As the smell of rust seeped into her nostrils through the ventilation duct, Lin Xia was tightening the third bolt securing the oil pipeline with a titanium wrench. The crisp sound of wrench against metal echoed through the maintenance bay. She stared at the fluctuating pressure readings on the holographic projection, her knuckles white with the strain—the Morning Star's fuel circulation system had been fluctuating abnormally for three consecutive days, like an elderly man coughing and wheezing. "The pressure on the port side pipeline still won't rise," she spoke into the communicator on her collar, her voice mingling with the hum of machinery. Her fingertips traced the grease-stained console, bringing up a 3D image of the pipeline: a pale red fault slowly creeping along the wall, like a scar about to burst. The maintenance bay door suddenly slid open, sending a gust of air swirling with sand. Chen Ye's military boots tapped steadily on the metal floor. "The Academy just sent me a star map." He slapped the data tablet on the edge of the workbench, and the projection instantly switched to a dazzling starry sky. "Look at the end of the Orion spiral arm—" The moment Lin Xia looked up, her eyes met a swirling nebula. Within the star field originally marked "Safe Passage," a series of shimmering red coordinates suddenly appeared, like a string of knocked-over sparks. She reached out and traced the map, her fingertips brushing against the star numbered "HD219134" when the projection suddenly crackled. "Energy anomaly." Chen Ye tapped the edge of the data tablet with his knuckles. "This is the third candidate planet selected for the 'Ark Project.' It suddenly disappeared from the observation network for 0.7 seconds yesterday." Lin Xia's thumb rubbed the cool handle of the wrench. Through the maintenance bay window, she could see the shelterbelt outside the base being engulfed by red mist. The fast-growing poplar trees planted by the United Nations Ecology and Environment Program five years ago were now only bare branches swaying in the wind, their remaining leaves shredded by the sandstorm.

"Five years ago, when I first entered the flight academy, you could still see magpies here," she suddenly said, her gaze fixed on the distant observation tower. Rust trickled down its steel frame, carving ugly streaks against the gray-yellow sky.

Chen Ye followed her gaze, his Adam's apple moving. "My father was involved in shelterbelt construction. He said they used nano-water-retention technology and thought it would last twenty years." He bent down, picked up a grain of sand that had blown into the cabin, and crushed it in his palm. As the fine sand slipped through his fingers, it shone with a faint metallic sheen.

The holographic projection suddenly began to buzz rapidly. A red alarm box suddenly popped up, slicing the star map into shattered spots of light. Lin Xia's pupils suddenly constricted: the sandstorm at 37 degrees north latitude was advancing at 180 kilometers per hour, its vanguard already reaching the electromagnetic shield surrounding the base.

"Initiate emergency reinforcement procedures." She grabbed a wrench and turned, and the bolts on the oil pipeline finally loosened. Pale yellow fuel flowed slowly through the transparent pipe, casting a faint light in her eyes—this was Earth's last remaining energy reserve, each drop like liquid starlight.

Chen Ye suddenly grasped her wrist. His palm carried the chill of the outdoors, his fingertips thick with calluses. "Professor Zhang's assistant just contacted me," he said, his voice low. "Before he died, the old professor left a box, and he specifically wanted you to open it yourself."

Lin Xia paused. Outside the maintenance bay, the protective shield crackled with sand, like countless tiny hailstones hitting the glass. She thought of Professor Zhang, whom she had met in the hospital three months prior—the old man lying on his bed, bubbles rising slowly from his oxygen tube, his bony fingers clutching a silver metal box with a strange string of symbols engraved on its surface.

"Wait until the 'Morning Star' reaches synchronous orbit before opening it." Chen Ye pulled a palm-sized box from his tactical vest. As he handed it to her, Lin Xia noticed a dried petal stained on his sleeve—the last ornamental plant cultivated at the base, declared extinct just last week.

The metal box felt slightly cool in her palm. Lin Xia pinched the grooves on the edge of the lid when she suddenly heard the base's PA system chime: "Attention all crew members, the 'Morning Star' departure time has been advanced to 1400 hours. Please assemble at the embarkation gate immediately."

The sound of the sandstorm pounding against the porthole grew louder, like countless fists beating outside. Chen Ye had already turned and was heading for the hatch, the sound of his boots crunching through the sand fading away. Lin Xia stared at the flickering red coordinates on the star map and suddenly remembered her mother's dying words: "The most dangerous thing in the universe isn't a black hole, but a hidden truth."

She tucked the metal box into the inner pocket of her flight suit, pressing it against her heart. As the wrench twisted the bolts again, the lights in the maintenance bay suddenly flickered—the entire base's electrical system struggled in the sandstorm, like the planet about to be swallowed by the red fog.

A whistle blew from outside, the signal to embark. Lin Xia took one last look out the window at the world outside: the red fog had already spread over the top of the watchtower, and the shelterbelts that had once symbolized hope were now only blurry silhouettes swaying in the chaos. She grabbed her tool kit and turned, the metal box vibrating gently in her pocket, like a faint heart beating.

The green light had come on for the boarding gate of the "Morning Star." As Lin Xia stepped forward along the light strip, she heard a dull rumble behind her—another section of the protective wall had collapsed in the sandstorm. She didn't look back, her fingertips unconsciously stroking the metal box in her pocket. What was hidden there might not only be the old professor's last words, but also the direction of human civilization.