Deep Space.
A massive rogue planet drifted through the void, racing across the cosmos at 115 km/s. Unlike barren wastelands of ice and rock, this celestial wanderer pulsed with life. Beneath its crust, vast geothermal reservoirs fueled an alien ecosystem—thriving microbial colonies, plant-like organisms resembling Earth's algae, and unique biospheres that formed along the edges of its countless volcanoes.
Over billions of years, intelligence emerged from the fire.
The planet's dominant species defied any known classification of Earth's lifeforms—neither animal, plant, fungus, nor bacteria. If forced into a category, they could barely be considered eukaryotic, possessing membrane-bound nuclei. But their physical forms were grotesque—amorphous, gelatinous masses resembling clusters of toad eggs, each entity spanning 2 to 2.4 cubic meters. Hundreds of eyeballs dotted their mucus-like bodies, shifting and swiveling with eerie synchronization.
A Civilization of Light.
From orbit, the planet shone like a beacon in the darkness of space. Soft luminescence radiated from the alien structures on its surface, giving it the appearance of an eternal city ablaze. But true civilization thrived underground, where heat was abundant.
Deep within their tunnel-like habitats, clusters of these creatures gathered around crystalline interfaces, linked through fiber-optic conduits that pulsed with light-based communication. Each entity had an array of warped, alien monitors before them—each display designed to accommodate their hundreds of eyes.
And on those screens…
A single object occupied their attention.
Hope.
For two centuries, these beings had observed, analyzed, and debated the trajectory of this foreign vessel. To them, 200 years was nothing—a brief moment in the lifespan of their civilization.
Then, in an instant—
FLASH!
Their screens erupted into blinding white. A supernova of light.
Their bodies recoiled in terror.
When the brightness faded, a new image had taken its place—a sleek, cylindrical object hurtling through the void. Panic spread through their networks. Immediate action was taken.
A fleet was launched.
Laser weapons were fired.
But the projectile was untouchable. Its entire surface, polished to a perfect mirror, reflected most of the laser energy. The few beams that managed to graze it left nothing more than microscopic dents.
A Nightmare Unfolds.
Chaos erupted across the planet. They had never encountered a weapon that light could not stop.
Every available resource was directed toward planetary defense. The most powerful hyper-laser turrets aimed at the incoming projectile. The result?
Nothing.
Desperation set in.
The civilization made a collective decision: physical interception.
A fleet of ships was deployed, their sole purpose to collide with the object at full force. But against a missile traveling at 1,000 km/s, their efforts were meaningless. The ships shattered on impact, torn apart like paper before a bullet.
They had no way of knowing that the warhead was solid metal—a monstrous 200-meter-thick block of alloy. This wasn't just a missile. It was an indestructible spear, hurled by the gods.
Then, something changed.
A force—magnetism—gripped the missile.
The aliens had mastered electromagnetism, the most fundamental force available to a Type I civilization. Though they lacked the ability to control nuclear fusion, their understanding of magnetic fields was highly advanced. With desperate precision, they pulled at the projectile, bending its trajectory.
It worked.
For a moment, their entire world erupted in celebration.
The fiber-optic conduits linking their bodies flashed brightly, a collective expression of relief.
Then—
The missile adjusted.
With cold, mechanical precision, it corrected its course and continued toward the planet.
The joy vanished. Terror returned.
They scrambled for solutions—signal interference, jamming attempts, even direct communication. But nothing worked.
The truth was devastating:
The missile had no AI.
NOVA had designed it this way on purpose. To avoid hacking attempts, it carried no sophisticated software, no complex guidance systems. Its navigation was primitive—heat-seeking technology at its core. And in the abyss of deep space, the hottest object was the planet itself.
It was inevitable.
The End Begins.
Two and a half hours had passed.
The missile had entered the planet's exosphere.
There were only 12 minutes left.
Across the entire civilization, hysteria took hold. Billions of eyes turned skyward, watching their death descend.
They did not understand what it was.
Only that it was unstoppable.
12 minutes later—
Impact.
The warhead slammed into the planet's crust. The sheer kinetic force was unstoppable—an unrelenting spear piercing straight through the mantle. It was like a needle through tofu, effortless and precise.
Kilometers deep, it struck magma.
Then—
"Beep… Beep… Beep…"
A delicate trigger activated. The magma's heat set off the warhead's detonation mechanism.
This had been pre-determined.
NOVA had calculated every contingency. If the missile detonated on impact, it could be intercepted too early. If it was remote-triggered, the signal delay—5.4 days—would be impractical.
So it had one condition for detonation: extreme, stable heat.
The moment the warhead sensed magma, it triggered.
And yet—
There was no explosion.
No flames. No shockwave. No sound.
Only cold.
A storm of absolute zero burst outward, freezing magma at the atomic level. The once-molten rivers of fire dimmed and darkened, their glow extinguished.
The freezing wave raced outward, spreading 4,000 kilometers, cutting through the planet's core like a blade of eternal frost.
A Silent Apocalypse.
Then, the cold reached the surface.
The creatures felt something they had never experienced before.
Cold.
Their volcanoes—the very heart of their civilization—fell silent. Their magnetic field weakened. And in the vacuum of space, the freezing void began to creep inward, swallowing their world like a silent storm.
That day, their world ended.
From orbit, the once-radiant planet dimmed.
The creatures froze where they stood—in conversation, at work, with loved ones. Their expressions, their final moments, captured forever in ice.
Out of 3.87 billion, nearly one-third perished within a single day.
Only those who had harnessed nuclear energy survived, their backup power sources barely keeping them alive.
Half a month passed.
Slowly—faintly—lights flickered back to life across the dead world.
Dim. Unsteady.
Like a requiem played in absolute silence.
Far Away, A Man Did Not Care.
Light-years away, aboard Hope, Rhett Calder gazed out into the vast, unbroken night of space.
He had not slept in two years.
At 43, his body was worn—but his eyes burned with life.
Beside him, NOVA's interface glowed with quiet triumph.
Together, they had achieved something incredible.
A breakthrough so profound, it might elevate their civilization's classification by 0.1—maybe even 0.2 levels.
The destruction of a world was nothing compared to the march of progress.
And so, the ship sailed onward.
Toward the next discovery.
Toward the next experiment.
Toward the future.