As the Empire's envoy to the Federation, Boling held the authority to demand a direct line to the Federation's Military Commander.
The secretary in the Commander's office hesitated briefly upon receiving Boling's request. "May I ask what matter you wish to discuss with the Commander, sir?"
With his characteristic charm, the Imperial Foreign Minister smiled. "Simply inform him it pertains to the announcement we'll make at the star-net press conference in a few days."
In other words, it concerned the Federation-Empire peace negotiations.
The secretary promptly replied, "Please hold." Within a minute, Boling was connected via video to the Federation's Military Commander.
The holo-screen displayed an older man, his temples lightly frosted, exuding a weathered yet commanding presence. His appearance bore the marks of time, but his sharp, clear eyes conveyed an unyielding vigor. He gazed at Boling without a trace of warmth.
Boling, however, greeted him with a smile. "It's been too long, Commander."
The old man's eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing. "You remember me."
"Of course, Mr. Gongzhili, one of the Federation's finest generals," Boling said, his tone light yet tinged with the familiarity of old acquaintances. His smile—the same beguiling one Gongzhili despised—had been a fixture twenty years ago. Back then, Boling had wielded it at the post-war peace talks, forcing the defeated Federation to sign the Nelson Treaty, ceding a dozen critical mining planets in the frontier systems.
Indeed, Gongzhili had fought in that war, rising to Major General through his valor. Yet no matter his bravery, he remained a "perennial loser" in the Federation's eyes.
This wasn't shameful; no general could have stemmed the Federation's collapse. At the peace talks, the Federation had bowed low, acquiescing to the Empire's demands to end the conflict.
In truth, the war hadn't fundamentally crippled either side. But the Federation, beset by internal strife and the star-bug invasions, couldn't sustain a prolonged campaign. To preserve its strength, it opted for "peace talks"—a euphemism for surrender.
The war largely spared the Federation's prosperous core systems, leaving its citizens aware only of defeat, directing their ire at the Military. Few knew it was the Federation government, not the Military, that had pushed for peace and ordered the retreat.
Gongzhili could never forget those humiliating negotiations. In his midnight dreams, he was still the young general of twenty years ago, powerless despite his rank, watching the Federation's diplomats grovel before the Empire. Boling, seated at the table, had used his deft, cutting words to extract concession after concession, culminating in the treaty's territorial losses.
Gongzhili recalled his burning rage, his urge to denounce the Empire's shamelessness, only to be silenced by the delegation leader's sorrowful, numb glance—a wordless command to stand down.
He loathed the Federation's capitulation, but he hated his own impotence more.
Now, two decades later, he faced Boling again across a holo-screen.
Through years of relentless effort, Gongzhili had climbed to Military Commander, his face aged, his hair prematurely gray. Few believed he was under fifty. Boling, however, remained untouched by time, his elegance undimmed.
Monster.
Suppressing a surge of animosity, Gongzhili asked stiffly, "What do you want? The cooperation terms between the Federation and Empire are set, awaiting the press conference to announce the end of the cold war. With days to go, what demands are you raising now?"
Despite his restraint, his tone was far from courteous.
Boling's smile didn't waver. As a diplomat, he'd dealt with countless Federation officials, many harboring hostility they barely concealed. Their attitudes mattered little; what mattered was the intelligence he could extract.
"It occurs to me," Boling said, "that our cooperation agreement omitted one item—the extradition of cross-border criminals."
Gongzhili's brows knitted tightly.
"That's a minor issue, best left for later," he said, a hint of scorn in his voice. "The Empire and Federation haven't cooperated on enforcement or extradition for twenty years. Any Federation criminals in Aresian prisons are likely dead of old age."
"We don't detain Federation citizens without cause," Boling replied, his tone soft but edged. "Those we hold are heinous offenders—letting them rot is a mercy. But there's a small matter we haven't discussed…"
"Are you familiar with the Xuanrui Energy Group?" Boling continued calmly. "Days ago, their mining vessel illegally crossed our border, extracting resources from Imperial territory. Our cruiser fleet has seized the vessel and their space station. Unfortunately, Xuanrui's deputy general manager was aboard…"
Gongzhili's vision darkened.
Xuanrui Energy Group was semi-state-owned, listed as a Federation enterprise but controlled by its general manager, a close ally of the Military Equipment Production Minister. The deputy manager, a young man, was the general manager's son.
Gongzhili felt his nightmares resurging: another critical Federation-Empire summit, derailed by reckless allies.
"Why would Xuanrui's vessel cross the border unprovoked?" Gongzhili snapped, recovering quickly. The group's leader, though a crony, wasn't foolish enough to risk such a move without cause—likely an Imperial ploy. "You claim we mined your territory. Where's the evidence?"
"Of course we have proof—the vessel itself," Boling said, displaying a satellite image pinpointing a Federation-flagged mining ship's coordinates. Gongzhili glared. "That's a neutral zone! How is it Imperial territory?"
Unfazed, Boling produced a document archived a century ago. "Our exploratory fleet first charted that star system, planting our flag on that planet. Per Imperial law, we claimed sovereignty—it's unequivocally our territory."
Gongzhili's face flushed, then paled.
A century ago? The Federation's Titan-class ships didn't exist then; they were still battling star-bugs in their backyard. Gongzhili's great-grandfather was likely playing in the dirt.
Shameless Imperials!
"How would we know your borders or so-called 'claim laws'?" Gongzhili growled. "By your logic, if we saw the sun first, do we own it?"
"Can you plant a flag on the sun?" Boling said dismissively. "You may twist our laws, but we'll view it as contempt and provocation."
Gongzhili fell silent.
"Now, shall we discuss extradition?" Boling probed. "Releasing your personnel and vessel is no issue, provided you offer terms in exchange. Reasonable, no?"
A hint at prisoner swaps.
Gongzhili stared, his furrowed brow carved deep. "That's beyond my authority."
"As Foreign Minister, you should first approach our Diplomatic Affairs Committee to propose new terms. I neither handle diplomacy nor judicial matters—I'm not the one to fulfill your expectations."
Boling's smile faded completely.
The talks had collapsed.
With no point in threats or bait, Boling ended the call and sent an urgent signal to another.
His target was Weili, the Empire's Privy Council President and parliamentary leader, a titan at the heart of Aresian power. A mere gesture from him could shake the Empire.
More crucially, Weili was close to the Emperor. As Prince, the Emperor had relied on Weili as his chief minister, relaying all decisions. As Privy Council President, Weili's influence grew, refining imperial decrees and occasionally shaping policy.
It was daytime in the Federation, but midnight in the Empire's capital, Tianshu Star. Yet Weili answered Boling's call promptly.
Weili appeared via 3D projection, his demeanor calm and scholarly, belying his immense power. His pale, slender fingers scrolled through a holo-display, processing documents. A decorative stand held a wooden bird perch, where a fluffy white snow owl stood, wings tucked, eyes half-closed, swaying as if on the verge of sleep.
"How fare the peace talks?" Weili asked, assuming Boling's call signaled a hitch.
Boling shook his head. "Mr. President, this concerns another matter. You've served His Majesty for years, intimately familiar with the royal bloodline. Beyond His Majesty, how many noble houses with imperial lineage remain?"
"Few," Weili said, rubbing his brow with a sigh. "Why ask?"
Boling sent Baisha's file without preamble.
Weili opened it, his expression shifting from mild fatigue to doubt and caution. "Where did you get this?"
"From Federation hands," Boling replied.
"No question, this girl's features mark her as imperial nobility, closely tied to His Majesty's bloodline," Weili said, stroking his jaw, frowning. "If her resemblance is mere coincidence… what's her mental entity?"
In the Empire, mental entities carried hereditary traits. The royal line was extinct save for the Emperor, who, aging and childless, showed no intent to marry. In a century, the throne might pass to distant noble houses, their royal traits diluted through generations. A child so akin to the Emperor was unprecedented.
Had a noble house suddenly reverted to ancestral traits?
"Coincidentally, she has no mental entity," Boling said gravely. "Hence my question—could she be His Majesty's…"
Boling wondered if she was the Emperor's secret offspring, but dismissed the notion, prompting his call to Weili.
"She cannot be His Majesty's child," Weili declared flatly.
"Then which noble house would abandon a heir to the Federation?" Boling pressed.
Weili paused, a flash of disbelief crossing his deep brown eyes.
"…I must see His Majesty at once."
"And the girl? The Federation is interrogating her," Boling said.
Weili stood, donning a coat from his desk, and scribbled on his holo-device. A signed imperial writ materialized in Boling's hands, granting him authority to mobilize the Tianxuan Fleet in the Federation.
"Bring her back at all costs. You're no warrior—let Jilun handle it."
"Be swift. Ensure she suffers no further harm."
Weili's words were blunt: if the Federation resists, strike with the fleet.
Jilun, stunned, marveled at Weili's writ—a testament to the Emperor's trust—and his resolve to retrieve Baisha, even at the cost of war.
No one would believe she's not the Emperor's secret daughter.
If Baisha truly shared such close blood with the Emperor, childless as he was, she could be the future heir.
Even a sliver of possibility compelled Boling and his team to risk everything.
Boling exhaled deeply, passing the writ to Jilun, who acknowledged it after a brief pause. "Order received."
Gazing at Capital Star's bustling streets, Boling felt a pang of irony. This might be his most disastrous diplomatic mission—intended to broker peace, he might instead ignite conflict.
"Xihe Fleet, heed my command," he said, his golden-bellied lark soaring, wings beating furiously. "Activate stealth shields, depart Capital Star's spaceport, and advance to Black Reef Star." He paused. "Force a landing. Destroy the Federation's 'Dark Prison.'"
"Rescue our captive kin."
Black Reef Star, Dark Prison.
Baisha remained bound in her restraint suit, confined in a sealed black chamber. No air stirred; only a sharp, piercing high-frequency tone echoed relentlessly in her ears. Initially, it was merely irritating, bearable through gritted teeth. But hours of torment morphed the sound into a chaotic noise, harmonizing with the vibrations, drilling into her eardrums like a chisel.
A headache surged, plunging her into a daze. She teetered on the edge of life and death, her body and soul in a torturous tug-of-war.
Closing her eyes, she longed to faint, but consciousness clung stubbornly. In the darkness, vibrant, flickering colors appeared. Instinctively, she glanced at them, only to recoil in horror.
A grotesque, translucent brain materialized, woven from countless orderly pipelines, radiant with flowing rainbow hues.
Thump, thump.
Her heartbeat pounded audibly.
The brain pulsed in sync, its edges twisting, swelling, and blurring in the dark, morphing into bizarre shapes that rushed toward her.
Her instincts screamed danger. Every cell in her body sounded the alarm. Her exhausted mental strength surged like boiling water, radiating outward, tracing unseen lines, and swiftly coalescing…
Outside the chamber, observers witnessed the spectacle:
The girl, eyes shut, consciousness hypnotized, was entwined by sticky threads from The Hub. Its dazzling lights bore down on her mind—then, a glimmer of fluorescence erupted around her. A massive wing materialized in the void, shimmering with gem-like blues, a sudden burst of fireworks illuminating her darkened confines.
The wing swept, unleashing a tempest that shattered the vibrant illusions.
It then drooped gently, curling protectively near her face, as if in tender embrace.
Baisha's expression softened, serene.
The prison's wardens, awestruck by the divine yet eerie sight, held their breath, only stirring after a long pause.
"A true Imperial," one whispered. "Is that part of her mental entity? It's so…"
Majestic, beautiful, powerful—a myth incarnate.
"Even The Hub failed," a researcher muttered, checking The Hub's metrics, frowning. "Her mental defenses held. But something's off—her strength is immense, yet The Hub's assault underperformed."
"Not enough operators?"
"There are two double S-grades among the officers. That should suffice. Unless their mental strengths clashed, failing to merge fully—a possibility. Our mental evolution outpaces The Hub, an outdated relic. It may not sync with modern mentalities…"
A shout broke the analysis. "Alert! She's awake!"
The bound girl turned her head, her gaze piercing the lab's metal walls, her deep blue eyes brewing a violent storm.
In an unconscious counterattack, her mental strength formed razor-sharp wings. A fierce mental assault sliced through the walls, as effortless as a letter opener through paper.
Collapsing structures echoed, and the prison's red alarms blared—a first since its construction.
Nearby soldiers fled. A brush with those wings or their rippling mental energy could render them unconscious.
This Imperial's mental strength had gone berserk!
What had they done? Forced her entity to manifest, unleashing chaos?
Who proposed activating The Hub—a "genius" idea?
Bitterly, they escaped the lab, only to collide with panicked soldiers outside. Some hauled weapons, others dragged prisoners to hovercars' trunks. The defense commander, face grim, waved a signal baton, barking orders:
"Combat units, stay and engage! Everyone else, to the jump station!"
The lab escapees, dazed, glanced upward.
The sky remained gray, storms raging, clouds churning endlessly.
Massive warships breached the clouds like steel whales, emerging silently from the tempest.
Meteor-like barrages targeted the jump station. Black smoke billowed skyward.
The Imperial fleet!
The Empire had come to raze them.