The expanse of Lumina Prime galaxy shimmered faintly against the backdrop of countless stars. Despite the breathtaking sight, tension loomed over the monarch’s main headquarters nestled within the heart of their home solar system. Though life on the moons had been stabilized for now, the threat of chaos encroaching further was never far from anyone’s mind. The monarch’s teams worked tirelessly to locate potential habitable planets, but progress was painstakingly slow.

In the midst of this, another setback emerged—one that unsettled even the most resilient of the monarch’s scientists and leaders. The Lumina Frontier, one of the ship had gone silent.

The Frontier had been assigned to observe Proxima Star, a promising nearby region of the galaxy from their home system. Its crew was tasked with surveying planets to assess their viability as potential new homes for the displaced citizens of Earth and other devastated regions. Initially, reports came back steadily. The planets the Frontier investigated in Proxima were deemed uninhabitable—some were barren, some were frozen wastelands, and others were desolate landscapes incapable of sustaining life. Following their directive, the crew moved on to the next star system, hoping for better results.

Months later, when they reached the next star, their trajectory took them toward a planet that bore an ominous signature. The planet’s surface appeared scarred, its landmass twisted into chaotic patterns that defied natural formation. Long-distance scans revealed a lingering energy field surrounding it—an energy disturbingly similar to the Infinitum phenomenon.

From the ship's logs, it was clear the crew had been cautious. They maintained a safe orbit and began recording data from afar. Then, without warning, their communications ceased entirely.

The final message received from the Lumina Frontier replayed on screens throughout the monarch’s HQ. Static crackled faintly as the voice of the ship’s captain came through in clipped, hurried tones.

“We’re observing unusual gravitational distortions near the planet’s surface… Signs of rapid energy flux… Unpredictable, almost chaotic… We—”

The transmission abruptly cut off, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

Efforts to re-establish contact proved futile. No distress signals, no emergency beacons—nothing. As if the Frontier had vanished into thin air.

Fearing the worst, the monarch dispatched another vessel, the Solar Vanguard, to investigate. The Vanguard retraced the Frontier’s last-known coordinates, scanning every inch of the surrounding void. They found no wreckage, no traces of escape pods, nor any signs of debris. It was as if the Frontier had been erased from existence.

The monarch’s advisors convened in urgent council, the air in the chamber thick with tension. The Frontier’s unexplained disappearance had sent shockwaves through the governing body, and the ominous shadow of the Infinitum phenomenon loomed larger than ever. With no tangible evidence to explain the vanishing or its implications, the advisors moved swiftly, declaring the affected star system a restrictive zone. Effective immediately, all exploration and travel near the area were prohibited until more advanced technology or scientific breakthroughs could illuminate the mystery.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

As the debriefing progressed, one advisor, his voice heavy with foreboding, broke the uneasy silence. “It’s not just the ship,” he said, his words measured but brimming with unease. “This is exactly how people and entire regions vanished back on Earth. It’s the same phenomenon... just on a much larger scale.”

The weight of his statement reverberated through the room, sending a chill down every spine. The Infinitum phenomenon had already carved a dark legacy on Earth, its unrelenting spread decimating the planet’s population. Entire cities, landmarks, and regions had vanished without a trace, leaving behind desolation and confusion. What little humanity remained had been forced to scatter, seeking refuge among moons and orbital stations, where survival was tenuous at best.

Now, the grim possibility that the phenomenon could extend into vastness of space, layered fresh dread onto their already frayed nerves. What if the Frontier was only the beginning? What if space—once a symbol of hope and endless possibility—was no longer safe? The thought pressed down like a heavy shroud, stifling any glimmers of optimism.

In the silence that followed, the room seemed to shrink, the enormity of the challenge ahead crushing any illusions of control. Though they had escaped Earth’s grasping despair, the Infinitum phenomenon was a reminder that humanity’s past could yet dictate its future. Solutions, if they existed, were far beyond their current reach. For now, all they could do was contain the spread, study from a distance, and pray that time would bring answers before the darkness consumed more than just their stars.

Despite the loss of the Frontier, the monarch knew they couldn’t afford to dwell on setbacks. The search for a new home was paramount. Expeditions continued, scouring nearby systems for planets capable of sustaining life.

But the reality was grim. Of the many star system surveyed, none met the criteria for long-term habitation. Some were too volatile, with extreme weather conditions or unstable atmospheres. Others were barren, devoid of resources or ecosystems that could support human life. Each failure added to the mounting pressure on the monarch’s teams.

Time was running out. While the moons provided temporary refuge, they were never intended to support the remnants of humanity indefinitely. Supplies were finite, and the moons themselves were not immune to the chaos should it spread further.

As weeks turned into months, the Frontier’s disappearance faded into the growing tapestry of humanity’s tragedies—a grim chapter in their desperate struggle to endure. It became another ghost in the collective memory of a species teetering on the edge of extinction. Yet, even as time wore on, the mystery refused to relinquish its grip on those tasked with ensuring humanity's survival.

“What happened to them?” a scientist murmured to their colleague, their gaze fixed on the incomplete trajectory map of the Frontier. The lines on the display ended abruptly, like a sentence left unfinished, an enigma suspended in the void. The second scientist, deep in thought, offered no response. What could they say? Every theory was as elusive as the ship itself, and every answer felt further away than the distant stars.

For now, the silence held dominion. The map remained incomplete. The questions multiplied.

Despite the lack of answers, the monarch’s resolve remained unshaken. Their singular focus was survival. The weight of humanity’s future pressed down on their shoulders like the pull of a dying star, yet they had no choice but to press forward. The search for sanctuary among the stars was no longer just a hope—it was a necessity.

Resources were stretched thin, and morale frayed like threadbare cloth, but they could not afford despair. The memory of Earth’s devastation was too vivid, its scars too fresh. Cities reduced to crumbling ruins, families torn apart, and a planet left uninhabitable—all vivid reminders of the cost of failure. This was their reality, a relentless battle against time, against the unknown, and against their own dwindling faith.

The stars above, once symbols of endless possibility, now seemed like an indifferent audience to humanity’s plight. But even as hope dimmed, it persisted, flickering like a stubborn ember in the cold expanse of space. Because, as the monarch and their people knew all too well, the alternative to pressing on was unthinkable.