I took my time reaching Auphairks AF-Z e2 — Nova’s Wake. The moment I dropped in, the canopy flooded with green. A black hole hung in the middle of it all, a dark absence carved into luminous nebula light. It didn’t glare. It didn’t flare. It just was — quiet and patient, bending everything around it.

I lingered just long enough to feel small.

The fleet was waiting at Veil’s Ember, so I plotted the next leg and moved on. A few systems along the way offered small rewards — fresh discoveries, untouched worlds, a couple quiet first footfalls — but today wasn’t about detours. Today was about rejoining the line of lights moving together through the dark.

When Veil’s Ember came into view, the colors shifted again — orange and green dust wrapping the stars like a fading fire. One final jump brought me into Byua Auwsy NR-Q b46-6, where the Pillar of Chista waited.

I turned in my data aboard the carrier, watching the numbers scroll across the console — proof of distance traveled since Beagle Point. Then I dropped toward base camp on Body 3.

A few ships were already parked on the surface. As I approached, the comms lit up with a couple simple greetings:

o7

I answered in kind.

I missed the official events this time, but I made it. The fleet is here. The next waypoint will be revealed soon enough.

For now, the engines are cooling and the horizon is quiet again.

Before the fleet pushed for Waypoint 5, I took a detour to coordinates 19.98, -16.43 for the Rendezvous Rally 6 SRV race. There is nothing quite like the sight of a couple dozen SRVs lined up on a dusty plain, engines humming, waiting for the signal to tear across 36 kilometers of unknown terrain.

The goal was a deep, nested crater to the east, marked by a ship firing a pink laser as a beacon into the sky. When the signal dropped, we all put the hammer down.

The low gravity turned the race into a series of violent, high-speed leaps. Every bump was a gamble; I spent as much time spinning out as I did moving forward. I watched the leaders pull away as I struggled to keep my wheels on the ground, boosting over boulders and slamming into dips that rattled the cockpit. My hull integrity was a constant concern—I watched it drop to 18% before I had to trigger a mid-race repair just to stay in the running.

Then came the edge of the crater.

I saw the pink beacon cutting through the dark sky and threw myself over the rim. It was a nightmare descent. I hit a rock on the way down and began a long, slow-motion tumble. The warnings started screaming: 75%... 50%... 25%. I was activating hull repairs while literally spinning through the air, falling toward the crater floor.

I finally slammed down upright and pushed through the rolling hills and boulders at the bottom. When I finally rolled up to the group of radar contacts at the finish line, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I was far from first, but I was there. I was part of it.

It definitely won't be my last race of this trip.

Waypoint 4 is set: Blo Chroa XO-I d9-36.

There wasn’t time this week for detours or chasing every Point of Interest along the route. This leg was about momentum. About keeping pace. So I settled into the rhythm of long-range travel—jump, scoop, align, repeat—breaking it only when I found an untouched system worth putting my name on. A handful of first footfalls. A few careful exobiology scans. Just enough to remind myself that I’m not only passing through this part of the galaxy—I’m leaving a mark on it.

The Neutron Highway never gets old. Dropping in dangerously close to those bright purple cones still steals my breath every time. The distortion, the roar of the jet, the sudden surge of range—it feels reckless and precise all at once. Controlled chaos. I rode it hard today.

Hours later, Blo Chroa XO-I d9-36 finally resolved on the canopy.

I turned in my exploration data aboard the Pillar of Chista, watching the credits tally up—evidence of the path taken. After that, I made my way down to base camp on Body 4 d. Thrusters down. Dust settling. Another waypoint secured.

No grand spectacle tonight. Just the quiet satisfaction of distance covered and a fleet still within reach.

I left the quiet of Qohen’s Cohort to begin the long haul toward Cheia Eohn YW-I d10-1. I’ve found myself getting deeply caught up in exobiology lately—I spent far too long scouring the dust of Fleckeae AL-V d3-0 for signs of life—but that’s the beauty of this trip. It’s not just about the stars anymore; it’s about the dirt under my boots. I’ll take a lonelier, less-traveled route on the way back to the Bubble, but for now, I’m following the trail of giants.

Navigation struggled with the jump density today. The computer kept flagging the route as "out of range," forcing me to plot manually in smaller chunks. It added about 40 jumps to the trip, but I’m in no hurry. The "Black" doesn't have a clock.

When I finally reached the Cheia Eohn system, the target—body B 1 a—was over 400,000 light-seconds out. I pushed my FSD into SCO (Supercruise Overcharge) to bridge the gap. It’s a violent way to travel; the cockpit shakes, the heat levels redline, and the fuel gauge drops like a stone. I pushed the engines to the absolute edge of structural failure before dropping back into a normal cruise.

The reward was worth the stress. The moon orbits a stunning Earth-like world. I banked the Asp close to the parent planet, watching the clouds swirl over deep blue oceans and vibrant green continents—a rare, fragile sight this far from home. I finally set down on the volcanic surface of the moon B 1 a. Stepping out of the airlock, I stood on the dark, sulfurous soil and looked up at that bright blue marble hanging in the black.

Tomorrow, I make the final push for Waypoint 4.

I spent most of yesterday bathed in that magenta glow, watching other DW3 pilots slip in and out of the atmosphere like fireflies. It was hard to leave, but the next landmark was calling: Qohen’s Cohort in Fleckeae ZQ-Y c16-0. It was a short 15-jump sprint, a distance that felt like a stroll compared to the Abyss crossing. I’m finding a much better rhythm now—savoring the sights instead of just chasing the fleet’s tail.

Arriving at Fleckeae, the scanners immediately lit up with other commanders. I haven't stopped for any formal meetups yet, but there’s a quiet comfort in seeing those hollow squares on the radar. It makes this corner of the deep black feel a little less like a void and a little more like a community.

The target was body A 1 b, a blindingly white ice world locked in a dance with another ringed neighbor. As I descended, the horizon was dominated by the spectacular geometry of the nearby planet’s rings cutting across the sky. I found a landing site on the frozen plains, killed the engines, and just stared. There are organic signals nearby—strange life clinging to the ice—so I’ll spend some time with the scanner tomorrow before I move on. For tonight, I’m just enjoying the view from the porch.

The morning at Beagle Point began with a silence so profound it felt heavy. Standing at the very edge of the galactic abyss, the usual hum of the fleet felt distant, muffled by the sheer scale of the void outside. I grabbed a coffee and settled into the commander’s chair, the cockpit displays flickering to life with the low-frequency whispers of the system. Most of the carriers were still dark, their jump drives cooling for a few more hours, but the restlessness of the deep black had already taken hold of me. It was time to move.

Waypoint #4 is the goal, but the journey is measured in the sights between the stars. I plotted a course for Syriae Thua GC-M d7-4, drawn by rumors of a "Hot Pink Sunrise."

Upon jumping into the system, I was greeted by a complex dance of four stars—a steady K-type primary flanked by two M-type companions, and then, the outlier: a massive L-type brown dwarf. I banked the ship toward body D 1, and as I broke orbit, the view through the canopy shifted from the black of space to a surreal, glowing magenta. The L-type star didn't just rise; it commanded the sky, a colossal, radiant sphere of hot pink that washed the entire landscape in alien light.

I found a flat stretch of crimson dust and brought the ship down gently. Landing gear locked, engines powered down to a standby hum. I’m currently sitting here, facing the sun, watching the light of a pink star bleed across the horizon of a world at the end of the world.

I stayed at Waypoint 3 longer than I intended, and with the announcement of Waypoint 4 looming, I knew I had to move. The next leg is over 11,000 light-years. There won't be time for sightseeing or side-trips this week; it’s time to put my head down and bridge the gap.

It took 138 jumps to reach Beagle Point. I leaned heavily on the "Neutron Highway" to navigate the sparse reaches of the Abyss—41 of those jumps were neutron-boosted. My Asp Explorer’s engineered FSD pushed its limits today, at one point hurling me 256.49 light-years in a single leap. Even at that pace, I couldn't help but scan; 468 celestial bodies recorded along the way. I had to stop frequently just to stretch my legs and fight off the space-madness that sets in when the stars start to disappear.

The loneliness of the Abyss is heavy, which made the end of the trip so much sweeter. When a contact finally flickered onto my radar at my last neutron boost, I knew I was close.

As I made the final jump into Beagle Point, the silence was replaced by the sudden, beautiful noise of radio chatter. The fleet was here. I could finally breathe.

Waypoint 4 has been revealed: Eclipsion Halo (Eictach KU-D d13-4). I’ve made up the distance. Now, I’m hoping to slow down just enough to actually see the sights instead of just watching them flash by in a blue-white blur.

This week was a blur of high-speed transit. I’ve been leaning on the neutron highway to keep pace with the fleet, using the white-blue jets to sling my ship toward Waypoint 2. It’s a faster way to travel, but it leaves less room for the quiet moments. I still pull over when the sensors catch a hint of life—a few first footfalls, a few biological samples—but mostly, I’ve been watching the galaxy move past my canopy. The photos I take are just shadows of the real thing; out here, you don't just see the view, you feel the scale of it.

The "Black" nearly claimed me three times this week. Inattention is the real killer out here. I fumbled the controls exiting witch space and nearly flew straight into a star’s heart. Later, I boosted toward the Viruna black hole with more momentum than I could shed. Both times, the emergency drop saved me.

But the planet surface at the Waypoint 2 gathering was the closest call. I misjudged my speed as I approached the surface and bounced the ship off the terrain like a skipped stone. I limped to the carrier with 26% hull integrity. If it weren't for the Pillar of Chista being stationed nearby for repairs, my journey would have ended in a cloud of debris.

Data is turned in. Hull is patched. I’m currently camped at the gathering point on Thuecheae WR-H d11-54 (13 b), watching the Seldowitch Nebula hang in the sky.

The next destination was revealed today: Beagle Point. We are heading where the stars thin out and the light dies. On DW2, I reached the edge just as the party was ending. This time, I’m determined to be there while the lights are still on. The carriers move tomorrow. There is still so much left to see.

We’ve been at Waypoint 1 since Day 12. To be honest, the journey so far has been... comfortable. Too comfortable, perhaps. Sitting on a carrier while it eats the distance for you makes the deep black feel less like a threat and more like a view from a window. The thought of leaving that safety feels lonelier than I expected. But exploration isn't about comfort; it’s about facing the silence to see what’s hidden within it.

While we wait for the next move, I’ve been pushing a few jumps out to practice the science. I’m hunting for "First Footfall" moments and trying to find a rhythm with the surface scanners. I haven't quite mastered the workflow for biologicals yet—it’s a slow, deliberate process—but with the carriers holding position, I finally have the time to learn.

The next leg is live now: 7,500 light-years a week between waypoints.

On DW2, I started late and spent the entire expedition chasing a fleet I never caught. This time is different. My goal is to be at every meetup, to see every Point of Interest, and to stay in the heart of the fleet. There will be plenty of time for the long, cold stretches of loneliness on the way back to the Bubble. For now, I’m keeping pace.

After Fimbulthul reached Waypoint Carrier Alpha on Day 06, the weekend slipped by with little time to explore. Today was the first real chance to slow down before the carriers began moving again. Jump window was set for 18:00 UTC—destination: Waypoint 1—so I stayed close and plotted only a handful of jumps out.

Spoihaae QD-Z D1-298 was already tagged, but the scans told a different story. Two bodies showed biological signals. That was enough.

I set down on both worlds and began my first proper exobiology work of the expedition. It took longer than expected—longer to find the samples, longer to move between them, longer because I didn’t rush. Somewhere along the way I realized I’d miss the carrier’s departure.

I didn’t mind. The schedule showed Pillar of Chista leaving tomorrow. There was time.

Samples secured, I lifted off and turned back toward the carrier, feeling like the expedition had finally begun—not with distance covered, but with something found.