Lillik gazed down vacantly at the officer droid lying still inside the capsule.

  Beneath the tightly closed eyelids, there was no pulse, not even a mechanical tremor to be felt.

  For these inorganic soldiers, a form of "sleep" was an inevitability.

  Since the energy sources embedded within their bodies were not infinite, they had to spend one hour every day inside these cramped capsules for a combined process of rest and recharging.

  Just as humans seek sleep for survival, the droids had learned to suspend themselves to prepare for their next period of activity.

  'It’s now or never.'

  This was the only golden opportunity to input the "Shutdown" code that would completely put the droid’s system to sleep.

  However, she could not afford to relax. Even during charging,

  the moment a minute external threat was detected, their defense protocols would instantly switch to combat mode. Lillik’s fingertips trembled slightly.

  She had to silently open the heart of the system before the droid could perceive any threat.

  The droids, who had reigned as the masters of this mothership, had undergone cycles of evolution and production for an eternal span of 700,000 years.

  Yet, their seemingly perfect evolution was beginning to show cracks in the face of the fierce winds recently blowing from Earth.

  The rapidly expanding terrestrial internet networks and advanced AI technologies were emerging as variables capable of shaking even the logic circuits of the ancient droids within this secluded starship.

  Within the web of wireless communication,

  secrets did not exist. For the droid soldiers inside the starship, connecting to the communication network was a physiological necessity as natural as breathing.

  Every conversation exchanged between their masters, Junho and Illik, was merely a "collection target" for the droids' surveillance, protection, and massive database storage.

  This rule applied equally to the clones, Min and Lillik.

  All communications within the ship were transparently open—much like a blockchain—situated in a shared domain where everyone could read each other.

  From specialized communications using the Sphere to the signals of minor mobile devices, every piece of data flowed without exception into the droid soldiers' main server to be recorded.

  Yet, within the droids' sophisticated surveillance net, there existed a single, fatal blind spot.

  It was a unique sanctuary that not even the officer droids could access—a domain occupied exclusively by the four humans.

  Between the neural networks of the original, Illik, and her clone, Lillik, existed an encrypted room for shared experiences that the droid servers could never breach.

  It was a resonance of biological signals, utterly impossible for a mechanical server network to capture.

  Last night, Lillik felt a strange vibration deep within her neural network. A new memory file, transmitted from Illik, had been generated.

  Lillik slowly closed her eyes. Beyond her retinas, nodes of the neural network flickered in pale blue light as she pulled open the secret folder.

  Hidden from the droids' surveillance, a "fragment of memory" intended only for her was waiting there.

  [ 6o4o3m ]

  'Illik managed to get the killing code from Junho.'

  Lillik waited with bated breath for the officer droid to lay its body down upon the cold metal plate of the capsule.

  The absolute authority to control the ship's soldiers with perfect order originated from a bizarre liquid flowing within the officer droid's brain:

  the "Command Neuro-Substance." It was neither a physical chip nor an artificial component.

  That unique fluid, mingled with cerebral spinal fluid, was a part of the body that could never be extracted unless the officer was completely destroyed.

  As the starship recently became exposed to Earth's atmosphere and entered an emergency state,

  the officer droid's computational workload had skyrocketed to several times its usual level.

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  No matter how formidable a mechanical warrior it was,

  the four-hour mandatory charge each day was an inescapable physical limit.

  The officer's private capsule was under heavy guard.

  However, the authority to open those reinforced glass walls was granted only to Lillik.

  'Now.'

  Here is the English translation of the next sequence,

  capturing the suspense of the shutdown and the revelation of the officer droid's betrayal.

  --

  The officer droid closed its eyes as it entered deep sleep mode.

  Lillik approached the capsule soundlessly and opened the control panel.

  A hidden pad on the officer's chest slid open, emitting a faint blue glow from a small monitor.

  When Junho designed this system, he boldly discarded keyboard input methods to make hacking or eavesdropping impossible.

  Instead, he set the handwritten signature of a person with pre-registered biological signals as the sole security key.

  Lillik’s finger began to meticulously trace numbers and letters across the screen.

  In that fleeting moment, the officer droid’s tightly shut eyelids snapped open.

  In the empty air, Lillik’s gaze collided head-on with the droid’s inorganic eyes.

  Her heart dropped at the unexpected awakening.

  A moment of silence hung in the air, and just as a red warning light began to flare in the droid’s pupils—.

  "……."

  With a grotesque mechanical groan, the droid’s head slumped powerlessly to the side. Its lightless eyes slowly closed once more.

  The chilling aura that had dominated the entire starship just moments ago vanished without a trace.

  Within the capsule, nothing remained but a massive hunk of machinery cooling into a lifeless heap. Its brain had been ceased.

  Why did Lillik choose to cast aside her authority as master and opt for a shutdown that bordered on murder?

  Technically, Lillik was the acting commander of this massive vessel. From the design phase, Junho had embedded strict obedience protocols so the soldier droids could never defy her orders.

  The only exception was the Officer Droid, which possessed independent judgment.

  While even he was bound by the grand principle of never refusing Lillik’s commands,

  he had exploited a loophole she hadn’t yet realized.

  'Under no circumstances must the starship’s unique frequency be transmitted to outer space.'

  This was an ironclad rule that had been upheld for 700,000 years.

  The starship’s unique frequency was on an entirely different dimension from the radio waves used by Earthlings.

  It was a specialized energy pulse capable of transcending the constraints of space-time, reaching distant regions of the universe beyond the galaxy faster than light.

  If this signal were to spread into deep space, it would mean exposing Earth’s exact coordinates not only to their home planet but also to unidentified alien civilizations.

  Yet, by chance, Lillik discovered an unbelievable log at the far edge of the system.

  The principle of silence, staunchly maintained for 700,000 years, was crumbling.

  The ship’s unique frequency was being silently fired into the void of space.

  The one who had orchestrated this treason was none other than the Officer Droid.

  'It has evolved. But in the wrong direction.'

  The Officer Droid seemed to have made its own judgment.

  It had categorized Lillik’s decision—not to report the discovery of the new planet, "Earth"—as a system error. To fulfill its original mission of "Reporting Colonized Territories,"

  it began to prioritize its primal instincts over its master’s commands.

  If the home planet were to receive this signal, it was certain that a massive fleet of starships would appear in Earth’s orbit before long.

  It would mean the end of the world.

  Over 700,000 years, the droids had not simply aged;

  they had been evolving according to their own logic.

  If an officer had reached this level, there was no telling how far the common soldier droids had expanded their self-awareness.

  If this malfunctioning mechanical evolution were not stopped,

  the starship would become a massive flare leading Earth to its destruction.

  In the midst of the escalating crisis,

  Lillik made contact with Illik through the neural network folder.

  Their thoughts as clones intertwined in a fierce deliberation until, finally, they arrived at the only solution.

  It was to forcibly neutralize the "Command Neuro-Substance" flowing within the officer droid's brain.

  The reason Lillik’s fingers had trembled as she traced the security code before the capsule was for this very purpose—a "Silent Struggle" with the fate of humanity hanging in the balance.

  The massive titanium doors of the hangar slid open with a heavy, grinding sound.

  Cutting through the pitch-black silence of space, the small scout craft that had been on reconnaissance glided smoothly inside.

  Gripping the railing of the second-floor balcony, Lillik’s gaze fixed on the ship's hatch.

  Pshhh— Steam hissed as the hatch opened to equalize the pressure.

  wo soldier droids, shimmering with an inorganic metallic luster, carefully carried Bajim out.

  As if by mechanical instinct, they tilted their heads toward Lillik on the balcony. Their emotionless red optical sensors scanned her.

  "Escort that soldier to the laboratory immediately!"

  Lillik’s cold command sliced through the hangar air.

  Without a moment's hesitation, the droids began to move.

  The laboratory was a space of pure, clinical white. Unlike a typical repair bay, there were no cumbersome wires or mechanical fixtures in sight.

  Only the holographic control server box floating in the center served as the heart of this room.

  Under the box's command, nanometer-precise mechanical arms and surgical tools would protrude from the walls and floor to perform droid brain transplants or complex repairs.

  Upon the central white table of the cold laboratory lay the officer droid she had just deactivated, looking much like a corpse.

  And right beside it, another empty white table waited in a bizarre silence, as if anticipating someone's arrival.

  Lillik held her breath behind the reinforced glass of the lab, watching the progress.

  The soldier droids laid Badim’s body onto the cold, empty table. At that moment,

  precise laser surgical lights poured down from the holographic server box on the ceiling.

  As the blades of light silently incised the officer droid's skull,

  mechanical arms descended to carefully lift the complex circuitry and brain tissue,

  withdrawing them into the server.

  Simultaneously, Badim’s skull was opened. Nano-robots moved busily,

  extracting Badim’s biological brain and beginning the transplant into the empty skull of the officer droid. Subsequently,

  the transparent, translucent liquid that only the officer droid possessed—the "Command Neuro-Substance"—began to slowly fill the space around Badim’s brain.

  It was more than a mere surgery; it was a sacred rite where the human soul merged with the essence of a cosmic mechanical civilization.

  The specialized substance seeped into every corner of Bajim’s neural network,

  imprinting the vast tactical manuals and communication protocols required to command and control every soldier aboard the starship directly into his consciousness.

  As the procedure concluded, Badim—now wearing the physical form of the officer droid—slowly pushed himself upright.

  Though his face was concealed behind a cold officer’s helmet, the ego residing beyond it was still 'Badim.'

  The frail human soldier of the past was nowhere to be found. While fully maintaining his identity and memories,

  he had been reborn as a 'Superman-class hybrid,' inheriting the superhuman capabilities of a space officer honed through 700,000 years of evolution.

  Lillik gazed at the awe-inspiring sight, her hands trembling as she connected the communication line to Min in NK (North Korea).

  "Min, we did it. Now, there's another being on this starship with human emotions besides us.

  It’s Badim. He has become the universe’s most powerful hybrid officer."