Chapter 540: The Heavenly Era! The Babel Tower to Godhood! The Shining Stars!
When Little Vincent opened his eyes, he discovered that his dimensional mailbox had been flooded with strange new items and messages.
Aunt Song Zhaomei's youngest daughter, Song Yiyi, had sent a holographic mail, excitedly demanding that he accompany her to the Edge of Tomorrow universe to watch the grand antimatter fireworks show.
Uncle Jack Wells's eldest son, Panam, had gifted him several curious psionic bones from the Zeror species.
Uncle Johnny Silverhand had released a new album—and included a signed, black-gold vinyl edition along with it. The thing could fetch a small fortune if sold on the market.
Paul Atreides sent a bottle of improved spice that sharpened the mind and quickened thought—with no side effects whatsoever.
Take-mura Goro, Jim Raynor, the Preacher, Dr. Luo Ji, Uncle Zhang Beihai… and even a Red Chamber Dream – Ultimate Original Edition!
But the thing that surprised Little Vincent most was a letter—one from Night City itself.
And the sender was none other than the Chief Executive of the Universal Megacorp—Li Ang!
That caught him off guard. Ever since the Universal Megacorp unified the Stellaris universe, humanity had entered the radiant Heavenly Era.
At the pinnacle of technological civilization, the Megacorp had evolved into something akin to a god; thus, integrating the other dimensions naturally followed.
The realms of magic, fantasy, cultivation, and even the two-dimensional worlds all had their own dedicated Megacorp departments overseeing integration.
But after completing the unification of the Stellaris universe, Executive Li Ang had abdicated and disappeared—for over eighty years.
For nearly a century, no one knew where he had gone or what he had been doing.
Now, suddenly receiving a letter from him—well, that could only be described as a divine favor.
"Could this be another reward for clearing Oasis?" he wondered.
Still lost in thought, Little Vincent stepped out onto his balcony—only to find a sleek shuttlecraft marked with the initials "LA."
That was the emblem of the Megacorp's highest-ranking personnel. Ordinary employees weren't permitted to bear it.
Before Vincent could even speak, the shuttle's door opened, revealing a cold-faced replicant. "The boss told me to take you for a quick spin around Ideal City first," it said. "Then, you'll meet him."
It was the Singer—the last surviving member of the Singer civilization.
When it awoke, its entire universe had already been annihilated by the Aether-Phase Engine. Now, it was one of the few survivors in the Three-Body universe.
As for finding a mate to repopulate its species? Hopeless.
Not that it mattered.
It desired nothing—content to sing and occasionally run errands for its boss, Li Ang. A simple, quiet existence.
"Understood."
Little Vincent didn't refuse the somewhat redundant invitation. After all, Ideal City had grown tens of thousands of times larger than it once was.
It was the heavenly heart of all universes—the sacred center of every civilization, the final stop on the road to paradise.
To outsiders, the city wasn't known as "Ideal City," but Ideal Nation.
Even Vincent, who'd grown up there, had never seen the planet in full, nor had he ever visited Night City.
This was as good a chance as any.
---
As the shuttle cruised around the orbital rings of Ideal City, Vincent saw ancient megastructures preserved as cultural relics.
Among them—the Dyson Sphere.
It was old now, a silent sentinel that had stood in this star system for nearly half a century, faithfully powering Ideal City—like an old worker who had devoted a lifetime to the energy industry.
But once energy consciousness technology matured, power could be created from nothing. Humanity no longer needed to harvest starlight.
Even the once-precious levitating stones from Pandora were no longer strategic minerals. Civilian factories now ground them into powder, turning them into luxury fashion materials.
Young people eagerly wore them as accessories, while the elderly simply watched in silence—no one knowing what memories passed behind those eyes.
Perhaps they remembered how much suffering and blood those stones once carried.
It was ironic. By the 24th century, humanity had ceased to be devout. Gods were now dinner-table anecdotes; religion had become entertainment.
And why not?
Humanity had unraveled nearly every mystery of existence. Gods, monsters, spirits—all had explanations. When everything stood exposed under the sunlight, there was no longer a need to pay gods to calm one's fears.
Still, the commanders who once fought in the Stellaris Heaven War had not retired. Every year, on Memorial Day, they led young soldiers and ceremonial gunners to honor the remains of their fallen comrades.
Under the warmth of artificial sunlight, a new generation of Astartes warriors stood in solemn silence, blades gleaming, expressions grave.
Behind them thundered the ceremonial cannons.
The attendees rose, doffed their hats, and turned toward the tombs of heroes—silent and dignified.
"Everyone, stand! Salute!"
The aged commanding officer stepped forward, his voice hoarse but firm. Though time had carved deep lines into his face, under the golden light his features looked as if chiseled from stone.
Beneath beautiful clouds and radiant rainbows, the sunlight glimmered across young faces beaded with crystalline sweat.
Vincent, too, stood solemnly, eyes full of respect. Ideal Nation had been built atop the Heaven War—a battle that reached the very brink of universal destruction.
Thankfully, the Universal Megacorp had prevailed.
Leaving the memorial zone behind, the shuttle ascended—high enough to behold Ideal Nation in its entirety.
At that moment, the Singer began reciting a poem written about the city:
[This is a world where wastelands are no more, where only endless skylines stretch to the horizon. Pause here a while, weary traveler.
Bear witness to the immortal glory of civilizations that conquered the heavens. Listen to the pulse of a trillion hearts—this is the Heaven even God dared not promise, the Golden Age forged by all worlds united.
From the microcosm to the eleventh dimension, life no longer dims in shadow; wherever you look, civilization thrives, and the flame of creation endures.]
"What a beautiful poem," said Vincent softly. "Maybe that's why I chose to stay."
The Singer looked out the window. More and more colossal megastructures shimmered into view.
This was the Universal Megacorp of the Heavenly Era.
"You haven't finished the poem," Vincent said with a small smile. He'd memorized nearly all the cosmic ballads written for Ideal City—he knew this one by heart.
[Have angels ever descended upon the mortal realm, to witness the day when countless civilizations reforged the cosmos by hand?
When the vast Milky Way became towering architecture, and billions of star gates linked the endless galaxies?
Between day and night, people held candles, chasing the sea breeze at dusk, bidding gentle farewell to each departing sun.
But the night no longer meant loneliness or regret, for all believed that dawn would always open a new verse.
Long ago, in ancient Greece, mankind's sages asked: What is the perfect world?
Now, we have our answer—the Ideal City beneath Heaven.]
Perfection meant the ultimate form of civilization—a vast network of united universes with Ideal Nation as its core, connecting every realm, shaping a Heaven on Earth.
Each dragon-like megastructure carried gateways to other universes, foldable and shifting through higher dimensions like the mercurial moods of humankind.
In this eleven-dimensional paradise thrived the dreams, joys, and sorrows of billions upon billions of sentient beings—their homes, their work, their creation, their economy—
all intertwined within the luminous heart of civilization itself.
Without a doubt, this was the most vast and complex economic and cultural conglomerate in the history of the multiverse.
Little Vincent's low chant did not cease.
[Jehovah, do you know your own sins?
Once, mankind built the Tower of Babel to reach the heavens, uniting all nations as one. Yet you, in your hypocrisy, shattered that unity to preserve your divine authority.
Our great work was destroyed by heavenly wrath. Countless obscure and divided tongues set us against one another. The Tower of Babel burned and crumbled amid chaos.
Since then, we have wandered through the mortal world for millennia, waging endless wars and suffering through ages of calamity. But now, humanity's creations have once again touched upon the forbidden realm of the gods.
And you—hypocritical Jehovah—where are your religions, your angels, and your flames now?]
The shuttle passed through a stargate.
In this new Ideal City, stargates connecting all the worlds of the multiverse had long become commonplace. They were like giant screens embedded between buildings, from which galactic trains would occasionally burst forth at high speed.
Traversing multiple layers of dimensional space, they soon reached their destination.
From Universe 001 to Universe 100 took only two minutes. The shattered Tower of Babel had long been rebuilt—now soaring skyward, reaching all the way to the realm of the divine.
"Have you seen the Consul lately?" Vincent asked, glancing toward the Singer.
"No."
The Singer answered truthfully without turning around.
"Then do you know what he's been doing recently? Even rumors will do. I just want to know something."
Vincent didn't like going to an unfamiliar place blind—it made him uneasy. Without sufficient information, he felt he had no solid ground beneath his feet.
"They say he's been… writing stories."
The Singer hesitated for a moment before replying.
It was only speculation—no one really knew the truth.
"Writing stories, huh?"
Vincent was a bit surprised. In this era, the Grand Enterprise of the Cosmos no longer needed humans to write stories; AI could handle such trivial work.
And yet, the mighty Consul himself was doing it?
"Mr. Vincent, do you write stories?" the Singer asked suddenly. It had witnessed countless great events—wars and cataclysms spanning civilizations.
But those experiences had never inspired it to create stories. It preferred to remain a silent reader, a wandering bard.
"I don't. I only know how to play."
Vincent answered honestly. He had never written a story, though he had unified countless universes within Oasis.
But his play was not idle. Vincent had studied the data of every universe, learned every origin story.
By analyzing tens of millions of words of lore, he discovered the most efficient way to integrate worlds—that was how he managed to clear the game within a mere century.
"Perhaps you have a gift for it, then. Why else would the Consul choose you?"
"Maybe so."
Vincent smiled, looking once again toward the dazzling, densely packed world below.
The region they were in was itself a divine tower reaching the heavens. Its eleven-dimensional structure offered each civilization its own plane of existence.
At the boundary between the third and fourth dimensions dwelled the Baize civilization, dutiful observers of the information stream, who relayed high-dimensional decrees and cosmic updates to lower worlds.
The Zhulong Time Authority operated in the fourth dimension, monitoring all lower planes. To prevent time paradoxes, its time agents often crossed the multiverse to apprehend suspects.
In the fifth dimension, the Primarch Guilliman had just taken office as Governor-General. By manipulating quantum entanglement fields, he ensured coherence among countless parallel universes—maintaining stability and preventing multidimensional collapse.
Luo Ji governed causality itself within the sixth dimension—a largely ceremonial post. The six-dimensional hyperstring matrix that controlled karma was rarely used, for everyone now understood accountability. Each being knew that every gain and loss was preordained—few sought to buy repentance after the fact.
Sometimes people asked: from a cost-benefit perspective, was constructing such a multiversal Tower of Heaven really worth it?
After all, the higher the tower and the dimensions it spanned, the exponentially greater the cost of building and managing it became. Should anything go wrong, no one could predict the magnitude of the ensuing catastrophe.
Yet there were still zealous admirers of the spectacle—devotees of the Ideal City. They proclaimed:
"This city itself is a monument to civilization's luminous history, a living testament to the eternal achievements of the multiverse! Its very existence inspires every being to strive forward."
Vincent wasn't sure whether this divine tower should have been built. But as he gazed upon it, he recalled a long-forgotten strategy game he once played.
Its prologue had gone something like this:
[From the first stirrings of life beneath the waves, to the colossal beasts of the Stone Age, to the first upright human—your journey has been long.
Now, begin your grand exploration—from the cradle of early civilization to the boundless stars!]
And now, every dream had come true. Looking back at the rise and fall of civilizations, and then at the glorious kingdom before him…
"The War of Heaven, eighty years ago—it changed everything. So many died, so many civilizations burned. Do you think it was worth it?" Vincent asked.
Had the Universal Megacorp not triumphed in the Stellaris Universe—defeating the rogue AI, the Fourth Scourge that devoured galaxies, the Leviathans, and the mighty Fallen Empires—perhaps none of this would exist.
Yet… so many lives had been lost in that war.
"I don't think it's about worth or not," the Singer replied. "There is no next life to wait for, no past life to return to. All grand narratives are essential to the cohesion of civilization."
The Singer had always envied humanity's willingness to die for a shared ideal.
Without common faith and purpose, fragile Homo sapiens would have perished long ago—unable to defeat the stronger, more resilient Neanderthals.
Without a unifying grand narrative, humanity could never have formed religion, nor reached the age of Ancient Egypt.
Vincent lifted his head. The stars above shimmered.
They saw Night City ahead. The Singer began to slow the craft.
"Our destination's here. Next stop."
...
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