Crossing Orb: Newtype Commander

October 12, CE70, Junius 7 wreckage area.

Eight months after the outbreak of war, this former agricultural colony had become a desolate graveyard. A massive gaping hole, several kilometers in diameter, resembled a wound ripped open by a wild beast; broken skeletons twisted in the vacuum, and fragments of the agricultural area floated around, slowly rotating. Sunlight shone on the wreckage, alternating between light and shadow, like a silent mourning. PLANT erected a "memorial" here—not a stone monument, but a small platform floating in the center of the wreckage, inscribed with the names of all known victims. Fifty-eight thousand two hundred and thirty-seven names, densely packed.

Lux Klein stood on that platform.

She wore a white spacesuit and held no microphone. The sound of the performance was collected by a miniature microphone in her earpiece and then broadcast to tens of thousands of spectators gathered in the nearby space through temporary speakers erected on the wreckage of the colony. The audience, dressed in spacesuits, floated around the wreckage, their glow sticks forming a galaxy in the darkness. This was not an ordinary concert; it was a memorial—a tribute to those souls who perished on Valentine's Day.

"Today, we stand here." Lux's voice came through the loudspeakers, clearly audible to every listener via bone conduction and radio, "Standing where 58,237 of our compatriots rest. Some of them, I will never have the chance to know again. Some, I will never have the chance to say goodbye to again."

She paused, the shadows of the wreckage reflected in her blue eyes.

"But I believe their hearts are still here. In the hearts of each and every one of you."

There were low sobs among the audience.

"This next song is dedicated to them. And to you all." Lux closed her eyes, gently clasping her hands together in front of her chest. The melody of "Proof of Water" began—not a stirring march, not a mournful elegy, but a calm melody that spread like ripples on water. Her voice was clear and gentle. Each note was like a drop of water falling into a calm lake, the ripples spreading outwards.

OK

privy

Through and through the waves

小さなThe scars are dissolved

The lyrics are about water—water has no shape, yet it can fit into any container; water has no color, yet it can reflect everything; water has no power, yet it can penetrate the hardest rock. On the ruins of Junius VII, these lyrics take on another meaning. Those lost lives vanished like water, but their imprint remains in the hearts of everyone who lives on.

Among the tens of thousands of listeners, some began to weep. The tears floated in the zero-gravity environment, forming crystalline spheres that shimmered in the glow of the glow sticks.

Aobu, the underground command center of the Dawn Society.

Char sat alone in front of the VEDA terminal, the huge screen in front of him playing a live stream of Lacus's concert. The signal came through PLANT's official broadcasting channels, the picture and sound were crystal clear. Since the outbreak of the war, he had hardly watched any entertainment programs, but at this moment, he didn't want to turn off the screen.

His new human abilities were triggered the moment the concert began.

Not by the visuals, not by the sounds. But by the emotions—tens of thousands of people gathered simultaneously in the same cosmic space, their emotions converging into a vast river: sorrow, fear, anger, confusion, hope—all of these surged in the air, reaching his consciousness through some invisible channel. Lux's voice was like the heart of this river. She wasn't simply singing; she was responding to the emotions of her listeners with her own, soothing sorrow with tenderness, responding to fear with steadfastness, and illuminating confusion with hope. Her voice was like a silver thread, stitching together tens of thousands of broken hearts.

Char closed his eyes.

He could "see" his audience: a young Coordinator soldier, fresh from the battlefield, his hands still stained with enemy blood; a middle-aged woman, her husband killed in the Junius VII explosion, raising two children alone; an old man, white-haired, who had lived his entire life in PLANT and had never seen Earth. Each person had their own story, each person had their own wounds. In Lacus's song, all those wounds were temporarily forgotten.

VEDA's voice rang out, calm and restrained: "Your brainwave activity is abnormal. Are you resonating with the singer?"

"Yes." Xia didn't open his eyes. "In this world, there are always people who can sense the emotions of others. I can too."

"A rare ability."

Char opened his eyes and looked at Lux's face on the screen. She was singing the chorus, tears welling in her blue eyes, but a smile still lingered on her lips. Choosing to smile in sorrow, choosing to sing in the darkness.

"It may not be uncommon in this world. It's just that most people haven't been awakened."

He closed his eyes again.

This time, he "heard" Lux's inner voice. Not the lyrics, not the melody, but something deeper—her confusion. She didn't know if she could save anyone, didn't know if her singing truly had meaning, didn't know if gentleness was a sin in the face of war. But she still sang, because she believed that someone would need her voice.

Char thought to himself, "Someone is listening. Someone needs it."

The concert was nearing its end.

Lux finished singing "Proof of Water," but the audience didn't leave. The glow sticks continued to flicker in the darkness, like a sea of ​​stars. She stood before the memorial, bowed her head, and remained silent for a few seconds.

"The last song." She looked up. "This song, I wrote it myself. It has no name. If I had to give it a name, maybe I could call it 'Witness'."

She began to hum softly. There were no lyrics, only melody, flowing like water. Humming is purer than any language.

A scene flashed through Char's mind:

Perhaps it was in the turbulent currents of time travel, or perhaps it was in the light guided by Lara Singh. He saw a girl standing on a snowfield, her song drifting in the night sky, snowflakes falling on her shoulders, yet she did not tremble. The song was called "The Promise of Water," almost identical to the melody Lux was humming, yet completely different.

"Fate," Xia said softly, "maybe fate really does exist."

VEDA asked, "What did you say?"

"It's nothing."

He turned off the screen. He knew that if he continued listening, he would cry. Not from sadness, but from a more complex emotion—that in this world filled with hatred and killing, there were still people singing, still people believing in the power of gentleness. That in itself was a miracle.

After the live stream ended, Char sat in front of the encrypted terminal for a long time.

He sent Lux a message that, through VEDA's quantum-encrypted channel, was transmitted directly to her personal terminal in PLANT: "Your singing is beautiful. Keep singing. Someone needs your voice."

A few minutes later, the reply came.

It wasn't text, but an audio clip. Very short, only a few seconds. It was Lux's voice, tinged with weariness, yet also with warmth: "Thank you, Commander-in-Chief Asuka. I received your message."

No further words were needed.

Outside the window, the lights of Orb twinkled in the night.

At the same time, at the Earth Alliance Front Command.

An officer turned off the live concert stream on his screen and turned to his superior, who was studying the battle map: "Sir, should we interfere with PLANT's concert?"

"No need." The superior didn't even look up. "A little girl singing can't change the war. Gunfire is more effective than song."

The officer remained silent for a moment, then turned and left.

Unbeknownst to him, many soldiers in the trenches were also secretly watching the concert broadcast. They held guns in their hands, but the song "Water's Proof" echoed in their hearts. In the moment before pulling the trigger, some thought of the river of their hometown, the lullaby their mothers hummed, and the afternoon they walked in the rain with their first love.

Songs cannot heal war, but they can preserve a trace of humanity amidst it. That trace, perhaps, for a fleeting moment, can prevent a bullet from hitting the wrong target. Perhaps not, but at least someone tried.

Late at night, PLANT, Klein Mansion.

Lux sat by her window, outside which shone the simulated light of an artificial starry sky. The pink Haro pet in her arms emitted a soft electronic voice, as if comforting her. On the encrypted terminal, Char's message was still lit up.

Keep singing. Someone needs your voice.

She chuckled softly. It wasn't a politician's formulaic smile, nor a professional stage presence, but a genuine, heartfelt laugh. Some heard it, some said it was needed. For a singer, that was enough.

"Hello, tell me, what kind of person is Commander-in-Chief Askha?"

"Hello! Hello!" The pink Hello spun around, and a smiley face appeared on the screen.

Lux picked up Haro and looked out at the starry sky. In some corner of that starry sky, in the direction of Orb, someone was listening to her song. What he didn't know was that his very existence was her "proof of water"—in this world filled with hatred, there were still people upholding peace, and there were still people who believed that reason could prevail over impulse.

"Maybe one day," she whispered, "we can have people from both Earth and PLANT, free from conflict and hatred, and sing to you face to face. Not through a screen, not in war, but under the peaceful sunlight."

She turned off the terminal, hugged Harlow, and lay down.

Outside the window, the artificial starry sky slowly rotated. On October 12, CE70, the concert in the Junius VII wreck area ended. But those songs did not disappear; they floated in the universe, flowing like water, spreading like light, until one day, someone, in some place, heard them and was moved.

"Songs can heal the soul, but they cannot heal war," Lux wrote in her diary.

But below that line, she added: "Perhaps it cannot cure war, but at least it can make war less hopeless."