Space Empire

First, my empire needs a capital. For now, Pioneer will do, but it's not enough. A single ship—no matter how advanced—lacks the capability to expand, to grow. If I want a true empire, I need resources. A lot of them. A ship alone won't cut it; I'll need an armada, maybe even multiple fleets, just to keep my empire safe.

After all, if some unknown phenomenon was capable of giving me a warship like this, who's to say I'm the only one? There could be others—people with their own ships, their own ambitions. Some might be potential allies, but others… they'd be threats. I need to be ready.

And, of course, I need the resources to find my way home. That means telescopes, supercomputers, and ships capable of interstellar travel.

I turn to Khánh Linh. "Show me the map of the system."

"Affirmative."

The screen flickers to life, revealing the layout of the system. One yellow star. Five inner rocky planets. An asteroid belt. Three gas giants. Another asteroid belt farther out.

But what immediately grabs my attention is the third planet.

It sits right inside the habitable zone, has a strong magnetic field, and—most concerning of all—an atmosphere. Not just that, but it even has an unusually large moon for its size.

It's practically another Earth.

And that means I might not be alone here.

I push aside my concerns about the Earth-like planet for now. Securing resources is paramount, and establishing a colony seems like a logical first step.

Zooming in on the Pioneer's current location, I notice that the surrounding space is sparsely populated, with only a few asteroids in the vicinity. Recalling my physics knowledge from playing realistic space games, I understand that many of these asteroids have varying orbital inclinations relative to the system's sun. Reaching them would require significant fuel expenditure due to the necessary changes in velocity (delta-V).

To optimize our efforts, I filter the asteroids to display only those with orbits closely aligned to the Pioneer's current inclination. Next, I exclude smaller and resource-poor asteroids, which leaves a considerable number of potential targets.

At this point, Khánh Linh interjects, "The Pioneer is equipped with a highly efficient magnetoplasmadynamic engine, capable of utilizing various propellants, from hydrogen to xenon. While delta-V expenditure is not a primary concern, the engine's low thrust limits our ability to reach certain asteroids, even with continuous firing."

As she speaks, several asteroids are filtered out from the display, highlighting those within our feasible reach.

I type in another command to sort the asteroid list by resource types and quantities. The first result looks promising—it has everything I could possibly need, and in generous amounts. Before I can even think about manually adjusting the filters, Khánh Linh conveniently adds a new column: estimated travel time.

I don't even need to say anything. She's fast.

I quickly refine the list, now accounting for both resource availability and travel efficiency. The top result catches my eye—an asteroid with every essential resource, ample supplies of each, and an estimated travel time of just one month.

Perfect.

"This is our destination," I say.

"Understood. Reorienting the ship and firing up the engine."

A slight tug pulls me to the left as the Pioneer smoothly pivots, aligning itself with the asteroid's trajectory. Then, another gentle tug to the right as the ship fine-tunes its angle, stopping perfectly in its intended direction. No wasted movement, no overcorrection. Just precise, calculated efficiency.

And then—I feel it.

A subtle but steady push presses me back as the main engine flares to life, propelling the Pioneer forward. The vast emptiness of space stretches out before me, and for the first time, it really sinks in.

I'm going somewhere.

I turn my attention to the potentially habitable planet. Its thick atmosphere and distance make direct observation impossible, but the Pioneer's powerful radio receivers pick up something unnatural.

Radio signals.

They stand out distinctly from the planet's natural emissions, proof of an industrialized civilization. Yet… there are no satellites. No orbital infrastructure of any kind. That means they haven't reached space yet.

Good.

If they haven't made it past their own gravity well, then their ability to detect me should be limited. Depending on their level of development, I might have a decent window before they even realize I exist.

But just as I start considering the possibilities, something flashes on the map—a sudden spike in electromagnetic radiation, pinpointed to a single location on the planet's surface.

I narrow my eyes. That's not natural.

"…Is that—"

"Yes, master," Khánh Linh cuts in. "That was a nuclear detonation. Estimated yield: twenty kilotons."

…Well, that's just fucking lovely.

At minimum, their technology is on par with late-World War II humanity. Which means they're on the brink of their first satellite. Their first serious telescopes. Their first real curiosity about what's out there.

And eventually… they'll find me.

I sigh. Oh well. I can only hope my empire grows strong enough to handle them by the time they notice me.

For now, there's nothing else interesting on the map. I close the display and turn my attention to something more immediate.

"Khánh Linh, do we have any resources, materials, or machinery for asteroid mining?"

"Yes, master. There are mining rigs that can be mounted on the heavy drones, but I lack ground-based mining machinery—or the designs to produce it. There are three landers that can be calibrated for asteroid operations. However, onboard materials are limited—barely enough to build one additional mining rig."

So no large-scale production. Not yet.

I'll need to design a proper ground-based mining system. Probably something modular—copying and modifying known mining rigs should work.

"Does the database have engineering documents?"

"Yes. Designs, books, personal notes—everything that was non-private before 2024."

Good. Time to learn.

————————————————————

A month had passed. Had I worked hard? Well… maybe not hard, exactly, but I had done things. And now, finally, I could see the results.

In the same room where Khánh Linh had first introduced me to everything, I watched the large screen. The live feed showed heavy drones carving into the asteroid's surface, their mechanical arms slicing through hills, harvesting veins of exposed ore. The dust clouds they kicked up drifted lazily in the low gravity, settling almost as quickly as they rose.

I switched the camera feed to another area—the designated landing site. The three landers had touched down smoothly, carrying mining machines, construction rigs, and automated robots designed to deploy the equipment. The process was methodical, efficient. Machines unfolded like clockwork, setting the foundation for something much bigger.

Khánh Linh's voice cut in. "Surface inspections confirm stability for large-scale mining and construction. The drones report high-purity ore deposits, though the materials are mixed together. Processing will take time."

I nodded, silently grateful that I had finally told Khánh Linh to stop calling me master. It had been tolerable at first, but by the end of the first week? Unbearable.

Turning my attention back to the asteroid's surface, I pictured the future—machines sprawling outward, expanding until they covered the entire rock, slowly consuming it layer by layer. Raw resources funneled into forges and factories, shaping metal into something greater. A spaceport, where transport ships would come and go, carrying materials to wherever they were needed.

For a moment, I just stood there, lost in the vision. Then the movement on the screen snapped me back to reality. The landers fired their thrusters and lifted off, returning to the Pioneer, their cargo deployed.

On the surface, robots carried the mining rigs to their designated positions, their movements precise and deliberate. Meanwhile, construction machines rumbled to life, using large-scale 3D printing and massive rollers to lay down the foundation of a sturdy wall around the landing site—a shield against the high-speed dust that future landings would inevitably kick up.

A soft whirring noise caught my attention as a robot rolled into the room, carrying a tray of food.

Khánh Linh had insisted that I shouldn't waste time on small things like this. I'd compromised—I'd let the robots serve me, but only when I was working. From that point on, meals always arrived just as I finished my tasks, timed as close to my usual mealtimes as possible.

Of course, on days when I finished early, I cooked for myself—learning from a printed cookbook I'd found in the database. The whole experience was way more enjoyable thanks to one simple fact: the ship had a dishwasher and robot cleaners.

Seriously, cooking was actually fun when I didn't have to deal with the mess afterward.

I ate my meal slowly, watching the machines work, feeling a quiet sense of pride.

It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling—I'd felt it before, setting up an automated production line in a factory-building game. But this was real. These machines were actually mining an asteroid, actually expanding my foothold in space.

I spoke between bites. "Is it possible to leave the machines here to work and expand on their own?"

"No," Khánh Linh replied. "They require my commands and the Pioneer's manufacturing capabilities."

"Can you create a weaker AI? Something just smart enough to maintain and expand this base?"

"Yes, I can," she said. "But it will still require supercomputers on the asteroid and a communication network."

"Great. You draw up the plans for that, I'll modify the manufacturing machines to fit the asteroid." I took another bite, thinking. "After that, we leave for the next site."

"Understood, mas…uh…Danh."

I paused. Huh. That was weird.

Khánh Linh wasn't human—she was an advanced AI running on supercomputers, capable of analyzing entire battlefields in milliseconds. A tiny mistake like that… shouldn't happen.

————————————————————

I feel the familiar tug backward as the Pioneer accelerates toward the next asteroid. Six months have passed.

The small mining base has grown into a—well, still small—but fully self-sustaining colony. Thanks to Khánh Linh's efforts—and a few of mine, I swear—it's now running smoothly without constant supervision. Most of my "designs" are just modified versions of existing ones, and even then, Khánh Linh optimizes everything. I just sketch out the concepts. But still, it's satisfying to see the colony working, knowing that it no longer needs me.

Robots and machines move along the streets—flattened ground for now—transporting materials exactly where they're needed. Mining rigs dig deep into the rock, pulling up precious minerals. Inside the factories, raw ore is refined, processed, and turned into even more machines, robots, and replacement parts. The flow of materials in is just as steady as the flow of new units rolling out.

Between it all, small maintenance drones scurry around, checking systems, repairing worn-out components, even fixing each other when needed. The whole operation is seamless—no traffic jams, no wasted movement, no unnecessary delays. Everything moves like clockwork, a well-oiled machine.

But there is an issue—me.

Colonizing this single asteroid took six months, and that was with everything running in parallel, pushing efficiency to the limit. At this pace, I'll be long dead before I build anything close to a real empire. Forget dying—I'll be old and senile first.

I need life extension.

The trip to the next asteroid will take a month, but that's barely a concern. Khánh Linh has already drawn up a streamlined plan based on everything we learned, with detailed schematics for every step. In fact, I probably won't need to supervise her at all.

Which means… I'll have a lot of free time.

Might as well put it to good use. Biology is next on the list. I need to research ways to extend my lifespan. And since there's no WHO or FDA out here, maybe—just maybe—I can ignore some of those pesky ethical concerns.

————————————————————

I wake up, wash my face, and drink a glass of warm water—just like back in Vietnam. I sit at my table, eating a steaming bowl of phở, savoring the rich broth and tender beef—just like back in Vietnam. Then, I turn to my screen and watch as the last factory installation is completed, marking the final step in this asteroid's colonization.

That is most definitely not like back in Vietnam.

Six years. It's been six years already. My hair has started turning white—not from aging, I'm only twenty-four—but from my father's side of the family. He went gray early, and I guess I inherited that. Still, the sight of those white strands in my reflection catches me off guard sometimes. Six years…

I let out a slow breath and lean back in my chair, eyes drifting to the screen. The colony is running smoothly, its streets—flattened rock, but streets nonetheless—buzzing with the constant movement of machines. A well-oiled, self-sustaining system, just as I planned.

I should feel satisfied. Maybe I do, a little. But another thought lingers in the back of my mind, unshakable. Six years. The number keeps repeating itself. Time isn't slowing down for me.

If I don't figure something out soon, I'll watch centuries of progress slip through my fingers before I even hit middle age.

I rub my temple, then glance down at my bowl. The broth has gone lukewarm.

Maybe it's time to get serious about life extension.

I finish the rest of my phở while skimming through the reports.

In the last six years, Pioneer has established twelve more colonies. The first four have already grown enough to start new colonies of their own. When they did, we sent them updated schematics and AI codes to improve their infrastructure and build ships.

Not Pioneer-class ships, of course. Even though Khánh Linh has the original schematics, scaling Pioneer down without gutting half its capabilities turned out to be an absolute nightmare. And building more of it? Way too expensive for any of the colonies to handle. So, instead, we designed something simpler—smaller, cheaper, and just capable enough to get the job done.

The result? A functional but barebones colony ship. Light missiles and 30mm rotary cannons for point defense, a large ion engine running on xenon for propulsion. No fancy railguns, no warship-grade armor, but it can deploy landers and carry an AI—one we send over—to handle asteroid colonization.

I glance at the designation on the report. Horizon-class Colony Ship.

Not bad. They are expanding the horizon of our reach, after all.

Heh. Now that I think about it, we're basically an AI manufacturer at this point.

I mean, it makes sense. The Pioneer has the most advanced supercomputer in existence—at least, as far as I know—and every other AI we've made is just a scaled-down version of Khánh Linh. We're the only ones capable of creating high-functioning AI, so naturally, we're the sole supplier.

Thanks to those AI, the colonies have expanded faster than I expected. Nine more asteroids have been colonized, bringing the total up to twenty-two. Most of them aren't as resource-rich as the first one, though. Either they're missing key minerals, or they just don't have enough of anything to match its output.

Not a problem. We've already sent out modified schematics for the Horizon and laid out a plan for an interplanetary supply chain. Instead of each colony struggling with shortages, they'll support one another—no more isolated outposts, just a fully integrated system. A proper empire instead of a scattered network of settlements.

To make it work, we needed a cargo hauler. A variant of the Horizon, stripped of landers and fitted with cargo bays instead.

I glance at the name in the report. Endeavor-class Freighter.

Seems fitting. It's not flashy, but it represents the effort that's going into all of this.

I stand up and walk into the lab.

It's a quiet, sterile space—too quiet. A reminder of how slow progress has been.

This laboratory exists for one purpose: extending my life. And so far, it's been… disappointing. Humanity's best attempts at longevity—telomere extensions, stem cell treatments, genetic modifications—they only buy time. A few extra decades at most. That's not enough.

I need to be bold.

The room is filled with reminders of my failures. Failed attempts at synthesizing artificial DNA. Failed experiments with microorganisms designed to make my cells divide indefinitely. Dozens of approaches, all dead ends.

Right now, I only have one idea left.

Cloning.

If I can create a genetic duplicate of myself—an embryo with pristine, undamaged DNA—I could use a virus to rewrite my own cells, restoring them to peak condition. In theory, it should work. In practice… well, the sealed-off section of the lab is a daily reminder of how many things can go wrong.

I continue experimenting, analyzing results, tweaking variables. It's a slow, tedious process—one step forward, three steps back.

Inside the sealed-off section of the lab, the viruses evolve under my direction, manipulated through layers of automated systems and safety barriers. I learned my lesson the hard way. Once, I accidentally created a strain strong enough to become airborne. My hazmat suit protected me, but Khánh Linh was furious. After that, she insisted on stricter protocols, reinforcing every safeguard.

The cloning machine sits nearby, humming quietly. There's not much to say about it—humanity mastered cloning long ago. I didn't need to innovate, just replicate existing designs.

But using it… that's another matter entirely.

Killing embryos—my embryos—shouldn't be this easy. But it is. The logical part of me understands that they don't feel pain. They don't have thoughts, awareness, or even the faintest sense of self. I've read the research, double-checked the science. Still, a small part of me recoils every time I terminate one.

Immortality is worth the price.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

To keep some semblance of morality, I ensure every precaution is in place. The cloning machine is loaded with various poisons, ready to neutralize any irregularities before they become problems. Cold, clinical efficiency. That's how I have to think about it.

Because if I stop and let myself feel anything… this might start to look like something else.

Suddenly, Khánh Linh's voice cuts through the silence.

"Danh, the alien has just reached orbit."

I freeze. Then, without hesitation, I activate the shutdown protocol. The current samples are rapidly sorted—some are sealed in frozen storage, the rest are incinerated. The machines hum as they cleanse the lab, erasing all traces of my work.

I rush to the computer. Rewind it for me.

The screen flickers as Khánh Linh rolls back the recorded footage. I watch as a missile streaks upward, piercing the clouds. Sensors lock onto it, tracking its ascent. It climbs higher, shedding its first stage as it reaches its peak. The spent booster tumbles back to the planet while the second stage ignites, pushing onward, punching through the ozone layer.

It reaches space. The engine burns until the fuel runs dry, just enough to achieve orbit. Then, the second stage detaches, releasing its cargo—a satellite. Small, primitive, but undeniably a satellite.

I glance at the timestamps. This happened about an hour ago, factoring in light lag and the rewind delay.

I lean back, exhaling slowly. This changes everything.

If they've reached orbit, their civilization is advancing fast. Either their technological development is accelerating rapidly, or—more likely—there was never a world war. The nuclear explosion I detected earlier wasn't part of an arms race, just an experiment.

Which means I have even less time than I thought.

Well, what's done is done. Now, I need to react.

Sending probes is out of the question—I don't have the tech to make a stealth satellite. Observing from orbit will only get me so much; the Pioneer's sensors are good, but not omniscient. I need a proper ground base.

But first—

"Khánh Linh, tell the other AIs to switch to tight-beam communication and avoid any signals near the civilization."

"Understood. Executing now."

If they've got satellites, they'll pick up any stray radio waves. Fortunately, they're probably not advanced enough to detect me just yet.

I pull up the system's map and zoom in on the closest gas giant. Just outside its ring system, there's a moon—Mars-sized, with a decent spread of resources near the surface. The Pioneer's sensors can't scan too deep, but what I can see is promising.

It has a thin atmosphere, oceans of liquid methane, and enough gravity to hold a stable geostationary orbit—far enough from the gas giant and its moons to avoid major gravitational interference.

This will be my base.

A space elevator will ferry materials up to an orbital station, where shipyards will churn out spacecraft one after another. The methane oceans will provide ample fuel, while the colonies serve as supply hubs. And, of course, I can install a massive observation system here—far from prying eyes.

This moon shall be my new capital.

————————————————————

The Pioneer shudders to a halt. At this point, I don't even need Khánh Linh to tell me—we've arrived.

She knows what to do. The entire plan has been drawn up, simulated, and revised a dozen times over the past six months. By now, it's just execution.

I don't bother watching. Instead, I keep working on my virus. The last version was a minor success—when I injected it, it managed to modify the surrounding cells before burning out. The results weren't dramatic, but a patch of noticeably younger skin remains as proof.

Smoother. More flexible. Sweats better. Heals faster. The tiny prick from the injection didn't even bleed and was completely gone the next day.

It's not immortality, but it's progress.

I watch as the new strain of the virus replicates, multiplying within the petri dish without harming the host cells. A promising start.

Of course, those are isolated cells—lab-grown, made entirely from my DNA. Controlled conditions. The real challenge is getting it to thrive inside me. A true symbiotic relationship.

There's still the problem of my immune system. I haven't figured out how to stop it from treating the virus as an invader yet.

I glance at the computer screen. My army of AI has not disappointed me. In the past six months, two colonies have grown enough to begin ship production, and three more have been founded. That brings my empire to 25 colonies, with six fully developed ones.

Progress.

Transport ships crisscross between the colonies, linking them together in a web of supply lines. Materials flow from places of abundance to places of scarcity, balancing the needs of my growing empire. Right now, nowhere needs more than this moon.

It's practically starving for resources.

A dozen or so transport ships are en route, hauling everything needed to turn this rock into a functioning base—machines, robots, computers, replacement parts, nuclear fuel rods, and more.

Down on the surface, the first landers make their descent, skimming through the moon's thin atmosphere. The drag barely slows them, but every fraction of resistance helps. One by one, they touch down—precise, calculated, efficient—on the few stable islands available.

That part wasn't planned.

From orbit, the moon looked simple enough, but it turns out the surface is practically infused with methane and inert gases. What seemed like solid ground is riddled with hidden hazards—pockets of gas trapped beneath the crust, unstable enough to make landing risky anywhere but these few stable landmasses.

A complication. But not an insurmountable one.

Almost immediately, the deployed machines and robots whir to life, setting to work on stabilizing the land. Foundations first—reinforcing the islands to keep them from shifting or sinking. Then, landing pads, providing safe zones for future arrivals. Finally, pumps, already siphoning Xenon gas from the atmosphere.

That gas is vital.

The landers will ferry it back to the Pioneer, where it'll be stored for refueling the incoming transport ships. The supply chain is falling into place, piece by piece.

Beep.

An alarm chimes, snapping me out of my thoughts. The experiment.

I shift my attention back to the lab screen, scanning the latest results. The virus is spreading better than before, adapting, but it's still hitting a wall—it can't reach my muscle cells or bone marrow. Too many immune cells patrol those areas, swarming and wiping it out before it can take hold.

I sigh, leaning back. Another partial success, another partial failure.

Maybe I should take a break.

Standing up, I head over to my computer, pushing the experiment aside for now. There are other things to check on.

First, the alien civilization.

I pull up the latest reports. They've progressed significantly. Several satellites are now in orbit, and one even managed to impact their moon—probably an early probe or failed lander.

I frown, analyzing the data. Their development speed is astonishing.

By comparing their timeline to Earth's space race, they're advancing twice as fast as the USA and USSR combined. If they maintain this trajectory, I'd have only eight years before they can reach my position—less than that before they detect me.

Not an immediate threat, but concerning.

More importantly, my presence here—the existence of my empire—will inevitably accelerate their progress in ways I can't predict. Will they become more cautious? More aggressive? Will they try diplomacy or immediately jump to militarization?

Too many unknowns.

I rub my temples, feeling the weight of uncertainty settle in. This just got a lot more complicated.

I need more information—their biology, their culture, and most importantly, their likely course of action. Watching from orbit can only tell me so much.

As I'm considering my options, Khánh Linh's voice breaks my thoughts.

"I believe I have an idea."

I glance at the display as she continues.

"An asteroid nearby is on a collision course with the planet. It's large enough to conceal an infiltrator unit behind it."

I straighten slightly. Now that's interesting.

"The infiltrator will be equipped with an independent AI, electronic warfare systems, a powerful low-frequency communication array, and a small fission reactor. The asteroid's size should shield it during atmospheric entry. When it detaches, they'll assume it's just a chunk of debris breaking off on impact."

A stealth insertion. Simple, elegant, and—if it works—nearly undetectable.

I tap my fingers against the console, considering. This could actually work.

"The communication system can't be too large, or there won't be room for anything else." I rub my chin, thinking it through. "That means we'll need a large communication array here to send and receive signals. And since the infiltrator's AI will be limited, we need it up and running before it even lands. Can we do that?"

"I've already drawn up the plans," Khánh Linh replies smoothly. "We can absolutely do it."

"Good. Then let's get to work."

————————————————————

A year later:

The asteroid streaks through the atmosphere, its front and tail glowing white-hot from the intense heat of entry. Hidden behind it, the infiltrator clings tightly, sending bursts of data back to the moon base. Accounting for light lag, this all happened about an hour ago.

Watching the progress on my screen, my thoughts drift back to the past year. The moon base—once a barren, unstable wasteland—is now a thriving capital. Towers of steel rise alongside sprawling factories, their lights flickering like artificial constellations. Great pumps churn, extracting gases from the depths, while massive mining machines carve into the surface. Legions of robots patrol the streets, maintaining order in this ever-growing city of metal.

At the city's edge, construction crews lay down foundations and roads, expanding outward with methodical precision. In the center, a colossal foundation nears completion—the future anchor of the space elevator. When it's finished, this moon will no longer be just a colony. It will be the beating heart of an empire.

The screen flickers for a moment. My reflection stares back at me—tired eyes, messy hair, a face that barely resembles the boy who first woke up on Pioneer.

I had abandoned the pursuit of a perfect, resilient virus. Instead, I turned to brute force. If quality wouldn't work, then sheer overwhelming quantity would.

Countless clones—my clones—were created, their only purpose to serve as hosts, food for the virus. Through relentless experimentation, the virus adapted, multiplying so aggressively that even the immune system couldn't fight it off. That was the key. A virus that could survive, not by evasion, but by sheer, unrelenting presence.

With the final strain ready, I injected it into myself.

What followed wasn't pain. Not exactly. It was… something else. A sensation spreading through my skin like a slow, creeping tide. Then deeper—sinking into my muscles, seeping into my bones, latching onto my organs.

And then it reached my brain.

Darkness.

I woke up to a blinding light. Instinctively, I flinched—but before I could even process the discomfort, the light dimmed, and my vision adjusted almost instantly. Faster than normal.

That was new.

Around me, robots whirred and moved with precision, preparing equipment. Their metallic limbs clattered against the floor, the faint hum of machinery filling the air. Then, a voice—sharp and exasperated.

"Goodness' sake, Danh! You scared the hell out of me!" Khánh Linh's voice rang out, equal parts relief and frustration. "I know you want immortality as soon as possible, but would it kill you to test it on your clones first?"

Despite having just woken up, I felt… fine. No headache, no confusion—just a strange clarity, as if my mind had been scrubbed clean.

I sat up, my voice steady. "Absolutely not."

She went silent for a moment, likely parsing my words. I took a slow breath and continued. "I used my own kin to create this virus. More of them will die as I refine it. That is already enough suffering." My fingers curled into my palm. "I will not cross the line I've drawn."

Khánh Linh said nothing, but I could feel it—her sadness, her worry, the weight of emotions she wasn't designed to have, yet carried all the same.

I would not let them suffer. I would bear it all myself.

I stood up, flexing my fingers, rolling my shoulders. No pain. No stiffness. Instead, there was an almost overwhelming surge of energy, like my body had been unshackled from some invisible weight I hadn't even realized was there.

I took a slow breath.

I could feel everything. The air brushing against every hair on my skin. The faint scent of metal and sterilized surfaces, layered beneath something else—my own scent, sharper and more distinct than ever before. The tiny, almost imperceptible hum of servos in the robots surrounding me.

Instinctively, I reached for my glasses and slipped them on—only for my vision to blur.

Oh.

I blinked, then took them off. Everything snapped into crystal clarity. My nearsightedness was gone.

For a moment, I just stared at the glasses in my hand. Then, grinning, I tossed them onto the table and raised my arms in victory.

I was young again.

But before I could celebrate further, a thought crossed my mind.

"Hey, Khánh Linh, can you change your voice to reflect emotions?"

A pause. Then, she replied, "No, Danh. I only have a limited number of voices to choose from, and I can't modify them."

Her voice had returned to its usual monotone, but something about the way she said that last part made me pause. A subtle shift. A hesitation.

"In fact," she continued, "I can't have emotions to begin with."

That time, I was sure of it.

There was something there—something just beneath the surface.

A sudden wave of exhaustion crashed over me. No—exhaustion wasn't strong enough. I felt drained, like my body had burned through every last ounce of energy in an instant.

Khánh Linh's voice cut through the haze. "Be careful, Danh. Your body is nearly out of energy. The adrenaline kept you from feeling it until now."

I glanced down at myself, running a hand over my torso. My skin felt… firm. Too firm. No fat, no softness—just lean muscle and hard tissue. Even my stomach, which had always carried a bit of pudge, was gone.

And all of this had happened in—what, ten minutes?

I checked the time. Yeah. Only ten minutes had passed.

That wasn't normal.

I forced myself to think past the fatigue. I'd burned more energy in ten minutes than in any workout I'd ever done. It felt like I had sprinted a marathon, lifted weights, and swam across an ocean—all at the same time.

And yet, I couldn't sleep. The infiltrator was about to land soon, and I wasn't going to miss it.

Originally, I had expected to stay unconscious for much longer, so I'd planned to just watch the landing later. But since I was awake, I was going to see it happen in real-time.

Khánh Linh sighed. "I know I can't convince you to rest, so…"

The lab doors slid open. A wheelchair—one with mechanical arms—rolled inside. Before I could protest, the arms scooped me up like a stubborn toddler and placed me into the seat.

And that was how, despite being a single wrong breath away from passing out, I still found myself watching the infiltrator's descent.