The final notification faded, leaving a low hum that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Aston activated the pod's holographic panel.
Ship Interface was the only option fully illuminated. Build Interface and Regional Chat remained dim.
He selected the ship interface.
The display sharpened, presenting a clean status panel.
The Ship Interface materialized before him, floating in soft blue light. It was simple, functional, and completely unreadable at first glance.
The main status panel displayed:
Captain: Aston Garfield
Ship Name: ??
Level: 0 (Embryo)
Note: This is a basic ship embryo that possesses only minimal life support functions. It is more accurately classified as a Sleeping Pod.
Upgrade the ship to unlock ship functions.
Upgrade Requirements: Iron x500 , Copper x100.
Aston read the panel twice, processing the scope of what it meant. The ship was nothing more than a foundation. All other functions, all potential, lay locked behind upgrades he had yet to acquire.
His eyes drifted to the Starter Chest; understanding settling in quietly.
Aston opened it.
You have obtained: [Iron x1000, Copper x500, Space Points x500]
Aston's eyes narrowed slightly.
This were enough resources to upgrade the ship.
Without hesitation...
"Upgrade ship," he said.
The confirmation arrived instantly.
[Upgrade Conditions Met.]
[Consuming Required Materials…]
Iron x500 consumed.
Copper x100 consumed.
[Ship Embryo upgrading…]
[Ship Level advancing from 0 to 1.]
The Sleeping Pod trembled.
The space around Aston expanded.
The curved walls split along invisible seams, retracting and unfolding outward. What had once pressed close now withdrew, the structure extending in every direction. The ceiling lifted. The floor dropped. The enclosing shell elongated, its dimensions recalibrating smoothly.
One and a half meters became three.
Then four.
Then five.
The rigid pod beneath him reshaped, its form dissolving and reforming into a proper captain's chair. The restraints vanished entirely, replaced by ergonomic supports that adjusted subtly to his posture.
The interior transformed with it.
The coffin-like enclosure gave way to a compact cabin, comparable in size to a small passenger plane's cockpit. Smooth metallic surfaces curved outward, no longer claustrophobic but deliberate. Soft lighting traced the edges of the space, illuminating newly formed structures.
In front of Aston, a wide interface screen materialized, solid and stable like a mounted monitor. Below it, a physical console emerged from the floor, simple and utilitarian. Buttons lined its surface in clean rows. A control stick rose smoothly between his knees and locked into place.
[Upgrade complete.]
[Congratulations! Ship level increased to Level 1.]
The interface refreshed.
Where gray restrictions had once been, clarity appeared.
The Build Interface was no longer locked.
The Regional Chat pulsed faintly, accessible at last.
Aston leaned back into the captain's chair, absorbing the change.
His eyes shifted toward the chat interface.
If everyone else had awakened alone the same way he had, then this channel would already be overflowing.
He reached forward and activated it
Instantly, multiple messages flashed across the holographic screen, appearing and disappearing so fast it was difficult to read them all.
Text flooded the screen in uneven bursts, messages stacking over one another faster than the system could space them. Some appeared half-finished, cut off by newer lines. Others repeated the same questions again and again, as if volume alone might force an answer out of the void.
For several seconds, Aston didn't read. He just watched the chaos.
This was a chat system for humans within the same region—one million square kilometers—and it was chaotic, energetic.....
Regional chat 1515.
Ship 102: So this isn't a game tutorial? This is real?
Ship 417: I opened the chest. There's iron and copper inside. No idea what "Space Points" are.
Ship 512: …is anyone alive? Please say something
Ship 324: What is this Star Galaxy?
Ship 156: I can't see anything outside… is anyone near me?
Ship 671: HOLY SHIT I'M IN SPACE. THIS IS ACTUALLY SPACE.
Ship 590: My parents were over sixty. The message said elderly were relocated separately. Does anyone know where?
Ship 812: My little sister is twelve. She's gone. Does that mean she's alive?
Panic deepened, but it fractured into different currents. Some people clung to hope. Others latched onto logistics. A few were already thinking ahead.
Ship 998: If everyone has a ship, does that mean there's no government anymore?
Ship 120: Are we supposed to fight each other? It mentioned combat.
Ship 555: This feels like the start of a space MMO. Except dying is probably permanent.
Ship 671: If there are resources, there will be pirates. Just saying.
The messages kept coming, flooding the screen in waves of anxiety and urgency. Aston read as many as he could, feeling the shared fear, the confusion, and the raw uncertainty of millions of humans now scattered across a strange galaxy.
....
With the chatter muted, Aston finally had the space to observe his surroundings properly.
The ship's interior no longer felt provisional. It carried intention now, a quiet sense of readiness, as though it had been waiting for him to reach this point before revealing its purpose. The captain's chair supported his weight naturally, adjusting in subtle ways that he noticed only after a few seconds had passed. In front of him, the main monitor hovered at a comfortable distance, its surface calm and responsive.
A single file icon rested at the center of the display.
[Beginners Guide]
Aston selected it.
The screen dimmed, and before he could register concern, the information flowed into his mind; understanding embedded itself directly into his awareness. Concepts aligned seamlessly, as if they were memories he had always possessed but never accessed. He understood how to pilot the ship without being taught how to learn it.
He learned that survival in this star galaxy revolved around a single axis: ship progression.
A human without a ship was already dead. A ship that did not grow would eventually follow. Resources were scattered throughout space, concentrated most densely in asteroid belts and fractured regions where celestial bodies had long ago been torn apart. Iron and copper formed the foundation of all early construction, while rarer materials lay deeper, guarded by distance, danger, or both.
Mining was not presented as an option, but as an inevitability.
Ships could be specialized over time, shaped according to function. Combat vessels, exploration vessels, transport carriers. Yet every path began the same way. A ship that could mine efficiently could sustain itself, reinforce its hull, expand its internal systems, and continue forward without relying on chance.
The knowledge expanded further.
As a ship increased in size and capacity, it could support others. Recruitment was not symbolic. It was structural. A captain could bind other ships under their command, provided their vessel could accommodate the strain. This recruitment was conducted through ship ports scattered across the galaxy.
Human settlements existed.
They were described not as cities, but as convergence points. Some were temporary, formed by those who had fled conflict. Others had endured longer, becoming hubs where humans traded resources, repaired ships, and exchanged information. Many housed refugees displaced by space wars, conflicts that had occurred long before humanity's arrival and, in some cases, were still ongoing.
The implication lingered heavily.
This galaxy had never been peaceful.
Combat, when it came, carried more than risk. The destruction of space monsters and hostile entities could yield rare materials, and occasionally something far more valuable -Blueprints.
These were fragments of design authority, capable of reshaping a ship's potential. They were ranked by quality and limitation. White-ranked blueprints could only be developed to a low ceiling. Green surpassed them. Blue went further still. Purple, golden, and finally red represented increasingly terrifying possibilities, with red-class blueprints described only as theoretical.
Each rank defined how far an upgrade path could go. Once a blueprint reached its limit, it could not be pushed further.
White rank blueprints: maximum upgrade level 3.
Green rank: maximum level 6.
Blue rank: maximum level 9.
Purple rank: maximum level 12.
Golden rank: maximum level 15.
Red rank: theoretical maximum, undefined.
The knowledge settled, complete.
Aston opened his eyes.
Almost immediately, his thoughts turned inward.
His blueprint.
The Infinite Energy Blueprint did not fit anywhere within what he had just learned. The system's classifications were clear, methodical, and absolute, yet his blueprint bore a gray designation.
He searched the interface, calling up blueprint databases, filtering through categories and reference logs.
There was nothing.
No gray tier. No error message.
That absence unsettled him more than if it had been labeled dangerous.
After a moment, he set the question aside. Some answers would not present themselves simply because he asked.
Aston shifted his attention to the console and activated the build function.
The monitor responded instantly, displaying the structures available to a Level 1 ship. The list was short and practical, each option aligned with early survival. Mining equipment. Storage expansions. Reinforced plating. Basic scanners.
Every path pointed toward the same conclusion.
Before exploration. Before combat. Before ambition.
He needed to mine.
Only by reinforcing the ship, piece by piece, could he carve out space for anything greater. Aston leaned back slightly in the captain's chair, gaze fixed on the build interface.
The rules of this galaxy were not hidden anymore.
Build first.
Survive second.
Everything else would come later.