39, 51, 2157 AE, Lyrid Meteor Shower

Ha, this may sound strange, but imagine a Herta Space Station researcher who's spent a lot of time in space being fearful of zero-gravity. It's been five hours and I can still clearly feel the sensation of the traction cable tightly wrapped around my upper body. Even though I am aware that the cable is made from a rare lithium fluoride that can't be damaged by even the sharpest blade, I still imagine myself being unbound and slowly floating into space. After all, the universe is vast and there is definitely a place for everyone. What's the point of staying on the space station and being constantly humiliated? Maybe I would be lucky enough to be intercepted by the Celestial Comet Wall while floating through the darkness and board the jingling mine cart of the shepherds to travel amongst the stars. But it is also possible that I would fall right through the cracks of the cosmos into the great abyss of the Leviathan like a mayfly into the mouth of a giant whale.

Are their insides warm, dark, and moist? Or is it like the gentle starry night sky as the Nameless describes it to be? If it's the latter, I would at least be able to witness such magnificent sights before my death. It'd be better than staying here and being treated like garbage. Anyways, it really doesn't matter where I die. No one would care anyway.

“Beep — beep — balance confirmation complete.”

Red lights flash inside the Balance Cabin. The noises notify me that the inspection mission has been completed and that the power balance of the protective field is intact. Dying in the mouth of the great abyss is just my blabbering. Right now, I need to lean on the control station and make some formal recordings. I'm sure the terrible handwriting wouldn't be an issue. Perhaps I shouldn't waste the firsthand information and try to complete the anti-gravity protective field research report as soon as I can to make up for the undesired results of the previous research and regain some of my self-evaluation points. Or maybe I should go and find Wen Tianweng in the repair room for a beverage to relax my nerves. I can then be honest with myself and admit my distaste for writing research repots.

Through the porthole, I can see the faint blue-violet lights of the anti-gravity protective field dispersed across the universe. It has been around for a total of eight Amber Eras… It is hard to imagine anyone other than the IPC being able to put together something with the ability to withstand such a long period of time. Was its original conception praise for Madam Herta or was it a prophecy against an unknown danger? Or was it both? It didn't matter, because the monsters will be arriving, and they will throw themselves at the space station more frequently than they have in the past. The mutations they send will also be more horrifying. They've been kept in the Research Cabin for the past era and living as phantoms in the rumors that spread across the space station. But now, being in the frontlines, it is very likely I will encounter them eventually.

This isn't exactly bad news. In fact, it makes me excited. Information regarding the Legion has always been monopolized by the elite researchers. It would be much more interesting to observe the space station's most prominent enemy up close than inspecting and repairing ionization balance, and researching for ways to upgrade the defences. Why would upgrading defences be something a researcher like me should be worried about? Does the IPC only make the defences and offer no after-sales services? Leaving the task of ultimate survival to the researcher with the lowest evaluation score in an era doesn't make sense at all. I suspect that this is just a trap that that there is subtext to it: Once a researcher fails, he should go and do some physical labor to prove what value they have remaining.

Although I have no interest in this topic, I have to produce a decent research report or I'll have to continue my stare down with it in the next era. It's a spectacular form of cyclical punishment.