In the dead center of the endless plains, at the exact point slicing through the front lines of U and R, a colossal spaceship sits grounded.
Since that day, the craft hasn't moved once. As if time itself flows around it, the massive mountain of metal remains silent, not even drawing a breath.
Two days since the incident. Exactly forty-eight hours.
The attacks from R stop as if they were a lie, and in place of gunfire and shelling, an awkwardly quiet stillness covers the front. Amidst this, the exchange of prisoners between the two nations takes place in silence. No one speaks loudly, yet everyone shares the same thought. A seed of belief begins to sprout: Is the war coming to an end?
It is a change that arrived without a single drop of blood. As if the spacecraft itself is proving a form of power other than violence, the war appears to be drawing its final, slow breaths.
The U side grants all YouTubers and news reporters permission to visit and cover the cities the ship overlooks.
They call it a minimum gesture of gratitude.
Reporters and creators stand in the middle of the front lines and lift their lenses. In the very spot where shells fell just days ago, they now cautiously utter the word "armistice." Their faces are a mixture of anticipation and dread.
The entire world seethes with all manner of speculation surrounding the massive spaceship. A flood of words pours out—claims of unidentified visitors, divine intervention, or the prelude to a new invasion.
Through YouTube, television, and social media, people stay awake through the nights amidst a deluge of information and conspiracy theories. No one can say for certain, but one thing is clear: human history is quietly changing its course at this very moment.
Gathered in the ruined cities, people hold their breath, watching the starship with expressions of hushed excitement and wonder. Like an audience waiting for the curtain to rise on a grand circus, the spacecraft stands before them in silence.
The entity does not attack; it does not threaten. Instead, it maintains an attitude that seems intent on resolving everything peacefully. People breathe sighs of relief, yet simultaneously, an inexplicable sense of emptiness seeps into a corner of their hearts. This presence, so overwhelming in their imaginations, is far too quiet in reality.
The shock that shook the world forty-eight hours ago begins to subside—slowly, very slowly. People seem ready to return to their daily lives.
Yet, the world itself has not changed.
The news remains no different from yesterday.
In Iran, gunfire rings out once more toward crowds of protesters. In Israel, missiles are launched into the night sky. Along the borders of Afghanistan, ancient conflicts persist, and women still hold their breath, hiding behind closed doors. In the United States, immigrants tremble again in fear of deportation. And in North Korea...
Forty-eight hours pass.
In the dead center of the endless plains, at the exact point slicing through the front lines of U and R, the colossal spaceship sits grounded.
Since that day, the craft hasn't moved once. As if time itself flows around it, the massive mountain of metal remains silent, not even drawing a breath.
Since that day, the ship has not moved once.
As if time itself flows around it, the massive mountain of metal remains silent, not even drawing a breath.
Two days since the incident. Exactly forty-eight hours.
The attacks from R stop as if they were a lie, and in place of gunfire and shelling, an awkwardly quiet stillness covers the front. Amidst this, the exchange of prisoners between the two nations takes place in silence. No one speaks loudly, yet everyone shares the same thought.
A seed of belief begins to sprout: Is the war coming to an end?
It is a change that arrived without a single drop of blood. As if the spacecraft itself is proving a form of power other than violence, the war appears to be drawing its final, slow breaths.
The U side grants all YouTubers and news reporters permission to visit and cover the cities the ship overlooks.
They call it a minimum gesture of gratitude.
Reporters and creators stand in the middle of the front lines and lift their lenses.
In the very spot where shells fell just days ago, they now cautiously utter the word “armistice.” Their faces are a mixture of anticipation and dread.
The entire world seethes with all manner of speculation surrounding the massive spaceship.
A flood of words pours out—claims of unidentified visitors, divine intervention, or the prelude to a new invasion.
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Through YouTube, television, and social media, people stay awake through the nights amidst a deluge of information and conspiracy theories. No one can say for certain, but one thing is clear: human history is quietly changing its course at this very moment.
Gathered in the ruined cities, people hold their breath, watching the starship with expressions of hushed excitement and wonder.
Like an audience waiting for the curtain to rise on a grand circus, the spacecraft stands before them in silence.
The entity does not attack; it does not threaten. Instead, it maintains an attitude that seems intent on resolving everything peacefully. People breathe sighs of relief, yet simultaneously, an inexplicable sense of emptiness seeps into a corner of their hearts. This presence, so overwhelming in their imaginations, is far too quiet in reality.
The shock that shook the world forty-eight hours ago begins to subside—slowly, very slowly.
People seem ready to return to their daily lives.
Yet, the world itself does not change.
The violent news remains the same.
In Iran, gunfire rings out once more toward crowds of protesters. In Israel, missiles are launched into the night sky. Along the borders of Afghanistan, ancient conflicts persist, and women still hold their breath, hiding behind closed doors. In the United States, immigrants tremble again in fear of deportation, and North Korea remains submerged in its usual, profound darkness. In South America, the trade and violence of drug cartels continue unabated in the shadows.
A massive visitor, the first humanity has ever encountered, floats in the sky above—yet on the ground, nothing has changed in the slightest. It is as if to prove that no matter what appears, the world of man will continue to spin in the manner of men.
The tragic news is no different.
A short breaking news flash passes by: three daughters, suffering from their father’s abuse, finally threw themselves from a building rooftop. It is followed by a report of a woman who lost her life simply because she married a man her family did not approve of.
On one side of the street, a person intoxicated by cocaine lies asleep where they fell; a short distance away, candles honoring a friend killed by gunfire flicker in the night air. Below a news screen announcing the opening of an Olympics to celebrate peace, tear gas smoke and water cannons push people back on the streets of another country. From a city in Africa comes word that a thirteen-year-old girl was forced out onto the streets tonight.
The world—it does not change that easily.
The joyful news is also the same.
Someone passes through a Saks Fifth Avenue store, not even bothering to ask the price of a Hermès Birkin 25 Lizard.
Someone else surrenders their body to the music of Ben Klock in the dark techno halls of Berghain, becoming one with the night.
On the beaches of Acapulco, lovers hold hands and walk along the sound of the waves. At the 28 Monkeys Gastropub in Dushanbe, the steam from warm lamb dishes rises slowly.
In small city bars, people enjoy their beer and their music.
And a black cat, curled up by the window, sleeps peacefully in the sunlight.
Whether the world collapses or finds salvation, on any given day, in any given place, someone’s ordinary life continues quietly.
The Earth is far too vast for the presence of a single spacecraft to exert a direct influence on the lives of all humanity.
Aliens in Hollywood movies always crush the Earth or, strangely enough, target only the United States. The enemy of man is the extraterrestrial—depicted as beings who suddenly appear to annihilate civilization.
But when you think about it, the Earth is by no means a small planet. To truly destroy this massive biosphere, just how many alien races would need to be mobilized? How much immense energy would be consumed just to cross this vast expanse of space?
Inside the starship, Lillik is lost in quiet contemplation.
We are not gods. We did not shatter the daily lives of humans. We lack the energy and the power to do so. Dealing with the entire population of Earth is inefficient—it is nearly impossible.
However, one truth remains.
The appearance of the spacecraft has created a "crack" in the hearts of the weak, directed toward the existing system.
A crack. A gap. A fissure… Anger, suspicion…
The people who are not strong. The oppressed. A new belief is being planted in their hearts.
A belief more certain than the power of a dictator, more visceral than the violence of a drunken father, more tangible than a soldier threatening with a gun, and more "visible" than an unseen god—the belief in a 'visible power.'
Watching the spacecraft aid the minor nation U instead of the superpowers, a faint conviction begins to grow within the weak. It is creating a quiet but distinct crack in the resignation toward reality that had been hidden deep within their indoctrinated minds.
Officer Droid approaches Lillik’s side.
"Cracks… are being observed, little by little."
"Give me an example."
"A seventeen-year-old girl in the ID region organized an internet memorial for a high school girl killed by male violence, shouting the slogan: 'A new power has risen for us.'"
"A new power?"
"It likely refers to us. In their slang, they call it 'New Power,' or NP. K-pop fan clubs, in particular, are leading the protests."
Lillik’s gaze wavers ever so slightly.
"What else?"
"The religious sector is the most volatile. Doctrinal debates are spreading, and the number of defecting believers is increasing. Some… even show a tendency to deify us as a 'New God.'"
A moment of silence.
"And in IR, resistance forces fighting against the dictatorship are shouting slogans, requesting our intervention."
Lillik closes her eyes. Her meditation deepens. Just then, a Soldier Droid rushes in.
"Lady Lillik. A propeller plane is approaching the vicinity of the ship."
"A propeller… an analog flight."
"How shall we respond? There is a possibility of an attack. Though, of course, there is no real threat to us."
A brief silence follows.
"Whether it is a propeller plane or an old mechanical fighter dropping bombs—"
She speaks slowly.
"Leave it be. Do not offer any counter-response. We must show the entire world… that we are not violent beings."
"Understood."
The Soldier Droid bows and withdraws.
In one of Lillik's hands, a book is still held. A worn cover: Crime and Punishment. With a touch as careful as if she were holding a Bible, she opens the pages. Then, in a low voice, she reads a sentence.
"Raskolnikov flung himself on the bed and buried his face in the pillow."
She mutters the name 'Raskolnikov' twice more.
As if, through that name, she is peering into the cracks of the human race.