Chapter 5: The Star-Caged Civilization

It’s been two hundred years since the Federation was established.

In that time, humanity has pooled its strength to develop the entire solar system, but…

We still can’t break free.

Just as centuries ago humans were trapped on their homeworld, now we’re simply trapped within the solar system.

To the universe, the Milky Way might seem tiny—hardly bigger than a sesame seed.

But for humanity, it feels impossibly vast.

With a diameter of 180,000 light-years and more than 250 billion stars, it’s laughable for us to claim the galaxy is small.

(Note: The actual number of stars in the Milky Way is estimated between 100 and 400 billion. This story chooses 250 billion as a mid-value.)

Yet humanity can’t even cross the mere 4.22 light-years to the nearest star system outside the solar system.

That’s right—just 4.22 light-years.

Even light takes more than four years to get there, and the fastest battleship humanity’s built? Tops out at about 200 km per second.

At that speed, journeying from the solar system to Proxima Centauri—

You’re looking at around 6,360 years.

Even with the average lifespan now over 150 years thanks to evolution, 6,360 years is still…

So, humanity is trapped.

Trapped within this solar system.

Centuries ago, scientists warned: if humans couldn’t leave their homeworld, they were doomed.

Today, that warning has evolved—

If we can’t escape the solar system, our decline is only a matter of time.

For any civilization, if you’re not advancing, you’re dying.

There’s simply no other option.

——

Warstar Qiongxiao.

Inside the dining hall.

Lin Yu grabbed a standard Federation fleet meal and found an empty table.

It’s been exactly three days since he joined the Fifth Fleet.

Over time, he’d settled into shipboard life perfectly.

Truth is, since the era of hyper-evolution, humans have gotten sharper and stronger—and way better at adapting too.

But he hadn’t even lifted his first bite to his mouth—

A piercing battle alarm blared.

Lin Yu shot to his feet and sprinted from the dining hall, racing full speed toward the bridge.

At the exact same time—

“Report! Radar shows contact: twelve o’clock, elevation eighteen degrees, 2.7 light-seconds out—enemy signals detected, 128 vessels.”

“Fleet, deploy in B2 array! Qiongxiao, bring all railgun batteries online!”

“Yes, Admiral!”

In the next instant—

Qiongxiao bristled like a metallic porcupine.

Over a thousand railgun barrels unfurled, covering both flanks and the dorsal hull.

The other warships formed up around Qiongxiao, weaving a formation as tight as a spiderweb.

It’s been more than 600 years since humanity launched its first satellite—by now, they’ve built powerful interstellar fleets.

And yet—

Progress in weapons tech has been painfully slow.

Today’s battleships still rely on railguns, a weapon already old news five centuries ago.

Sure, they’ve made small improvements with each generation. That’s it.

As for energy weapons, it’s not that humanity hasn’t cracked them, but there are still big problems no one’s solved.

Even the newest generation ion cannons max out at an effective range of just 80,000 kilometers.

On the scale of space warfare, 80,000 kilometers is basically knife-fighting range.

Why is that?

It comes down to the same old issue—

Energy!

Energy weapons gulch down staggering amounts, especially the supermassive ion beams on warships—even with controlled fusion reactors, it’s tough to keep up.

So there just aren’t that many energy weapons aboard any given warship.

Otherwise, firing a full salvo would demand more power than even the reactors could supply instantly.

By contrast, railguns are much more energy-efficient—and their range is virtually unlimited.

For centuries, a deeply rooted belief has guided humanity—

Railguns for long-range barrages, energy weapons and missiles for mid- to close-range, and as for point defense—

That’s where electromagnetic rapid-fire cannons come in.

This philosophy is built into every detail of Federation warship design.

Of course, railguns have a glaring weakness.

Their so-called ‘unlimited range’ doesn’t mean much when their velocity is so limited.

Across battlefields that can span hundreds of thousands or even millions of kilometers, railgun rounds take a long, long time to reach the target.

Some say that warships in space can’t maneuver like fighter jets in-atmosphere.

Just slowing down takes ages.

And after decelerating, turning takes a bunch of time too.

So does it really matter if railgun salvos take so long to arrive?

Is that actually true?

Not even close!

No fleet commander head-on charges at full speed into battle—that’d kill their maneuverability and guarantee disaster unless the enemy’s a complete fool.

To tackle the huge flaw of railguns, a brand-new approach took shape.

Aiming for pinpoint accuracy? The hit rate’s terrible.

So why bother aiming—just shower the battlefield with sheer numbers.

The entire fleet packs closely together, set up like a web, and fires a synchronized railgun salvo.

They’re not gunning for individual targets, just saturating broad swaths of space.

That’s exactly what Mu Qingxue is doing right now.

How far is 2.7 light-seconds? About 810,000 kilometers.

At that range, neither energy weapons nor missiles are worth a thing—only railguns matter.

Just then, Lin Yu hurried onto the bridge, sliding into his operative station with the strategy staff.

The strategy section sat about ten meters behind the captain’s chair, arranged in a ring with twelve workstations.

“Admiral! The fleet is deployed in B2 array—formation complete!”

“Target locked: Ecliptic coordinates beta-seven, elevation fifteen.”

“Full fleet, lock-on complete.”

Hearing the report, Mu Qingxue stepped forward and raised her right hand with a decisive sweep.

“Commence attack!”

But—

When the order came through and everyone triggered their weapons—

Not a single ship fired.

That’s right, not a single railgun so much as budged.

Because this was only a drill.

“Lingwei, report timings!”

“Yes, Admiral!”

Ye Lingwei nodded.

She lightly tapped her tactical wrist interface.

A wealth of data materialized across the holographic display.

“Fleet formation completed in 5 minutes 38 seconds. Strategy section completed strike path calculation and fire allocation in 1 minute 47 seconds. Individual ships locked targets in 3 to 5 seconds…”

Ye Lingwei read off each datum methodically.

Mu Qingxue stood silent, her face unreadable—impossible to say if she was pleased or not.

The entire bridge fell into hushed anticipation.

“Five minutes thirty-eight?”

“This wasn’t a shift from a scattered formation to the B2 long-range array—just a minor tweak from A7. And it still took 5:38?”

“Lingwei, note this down—starting tomorrow, run subject G37 at least three times a day until you get the time under four minutes!”

Ye Lingwei nodded.

“Yes, Admiral!”

After that, Mu Qingxue turned to the strategy section data.

She frowned a little.

“One minute forty-seven?”

“Wasn’t it fifty-two seconds yesterday?”

Uh, well…

Ye Lingwei was baffled too.

Every day of drills, the strategy section usually hit this in under a minute.

But today…

What’s going on?

She turned, puzzled, to look at the strategy section behind her.

Just then, one of the officers stood up—a woman with a knockout figure.

Even the stiff Federation uniform couldn’t hide it.

Everything about her seemed ready to burst out.

You had to wonder whether the Federation’s uniforms could actually contain all that.

She was Serena, chief strategist of the Qiongxiao’s bridge team.

“Reporting: the reason is…”

“At the start of the drill, Captain Lin Yu wasn’t on the bridge.”

Ye Lingwei blinked.

But it suddenly came back to her.

That’s right—before Lin Yu joined, the team’s timing on this task was always around a minute and fifty seconds.

Don’t underrate that 1:50—across the whole Federation Fleet, that’s top-tier speed.

To pass this drill, all you need is two minutes thirty-eight.

But ever since Lin Yu arrived on Qiongxiao and took this responsibility, everyone’s jaws dropped.

He could blast through the whole procedure in less than a minute.

An absolute monster.

After three days, Ye Lingwei had gotten used to that pace—so much so she forgot…

That 1:47 is what normal looks like.

“Captain Lin Yu, you weren’t on the bridge just now?”

“That’s right. I was in the mess hall at the time.”

“Alright…”

What else could Ye Lingwei say?

It was a snap drill, after all. No advance warning.

They’re meant to mimic real combat.

The whole point is to see if everyone on rotation can jump to task at a moment’s notice.

Nobody can stay on the bridge 24/7. When Lin Yu isn’t there, someone else has to step in.

Mu Qingxue overheard the whole exchange too.

She’d also forgotten about this for a moment.

No wonder… Lin Yu was just too useful—addictive, even.

Without him on hand…

She honestly found it hard to get used to!