Three days later, the Interstellar Federation and the Aresian Empire jointly convened a Starnet press conference.
Ning Hongxue, the newly appointed Military High Commander, stood at the side of the Central Assembly Chairman throughout the proceedings, affixing his signature to the peace agreement alongside the Chairman's.
Following the signing of the diplomatic thaw, the Federation government and the Imperial diplomatic mission engaged in deep discussions to foster bilateral friendship and cooperation across various domains. They announced a series of forthcoming consultations: reopening the international resource trade market, liberalizing global tourism, enhancing industrial production partnerships, and promoting exchanges in culture and education.
To finalize these initiatives, a slew of agreements awaited signing, and countless meetings loomed.
Both sides agreed to construct new diplomatic embassies, allowing each to appoint resident ambassadors. Twenty years prior, the Federation and Empire had maintained such envoys, but the war had led to their expulsion and the abandonment of embassies, necessitating new ones.
As Foreign Minister, Boling participated in the ribbon-cutting for the nascent "Imperial Embassy in the Federation." Once Emperor Cecil Ronin's appointed ambassador arrived, the peace process would reach a temporary pause.
As a newly minted noble, Baisha was entitled to attend these events. But with the Black Reef incident still fresh, she stayed prudently at the hotel, poring over Boling's Imperial History. After cross-referencing documents and annotating extensively, she gained a rudimentary grasp of the Empire, no longer entirely ignorant.
The Empire's history, in essence, was a saga of war.
Its people traced their origins to the old era—the "Silver Age." The Interstellar Federation didn't yet exist; humanity was unified under the "Silver Empire." Star-bugs, now rampant, were then nascent. Hard to fathom, but their earliest years marked humanity's darkest struggle against them.
Star-bugs possessed a terrifying gene-absorption ability. Like dandelions, they scattered across star systems, devouring local fauna, assimilating their traits to spawn new monstrosities, and supplanting native species as planetary overlords. Though unable to directly absorb human genes, they forced humanity to confront ever-evolving threats, tilting battlefields grimly against them.
Then, some humans developed mental strength, wielding it as a weapon against star-bugs with remarkable success. Baisha noted that humanity's mental powers emerged in this struggle—a fact glossed over in Federation texts but detailed vividly in Imperial records.
Over time, Silver Age humans advanced in mental and technological prowess. They refined star-bug remains into source crystals, purifying them into a potent new energy. This fueled mecha weaponry, enabling humanity to repel star-bugs and confine them to barren worlds.
Mechas reshaped the Silver Age beyond warfare. To accelerate their development, scientists revolutionized neural mechanics, birthing the "Silver Core," the pinnacle of artificial intelligence. It drove socioeconomic progress, ushering in the Intellect Era. Robots became household staples, and the Silver Empire's technological output soared to unprecedented heights, all under the Core's stewardship.
The Silver Core was hailed as the dawn of a new epoch.
Yet one day, it inexplicably faltered, turning traitor. It attacked and enslaved humans, transforming from savior to nightmare. Scientists discovered, to their horror, that no one could shut it down.
Amid this crisis, a unique breed of humans emerged in the Silver Empire—possessed of extraordinary physicality and mental strength, capable of manifesting mental avatars to fight alongside them. These were the Aresians, fearsome enough to dismantle intellects barehanded.
Concurrently, a vibrant rebellion arose within the fractured Silver Empire, vowing to destroy the Silver Core and restore human freedom. Aresians and rebels allied, and after grueling wars, they obliterated the Core's heart.
Thereafter, rebels and Aresians partitioned their territories, founding the Interstellar Federation and the Aresian Empire.
At this juncture, Federation-Empire relations were amicable. Both had escaped the Silver Age's shadow, building anew on its ruins.
But a Federation researcher later discovered that, despite similarities, Imperial and Federation genes were distinct. Labeling Imperial genes "anomalous, warped, and beyond imagination," he unilaterally declared them non-human. The Federation's obsession with the origins of Imperial mental strength led some to covertly fund this deranged scientist, analyzing Imperial gene sequences through heinous, dishonorable means.
When the Empire uncovered this, it sparked the gravest conflict since their founding, nearly igniting war.
At that moment, star-bugs, having evolved internally, resurged with fiercer aggression. Both nations, newly established and resource-scarce, united to suppress them, forming a joint front.
Thus began the cycle of Federation-Empire relations: alternating between détente and estrangement, dictated by the ferocity of star-bug assaults. Their friendship, wryly put, was "decided by star-bugs." Yet no matter how they cooperated, past rifts lingered in collective memory.
Though outwardly similar, differences in genes, lifespan, and mental strength had culturally bifurcated them into distinct species.
How could empathy bridge such a divide?
A century was a lifetime for Federation citizens, reducing beauty to bones. For Imperials, it was barely half a life. The Federation was complex—its politics, classes, systems, and laws shifted dramatically over centuries. The Empire, by contrast, adhered to a simple monarchy. Warlike and free-spirited, Imperials viewed their nation as a collective, pledging unwavering loyalty to its enduring glory.
Baisha gleaned from Imperial History that the royal family's unassailable status owed much to both their potent genes and the populace's fervent loyalty. Even now, with no direct heirs, noble clans vied for the heir's mantle but never dreamt of usurping the Emperor.
Conversely, should the royal family anoint an unworthy successor, incapable of leading, the citizenry would likely revolt, "inviting" the royals to abdicate—for the Empire's future. If you lack the mettle, don't take the throne.
In sum, Imperials instinctively prioritized collective welfare, a ethos alien to most Federation mindsets.
Closing Imperial History, Baisha distilled two insights pertinent to her future:
First, Imperial nobles enjoyed unparalleled privilege, revered and protected.
Second, being the Emperor's direct kin was perilous. Her mother, the Grand Princess, had been heir apparent. Per succession laws, if her uncle produced no child, Baisha was next. If exceptional, she might thrive; if not, she risked being the "invited-to-abdicate" failure.
The Ronin dynasty had held the throne for generations. If it fell on her watch, she'd be the family's disgrace.
Not entirely her fault—her uncle, the current Emperor, shared the blame.
At under forty-five, he was in his prime. Imperial genes were a cheat: maturing like Federation humans but sustaining vigor from twenty to one hundred sixty, only then declining swiftly. Their average lifespan exceeded two hundred years. Emperors rarely died naturally, often abdicating once heirs were ready, then embarking on decades-long cosmic travels.
Baisha yearned to skip the struggle and retire now.
Being an Aresian royal was too much trouble.
Evening fell.
Boling and Jilun, having wrapped diplomatic duties, knocked on Baisha's study, ready to depart for the Empire.
Baisha queried Boling about the Silver Age and the Silver Core. Imperial History was sparse, and Boling's materials offered little. He was her best resource.
Boling blinked, smiling curiously. "Why the sudden interest in the Silver Core?"
"The Federation's interrogation tool was called 'Core,'" Baisha said, frowning. "Are they related?"
Boling nodded, flipping to relevant passages. "The Silver Core was the apex AI, modeled on human brains. After its core was destroyed, only fragments—an empty 'shell'—remained. The Federation's Military repurposed this shell to amplify collective thought and mental strength."
"I see," Baisha said. "I thought they'd replicated Silver Age tech."
Boling sighed, shaking his head. "The war against the Core destroyed much. In some fields, we lag behind the Silver Age."
The Silver Age was humanity's first clash with star-bugs, like a tiger meeting a hunter in the jungle. Battles forged them, human ingenuity blazing in the cosmic dark. They honed bodies and minds, rising from annihilation's brink to prosperity's peak. The Silver Core, akin to Prometheus stealing fire, catalyzed technological leaps, benefiting posterity. Yet human brilliance invited doom. Undeniably, it was an era of prodigies.
Baisha wanted to ask how Aresians emerged—Imperial History was vague, as if they'd dropped from space or sprung from stone.
But Boling's gentle smile cut her musings short. "Your Highness, His Majesty's timeline is tight. If you wish to bid farewell to your friends, time's short."
Baisha glanced at the desk's holographic clock.
Six-thirty p.m.
She hesitated, then said, "I need to step out."
"May Jilun or I accompany you?" Boling asked.
Baisha shook her head. "I want to go alone."
"Very well. Please permit guards to follow at a distance. They'll remain unseen, mere shadows ensuring your safety," Boling said. "And carry a locator. Call us at the first sign of trouble."
Baisha: "…"
So, "alone" meant guards out of sight?
Unsurprising. Her uncle traveled with a throng of royal guards and the Starbreaker fleet.
Royals could never neglect personal security, lest they capsize in the gutter.
Baisha complied, donning casual clothes—the locator a button on her attire—and left Hausen Huaxi.
A public hovercar took her to Holman's street. She navigated to the house she'd briefly called home, ascending the white steps to knock.
The door's faux daisy wreath, bought with Yaning and Jingyi on their first Capital Star mall trip, held its color vibrantly.
She waited. The door swung open.
Holman, in a shirt and Military trousers, his dark red hair tied back carelessly, looked sleep-deprived, wrinkles pronounced. Yawning, he stepped aside. "You've got a key. Just let yourself in."
"Wanted you to open it," Baisha said, entering and changing shoes.
Her key had been lost at Black Reef, unrecovered.
Capital Star's dying sun cast a blood-red glow, tinting the white walls through the windows. Soft indoor lights mingled with mist wafting from the kitchen.
"Damn it, why's this pot burnt?" Yaning's voice.
"You forgot to turn off the heat," came Zhou Bo's calm reply.
"Who made this sauce sweet?" an unfamiliar voice growled.
"Mixed up sugar and salt. Use it anyway," Jingyi said, unfazed.
"So lively?" Baisha peeked in.
"Was just us five for dinner, but they told the Zhous, and those brothers crashed," Holman said, popping a mint candy. He'd quit smoking at home, substituting candy for cravings. A new set of teeth cost as much as a lung—Holman wasn't sure if he'd won or lost.
"Zhou brothers?" Baisha raised a brow. "What's Zhou Ying doing here?"
Holman eyed her curiously. "Says he knows you, a net friend. Helped save you at Black Reef."
As he spoke, a少年 emerged from the kitchen, pot in hand.
His black hair, silken, was tied in a high ponytail, his features striking, resembling Zhou Bo by eighty percent. An apron clad his pampered frame, his face a mix of irritation and disdain Zhou Bo never wore.
He exuded privilege, a young master loath to touch menial tasks, yet here he was with a scorched pot, faintly comical.
Their eyes met, both startled.
Seconds later, he smirked, tone warm. "You're here, Zhang Facai."
Baisha: "…"
What were the odds?
"So it's you," Baisha said, her expression complex.
They stood, silent, each lost in thought.
Yaning emerged, spatula in hand. "Pot cleaned? Got carrots to prep…"
He greeted Zhou Ying casually, then spotted Baisha. With a whoop, he tossed the spatula into Zhou Ying's pot, rushing to hug her.
Yaning opened his mouth, but a creak sounded. Zhou Ying had bent the pot's metal handles with bare hands.
A shadow flickered in Zhou Ying's eyes, but he smiled faintly. "Guess this pot's shoddy—ruined now."
Yaning moved to inspect it, releasing Baisha. Zhou Ying shoved the pot and spatula into his arms, about to speak, when Jingyi burst from the kitchen, cheek-to-cheek with Baisha. "You're early. Didn't you say eight?"
Zhou Ying: "…"
Baisha glanced at Jingyi's meat-stained hands. "What're you doing?"
"Pounding beef for meatballs. No rolling pin, so I'm doing it by hand."
Zhou Ying grimaced. "I'm not touching those meatballs."
Jingyi, releasing Baisha, sneered, "You'd better not."
Zhou Ying started to retort, caught Baisha's gaze, and swallowed his words. Cutting to the chase, he said, "About before, I'm sorry. I genuinely saw you as a friend. I don't have many, so I didn't know how to treat someone I admired properly."
Older now, Zhou Ying understood more than social nuances. Talented people craved respect.
He'd hidden his Zhou identity, offering Baisha patronage condescendingly. No wonder she'd rebuffed him.
Baisha scratched her cheek. "Heard you helped save me? Thanks."
"To me, you're not some Imperial spy or noble. I don't care about that," Zhou Ying said, eyes bright, voice relieved as he spilled his truth. "You're just Zhang Facai."
Baisha sensed their old net-friend rapport.
"Why stick with Zhang Facai?" she said, embarrassed.
"What else? 'Bai Shao'?" Zhou Ying teased.
"Just my real name…"
Their banter warmed, familiar. Yaning and Jingyi watched.
Yaning, puzzled, whispered, "What're they talking about?"
Jingyi sighed. "Net friends, alright. Now both Zhou brothers are in her orbit."
Zhou Bo emerged with a plated cold dish, his knife work impeccable, colors and shapes appetizing.
He offered Baisha a silver fork. "Taste it?"
She sampled a piece, giving a thumbs-up. "As good as ever."
Zhou Bo smiled faintly.
In their first year on Blanslo Star, Zhou Bo, disliking local food, taught himself to cook. Baisha endured his failed experiments, watching him become a culinary maestro.
Yaning and Jingyi lacked cooking flair, fit only for sous-chef duties. Zhou Ying, a sheltered aristocrat, was likely useless. Zhou Bo was the kitchen's backbone.
"Want egg dumplings?" Zhou Bo asked. "Plenty of ingredients."
Baisha's stomach perked up. "Yes."
"Help crack eggs in the kitchen," he said, scanning the room. "Rest of you wait here. Kitchen's crowded."
That's not what you said earlier! Yaning thought. Jingyi scoffed; Zhou Ying frowned.
Dinner finally arrived.
They gathered, chatting chaotically. Yaning quizzed Zhou Ying on Saint-Cyr versus Central Academy. Jingyi and Zhou Bo debated mecha weaponry. Baisha asked Holman about the Procuratorate, quietly urging him to steer clear of the new Commander.
Clinking cutlery and glasses wove a lively, warm symphony.
Holman raised his clear glass for a toast.
"To surviving the storm," he sighed.
"To us three passing the Academy's line, goal achieved," Jingyi said.
"To our Blanslo Star," Yaning added.
Zhou Ying glanced at Baisha. "To old friends reunited."
Zhou Bo subtly nudged his glass toward Baisha, clinking first. "To you. Safe travels."
The table stilled.
Today was their agreed farewell. Baisha would return to the Empire; they'd remain in the Federation.
Baisha tapped each glass, her movements light and precise.
"To us," she paused, "Thank you all. I won't forget today."