“For our purpose of entry… we’re tracking an alien,” Yekase said, her voice cool as moonlight on steel.

“How curious. A stowaway?”

“Omicron.”

The cylindrical officer crumpled to the floor, stiff as a felled pillar.

“Officer? Officer, what’s wrong?!” Panic flared; Yekase rushed in like a gust, propping him up.

“Y–you dared to speak that cursed name… without a tremor.”

“Uh… is that a problem?”

“They’re the most terrifying war–mad civilization in all Laniakea. Even the Silver Core Agency won’t call them by name—only ‘Iron‑Heart Exterminators.’ Once they lock your coordinates, any weak culture that hasn’t stepped past its home star system can declare its end.”

The words struck like a winter squall; Yekase’s breath hitched. “Only star‑level civilizations can stand against them?!”

“Yes. Allow me a minute’s silence for your mother world—beautiful Earth.” His voice dimmed like candles in a wind.

“Don’t you dare mourn! If you think Earth’s worth saving, help us intercept that Omicron carrying Earth’s coordinates!”

She shouted “Omicron” again. The officer folded, neat as a collapsed tent.

Lu Yao listened, brow knotted like storm‑cloud bark. She grabbed the metal stylus and, steady as flowing ink, filled out the remaining fields.

There weren’t many. They’d already stated their purpose aloud; writing those four taboo characters would trigger a third collapse, so she left it blank. Residence time and contact info were unknown—also blank.

She signed, then handed back a form half white as untouched snow.

The officer finally surfaced from his daze. He saw the patchwork blanks, let the silence settle like dust, reclaimed the metal stick, and said, “The Silver Core Agency generally doesn’t meddle in friction between independent civilizations. But the Iron‑Heart Exterminators go too far—like five thousand standard years ago, when they invaded a mollusk species famed for kindness, drove them to wander the star‑sea, and finally crash‑landed, vanishing without a trace… ah, the crash site seems to be near your Solar System. There are many such cases; their crimes are endless reeds. Because they’ve committed so many atrocities, we try to aid the victims whenever we can. Rest easy.”

“Thank you.”

It was Yekase’s first thank‑you in space, warm as sunrise on frost. The officer’s stance wavered. “I’ve heard Earthlings are among the more graceful carbon‑based forms. Seeing you today, it seems true.”

“Thanks. To me, you look great too.”

“Heh—of course. I polish my shell with diamond every standard day, and temper it on a magma planet every standard month… ah, time is tight. Enough talk!”

He pressed a glowing sigil on the desk; the booth flipped a clean 180 degrees toward the planet’s heart, and the lift’s pull rose like a tide underfoot.

The checkpoint doubled as a transport craft.

So the surface’s a starship harbor, and the inside’s the real city… Duty bit like a bit bridle, but curiosity still bubbled in Yekase; she kept chatting, like water seeking a channel.

“What’s this planet called? What tier of city?”

“Cassiopeia. Largest city in the Perseus Arm; the transport hub for the whole spiral.”

Cassiopeia… but he didn’t say which star of that house this is. Count the planets and it’s even more.

In a brief hush, the booth climbed through an inner tunnel.

It breached into open space; the view unfurled like a silk scroll.

The machine planet was only a shell. A dizzying low‑gravity city clung to the inner skin.

It wasn’t the super‑amplified City of Ivalice Yekase had pictured. Man‑made mountains and lakes lay carefully within a small domain, familiar as garden stones; a thick forest‑sea draped the hills, running to the lips of a clear lake, bright with breath.

Beyond, landscapes Earth never knew spread like alien fans—clearly tailored for other ecologies. At the peaks, a topological tree, canopy vast as a sky that doesn’t exist here, cast shifting dream‑shadows on the ground.

And in the very center of that boundless chamber, the thing radiating life across the city was a huge oblate star.

“Dyson Sphere?!”

“Blue‑white, ringed… It’s Cassiopeia 27,” Lu Yao murmured, voice like a reed in wind.

“I don’t know astronomy. Keep going,” Yekase whispered.

“Cassiopeia 27 should be a binary. They likely captured the other star, and used its matter and energy to finish the Dyson Sphere.”

The booth halted before a vast building. Letters on the façade flickered; the translator read “Customs Hall.”

“I’ll contact Disaster Response, help pinpoint that ship’s coordinates. You two can take a breath, unwind in the city.” The officer’s tone was brisk as marching drums; he strode inside.

“Stroll?” Yekase asked, testing the word like a pebble on tongue.

“Stroll,” Lu Yao echoed, calm as still water.

Two humans—two who had hauled civilization’s footprint from their moon out to five hundred fifty light‑years—stepped into an alien city with barely a ripple of awe.

A small step for Yekase and Lu Yao; a great step for humanity—perhaps too great, like a stride over a stream into a gorge.

No guide, no map. They were Granny Liu in the Grand View Garden, schooling their hearts like birds in a cage, keeping calm and composed, fighting the urge to flinch. On Earth, they were among the clever apes, maybe even known faces; here, they were just two specks among a billion cosmic citizens.

Silicon folk like the officer slid by, sleek as polished stone. Mollusks glided like water lanterns. Slender creatures, so long you couldn’t see head nor tail, moved with a rope‑shadow grace. Life simply flowed.

Swap their skins for human ones, and it might feel the same as Earth… right?

“You’ve insulted our species’ five hundred thousand years. Apologize at once!”

“Heh. Fishbowl head and proud of it? What a dainty design—for running away! If there’s a Maker, they must marvel at your cowardice!”

So much for differences; some fires burn in any street.

The voices crackled from the curb: a being with a clear sphere atop its head sparring with one wearing a theatrical mask, tempers like flint and steel. Yekase’s eyes painted them into Black and White, or some other tinder‑box pairing not fit for polite talk; civilization may ride rockets, but virtue climbs slowly.

They agreed to ignore it, drifting past like leaves in a stream.

Restaurants, hotels, schools flashed by like painted fans. Yekase wanted a souvenir to carry home; they skimmed past, until a hardware shop thick with the tang of Infinite Power hooked her like a lure. She pushed the door, eyes bright as coins—

“Apologies. Civilizational secrecy protocols forbid us from introducing or selling anything to members of a culture that hasn’t fully stepped into space. Please leave.”

They were ushered out, soft as a broom.

“What’d he say?” Lu Yao asked, voice light as dust.

Heat rose in Yekase, harsh as pepper. She stamped, anger crackling like dry twigs.

“I asked if I could just look. He didn’t even think—just no. He’s underestimating Earthlings, slapping us down for sport!”

Her heel went too deep; a spiderweb of cracks flashed across the metal street like frost on glass.

She jumped back, heart skittering like a rabbit. Ready to choose confess or run, she watched the web shrink and vanish, smooth as still water.

“The streets are infused with Omega Rays,” Lu Yao said, the words cool as night.

“…Badass. Seriously badass.”

What now? They’d promised help against Omicron; better to bow than bristle.

A spark lit in Lu Yao’s eye. “What about that pet shop? We can keep it on Sky Island when we’re back. With so many planet types, there can’t be a universal invasive‑species rule. No reason to block you from bringing one—worst case, it won’t survive.”

She pointed toward a curious building: the house itself was a spiral shell. Through a brown curtain thin as cicada wings, rows of cages stood, packed with creatures bright as candies.

“Holy—smart,” Yekase breathed. Shopping mode clicked on like a switch; her gaze shone like twin stars as she headed for the door.

The curtain lifted on its own; they slipped inside.

The shopkeeper sat between cages, deep in the nook like a pearl in a shell. A snail‑like mollusk with two upright antennae—and no shell at all.

Wait.

His shell… was the shop.

“Welcome. What type of pet do you seek?” The snail spoke in a crisp female voice, clear as a bell.

“Uh… not sure.”

“Will it travel or stay home? What’s the habitat? Any preferences or taboos?” The snail‑lady’s questions flowed like beads on a string. “Ask for anything.”

“Mostly home care, maybe occasional trips offworld. Gaia‑type rock planet with atmosphere and liquid water… Atmospheric mix is roughly eighty percent nitrogen, twenty percent oxygen, with a touch of carbon dioxide and argon.”

“Ah, a Gaia planet. The range opens wide,” she said, antennae swaying like grass.

Yekase didn’t want a pet doomed to short years. “We’d like a long lifespan—even energy beings are fine. Lively, close to the owner, ideally obedient.”

“Mmm… are you okay with significant growth in size?”

“No problem.”

The snail tilted her antennae, then reached out—her arm stretched like rubber to half the shop’s length—and pointed at two glass cubes, side by side, gleaming like ice.

“These two fit you perfectly.”

“These are…?”

“Scientific names ‘Roaming Whale’ and ‘Mumuxiu.’ In the cold void, they’ll bring you companionship long as winter stars, and gentle as warm tea.”