If she hadn’t seen it herself, Yue Liuyi wouldn’t believe the World Tree could be this colossal, like a pillar splitting the heavens and bracing the night.
It speared into the sky, a miracle-tree pressing against the starry dome, its crown blotting moonlight like an eclipse, its height stretching for tens of thousands of meters.
Branches swayed like slow tides, each limb a mountain ridge; each leaf lay dense as a miniature forest, their shadows weaving into rolling, living waves.
Lights circled it like drifting sky lanterns, casting a soft halo; the whole scene felt dreamlike, a vision too pure to belong to waking earth.
Those light-specks were its fruit and its wardens; the World Tree carried a soul, speaking mind-to-mind with life the way wind speaks through pines.
They say a maiden sleeps inside every World Tree, the heart of the giant, who wakes only at the planet’s last hour, stepping out to seek salvation.
Huimang Star held no human settlement, just a few quiet research outposts; the World Tree there stayed serene, like a lake untouched by oars.
So this view was born—nature uncut, a world-ash unmarred by human hands, a landscape clear as dawn after rain.
Guests around them drank in the wonder, their awe rising like mist; only a few children wriggled free, curiosity buzzing, sprinting off to play with their big sister.
That big sister laughing among the kids was, of course, Zaocun, light as a cat’s paw and warm as noon sun.
“Don’t rub there—it tickles,” she warned, tail flicking like a black ribbon in wind.
“Your tail is awesome! The fur’s so soft! Why don’t I have fur this soft?” a child asked, fingers burrowing like curious sparrows.
“Because you don’t eat fish,” Zaocun said, smiling like moonlight on water. “Eat fish every day, and you’ll have a tail like this.”
“Okay! I won’t be picky anymore!”
“Good kids don’t fuss with food,” she chimed, voice soft as milk.
“Cat-sis, your ears are adorable. Can I touch them?”
“Eh? That’s absolutely not allowed! The ears are absolutely off-limits!” Her hands guarded them like a fortress shielding its gates.
Watching Zaocun’s playful defense and the children’s peals of laughter, warmth pooled in Yue Liuyi’s chest like tea steeping—hosting the Skyship Planetarium had been perfect.
Down below the Skyship, the massive Sky Voyager tuned to the World Tree’s currents, slowly opening a portal toward the next star system, calm as a deep breath.
If all went well, the Sky Voyager would reach Haisa-14 tomorrow; the bow’s artificial beach would open, and everyday folk could bask in sun and surf.
That’s why so many women had been choosing swimsuits these past few days, their anticipation fluttering like ribbons before a parade.
Steps light as rain tapping stone, a purple-haired girl opened a door and slipped onto a small indoor balcony, finding Dixue and Yue Liuyi in silhouette.
“You two aren’t hugging? Color me surprised,” she teased, voice like a plucked string.
“LittleSnow keeps teasing me. I’m mad,” Yue Liuyi huffed, cheeks pink as cherry petals.
“Heh-heh… so, why did Dawn Goose come looking for me?” LittleSnow asked, mischief glinting like foxfire.
Though not embracing, the two girls still held hands, eyes fixed on the vista, fingers warm as shared gloves in winter.
“It’s the exhibition,” Dawn Goose said, tone steady as a flight line. “When do we wrap? We need to send our guests back to the Sky Voyager.”
“Hmm… it’s about time,” Dixue murmured, checking her phone—10:50—numbers sharp as frost.
“Let Maria sing one more song. We should return before the Sky Voyager kicks off the jump.”
“Got it,” Dawn Goose nodded, turning like a swallow wheeling into the night.
As she left, a brilliant point blossomed in the sky, a portal blooming like a jeweled flower—basketball-sized, then court-wide, finally vast as the Sky Voyager itself.
Energy tuning looked complete; crews on the Sky Voyager swarmed like ants on a branch, finishing checks—science mapped the channel, magic braided raw mana into form.
Not versed in those gears and runes, Yue Liuyi sat with Dixue by the window, letting the view unfurl like a scroll across their eyes.
Then the world buckled.
A massive pull surged from the portal, calm skin turning to a whirlpool; it gaped like a newborn black hole, dragging at everything around it.
“What’s happening!” someone cried, fear snapping like brittle glass.
“Maria, patch me to the Sky Voyager’s bridge! Yue, Dawn Goose, hold things here!” Dixue’s brow drew tight, her focus a blade’s edge.
Maria stopped singing mid-note and bolted, feet drumming like quick rain; she and Dixue sprinted for the cockpit as alarms pricked the air like thorns.
Only then did the spectators feel the shift; they rose from their seats, bewilderment rippling through them like wind through wheat.
The gravity surge tugged not just at the Sky Voyager; even the Skyship tilted, its frame groaning like a ship in heavy swell.
The self-gravity systems hadn’t spun up; trays and glassware skated off tables, shattering with chiming clinks, children’s cries fluttering like startled sparrows.
Parents scrambled for their kids, arms sweeping like nets; others bolted with no aim, panic unraveling the hall’s former hush into tangled threads of noise.
Inside that weaving chaos, Yue Liuyi felt a chill of déjà vu—like the Red Wine Bar’s storm returning—yet her mind held steady, anchored and clear.
“Everyone, don’t panic!” Her voice struck like a bell. “This is the Rangers Lodge’s base. You’re safe here.”
She strode into the hall, steel under silk; born with a firm edge and wearing Dixue’s body, her presence landed like a flag on a rampart.
The crowd settled, fear draining like tide from the shore.
“Right—this is the mighty Rangers Lodge. Why are we running?”
“As long as we follow Lady Dixue, we’ll be fine,” someone said, faith glowing like lantern-light.
“This silver-haired big sis is awesome. I want to be bold and beautiful like her,” a child piped, eyes shining like coins.
“But Ang-chan, you’re a boy,” another whispered, a giggle darting like a fish.
The silver-haired girl hopped onto the corridor walkway, centering herself like a knot in a net. “First, protect your kids. Sit on the sofas. We’ll clear the glass.”
She paused, words catching like a kite in a lull—she’d never captained a ship and didn’t know what came next.
“Also, please stay calm,” Dawn Goose stepped in, voice smooth as tea. “We’ll serve complimentary drinks. The Skyship will enter combat mode, so—”
She slid a note into Yue Liuyi’s palm, paper soft as a leaf. “Liuyi, go to the cockpit. I’ll handle things here. Dixue needs you.”
“Okay!” Yue Liuyi answered, resolve snapping into place like a closed scabbard.
She sprinted down the corridor, pushed into the cockpit, and felt the air there drop cold as glacier shade.
Maria worked the consoles, fingers flying like a flurry of sparks; Dixue sat at the helm, face iced over, blue eyes pale as snow peaks.
“How—” Yue Liuyi began, then saw the projection and felt dread clamp her heart like a tightening rope.
The Sky Voyager’s hull was half-swallowed by the portal, which had darkened into a black maw; silver-white gleam sank like the Titanic into shadow.
“LittleSnow!” she called, her voice a lifeline.
“Ah… Yue,” Dixue looked up, light rekindling in her irises like dawn on frost. “Sorry, I didn’t notice you.”
Dixue always noticed her first; for her to miss it meant the storm outside was real and sharp.
“LittleSnow… what happened? The Sky Voyager—”
“The portal mutated and is swallowing her,” Dixue said, words falling like cold rain. “Part of the ship’s already in the wormhole. We can’t break free.”
Yue Liuyi’s throat tightened; images of the old sea disasters rose like fog—routes lost, signals gone, ships vanishing into silence.
“What will happen?” she asked, fear churning like a dark tide.
“The Sky Voyager will slip off course and translate to an unknown world,” Dixue said, gaze steady as a line of ice. “The portal will last at most one hour.”
“In one hour, the Sky Voyager will be completely gone,” she finished, the sentence landing like a stone.
“Why did it turn out like this!” Yue Liuyi’s cry cracked, a gull in storm.
“Someone provoked the World Tree,” Dixue answered, jaw set like iron. “And the counter-thrust engines on the Sky Voyager were sabotaged in several spots.”
“So… you mean—” The thought flared like lightning.
“This isn’t a natural disaster,” Dixue said, a soft smile that cut like a blade—she wore that when blame circled back to her. “It’s human-made.”
“This isn’t your fault, LittleSnow!” Yue Liuyi said, heat rising like a shield. “Rangers Lodge doesn’t guard ships. That’s on their security.”
“But if I say… the culprit is likely…” Dixue hesitated, silence stretching thin as paper.
Then she spoke the name like a drop of ink in water. “Sikong Qinhui.”
