The cardboard-box ship burst past the Earth–Moon system and slipped into the magnetic lanes of space, a silver fish caught by unseen currents, arrowing toward Saturn.

Inside, in a snug modern one-bedroom, Yekase and Lu Yao were deep in a heated quarrel, thunder rolling before the storm broke.

“It’s my ship. I can name it whatever I want. I could call it ‘Six Dragons in Tandem,’ a blessing for our academy’s rise. That’s my freedom!”

“That… you still can’t call it that!”

Lu Yao almost never got worked up. Her face flushed, heat before words.

The scene yanked her back to that bickering with the team over naming their combined mega-robot. She’d failed to stop Beast King Red’s dumb idea. They yelled “Beast King Propeller” for ages. It’s less cringe now, even nostalgic. But “Peace Walker” sounded miles better.

“You’re so against it. You must have a better idea, right?” Yekase lobbed the ball back.

“Uh…”

“Say it!”

“…………”

Lu Yao turned red, words jammed like traffic in fog.

Minutes earlier, gliding past the Moon, the mood was calm. All three crowded the window, starstruck. But the stars are just pinpricks on a black curtain—science fiction’s beauty isn’t just a single Milky Way still. In the real void, every direction ends with a lone planet drifting afar, backdropped by a sea of night. Stare long enough, and the wonder goes flat.

Yekase—the hostess—and her… probably bestie? argued names for the ship. Richard thought it was silly, but kept his head down. He hunched with the humility of a clerk and leafed through data they hadn’t finished sorting before launch.

Lu Yao squeezed her tone softer as her courage thinned. “I… I can’t think of one. But that last one is absolutely out.”

Yekase threw her arms wide, a courtroom flourish, but her voice was helpless.

“‘Yiluyao’ hasn’t wronged you. It sounds like ‘shake for a ticket all the way.’ It’s a transit pun. Isn’t that a neat double joke?”

“It’s not funny at all! Don’t you feel any shame?!”

“My name’s not in it.”

“You—!”

Lu Yao strangled the dark impulse to draw a Glock and press it to Yekase’s forehead. She took two deep breaths, mist first, thunder second.

She folded her arms and reclaimed that fragile cool-girl aura, half slouch, half gloom.

Still playing a role now? Why?

Yekase didn’t get why Lu Yao clung to that crumbling “ice queen” persona. Was it some team archetype thing? Every squad needs a cold type? Back in Beast King Silver days, she’d been a bright kid. Her shift came after Luzhixing’s betrayal. Yekase wouldn’t say all those years of shadow were an act. But the misunderstanding’s cleared. It’s time to turn and face tomorrow.

“Sigh. You’re impossible.”

Yekase wore the look of an older sister indulging a stubborn sibling. She shrugged and shook her head. “Our hull’s a square. It matches the Eternal’s twelve modules. So the name ‘Eternal’ must be saved for our future relay station… then we go with ‘Heart of Gold.’”

“Can you stop hugging your old sci-fi gags? You just said it’s square.”

“This is no good, and that’s no good. I ask you for a name and you blank out!”

“‘Millennium Bug’… how about that?”

Can you stop hugging your old computer gags?

That topic’s over. Twenty-plus years over.

Yekase stared, stunned by Lu Yao’s strange taste. And “Peace Walker” was from an old handheld game too…

But Lu Yao loved it. She smothered clear excitement and explained, steam before steel. “We interfere with local curvature, compressing space ahead with Infinite Power. That’s how it runs, like a pupa pushing through silk. Your ship’s so compact it fits the bug image.”

“But—”

“And any old sci‑fi nerd will see it nods straight to the Millennium Falcon.”

Lu Yao, you’re using my rhetoric on me?!

Still, Yekase had no counter. It was vivid, witty, and it threw a wink at Star Wars. Aside from having less ‘cool-factor’ than the Ambition Divine Ship, it was perfect. Cool-factor was Yekase’s top metric; Lu Yao clearly didn’t care.

“Fine… we’ll call it Millennium Bug.”

She let out a long sigh, like wind crossing centuries. Back when Liu RuoYuan was small, and Yekase was still big—that kind of story.

“Uh—I should probably remind you. We’re inside Saturn’s gravity now.”

Richard broke in, cautious voice before data.

…

…

After Saturn captured the Millennium Bug, it threaded a safe course, dodging countless moons and star rings that only look beautiful from far away. A gas giant has no clear “surface,” yet its endless storms were obvious even from low orbit, swirls within swirls.

Then, the instant the ship swung into the night side, out of the Sun’s reach—

A colossal star gate appeared like a mountain rising from shadow, a still titan in our sight.

It was pure megastructure: rivaling the nearby small moons, floating just above the ring plane, level with that broad band of ice and rock.

From Earth, if you saw it, you’d think it was just part of Saturn’s rings. If not for gravity anomalies spilling secrets, it’d be flawless camouflage.

That same anomalous pull, funneled through an artificial wormhole, took hold of the Millennium Bug’s hull, tugging it nearer with an invisible hand.

[Forty-two seconds ago, we fell into the Eye of the Galaxy.]

…For some reason, the line chimed in my head like a distant bell.

What lay on the other side?

A trap set by a hostile civilization?

How long would the crossing take?

Yekase had no answers, but she still flew toward that inhuman architecture; Lu Yao and Richard knew as little, and neither said retreat.

Soon, like a skiff caught by a storm, the Millennium Bug rode the gravity lines blooming from the star gate like a flower. They cut all thrust, surrendering the hull to the waterfall of force.

Crossing the gate felt like sinking through silver water.

Space thickened, syrupy and slow. Even within the cabin, every breath and gesture grew heavy.

Yekase didn’t dare posture. She stayed at the controls, nerves taut, easing the ship’s attitude, aligning the belly with the gravity vectors. She got it just in time, before the furniture toppled and chaos broke loose. The mandarins on the table still went rolling like orange comets.

“Before the first batch of cardboard ships goes to production, we need a redesign. Bolt every piece of furniture down. Check structural locks again. How did I forget—”

Was it too many flights on the flying bed in atmosphere? Did she overrate the Alchemy environment control system? Either way, it was a deep, painful lesson.

Paid for with the lives of mandarin oranges.

“I… I can’t breathe!”

Richard’s voice cracked. He collapsed onto the floor, a tree felled by dense air.

Lu Yao snapped her armory sprites into high gear. A mask popped out of nowhere into his hands. She braced on the sofa, staggered to the pilot’s chair, skipped the questions, and bared her canine—

Then bit into Yekase’s neck hollow.

“Wah?!”

Yekase jolted hard, a thunderclap of panic. The whole ship began spinning sideways in the wormhole tunnel, a drill biting into stormwater.

“Jesus, don’t jump me like that!”

She cranked the wheel hard the other way. The ship shuddered like a struck gong. Richard lost his lunch into the mask, and a little leaked onto the floor.

“Ugh—sorry, sorry! My bad! I’ll clean it!”

“Ah—much better—whoa!”

Lu Yao wiped her mouth. The instant she let go, the huge centrifugal force flung her off. She slammed into the wall, a bird hitting glass.

“I can’t stop it! The hull’s spinning faster—angular momentum’s still climbing!”

It was Spiral Force—wormhole stability ran on Spiral Force!

Left alone, 3D space pops micro-wormholes now and then. Flash Energy only amplifies it to macro scale. But wormholes are inherently unstable. The cylindrical “cosmic wall” that threads the two mouths through the hypersurface can snap at any time—so that civilization braced it with Spiral Force. They gave the wall endless centrifugal push to counter collapse.

They can do that?!

What’s next, dueling with a hand-held Cosmic Bubble?!

“Alu, I don’t care how—nail the furniture down!”

“Maybe consider this in the design?!”

Lu Yao swore, voice hot as iron. The armory blasted to full power. Dozens of mechanical hands sprouted across the room and clamped each piece in tailor-fit iron frames. Ugly, but solid.

She tossed Richard a helmet as a bonus.

Richard was a desk guy, but crisis wakes claws. He yanked off the couch throw, folded it, stuffed it into the helmet as padding, hugged his iron bucket head, and dove into the restroom.

The Millennium Bug spun faster, blurring like a ghost. Through the window, the wormhole wall’s projected starfield stretched into bright lines, time-lapse streaks on velvet.

“I see the exit! Hold on!”

Lu Yao whipped her sprites like overtime fairies. She slapped ten auxiliary thrusters onto the outer hull, stacked another burst, and drove for the exit.

A silver water-surface identical to the entrance—

No one had a breath to admire higher craft.

The Millennium Bug hit it like a drill, spinning and reckless, with no safety deceleration.

They broke the membrane and burst back into the three-dimensional cosmos.

Mad angular momentum vanished like a dream at dawn. Inertia dropped away. The Millennium Bug lost all speed and floated, quiet as dust motes in sun.

Not far off, a blue star’s light poured through the window, gilding their faces and shoulders, morning after a long night.

A planet made entirely of machinery filled Yekase’s view, ringed by a forest of star gates and devices. Countless craft threaded through, trailing bright tails. A bustling city in the deep.

Lu Yao ran to the window. To keep her balance, she hooked an arm around Yekase’s neck. Yekase’s face went red from the choke, but she laughed, joy bursting like fireworks.

“Hahahahahahaha—Good morning, world! Turns out I’ve loved you all along!”