The Age of Terra
More than seventy centuries have passed since humanity first left Earth—the planet that birthed civilization, conflict, and its long history. In that span of time, humans have explored the boundless expanse of the cosmos, establishing colonies in orbit, on the Moon, on Mars, and gradually on other worlds that once could only be glimpsed through telescopes.
Every step was taken under the supervision of the International Cosmic Expedition Agency (ICEA), a multinational body born from political fusion, ecological crisis, and global desperation on Earth. ICEA combined scientific resources, technology, and diplomacy from various nations, eventually becoming humanity's sole authority in outer space.
But before all of that, a seed had been planted much earlier. At the end of the 19th century, a Russian scientist named Konstantin Tsiolkovsky gazed at the stars with a mind far ahead of his time. He wrote the words that would later become prophecy:
"Earth is the cradle of humanity, but mankind cannot stay in the cradle forever."
That simple sentence echoed across generations, from his small classroom to the halls of global councils, becoming a mantra for future explorers and engineers.
The prophecy began to take shape in the 20th century, a time when the world was divided by ideology and nuclear fear. Yet behind the shadow of war, humanity dared to step forward. On April 12, 1961, Yuri Gagarin became the first human to gaze upon Earth from orbit. His simple smile marked a new era. Then, on July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin set foot on the Moon.
That night, billions of people watched on black-and-white televisions, holding their breath as Armstrong's small step echoed as a giant leap for mankind. History recorded it as a technological triumph, but for the human soul, it was proof that the stars were no longer distant lights—they were destinations.
But that early victory was only a spark. By the 22nd century, Earth had become a dense, wounded hell. Cities towered with millions crammed beneath metal roofs and toxic fog. Natural resources were fought over, nations collapsed into conflict, and civilization teetered on the edge of ruin. In that desperation, humanity looked to the sky—not with curiosity, but with the need to survive.
ICEA, once a mere international cooperative project, became the savior of civilization. They designed nuclear fusion-powered spacecraft—the first spears capable of piercing planetary orbits. But the journey to the stars demanded more than speed. Thus came an almost miraculous innovation: Cryogenic Sleep, centuries-long frozen slumber, paired with Cold Fusion-powered Exoskeletons that kept the fragile human body intact.
With this technology, an explorer could lie frozen inside a capsule, while machines kept their heart beating slowly, their lungs breathing in silence, as if defying time itself.
The first step of colonization began with the Moon. Underground tunnels were carved, becoming hidden cities lined with steel and concrete, glowing with cold neon, breathing synthetic air. From there, ICEA built the Lunar Gateway, a space station towering in lunar orbit, serving as the gateway to Mars.
Their strategy was simple: build a network of cosmic ports at every strategic point, where fleets could rest, refuel, and repair.
The plan succeeded. Module after module was launched, floating in the black sky, then assembled into colossal floating cities. From there emerged the first truly massive space station—a hub for constructing the next generation of ships.
This project began in the 21st century and was completed in the 22nd, the result of global human cooperation. It was not merely a technological achievement, but a symbol that humanity, for the first time, had united for a purpose greater than war.
But human history has never been purely about metal and machines. Behind every great leap, there is a recurring mystery. History records that every fifty years, a female scientist appears. Her name is always documented, her work is clear, but her face… her face is always missing.
No photos remain, no recordings last more than a day. Even those who met her cannot recall her face the next morning.
This figure—later dubbed by ICEA's secret circle as the Aphrodite goddess—always appears at critical moments. Sometimes as a young, passionate researcher, sometimes as an experienced elder engineer, sometimes even as a stranger with unverifiable origins.
But always, always, she brings an idea that changes everything: miniature fusion engines, stellar navigation algorithms, new propulsion systems. Once her contribution is recorded, she vanishes—and reappears decades later with a new identity legally recognized, complete with a seemingly authentic family history.
Only ICEA's highest leaders know this secret. They call the phenomenon the "Fifty-Year Cycle." Every time they try to investigate further, records vanish, data is erased, even researchers' memories fade.
As if Mater Lumina herself can read human intent and erase it before it manifests. No security system can catch her, no algorithm can trace her. She is an anomaly walking between logic and destiny.
Yet her legacy is real. Without her, civilization might still be trapped in Earth's orbit. With her, humanity leapt farther than ever imagined. What should have taken hundreds of years now takes only half. She is like a shadow walking between machines and stars, giving humanity just enough fire to light its path—but never enough to know who gave it.
And thus began the Age of Terra: an age when humans were no longer mere inhabitants of Earth, but pilgrims of the cosmos, guided by hands both seen and unseen. An age when history was written not only by victors, but by those never named. An age when humanity, though fragile, began to challenge its own fate.
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Red Martian dust swirled in the thin sky, like smoke from a primordial fire dancing in dim light. The first lander released its mechanical roar as it touched the surface, and behind her helmet, Alyssa Carson gazed at the endless stretch of alien desert.
She was not merely the first human to set foot on Mars—she was the symbol of a new civilization, a civilization of starfarers who dared to challenge fear and silence, who defied isolation with a resolve that could not be broken by distance or time.
At that time, shipping materials from Earth was too costly to rely on. Every block of metal, every stone, even every ton of sand had to be sourced from Martian soil itself. From those humble materials, transparent domes shaped like half-spheres slowly rose from the surface.
They gleamed like red jewels beneath the pale sun, shielding hydroponic fields and human colonies from relentless dust storms. They were not just structures—they were symbols that humanity could survive in a world never designed for life.
But the secret of true life on Mars was not only found on the surface. Underground, natural caves and stone tunnels were used as natural shelters. Layers of rock blocked radiation, while artificial air circulation systems ensured every breath remained safe. Small modules—for sleeping, research, farming, even recreation—were arranged like pieces of a giant puzzle, forming a small city pulsing at the heart of the red desert.
Every layer of construction was meticulously designed: the outer shell resisted dust and radiation, the middle layer served as thermal insulation, and the inner layer became a warm, safe living space. Mars was no longer a dead planet—it was a second home, built by human hands.
Over nearly ten centuries, humanity spread its footprint to the nearest star systems. Robots and artificial intelligence were sent ahead, building logistics stations, colony foundations, and supply routes between hostile planets.
They laid down safe paths, ensuring every human arrival would not be lost in the sea of stars. From Mars to Proxima Centauri, colony after colony grew, like sparks of light in the darkness of the cosmos. Each point of light was proof that humanity was not merely surviving—but evolving.
Yet space held secrets and dangers beyond imagination. Cosmic storms made of energy currents and charged particles appeared without warning, disabling engines, destroying fleets, and erasing the traces of ships that crossed them. Many of the first fleets vanished without a trace, and humanity began to realize that stars were not just nighttime beacons—they were a savage ocean.
From that tragedy, innovation was born: electromagnetic shields, safe routes known as Star Corridors, and a resolve stronger than ever. Every failure became a stepping stone, every loss a reason to push further.
Human technology advanced rapidly. Warp Drives that folded space, Hyper Jumps for instant leaps, and Power Armor that turned humans into living fortresses—all emerged from the will to survive and explore farther. But the deeper humanity pierced the galaxy, the greater the challenges became.
By the 35th century, an old problem returned: overpopulation on Earth. Cities grew dense, resources dwindled, and social pressure mounted. ICEA decided to relocate humans to prepared colonies, using conventional ships while they slept in Cryogenic Sleep, drifting among the stars through long journeys without feeling time.
Eight planets became the first targets of colonization. Distant worlds like Proxima Centauri still faced immense obstacles: terrifying distances, complex logistics, and the absence of fast communication routes. And amid it all, humanity faced a bitter truth: the universe was too vast to conquer with machines operating far below the speed of light.
The Solar System was just a tiny dot at the edge of the galaxy, while the center of the universe remained a mystery far beyond reach. Human civilization, though expanding, still crawled before the immeasurable scale of the cosmos.
Then, in the 40th century, a great leap occurred. The first sub-light-speed ships were launched, leaving Terra and leaving Earth behind. The Sun became the center of energy and supply, Mars served as a second home, Jupiter became a fuel station, and Neptune's satellites began to be inhabited by humans.
That great migration looked like a sunset scattering across the ancient Pacific Ocean: thousands of ships glittering among the stars, sailing into the unknown darkness, carrying thousands of souls with the same hope and resolve as ancient sailors who once left their shores.
S
lowly, humanity conquered the solar system. Space elevators rose on every planet, connecting the surface to orbit, easing the mobilization of people and materials.
Massive mines were opened, new metals and minerals discovered, cities formed on asteroids and Saturn's moons. Jupiter, with its abundant reserves of liquid hydrogen, became the fueling station for cosmic fleets.
On Iapetus, Saturn's satellite, an egg-shaped city stood tall, serving as the logistical hub supporting humanity's journey across the sea of stars. Galactic infrastructure began to take shape—not as a dream, but as a reality built through hard work and sacrifice.
Amid it all, humanity continued to gaze toward the future with boundless curiosity and vitality. They knew every star was a mystery, every planet a challenge, but their belief in the future was always stronger than fear.
This was the Age of Terra, the era when humanity left its cradle, spread among the stars, and established civilization in the cosmos. An era also known as the Age of Earth, as Earth slowly became the symbol of humanity's origin.
And from the womb of history, a new power was born. ICEA, the agency that once led the initial migration, was deemed too slow and outdated. From its ruins emerged the Earth Federation for Space Advancement (EFSA), a new federation that replaced the UN, leading humanity among the stars and marking the beginning of a new chapter in cosmic history. EFSA was not merely an organization—it was the manifestation of humanity's will not only to survive, but to govern, shape, and command its own future.
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But human progress never moved smoothly. By the 50th century, the population continued to grow, yet their jobs were gradually replaced by robots controlled by artificial intelligence—from complex civil administration, precision-demanding military operations, to industrial oversight in every colony.
Giant mining machines hummed endlessly across planets, extracting minerals and natural resources that once formed the foundation of human life.
Some colonies suffered crop failures due to spreading pollution and dependence on fragile automated systems. When those systems collapsed, no human hands were trained enough to take over.
Young people, seeing a world increasingly alien to them, became reluctant to have children. High living costs, shrinking job opportunities, and an uncertain future led many to choose solitude as a passive form of resistance against a system that no longer made room for humanity.
Some couples even purchased child robots as substitutes for real human offspring—artificial beings that mimicked human behavior with perfect loyalty but without soul, without growth, without conflict. A sign of an age steeped in irony: the species that once conquered the stars now lived in loneliness, relying on their own creations to feel affection and continuity.
The elites of the 195 nations united under the Earth Federation for Space Advancement (EFSA) lived like kings in megastructure towers and orbital cities rising above planetary surfaces. They looked down on civilians with indifference, while humanoid robots took over nearly every human role. Public dissatisfaction grew day by day.
Protests and riots began to erupt across various planets—on Mars, in Jupiter's colonies, even on remote Iapetus. And by the 52nd century, the tension reached its peak. The elites suppressed, oppressed, even killed demonstrators demanding justice and freedom. They deployed armed drones, mass surveillance systems, and digital propaganda to silence voices that refused to submit.
The people struck back with fury. They burned industrial facilities, looted colonial centers, and built their own fleets and weapons. Though their armaments were simpler than the elites' technology, their numbers and courage exceeded all expectations.
Ancient human genes, long dormant among civilians, slowly awakened—igniting survival instincts, a nearly forgotten bravery, and a resolve to resist tyranny. The shadow of a Third World War began to loom across the galactic horizon.
Amid the chaos, a descendant of Alyssa Carson emerged as a symbol of resistance. In a distant future, her bloodline would become one of the 24 high nobles of the Sovereignty of Humanity—a legacy that carried not only a name, but the responsibility to lead the fight against injustice and oppression.
My descendant, before I continue this story, you must understand that the bloodline of Alyssa Carson is not merely a symbol—it is a weapon. A rotational marriage system is enforced between the core nobility of the Sovereignty and lower-class nobles selected by Mater Lumina, maintaining a balance of power and the continuity of bloodlines.
On every human-controlled exoplanet, a senate or representative assembly is elected by the people to oversee local interests—economy, culture, education, and planetary needs. Governors, usually from noble families appointed by the Sovereignty, hold full authority over law, taxation, and military affairs. They serve as the bridge between the center and the colonies, ensuring law and order is upheld, though sometimes with an iron fist.
When threats or uprisings arise, the Church and the Holy Templar Inquisitor Knights are always ready to intervene. They remain loyal to Mater Lumina, recruited from orphans on every planet, trained with uncompromising discipline, and serve as humanity's moral defense and intelligence force.
They are capable of monitoring star zones in secret, safeguarding human security while combating alien threats lurking in the darkness of the cosmos. They do not concern themselves with morality—they will do whatever is necessary for humanity's survival.
My descendant, before I tell you the next chapter, you must grasp the core of human endurance: we survive because of two things that never fade—war, and something to fear.
Humans are contradictory beings, emotional, full of ambition and courage, yet for the leaders of old, the key was always simple: survival. They were not always right, not always just, but they always moved, always resisted, always searched for a way to live.
In this dark and brutal galaxy, humans always chase a flicker of hope. Though their odds seem small in the eyes of other races, they fight desperately—for life, for the future, for a sliver of light that can pierce the void.
They are emotional, quick to anger, competitive, and willing to take extreme risks on the battlefield. Even alien beings who are stronger, more rational, and more disciplined sometimes tremble before the fearless courage of humanity. Because humans do not fight with weapons alone—they fight with conviction, with love, with vengeance, and with dreams.
Though human technology was once limited, religious belief, ritual, and myth persisted. Sometimes clashing with alien logic or science, these beliefs could unite humanity in its darkest hours. At the same time, they could become a double-edged sword—opening cracks for corruption and the influence of the Seven Void Sins, the dark forces that always lurk behind the veil of the galaxy. They do not attack with weapons, but with whispers, with illusions, with promises too beautiful to refuse.
My descendant, if one day you become one of the leaders of the 24 Pillars of Humanity, remember this: humans, from ancient times to now, even as they explore the cosmos and master spacefaring technology, remain the same. Emotion, courage, survival instinct, and contradiction—these are the core of humanity's strength. This is what keeps us strong, even in a galaxy that is dark, dangerous, and merciless. Never believe that technology will save us. What saves us is resolve. What guards us is memory. And what will ignite our path to the future is the fire passed down from generation to generation.