The internal space of the Qili-class warship was tight and compact.
Each crew member was allotted only about 2 to 3 square meters of personal space—barely enough to function.
In truth, the ship was designed almost exclusively for the mechanical lifeforms of the Eternal Cycle Star Nation.
Or perhaps a few smaller species from the Federation—like the Ice Tribe or Shore Tribe. Even the Lelera could technically fit, though exiting would be another matter entirely.
Unlike Human Civilization's ships, this warship didn't use traditional corridors. Movement was facilitated by a system of tubes, each only about 10 centimeters in diameter.
The doors weren't any bigger—small, circular hatches just slightly larger than a human hand.
Damoro's hatch opened into a confined space, barely 400 square centimeters in area, with five potential routes branching out—either leading to adjacent quarters or to different levels within the same vertical column.
Only one direction—"forward"—led toward the ship's shared areas.
Though, from a macroscopic perspective, "forward" on the internal map actually meant "upward."
The entire living quarters were located near the bottom-center of the warship's structure.
In zero gravity, there is no up or down. But wherever artificial gravity was generated, that direction naturally became the "ground."
While the mechanical beings of the Eternal Cycle Star Nation didn't strictly require gravity, the force remained in use as a matter of convention—for standardized operation and spatial orientation.
Although most of their perception relied on external sensors, many individuals still carried onboard sensory units. As independent consciousness evolved, more chose to install personal sensors—and among them, gravity perception was considered essential.
Damoro slipped into the forward tube. It was fully guided—he could either move manually or switch to autonomous patrol mode and be shuttled directly to his destination.
There was no communal gathering space aboard the Qili-class warship—another stark difference from human designs.
This made it extremely difficult for Damoro to gather intel.
His mission was clear: eliminate the infiltrators hidden aboard the ship.
Based on earlier conversations, it seemed suspicion of spies was already widespread among the crew.
That worked to his advantage.
But to proceed, he needed a spark.
He would be that spark.
The Bridge
The bridge was located on the outer ring of the circular weapon system, close to the ship's central core.
Damoro made his way there.
This was the warship's central control point—its brain—and arguably the most critical system onboard.
Upon arriving, he identified a figure nearby. Then, without hesitation, he initiated body fission.
Boom!
The explosion tore through the pipe.
Instantly, alarms shrieked throughout the ship.
The figure down the corridor gasped and immediately slammed the emergency alert.
Within seconds, hundreds of soldiers surged toward the blast's epicenter. They found Damoro.
He made a show of fleeing, but it was already too late. The central system had alerted the main server, which promptly sealed off all tubes in the vicinity.
A security team equipped with norm particle suppression gear arrived and subdued Damoro in under 30 seconds.
"Bastard! Die already!"
One soldier charged, intent on killing him on the spot.
Fortunately, another intervened.
"Hold it. He's still useful."
"He's definitely got accomplices on this ship—we'll use him to draw out the rest."
Damoro was locked in a secure chamber.
The room was filled with intense dark energy repulsion fields that kept his body suspended, rendering him completely motionless.
Simultaneously, norm particle restraints ensured he couldn't self-destruct.
Through the ship's modular structure, the entire chamber was shifted to the outer hull of the warship. There, it magnetically latched onto the external armor in open space—giving Damoro no chance of escape.
"Seriously? That fast? I'm almost losing consciousness here…"
The force of the dark energy was immense. Damoro felt multiple onboard sensors shatter, some computational units going dark.
But this state—this pain—was exactly what he wanted.
His consciousness dimmed. His body entered a dormant state.
Elsewhere on the warship, another body came online.
"Good thing I left a spare body in one of the earlier worlds. Otherwise, this would've been a real problem."
Hyperdimensional Space offered many tools.
Cloning wasn't even that notable of a feature.
If Damoro had truly been an enemy agent, a clone would've been flagged immediately by the main server.
However, Damoro belonged to the Human Civilization system, and Hyperdimensional Space's authority superseded that of the warship's core AI. As a result, the clone bypassed the system without issue.
Exactly as planned.
He returned quietly to his quarters and contacted the ally he had spoken to earlier.
"I didn't expect the enemy to make their move so quickly. You'd better watch yourself."
The reply came swiftly.
"You too. Let's keep each other in the loop."
With everything reset, Damoro entered the warship's internal network.
Inside, there was a virtual hall.
Unlike the Federation's ships, the Eternal Cycle Star Nation's virtual environments had no entertainment options.
Virtual World: Hall 382
The space was already crowded. Each virtual hall could host up to 1000 users—just enough to feel cramped.
"I wonder what the infiltrators look like."
"They probably look just like us. They've already disguised themselves, haven't they?"
"Creepy. They even attacked the bridge directly. Luckily, we responded fast and locked it down."
"I heard someone got taken out by the sound. Anyone know how they're doing?"
"Didn't we install acoustic dampeners throughout the ship? How'd the blast still carry sound?"
"…"
Voices chattered from every direction.
Damoro blended in naturally, stepping into a nearby group.
"I was on the bridge," he said. "The guy who got hit didn't make it."
"I heard there was more than one casualty," someone added.
In reality, no one had died.
But the others didn't know that.
They gasped, then lowered their voices, continuing their conversation in hushed tones.
"No official word yet. That alone means a lot of people probably died. Otherwise, the higher-ups wouldn't be keeping it under wraps."
"If I ever get my hands on those bastards... They killed our people—I'll make sure they don't die easy."
"Hey, man. Got any more info?"
Damoro widened his eyes, pretending to be both shaken and informed.
"Of course I do."
"There wasn't just one attacker. There were others—we just managed to catch one."
"The higher-ups are planning to use that one as bait, but honestly, I doubt anyone's coming to rescue it."
Hearing this, the crowd nodded in agreement.
"Makes sense!"
"Those cold-blooded freaks aren't from Human Civilization. What would they know about loyalty or emotion?"
"They only send the most hardened soldiers to this sector. The higher-ups might be underestimating them."
As they started expanding on his narrative, Damoro knew he'd successfully planted the seed. He pushed a little further, voice firm and serious:
"If we can figure this out, then the higher-ups definitely have."
"I think they're playing a deeper game—deliberately giving the enemy the impression we're waiting for a rescue, when in fact we've already mobilized internal teams to hunt down the spies on board."
His words were a careful blend of truth and fabrication.
The others listened with full trust.
But Damoro wasn't really talking to them.
He was speaking to the spies—whoever among this crowd was hiding.
This was the fuse. The spark.
Would anyone bite?
From experience, Damoro knew that on a battlefield, everyone operated on a razor's edge. If the enemy was a lifeform, then tension—fear—was inevitable. Even the slightest tremor could send them bolting like startled prey.
What he didn't know was whether this method—this psychological trap—would still work in this situation.
Because everything he'd learned, all his strategies, had been based on Human Civilization's cognitive model.
This time, he was dealing with a truly alien civilization.
Would their minds follow the same paths? Or something far more unfamiliar?
After planting the misinformation, Damoro logged out of the virtual world.
He wasn't the type to just sit back and wait.
He needed the enemy to feel pressure—urgency. He had to force them to react.
How?
By capturing a real infiltrator.
But where were they?
The ship had no communal zones. Without casual encounters, he couldn't rely on observation or conversation to root out spies.
"Target acquisition is a nightmare," Damoro muttered.
"Seriously, they send me here instead of Star City? At least over there I'd have proper surveillance tools…"
But this—this was exactly where his value came in.
He began circulating through nearby quarters, posing as a concerned comrade offering mutual assistance.
In total, he selected 100 individuals and initiated contact, exchanging information under the guise of solidarity.
Soldiers aboard the Qili-class warship came from all over the star nation, unfamiliar with each other. That anonymity worked to Damoro's advantage.
Three days later, he contacted all 100.
He invited them to the bridge.
"The bridge is the ship's most vulnerable point. We need to defend it proactively. Regular patrols might help prevent any potential breaches."
That was his excuse.
Some agreed with him. Some rejected the idea outright.
Some even accused him of acting suspicious—of sounding like a spy himself.
Eventually, Damoro was "invited for tea."
Under internal review, his identity triggered red flags: it was identical to the person previously captured.
The ship's internal investigators were instantly on alert.
After deliberation, they chose to release him, hoping to observe his next move.
They assumed Damoro wouldn't realize he'd been flagged.
But in truth, everything was unfolding exactly as Damoro had planned.
Upon returning, he immediately messaged the 100 contacts, asking whether any of them had reported him and caused his detainment.
Then, without pause, he again invited all 100 to the bridge.
This time, 16 accepted.
After his release, that number jumped to 68.
Before, no one had trusted him.
Now, his "detainment" and subsequent release gave him credibility. If the authorities let him go, surely he wasn't a spy.
The next day, Damoro led those 68 on a patrol of the bridge.
While there, he intentionally stirred up a conflict with the stationed guards.
He was publicly reprimanded.
But it wasn't enough to warrant full detention—and the higher-ups still wanted to see where this was going.
So he was released again.
Upon returning, Damoro boldly visited the remaining 32 individuals one by one, urging them to join.
"Come with us to the bridge," he said. "We're soldiers of the Eternal Cycle Star Nation. This is our responsibility."
He wielded moral duty like a blade.
When persuasion failed, he resorted to shame—calling them out, one by one.
Twelve more joined.
He kept pushing, tirelessly patrolling, continuously appealing to loyalty and obligation.
Only 20 remained.
And he wasn't finished yet.
...
A Week Later
Finally, two more people joined.
Damoro now had 82 individuals gathered and directed them toward the bridge.
"It's been quiet for over a week, but that's exactly why we can't let our guard down," he warned.
"Who's to say the enemy isn't waiting for us to relax?"
"This isn't the end. This is just the beginning—the critical moment."
Damoro addressed the group with deliberate seriousness.
He kept making speeches, over and over, as if trying to implant his thoughts deep into their minds.
Halfway to the bridge, he suddenly changed course.
"We're not going to the bridge this time," he announced. "I've got a feeling—they might actually try to rescue the prisoner."
"If we head there now, we might run straight into them."
The group shifted direction accordingly.
They began heading toward the location where Damoro's original body had once been imprisoned.
"Are we even allowed to go there?" someone asked hesitantly.
Damoro remained completely unfazed.
"What's not allowed?"
"Didn't someone say that place was a trap?"
"Maybe it's not even being guarded at all. The enemy could be using reverse psychology. But if we double-reverse it, we might catch them off guard."
His voice brimmed with confidence.
Hearing this, the rest fell in line.
Some clearly wanted to back out, but no one dared to speak up—caught in the inertia of groupthink.
This was one of the weaknesses of sentient life: those with independent consciousness are often more easily manipulated.
Damoro was a master of this kind of manipulation.
They arrived.
This wasn't a residential zone but an open area used for displaying various high-grade equipment—tools like norm particle restraint devices, each serving specialized functions.
"There's no one guarding this area," Damoro said, feigning righteous outrage. "If the enemy gets in and destroys this equipment, we'll have a hell of a time capturing them later."
"The bridge already has enough people. Let's stay here and patrol."
Just as he finished speaking—
A flash of something streaked by in front of them.
Almost everyone saw it.
"What the hell was that?"
Damoro glanced around, then shrugged.
"Relax. You're imagining things. There's clearly nothing here."
But just as those words left his mouth, a thunderous explosion erupted from the front, engulfing them in force.
"Enemies! We've got hostiles!"
In an instant, the entire group surged forward toward the blast.
"Capture them!"
These weren't civilians—they were trained soldiers. When faced with the enemy, they charged forward on instinct, not backward.
Through the thick cloud of debris, a figure was moving fast—darting toward them.
"Don't hit the ground! The shockwaves are dangerous!" someone shouted. "Call for backup!"
But then, a strange sensation crept over them—as if their bodies were being wrapped in something unseen.
"What's going on?!"
The substance hadn't come from the explosion—it was from behind.
Someone at the rear of the formation had launched an attack.
Just as he was about to make a sound, Damoro appeared beside him.
In his hand was a norm particle restraint device—when he'd acquired it, no one knew. He activated it without hesitation, binding the saboteur.
But that wasn't all.
The figure approaching from the front was restrained too.
"Son of a— You're a spy too!" Damoro shouted.
"Everyone, calm down. I've restrained both of them."
The two who had acted—the front attacker and the saboteur from behind—had both been the last two to join Damoro's group.
It had all been a test.
The explosion earlier at the bridge? That was Damoro's doing. It had sent the entire warship into high alert, convincing command that a spy had moved.
From then on, the bridge would be heavily fortified.
But Damoro continued recruiting people to go to the bridge.
If there were spies among them, they would hesitate to approach it.
As time passed and Damoro repeatedly visited the bridge without consequence, those spies might start to second-guess themselves—start to waver.
During recruitment, he deliberately used moral pressure. Normal people would resist such tactics. But spies? They might not even grasp the concept of morality.
Those who still joined despite the pressure were suspicious.
Without clear intel, this was the only way Damoro could isolate suspects—through psychological screening.
Then came the final phase: baiting the spies into acting.
He led the group toward the site of his former imprisonment, carefully planting the idea that they might run into enemy forces.
He even arranged for someone to make a move from the front to complete the illusion.
It had to be dramatic—loud and chaotic—so that no one could think clearly.
At the same time, he had to present his group as being strong, yet not invincible—just enough to provoke any spies still embedded in the team into making their move, hoping to tip the balance.
And that's when the real operation began.
Damoro was forced to suppress the attacking spies, causing their faction to crumble in an instant—yet he himself was left utterly exposed and alone.
There was a strong chance that more spies were still hidden among them. At this very moment, those remaining infiltrators would undoubtedly try to shatter the balance once more.
This—was Damoro's detonator.
A trap crafted from nothing, meant to lure the enemy into action.
Through the Mortality Selection, Damoro hadn't learned much. But what he did learn—were truths people would kill and die for, without ever grasping.
One of them was simple, yet profound:
Your enemies are living beings too.
Overestimating your enemy is often the root cause of your downfall.
Once you internalize the fact that enemies are still flawed, mistake-prone creatures—just like you—you gain the power to turn their errors into your victories.
For Damoro, alien civilizations were no exception. They weren't divine or infallible. They were not deities. They were not perfect.
All strategies begin by acknowledging this.
By manipulating events and baiting them into reaction, he could expose their flaws.
Just then, someone silently approached him.
Sensing the approach, Damoro's mind remained perfectly still.
His body suddenly split apart.
The mist that formed him fissioned into two clouds.
One remained motionless, while the other expanded at lightning speed—wrapping around the intruder.
Each molecule of his body, like a swarm of microscopic Pac-Men, opened wide to devour the enemy's physical form. These weren't fundamental particles—they were the smallest spherical components of his mechanical physiology.
After devouring over half the opponent's mass, Damoro's body particles swelled, reshaping themselves into a layered shell that encapsulated the target.
Then, with a unifying force, the shell contracted—compressing into a dense sphere the size of a clenched fist, locking in the rest of the enemy's essence.
As a "Divine" being from Hyperdimensional Space, Damoro had long reengineered every aspect of his form.
He resembled other lifeforms from the Eternal Cycle Star Nation, but in truth, his entire body was a weaponized construct.
"You dared to ambush me?"
"Good thing I reacted in time."
Damoro wore the expression of someone who had just walked away from death.
Then he bellowed to the others:
"Quick! The enemy's jamming the signals! Someone break through and report this to command—we need to contain this now! I won't be able to hold them off forever. They still have backup!"
Others scrambled to connect to the warship's network—and confirmed it was jammed.
A group immediately began crawling through the pipes toward an area with signal reception.
But then—an intricate energy net flickered into existence around them. Or perhaps it was more precise to say: an energy-particle array.
Zooming in, one would see space itself littered with tiny glowing dots, each one dozens of times smaller than a cross-section of a human hair.
One of the spies had fissioned their body, using their own matter to block escape.
"There's a fourth spy!"
The survivors were horrified.
After all, they were all recruited from the same area—not even from across the whole ship.
If three spies could appear here… how many were there across the entire warship?
The shock paralyzed them—but not Damoro.
He knew all too well what had happened at Star City 5.
This time, recruitment hadn't been randomized by the system. It was opt-in. Which meant: spies could volunteer freely.
There may not have been so many at first—but over time, the enemy had multiplied their "little friends," spreading throughout the warship like a virus.
That was what made them truly terrifying.
The third one?
There would be more.
Even suicide just to block communication? That was nothing.
"BOOM!!!"
In the center of the crowd, someone suddenly self-detonated.
The blast sent out a shockwave that tore through the area.
Warship soldiers were trained to defend against these types of concussive waves—but those standing too close had no chance to react. The explosion's speed far outstripped any physical response time.
Over thirty people were caught within the blast radius, vanishing in moments. Among the few who had deployed defensive barriers, several still perished outright.
The enemy's lack of precision was a flaw—but it also came with a hidden advantage.
Anyone standing just slightly outside the blast radius—was still in danger.
"There's more!"
"How many spies are we even dealing with?!"
Those who survived looked around, their eyes clouded with fear and distrust.
Just then, several figures emerged from the outer pipe.
The survivors were instantly filled with hope.
They yelled desperately at the newcomers:
"Don't come any closer! Go back! We need reinforcements! There are spies among us!!!"
But Damoro showed no reaction.
And neither did the new arrivals.
Because—they weren't here to help.
They were the spies themselves.
It took only seconds of stunned silence for the survivors to realize the truth.
The newcomers were wearing the standard-issue equipment of the Eternal Cycle Star Nation.
But "equipment" was a generous term. In truth, it was mostly software—an ultra-dense energy sphere, 20cm in diameter, capable of transforming into countless weaponized forms.
They could reshape into energy weapon modes on the spot.
For instance, they could form into a long tube with open ends and three independently rotating energy-gathering rings inside.
Thanks to the adaptability of mechanical lifeforms, their bodies could transform into any structure. By toggling resistance and superconductivity, they could mimic any device, weapon, or function. Their internal energy-gathering cannons could amplify energy by up to 100,000 times.
This allowed their energy beams to reach a devastating 4 EeV.
To put it in perspective:
1 EeV = 10 quintillion electron volts.
4 EeV = about the energy released by a tiny object falling a couple of meters on Earth.
That sounds negligible.
But that's per electron.
And a single beam typically contains tens of quintillions of electrons.
Imagine if every electron was a glass bead. If each was 1 cm in diameter, 10 quintillion of them would form a cube 10 kilometers wide.
If such a mass impacted a planet—it would leave behind a crater the size of a city.
Compared to full-scale warship weaponry, these personal weapons were nothing.
But for individual combat?
They could annihilate everything.
As the muzzles of those deadly weapons locked onto them, the trapped survivors were paralyzed with dread.
The warship's regulations strictly prohibited carrying personal weapons.
And now—because the enemy ignored those rules, and they didn't—they were the lambs, waiting for slaughter.