The assignment for Kuro's cosmology class was, in his opinion, an insult to the very concept of cosmology. "In 200 words," the prompt read, "Explain how technology works in space and how physics governs cosmology."
200 words. It was like asking a master watchmaker to build a sundial out of mud.
With a sigh, Kuro opened a new document. He wrote a bland, textbook-perfect paragraph about rocket propulsion, gravitational lensing, and the cosmic microwave background. It was factually correct, profoundly uninspired, and exactly 199 words. He added his name and saved it as "Cosmology_SchoolProject_Draft.docx."
But the prompt, as trivial as it was, had sparked something in his mind. The sheer inefficiency of current space technology annoyed him. His mind began to wander, to extrapolate. What would a truly advanced civilization's technology look like? Not a Type I on the Kardashev scale, fumbling with the energy of their own planet, but a Type II+, a civilization that could manipulate stars and black holes as easily as humanity built dams.
The thought was an intellectual itch he had to scratch. He opened another document, titling it with a random string: "ÆT-7B3-005.docx."
For the next 8.632 minutes, his fingers flew across the keyboard in a blur of focused genius. He wasn't just brainstorming; he was reverse-engineering the laws of physics from a hypothetical future. He poured the full, terrifying, unrestrained power of his intellect into the document. It was a symphony of mega-engineering and theoretical physics.
He finished, read it over once, and a cold realization washed over him. He had just drafted a multi-layered god-arsenal. Submission of this document, even accidentally, had a 97.3% probability of resulting in an immediate inquiry from every major global intelligence agency. It would blow his cover, endanger his family, and probably get him locked in a very deep, very dark hole for the rest of his life.
He dragged the file "ÆT-7B3-005.docx" into a folder named "Miscellaneous Brain Dumps" and submitted the 199-word sundial essay instead. He would get an A, and the world would remain blissfully unaware of the apocalyptic blueprints sitting in a forgotten corner of his hard drive. It was, he concluded, a far more efficient outcome for everyone involved.