The lower district of the underground city of Belobog was always dim. Three layers beneath the surface, buried under thick ice and bedrock. Sunlight never reached here. What arrived instead was the drone of machinery and the tepid air exhaled by corroded heating units. Kafka walked quietly through the alley. Her short black hair swayed faintly in the drift of steam. Deep brown eyes traced slowly across the surrounding landscape. A white shirt, black slacks, a thin jacket draped over them—light clothing, nothing more. A thin scar ran beneath her eyes, lending an odd sharpness to her otherwise striking features. Her slender frame might have looked like that of a traveler or merchant. It was not. She was a Stellaron Hunter—wanted at the highest level across the entire cosmos. That was what Kafka was. As she walked, she breathed in the air of the lower district. The smell of machine oil. The smell of cold metal. And from somewhere, the faint smell of broth. Cheap stew, perhaps, or something even less identifiable. *Nostalgic*, she thought. Not the filth itself—the suffocation. This closed-off feeling. At the edge of the alley, an old heating unit sat rusting. A cylindrical iron drum, its surface blackened and covered in orange rust. Before it, an old man sat alone. A blanket drawn up to his knees, his palms pressed against the unit's warmth. His face was deeply lined, his eyes half-closed. Whether he was sleeping or simply sitting still was unclear. Kafka passed by. A little further on, a child was running. Four or five years old, perhaps. Wearing cold-weather clothes, but the sleeves were worn through, holes opening at the elbows. Chasing a friend, laughing as he ran through the alley. That smile was real. But—Kafka glanced at the child's eyes. They were bright. Yet something was missing from behind them. No anger. No yearning. No curiosity about what lay beyond the stars. Children born and raised in the lower district of Belobog's third underground layer were like that. This was their entire world, and they never questioned what lay beyond. They felt no need to question. Because the Stellaron made it so. Kafka kept walking, thinking only in her mind. This planet, Jarilo-VI, possessed a Stellaron called the "Eternal Freeze Core." A Stellaron was a crystalline body of conscious energy at a star's center. A mass one to five meters in diameter, moving like a living thing. In Jarilo-VI's case, it governed ice and eternal cold. Because of it, the planet's surface remained at a constant minus sixty degrees, covered in permafrost, yet the underground city's environment was stable. The residents possessed cold resistance and could endure the low temperatures without difficulty. A blessing, one might say. But—the Stellaron was more than that. It slowly, imperceptibly controlled the residents' emotions, actions, even their fates. It dulled anger. It numbed the desire to leave. It quietly planted a gentle satisfaction: *"You can live here."* And no one noticed. At the corner of the alley, two guards of the Silvermane Guard were patrolling. Large soldiers in heavy cold-weather armor. The arm of the Silvermane Guard that ruled Belobog. Kafka quietly averted her gaze and did not change her pace. She did not meet their eyes. But she showed no sign of concern either. Just before the soldiers passed, a street vendor nearby said something quietly to someone else. "——That's why you don't talk about the outside. The person next door got taken away last time, didn't they?" The other person glanced at the soldiers and fell silent. Kafka pretended not to hear and passed by. Seven hundred years of isolation. On a star that had severed contact with the outer universe of its own accord, even having interest in what lay beyond the stars was a social taboo. Speaking of it alone could get you reported. The Silvermane Guard would not permit it. The Stellaron's will demanded it. *Heavy*, she thought. But for the residents here, it was as natural as air. ─────────────────────── The waste disposal facility lay deeper still in the lower district. A dim space stacked with metal scraps and waste materials. A single weak orange light hung from the ceiling. Machinery groaned at intervals, then fell silent again. Kafka ducked under the piled debris and moved deeper. There, she paused for a moment. In a gap between the scraps, a small cat sat. Gray fur, golden eyes. It stared up at Kafka without moving. Kafka crouched and extended her fingertips. The cat brought its nose close, sniffed, then turned its face away as if losing interest. "I see." She murmured softly and stood. As she moved deeper, the quality of the air changed. Something was different. Not quite electrical, but something deeper—a wave-like presence, something like will, a subtle pressure mixed into the air itself. *Here.* Kafka narrowed her eyes. Something faint resonated near her chest. She sharpened her senses. From the depths of the waste facility, deeper still—from the deepest part of this city, far below, a faint wave of energy transmitted itself. The Eternal Freeze Core. Jarilo-VI's Stellaron. She could not see it. But it was there. The heart of this star beat quietly in the depths of the earth. That wave passed through the bedrock, up through the floor of the waste facility, into the soles of her feet, into the core of her body. Kafka stood in that sensation for a while. *Still strong. But——* Something else was mixed into the wave. A frequency that interfered with the residents' emotions. A frequency that dampened anger. A frequency that lulled the desire to leave. It seeped slowly through the entire city. Kafka confirmed it quietly. To be certain, she closed her eyes, then opened them again. A whimpering sound came from behind. She turned. A small child was curled up in the shadow of the debris. Six or seven years old. Knees drawn up, face buried. Not crying. Simply sitting. Kafka saw for a moment. *What will become of this child after I free them?* The question flickered through her mind for just an instant. When the Stellaron breaks, there is a risk the environment will collapse. When the residents suddenly regain "free will," what will happen in this closed world—Kafka had not yet looked directly at that question. It would be more accurate to say she was avoiding it. But for now, she did not need to think that far. Kafka averted her eyes and headed toward the exit of the waste facility. ─────────────────────── In her childhood, Kafka had grown up in a place called Nabuurs Starport. The edge of the universe—a small artificial structure floating in the unexplored space known as the Outer Rim. A space station about three kilometers long, a rusting relic of a port. Formally, it belonged to no star system government; it was an "ownerless port" where the impoverished, refugees, and criminals lived mixed together. With no Stellaron, environmental control relied on outdated machinery. Power outages were daily occurrences. Oxygen supply failures that left people gasping for breath were not uncommon. It was filthy, cold, and unprotected. But—there was no Stellaron. So every emotion the residents felt was real. Those who were angry raged. Those who wept cried. Those who laughed laughed. Those who wanted to leave screamed it aloud. Before anyone could dampen their feelings, they exploded as they were. Kafka still remembered words spoken in a dark room by someone. "Stars belong to no one. Stars are free." She could no longer clearly recall whose face had spoken those words. But the words themselves remained in Kafka, unchanging. The Stellaron Hunters—the organization Kafka now led—had been founded about eighty years ago by a person named Vespa Klotz. A gathering of Stellaron Hunters under the banner of "humanity's liberation from fate-control by Stellarons." Seven core members. A mobile base station called "Nomadis" that constantly changed position. And—recognized as a criminal organization by nearly every government in the cosmos. About two hundred fifty years ago, the twelve major star systems had signed the "Stellaron Protection Treaty." Attacks on Stellarons were the highest-level crime in the universe; violators faced permanent exile or execution. This was the legal basis that made the Stellaron Hunters a criminal organization. In other words, Kafka was surrounded by enemies wherever she went. She was used to it. ─────────────────────── It happened immediately after she left the waste facility. A chill ran down her spine. Killing intent—multiple sources. Kafka assessed the situation in an instant. Behind, to the right, and slightly distant to the left. Pressure closing in from three directions simultaneously. The movements were swift, coordinated. Not amateurs. "[serious]Stop!" A low voice echoed through the alley. Kafka did not stop. She burst into a run. Down the left alley. Through the crowds of the lower district—narrow passages, stacked cargo, slipping past residents in conversation, gaining distance. *They came fast.* The Trailblazers of the Astral Express—about forty people who rode the interstellar train across the cosmos, protecting stars from Stellaron anomalies. Not an official military, but trusted enough to receive cooperation requests from governments across the universe. Ideologically opposite to the Stellaron Hunters, they naturally gave chase. Kafka turned a corner. She slid into the shadow of a cargo platform and steadied her breathing. She confirmed the direction the pursuers' footsteps were fading. *Three people, or four. They're spreading out properly.* Chaos Flame—the unique power Kafka possessed. Through eye contact, she could interfere with an opponent's psyche, burning away the chains of their heart like flame. If she activated it, she could stop the pursuers all at once. But she did not use it now. The reason did not matter. She simply judged this was not the moment to use it. That was enough. From the shadow of the platform, she checked the alley ahead. Before one of the pursuers could turn the corner, Kafka ran again. The lower district's alleys were labyrinthine. Using the maze-like structure, she turned another corner. A resident stared at her in surprise, then quickly looked away. Judging she was neither a Silvermane Guard nor a Trailblazer, no one called out. The entrance to the underground waterway was deep in the mechanical district. Running toward it, Kafka kept the pursuers' positions in her awareness. Fifty meters left. Forty. Thirty—— "[angry]Every time you come, the star breaks!" A voice flew at her from behind. Close enough. Kafka did not turn around. A smile naturally formed at the corner of her mouth. An easy smile. The usual one. Not for anyone's benefit, not to put on a brave face—just Kafka's ordinary expression. The iron door to the underground waterway was right ahead. The old padlock had been tampered with when she came through earlier. Kafka pulled the door open without using a key. It creaked with an unpleasant sound. Darkness. The smell of water. Cold air flowed out. Kafka slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind her. Alone in the darkness. The footsteps faded. Whether the pursuers missed the entrance or were searching another route—for a while, there was silence. Kafka leaned her back against the concrete wall. It was cold. Water flowed somewhere in the distance. Plop, plop, rhythmic and steady. *Every time you come, the star breaks.* The voice from earlier lingered in her mind. It did not bother her. It was not the kind of words that should bother her—she tried to think that, but could not quite convince herself. Like a small thorn, it remained. Kafka narrowed her eyes and looked into the dark waterway ahead. Next, she was supposed to rendezvous with Silverwolf here. That girl was probably somewhere causing trouble by now, but managing somehow. Water sounded. Plop. Kafka slowly walk