He turned his head, meeting the woman's gaze for the first time. In his clouded eyes lay a weight too heavy to name—and a longing so fragile it was almost broken.

"My time is running out."

That day marked the final day of September in the year 135 of the Neo-Stellar Era—and the seven years and one hundred days since the Darius Federation first descended into civil unrest.