Even as humanity has entered the cosmic era, the universe—endless and unfathomable—remains profoundly unpredictable.
A sudden meteor storm destroyed many things, including the Galactic Express running on its orbital route.
It is said that the meteor storm was triggered by a chain reaction from a supernova explosion dozens of light-years away during its decline phase. The train's security measures were inadequate to handle it, and nearby rescue ships couldn’t arrive in time, making the destruction of the train an inevitable outcome.
Yet, the Galactic Express truly lived up to its reputation as the most secure interstellar train. Even as its compartments were torn apart in the storm, scattering into fragments across space, the sturdy structure of the carriages remained intact. Moreover, emergency oxygen supply systems activated in critical moments, allowing those inside to breathe.
In other words, as long as the passengers could hold out until rescue arrived before the oxygen ran out, they would survive.
But misfortune struck—some of the detached compartments drifted aimlessly into the void, and according to the map, they were heading straight toward the most dreaded planet in human consciousness: Sair.
Nothing could be more despairing.
Yet, those inside the compartment remained oblivious to their impending doom. Amid violent tremors and weightlessness, all survivors had fallen unconscious.
Sair was a barren and savage world. The moment any resource appeared, its native inhabitants would instinctively fight over it.
And now, with so many living beings inside the compartment, the natives would undoubtedly see them as prime reserves of food.
Humanity’s understanding of Sair was still limited to the belief that its lifeforms were nothing more than beasts—devoid of intelligence, incapable of creation. But in recent years, rapid evolution had changed that. Some of these so-called beasts had developed consciousness and intellect.
They learned to repurpose space debris and wreckage from crashed ships into rudimentary vessels. Though crude and incapable of long-distance travel, these makeshift ships could at least leave Sair and venture into the black void of space.
After a brief but brutal struggle, one adult specimen emerged victorious, stepping over the mangled remains of its kin and boarding a crude spacecraft. It set course for the drifting compartment in outer space.
The spacecraft violently docked with the compartment, shaking it violently. A massive, dark figure slowly entered, its blue eyes scanning the dimly lit interior. Strewn across the floor and seats were unconscious humans.
A sharp, terrifying claw reached out, lifting a jar of jam with a blade-like finger. The creature studied it with its blue eyes, nostrils twitching, before tipping the jar and pouring the contents into its mouth.
Apparently pleased with the taste, its long, exoskeleton-covered tail swayed leisurely.
Then it surveyed the rest of the compartment.
Everything here now belonged to it.
It moved forward, examining the oblivious humans—men and women alike—who lay defenseless before it. To its eyes, they were nothing more than lumps of meat.
Something suddenly pricked its foot.
Shifting its weight, it picked up the object with a clawed finger and studied it curiously. It recognized it as a high-heeled shoe, the kind human females wore.
Its blue eyes flickered around until they landed on a human woman slumped in a seat.
She was small and thin, barely any meat on her—hardly appetizing. One of her shoes had fallen off, but the other, a white high heel, matched the one in its grasp.
Had this been any other Sair native without evolved intelligence, its first instinct would have been to feast without hesitation.
But as a sentient Sairian, it suddenly had a far more entertaining idea—one that would make its dull existence far more interesting.
Human knowledge was vast, and humans had long hunted Sairians.
It wanted to understand them, to gather intelligence on humanity. As humans would say, "Know thy enemy, and you shall never be defeated."
So instead of slaughtering them all immediately, it chose a more intriguing approach.
Dropping the shoe, it hauled the wreckage back to Sair.
The "survivors" awoke as if in another world, their memories of the disaster erased. To them, everything was normal, and no one noticed when an extra member—designated "No. 13"—appeared among the armed forces.
Assuming a human identity, it immersed itself in human life, observing the workings of their society. It was like a role-playing game—both a way to pass time and a source of novelty.
After all, once it grew bored, it could always kill these foolish humans later.
Getting entangled with Xia Miao was an accident.
No. 13, as usual, insisted on interlacing its fingers with hers whenever it held her hand.
Stammering, its blue eyes brimming with fear and unease, it finally choked out, "Xia Miao, believe me... I really do like you."
It wasn’t truly human. Though it could mimic human behavior and study human thought patterns, emotions remained a blind spot.
It didn’t understand feelings, nor what it meant to say, "It has to be you." But in the moment of crisis, when Xia Miao ran back from the safe zone toward it, all those abstract concepts suddenly took shape.
It repeated, "I really do like you," because it was terrified. If this newfound warmth slipped away, how could it ever return to the emptiness of solitude?
Perhaps Xia Miao believed it. She showed little reaction to its confession, but only because she had long prepared herself.
The meteor storm, the crash, even the fact that it wasn’t human—none of that mattered to her. There was only one thing she wanted to know.
"I want to go back to the real world and see."
No. 13’s expression shifted slightly. "Xia Miao, isn’t it fine here?"
But she insisted, "I want to return to the real world."
Meeting her gaze, it sensed the unyielding resolve in her. A silent understanding passed between them—if it refused, she would never accept it again.
