Cromie couldn't help but give Qianlong an extra glance, his eyes filled with admiration.
"The Hyperion is an ark ship that escaped the fallen planet of Hapliyon. We're searching for a habitable world. Oh, and let me tell you something—most of the regions we've passed through have already fallen to the aliens. That means, aside from the Hyperion, you've got nowhere else to go." (Note: The Hyperion fled in a desperate rush, carrying only mech units protecting a handful of royals, researchers, and refugees. They left with nothing—no supplies, no resources. The ship itself was originally just a cargo freighter, retrofitted on the fly. Their survival has been a patchwork struggle, barely scraping by.)
Everyone present, even the pirates, froze in shock.
Three days later, Qianlong opened his eyes, still feeling like he was trapped in a dream. He lay on a hard metal bed, staring up at the steel ceiling. The room was cramped—no more than seven square meters—with no private bathroom, just a bed and a desk. A single light and an air vent completed the furnishings.
He had been taken in, but in truth, he had become a bottom-tier citizen.
The Hyperion was a massive interstellar ark ship. According to Cromie, it measured roughly 80 kilometers long and 25 kilometers wide, housing over 20 million people. And not all of that space was livable—crowding was severe.
The living zones were divided into five sectors: A, B, C, D, and F. Each offered different levels of resources. Qianlong had been placed in F-sector—the lowest tier, reserved for interstellar refugees. As the Hyperion's captain put it, "A ship is like a body. It needs fresh blood to survive."
Of course, the Hyperion didn't carry freeloaders. Once taken in, you had to find work to sustain yourself. The ship operated on two currencies: credit points and starcoins.
Qianlong didn't understand. Credit points made sense, but why were starcoins still valid? Cromie had said most of their known space had fallen.
This puzzled him. Another unsettling fact: the Hyperion had been drifting through the void for over two centuries. That meant the aliens had somehow bypassed the Firas Frontline long ago.
When Hapliyon fell, the attack came from behind their own lines. The Hyperion couldn't retreat deeper into human space, so it had no choice but to push toward the Firas Frontline, hoping for aid.
The ark ship's technology was surprisingly advanced, powered by a mix of photonic energy and crystal reactors. As for supplies, some came from internal recycling and production zones, while the rest was scavenged along the way.
Synthetic food production was highly refined—quantity wasn't an issue. The real problem? It consumed energy.
Even this tiny living space wasn't free. Ship policy allowed three months of rent-free stay, with limited free water and public resources. After that, he'd have to pay—100 credit points or 100 starcoins per month.
A knock at the door. Qianlong opened it to find Cromie standing there, flashing what he probably thought was a charming grin. Milo stood behind him, carrying a box.
"Kid, gonna let us in?"
"Come in."
Cromie stepped inside, glancing around. "How's it treating you?"
"It's fine."
"Here's some synth-food for you." Cromie motioned for Milo to set the box down.
Milo placed it on the desk.
"Didn't the ship already distribute rations?" Qianlong asked.
Cromie shrugged. "This is also from the ship. Look, find a job. Beg if you have to. Work is the only way to survive here. Otherwise, you'll starve, and your corpse'll end up as fertilizer."
Qianlong hesitated. "Why are you telling me all this?"
Cromie yawned. "No deep reason. If you're alive, stay that way. Anyway, gotta go—more refugees to check on. Annoying job."
With that, he left.
After seeing them out, Qianlong stared at the box of nutrient bars in silence. The ship had only issued seven days' worth of rations. This box held at least a month's supply. The Hyperion wasn't this generous—this had to be Cromie's own stash.
Taking a deep breath, Qianlong prepared to job-hunt again. His last two attempts had ended in rejection.
Compared to the Hyperion, Belock Star's tech was primitive. Whatever skills refugees brought were often useless here.
Stepping outside, he closed the door behind him.
Before him stretched endless metal towers, connected by a web of passageways. Looking down, he couldn't even see the bottom. His room was labeled F2-65-345-214: F-sector, District 2, Building 65, Floor 345, Room 214.
During the day, F-sector residents could cross into D-sector, but they had to return by 7 PM. The ship operated on a 24-hour cycle, with an artificial sun controlled by the central AI to simulate day and night—a rhythm deemed optimal for human health.
Qianlong headed for the D-sector passage. Job opportunities were slightly better there, though competition was fierce. As for pay? Better not hope for much. Just landing work was a victory.
He wasn't the only one with this idea. He spotted familiar faces—fellow refugees from Belock Star. Some even smiled at him, which he returned with a nod.
Soon, he reached a branching path leading to different D-sector sub-districts. This time, he'd try his luck in D1.
The checkpoint between F and D was manned by guards. Everyone entering D-sector had to pass through scanners. A form of discrimination? Maybe. But not entirely unreasonable—F-sector conditions were poor, and new refugees brought unknown risks. Initial boarding checks weren't foolproof.
Qianlong joined the queue.
The scanning archway was wide, processing people quickly. Soon, it was his turn.
Stepping into the tunnel, he felt multicolored beams sweep over him.
A mechanical voice droned:
"Identity confirmed."
"Qianlong."
"Citizen Tier: Fifth Class."
"Physical condition: Healthy."
"Mental state: Stable."
He walked through, the cold assessment ringing in his ears.