The Death Star—no, the Aegis Sphere, as Thrawn had begun calling it in official documentation—hung in orbit beyond Mars, a silent god watching over a red world slowly being reshaped by human ambition. Entire fleets now moved around it as if it had always been there, as if a moon-sized superweapon had not fundamentally rewritten the balance of power in the solar system.
That project no longer needed my constant oversight.
Which meant my attention had shifted elsewhere.
I was not physically present at any Foundation site when the next major development unfolded. My body remained within the Wanderers' Library, surrounded by shelves that should not exist, texts that whispered in dead languages, and grimoires bound in materials that predated civilization itself. The Library was quiet in the way only truly dangerous places could be.
Magic flowed easily here.
Elemental theory, defensive arrays, high-tier destructive spells—I absorbed them at an alarming rate. Ever since absorbing that template, learning magic felt less like study and more like remembering something I had always known. Runes aligned themselves instinctively. Mana circulation obeyed thought alone. Barriers that once took hours to construct now formed in seconds.
Yet even here, surrounded by ancient power, my attention was divided.
Because the Foundation had finally turned its full focus toward the X gene.
Using projection magic, I stepped sideways out of the Library—not physically, but conceptually. My soul extended, threading itself through space until the sterile white of a high-security research facility replaced endless bookshelves. My projection was perfect. Solid enough to walk. Clear enough to observe. Invisible to anyone without the appropriate clearance or anomalous perception.
O5-13's laboratory was vast. Clinical. Cold.
Biology specialists, geneticists, anomaly researchers, and containment technicians filled the space, all working with a precision that bordered on reverence. Transparent observation chambers lined the far wall, each reinforced with layered containment fields and emergency incineration protocols.
Inside one of them, a D-class subject screamed.
The serum injection had already begun.
At first, nothing happened.
Then the man convulsed.
His veins darkened, glowing faintly beneath his skin as the X-gene catalyst tried to overwrite his biology faster than his body could adapt. Bones cracked. Muscle mass expanded unevenly. Neural activity spiked off every chart.
For half a second—just half—I saw something take shape. Potential. Power. A reality that almost stabilized.
Then the subject exploded.
Not metaphorically.
The containment field absorbed most of it, but viscera splattered against reinforced glass in a grotesque bloom of red. Internal pressure, uncontrolled cellular replication, and runaway energy release reduced the body to fragments in less than a second.
No one in the lab flinched.
Data scrolled across monitors. Researchers called out readings. Automated systems logged the failure and initiated cleanup.
This was not the first test.
It would not be the last.
I moved forward, boots soundless against the polished floor, projection brushing past technicians who could not see me. Another chamber. Another subject. Another injection.
This one lasted longer.
The D-class screamed as his spine elongated, vertebrae reshaping themselves into something inhuman. Skin hardened into a crystalline lattice. Energy readings stabilized briefly—briefly—before his nervous system collapsed under the strain.
The body imploded this time, folding inward as if crushed by invisible gravity.
Failure.
I exhaled slowly, more out of habit than necessity, and walked toward the central command platform where O5-13 stood. He looked exactly as he always did in person—tall, composed, shadowed features indistinct beneath the faint glow of holographic data. His attention was divided between three floating screens and a live genetic model rotating slowly in the air.
He noticed me immediately.
Even projected, my presence was not subtle.
"Progress report," I said, stopping beside him, my voice carrying enough authority that nearby personnel instinctively gave us space.
O5-13 did not look away from the data. "Incremental," he replied calmly. "Which, given the subject matter, is impressive."
I watched another subject being prepped in the background. "They're still dying."
"Yes."
No defensiveness. No excuses.
Just fact.
"The X gene resists artificial stabilization," O5-13 continued. "It is not a simple genetic switch. It behaves more like a conditional anomaly embedded within the genome—context-sensitive, self-referential, and highly reactive to environmental and psychological variables."
I folded my arms, projection mirroring the posture perfectly. "In other words, brute-force serum injection doesn't work."
"It works," he corrected. "Briefly. The problem is that the gene activates faster than the body can adapt. Without the proper developmental framework, the mutation consumes the host."
I glanced at the genetic model. Even without touching it, I could feel the instability. The X gene was elegant in a terrifying way—capable of rewriting biology on the fly, yet utterly indifferent to whether the host survived the process.
"Any successes?" I asked.
O5-13 nodded once. He gestured, and a new hologram appeared—charts marked with cautious green indicators. "Partial activations. Minor abilities. Enhanced reflexes. Low-level telekinesis. Sensory amplification. Subjects survived, but the powers were weak and often accompanied by chronic physiological degradation."
"So Omega-level replication is still out of reach."
"For now."
I watched another subject injected.
This one did not explode.
He screamed, collapsed, and then… stabilized.
Monitors beeped rapidly as his vital signs leveled out. Genetic markers flared and then settled into a new configuration.
A researcher spoke rapidly into a recorder. "Subject forty-seven showing sustained activation. Low-tier energy projection detected. Structural integrity holding."
I raised an eyebrow.
O5-13 followed my gaze. "That is the farthest we have gotten so far."
"And the difference?"
"Preconditioning," he said. "Psychological profiling. Epigenetic priming. Controlled stress exposure prior to injection."
I nodded slowly. "So the X gene doesn't just care about biology."
"No," O5-13 said quietly. "It cares about identity."
That… complicated things.
Anyone could theoretically become a mutant.
Which meant containment, control, and prediction would only become harder as time went on.
I straightened, projection solid and imposing. "Keep refining it. No mass deployment. No shortcuts. If we crack this, it changes everything—for better or worse."
O5-13 inclined his head. "Understood."
I took one last look at the lab—at the bodies, the data, the near-misses and slow progress—and then let my projection unravel. Reality folded back into the endless shelves of the Wanderers' Library.
Magic whispered around me again.
The Foundation was learning how to manufacture evolution.
And that was far more dangerous than any superweapon.
Even a moon that could shatter worlds.