The Los Angeles quake struck without warning.

  One moment, the city was alive with its usual chaos—traffic crawling along the freeways, neon signs flickering to life as dusk fell. The next, the ground convulsed with a violence no one had ever imagined. Buildings toppled like sandcastles. Roads split open, swallowing cars and people whole. Sirens wailed, then fell silent beneath the roar of collapsing concrete.

  On every screen, the news anchors’ voices trembled. “No precursors. No warning. The City of Angels—gone.” The numbers were staggering: more than eighty percent of the population, buried beneath the rubble.

  Yan Qing watched it unfold from the safety of his apartment, the blue glow of the television painting his face in ghostly light. His hands shook as he gripped the edge of the table. “How…?” he whispered, but the word was lost in the static.

  He already knew the answer; he had run the simulations too many times to pretend otherwise.

  Earth’s balance had reached its threshold.

  The broadcast shifted to sweeping aerial shots: entire neighborhoods had vanished, erased to nothing but dust and shadow.

  Outside Yan Qing’s apartment, the relentless thrum of helicopters grew louder, the building trembling beneath their passage—at first, just another layer of city noise, indistinguishable from the usual urban commotion. Yan Qing muted the sound of the TV.

  For a long moment, he stared at the screen without blinking. Eighty percent. A number too large to hold, too abstract to grieve. His mind refused to translate it into faces, into voices, into lives.

  That refusal frightened him more than the quake itself.

  Behind him, Chen stood silent, eyes fixed on the data streaming across his tablet. Xiao’s latest figures confirmed what Yan Qing feared: the Fenreiga’s power engine had drilled straight into the planet’s core, converting molten iron into pure energy. If the core failed, the planet would collapse inward. Earthquakes would be the least of their worries. Without the magnetic field, the sun’s radiation would strip the world bare. Life would end—not with a bang, but with a slow, suffocating silence.

  Time was short. But not, perhaps, irreversible.

  “Chen.” Yan Qing’s voice was barely more than a breath. He didn’t look away from the screen. “Tell me what I can do.”

  He felt Chen’s presence before he saw him—a gentle arm slipping around his neck, a whisper warm against his ear. “Yan Qing… your people deserve the truth. This planet has the right to know that other civilizations exist. All of it.”

  Yan Qing’s throat tightened. “Even if it shocks humanity to its core?”

  Chen’s voice was soft, almost tender. “Civilization grows through impact. That’s evolution. You can soften it, delay it, bury it in committees,” Chen continued. “But the truth will arrive anyway. It always does. The only choice is whether it arrives as information—or as trauma.”

  Yan Qing fell silent, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. After a moment, he asked, “Even if it’s a double-edged sword?”

  “If you don’t try,” Chen murmured, “how will you ever know?”

  Yan Qing clenched his fists, resolve hardening inside him. “I—”

  The world lurched. The room twisted violently, as if reality itself had been yanked sideways. Before Yan Qing could react, Chen swept him up—one arm tight around his waist—and launched them both through the open balcony doors.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Suddenly, they were airborne, the city sprawling beneath them in the golden light of sunset. The thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades thundered in Yan Qing’s ears. He twisted, heart pounding, as a military chopper screamed past, so close he could see the pilot’s wide eyes.

  “What’s happening?!” he shouted over the wind.

  Chen banked sharply, dodging a billboard by inches. “It seems your government wants to be proactive,” he said, a dry smile tugging at his lips.

  Yan Qing clung tighter. “Are they trying to capture us?”

  “I don’t know. But showing up armed without knocking—there’s a nonzero chance this is a raid.” Chen’s tone was even, almost amused. “I heard their panic before they even reached the door.”

  Another helicopter loomed ahead, joined by a second, both trying to box them in. But Chen’s movements were impossibly fluid—he shot straight up, vertical, leaving the machines floundering in his wake.

  “Hah! Idiots!” Yan Qing couldn’t help himself. A sharp, breathless laugh tore out of Yan Qing before he could stop it. He clapped a hand over his mouth, half-horrified at himself. “I—sorry. I think my brain just snapped.”

  He looked down at the helicopters struggling to follow them, at the city still reeling beneath the smoke and sirens.

  “The world is ending,” he said weakly. “And they brought helicopters and I’m flying. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

  Chen glanced at him. “Are you OK?”

  “No, I am not,” Yan Qing said, disbelief bleeding into hysteria. “I run simulations about planetary collapse, and this is how it looks in real life? I mean it’s ridiculous.”

  “At least I’m a part of it, Yan Qing,” Chen said, weaving between buildings.

  Yan Qing shrugged, breathless. “You are the most ridiculous part of it.”

  Chen’s mouth twitched, as if fighting a smile.

  Another helicopter surged into view, blocking their path. Chen didn’t slow. He rolled midair, catching an updraft, and slipped past the machine’s blind spot with infuriating ease. Below, sirens wailed, lost in the wind.

  Then, over the roar, a loudspeaker crackled to life. “Yan Qing! And… Your Majesty with the woman’s face! Please stop flying around like Superman! I’m Aiden—repeat, I’m Aiden—WE COME IN PEACE! P-E-A-C-E! Peace! Why are you running?!”

  Both Chen and Yan Qing froze in midair.

  Chen blinked, then turned to Yan Qing. “Turns out ‘we come in peace’ isn’t exclusive to aliens. And – what did he just call me?”

  Yan Qing could only manage a helpless, stiff smile.

  Once the confusion was cleared, both parties landed on the roof of a nearby building.

  “Aiden—what the hell is this?” Yan Qing demanded as soon as his feet touched solid ground. “Why did you show up with three helicopters?”

  Aiden, still in full uniform, threw up his hands. “I told them not to make it so dramatic! They wouldn’t listen! And you’re the one being unfair—something this huge happens and you don’t tell us? Aliens attacking Earth! You think you can handle that alone?!”

  Aiden’s bluntness hadn’t changed. Seeing his old Genesis teammate, Yan Qing felt a knot in his chest loosen.

  “Aren’t you already here?” Yan Qing said, almost smiling.

  “The whole government knows,” Aiden replied. “The President wants to see you—now. Let’s move.” He waved them forward. “And you too, Commander—Your Majesty—whatever.”

  Chen only raised an eyebrow.

  Washington, D.C. — The White House, 6:00 p.m.

  The President of the United States was waiting, suit immaculate, hand extended. “Welcome, Professor Yan Qing.”

  Yan Qing, still in wrinkled sleepwear, shook his hand, trying not to notice the stares from the assembled officials.

  “I reviewed your presentation at the technology summit,” the President said, leading Yan Qing toward a conference room. “Professor, I want you as our technical consultant for this operation.”

  “It would be my honor,” Yan Qing replied, steadying his voice.

  At the doorway, a guard stepped in front of Chen. “Unauthorized personnel cannot enter, sir.”

  Chen, who had maintained a perfectly human appearance for this very reason, looked at Yan Qing, waiting.

  Yan Qing turned to the President. “Mr. President, if I may—there’s someone you should meet.”

  The President paused. “Is something wrong?”

  Yan Qing gestured for Chen to join him. “He’s the one who ensured the Genesis expedition returned safely. He’s from an intelligent civilization in a parallel universe—Teleopea’s Star Emperor.”

  He spoke the name with quiet gravity. “Chen. Xing. Chen.”

  A chair scraped across the polished floor, the sound sharp and jarring in the hush. Somewhere near the wall, someone muttered a curse under their breath, the syllables clipped and tense. The President remained motionless, but the knuckles of his hand whitened as he gripped the folder tighter, the faint crinkle of paper barely audible over the sudden, electric silence that filled the room.

  For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

  Then an aide with glasses cleared his throat and asked, very carefully, “Sir… do we… shake hands?”

  “I have been informed that first contact requires reassurance,” Chen inclined his head, precise and controlled. He paused, then added, almost clinically, “This phrase appears to be customary. I come in peace.”