The Imperial Medical Academy was a crucible under siege. The race to harness starphage worms against the Nergal virus had drawn the Empire's finest minds—virologists, biologists, geneticists—into a single, relentless taskforce. Their makeshift headquarters buzzed with the hum of analyzers, the soft glow of holo-screens, and the sharp scent of antiseptic mingling with the faint metallic tang of experimental compounds. The pressure was palpable, a weight that pressed against every researcher's shoulders as they grappled with the virus's insidious grip on the Empire's future.
Previously, starphage worm samples were scarce, a rare commodity rationed among the elite. Now, a breakthrough had changed the game: safe propagation methods ensured a steady supply, banishing the specter of scarcity. The labs teemed with activity, petri dishes and bioreactors humming as scientists cultivated the worms, their iridescent forms writhing under microscopes like living jewels.
With the Greiz clan's reluctant consent, researchers had examined Salmer Greiz's remains, seeking the secret of his survival. The answer was as awe-inspiring as it was grim: Salmer had endured through sheer talent and indomitable mental fortitude, his body a battleground where worms and virus waged a delicate stalemate. By shunning mech piloting, minimizing psychic exertion, and living in near-isolation, he'd staved off the virus's madness, clinging to life until his final act of defiance. His existence was a testament to human resilience—and a warning of its limits.
"Using Salmer's case as a model, we can produce a virus suppressant tailored to individual patients," a lead researcher reported to Emperor Cecil Ronin, his voice steady despite the gravity of his words. "Administered promptly, it could awaken the comatose students. With precise calibration, side effects should be minimal—no risk of the worms consuming flesh. However, the outcome mirrors Salmer's: no mech piloting, minimal psychic activity, and strict emotional regulation to maintain physical stability."
For ordinary citizens, losing psychic ability was a hardship but not a death sentence. For military academy students—elite cadets trained for the Empire's frontlines—it was career-ending. Some might pivot to fleet logistics or command roles, but the loss of their psychic edge would haunt them, a shadow cast over their futures and their families' pride.
Cecil, engrossed in state documents, didn't look up, his pen moving with mechanical precision. "Is there room for improvement?"
"Yes," the researcher said, presenting a data slate. "The suppressant can be refined, and we've identified a new avenue: a preventive agent. While the suppressant delays the virus's progression, the preventive could shield mental integrity before infection takes hold. The principles are similar, but prevention minimizes psychic damage." He hesitated, his tone tinged with regret. "For the comatose students, however, time is critical. They may not survive until the next-generation suppressant is ready."
The room fell silent, the weight of the choice settling like dust. The Academy had a solution, imperfect but immediate. Yet hesitation lingered, rooted in the cost to the students' futures. Without the Emperor's approval, no one dared act.
After five seconds, Cecil spoke, his voice resolute. "Wake them up."
The researcher exhaled, relief warring with sorrow. "Yes, Majesty."
The decision was brutal but necessary. These students were the Empire's best, their loss a blow to countless families. Yet the Empire's military machine would endure, and Cecil's authority ensured reparations—scholarships, reassignments, or pensions—would soften the sting. The Academy could now proceed unburdened, their focus sharpened by the Emperor's command.
The researcher bowed, turning to leave, when his wrist optic flashed. He glanced at the message, froze, then whirled back, eyes wide with disbelief. "Majesty, the students—they're waking up!"
Cecil's pen paused. "What?"
"It's the Crown Prince," the researcher said, his voice trembling with excitement. "She visited the ward, activated her 'resonance.' The comatose students are regaining consciousness!"
Cecil's expression flickered, surprise breaking through his stoic mask. "The Ronin resonance… has this effect?"
"It's a miracle," the researcher said, his enthusiasm faltering as another message arrived. His face paled, words stalling like a jammed weapon.
"What now?" Cecil demanded.
"The virus—it's gone from their systems," the researcher said, his voice hollow with confusion. "Completely vanished."
Cecil's eyes narrowed. Viruses didn't vanish. If the Ronin resonance could erase the Nergal virus, the Nexus's elaborate schemes—its centuries of manipulation—would be futile. The virus didn't disappear; it relocated.
Cecil drew a sharp breath. "Where's Bai Sha? How is she?"
The researcher hesitated, the unspoken fear now voiced. "She… collapsed. She's unconscious."
At the Imperial Medical Academy's hospital wing, chaos reigned. Bai Sha's sudden, sweeping resonance had rippled through the ward, a psychic tide that ensnared doctors and researchers alike. When the silver-blue xuanbird of her psychic familiar soared past their minds' eye, none could resist its call, their own psychic senses drawn into the maelstrom. Fortunately, the Academy's automated systems—sleek machines whirring with precision—maintained patient care, unfazed by the staff's momentary lapse.
As the resonance faded, the monitors erupted in a cacophony of alerts. The comatose students were waking, their vitals surging back to life. Medics scrambled, running diagnostics that yielded astonishing results: the virus had vanished, leaving no trace in their systems.
Then they found Bai Sha.
She lay on an empty bed, hands folded over her abdomen, her face serene yet eerily content, as if savoring a forbidden feast. The staff descended into frantic action, whisking her into a battery of tests. Some abandoned their posts, prioritizing the Crown Prince—not out of favoritism, but from a dawning realization: Bai Sha had done something extraordinary to save the students. A virologist, running her scans, choked back tears, her eyes red as Bai Sha was slid into a massive white scanner, its hum filling the room like a dirge.
Cen Haiyun arrived, pushing a wheelchair-bound Cen Yuehuai, who was sobbing uncontrollably, her gasps punctuated by coughs. "Your Highness… w-wahh… cough…" Her cries threatened to overwhelm her fragile recovery.
Ya Ning and Jingyi, who'd accompanied Bai Sha, rushed to the scene upon hearing of her collapse. Jingyi, swallowing a curse, turned to Haiyun. "Can you take her back to her room?"
Haiyun nodded, already steering Yuehuai away.
"Don't touch me! I'll go myself!" Yuehuai hiccupped, forcing her tears back. She guided her wheelchair to a corridor corner, muttering, "I'm waiting for Her Highness to wake up."
Haiyun, donning isolation gear, addressed the staff. "I'll assist. I've monitored Her Highness's psychic development before." Her role in Bai Sha's health oversight granted her access to the testing chamber.
The scans dragged on for forty minutes—ten longer than standard, signaling repeated checks and re-evaluations. The delay gnawed at those waiting outside, their anxiety mounting.
Then Emperor Cecil arrived, his entourage filling the corridor like a stormcloud. His cold glare dispersed the lingering onlookers, though news of Bai Sha's collapse spread like wildfire among the clans. Many sought to visit, offering concern, but Cecil rebuffed them with icy finality.
An hour later, the testing chamber's doors opened. Exhausted medics and researchers emerged, Haiyun among them. She removed her mask, her expression a mix of unease and relief, her face oddly unreadable.
"Her Highness is not infected," Haiyun announced. "She's overexerted her psychic energy and needs rest."
A collective sigh rippled through the room, tension easing. Cecil, with a subtle gesture, cleared the area of non-essentials, leaving only Bai Sha's closest allies—Haiyun, Yuehuai, Ya Ning, and Jingyi.
The move tightened Jingyi's nerves. Clearing the room meant Haiyun had more to say, and her vague "rest" explanation dodged critical questions. Was Bai Sha awake? If not, how long would she sleep? Would her mind suffer?
When the crowd thinned, Haiyun dropped her facade, sighing. "She's fine, truly. She… absorbed too much psychic energy. Her body's struggling to process it."
Silence. Then confusion.
"Absorbed too much?" Ya Ning's eyes widened. "Sha can consume others' psychic energy? That's—"
"She's overstuffed," Haiyun said, nodding. "Rest will fix it."
A faint psychic shimmer flickered at the door. A plump, white bird—Bai Sha's familiar, Little White Chirp—tumbled from a spatial rift, flailing like a drunkard. Jingyi reached to catch it, but it flapped valiantly, only to crash into Cecil's arms. Its black, bead-like eyes gazed up, pitiful.
Cecil snorted. "You caused this mess. Expect me to fix it?"
"Chirp," it squeaked.
"Serves you right," Cecil said.
"Chirp chirp."
"Don't play the victim. You're not a fledgling anymore." Despite his words, Cecil's hand moved, gently rubbing the bird's swollen belly to aid its "digestion."
Ya Ning gaped. "That's… the solution?"
"Maybe," Haiyun said, uncertain. "No one's seen this before. This interaction might not help physically, but it could comfort her psychologically."
Ya Ning's eyes lingered on the fluffy bird, temptation flickering. "Uh, Majesty, when you're tired, can I try?"
Cecil's glare was a dagger, freezing Ya Ning in place.
Yuehuai wheeled over, whispering, "Our psychic familiars aren't for casual touching…"
"But Sha's always petting Kaixin's familiar," Ya Ning muttered.
Cecil's hand stilled, his voice cool. "Oh, is that so?"
Little White Chirp's eyes snapped shut, feigning death.
When Bai Sha awoke, the sky outside was a deep indigo, stars glinting faintly. Her body felt warm, as if steeped in a hot spring, her limbs pleasantly heavy. Her psychic energy thrummed, vibrant and restless, but… where was her familiar?
She turned, spotting Cecil on a sofa by her bed, cradling a snoring, rotund Little White Chirp.
"Evening, Uncle," she said, her voice soft.
"Evening," Cecil replied, his gaze calm yet laced with an oppressive edge.
"Destroy your old optic," he said. "No more Nexus contact."
"Already did," Bai Sha said. Since returning from the Federation, she'd known her old optic was compromised. She'd bought a new one, keeping the old—specially treated—for Nexus communications. After extracting Salmer's location, she'd discarded it.
Without its core, the Nexus was a ghost, drifting through networks, unable to control physical systems or humans directly—unless they succumbed to its whispers.
"You mishandled this," Cecil said evenly. "How will you explain your devouring talent?"
"Is it a Sea Kind trait?" Bai Sha asked.
"No," Cecil said, shaking his head. "Sea Kind talents lean toward healing, soothing turbulent psychic energy. Rare, powerful ones can manipulate others' minds, similar to our resonance, but distinct."
"Then it's unique to me," Bai Sha said, flopping back on her pillow. "I'll say it's a genetic mutation."
"Fool," Cecil said. "An Emperor who devours psychic energy? You'll be branded a tyrant. They'll fear you, guard against you. You could've woken them gradually or waited for the Academy's new suppressant to mask your actions. But you couldn't wait."
Bai Sha bit her lip, silent.
"I've announced you're recovering from severe psychic strain after absorbing the virus to save them," Cecil said. "Stay out of sight for now."
That suited her. "Fine."
"As for your stasis pod," Cecil continued, "you landed on Lanslow in one, but our agents scoured the planet's scrapyards and found nothing. Sea Kind tech is distinctive—scavengers, governments, or black-market collectors would've claimed it. Yet there's no trace."
"So… it might still be on Lanslow?" Bai Sha mused. "Sea Kind craft are stealthier than ours."
"Possibly," Cecil said, but his tone hardened. "You stirred chaos on Xiao Yang with mercenaries and our fleet. The Federation's tightened border security. Slipping in like before is impossible."
"I'm an idiot," Bai Sha said, smacking her forehead. "I lived on Lanslow for years and never checked where Holman found me."
Most orphans would've, driven by curiosity. But Bai Sha's early memories were of her past life, not this one. Whether she was an abandoned child or a lost noble, she hadn't cared—until Lone Light fragments surfaced.
"You could go openly," Cecil said, thoughtful. "Tensions with the Federation are high, not yet at war, but both sides fear escalation. We could propose a peace summit, which they'd be hard-pressed to refuse publicly. Host it on Lanslow."
Lanslow was ideal. A summit would involve military escorts, ruling out bustling or barren planets. Lanslow, a mid-tier world, was perfect—familiar to Bai Sha, her "second home," lending an emotional edge to soften negotiations.
The summit was set in motion, with diplomats tasked to arrange it. Bai Sha, under "recovery," was confined to Youdu Star. After visiting her awakened classmates, she turned to her laboratory, checking her pet project's progress.
Her new material, developed with Zhou Ying, was nearly complete upon her return from Xiao Yang. Now, dubbed "Glimmergold," it was being integrated into mech and weapon forging. While Glimmergold mechs were embryonic, weapons showed promise.
Glimmergold's low mass fraction yielded extraordinary effects, particularly against starphage worms, its blades gleaming with golden sparks when psychically charged. Crucially, these weapons bonded with their wielder's psychic energy, extending sensory reach beyond mechs. In combat, soldiers could levitate Glimmergold weapons briefly, manipulating them like extensions of their will, enhancing mobility and tactics.
Prototype weapons—swords, knives, spears—were ready. Bai Sha had invited Ya Ning and Jingyi to test them. Ya Ning, wielding a curved dagger, was ecstatic, its blade spinning through the air. "Can I have another?" he'd asked, eyes gleaming, before mastering dual-wielded knives.
From the training field's observation deck, Bai Sha recorded data through blast-proof glass. "How's it feel?"
Ya Ning's voice crackled over the comm, brimming with thrill. "I'm dying of coolness! It's intuitive, too."
Existing psychic weapons paled beside Glimmergold's prowess. Jingyi, watching, asked, "When will you roll these out? They'll make a fortune."
Glimmergold wasn't revolutionary enough to upend mech warfare but sat between "classified tech" and "mass-market innovation." If not reserved for the throne, it could spawn an industry, catapulting Bai Sha into wealth and influence.
"Haven't decided," Bai Sha said, tucking her slate under her arm. "I'll think about it once Glimmergold mechs are solid."
Her ambition was grander: a legendary mech, born from material innovation. But Glimmergold mech development lagged, slower than she'd hoped. She considered recruiting more minds to her lab.
Two weeks later, as she debated outfitting her mech with Glimmergold weapons, the Lanslow summit was finalized. Bai Sha was invited as a guest of honor.
The news arrived via optic, a terse message from Zhou Ying: Summit confirmed. Lanslow, one month. You're expected. Bai Sha stood in her lab, the air humming with the soft whir of fabricators shaping Glimmergold prototypes. Her fingers traced a dagger's hilt, its surface cool and faintly luminous. Lanslow—her old home, where she'd scraped by under Holman's gruff care. The thought of returning, not as a fugitive but as Crown Prince, stirred a strange mix of nostalgia and unease.
She messaged Ya Ning and Jingyi, summoning them to the lab. They arrived, shedding their covert cloaks, their faces bright with curiosity. "What's up?" Jingyi asked, eyeing a rack of Glimmergold spears.
"Lanslow," Bai Sha said. "I'm going for a peace summit. Might dig into my stasis pod's trail. Want in?"
Ya Ning frowned. "The Federation's on edge after Xiao Yang. Won't it be risky?"
"Diplomacy's my shield," Bai Sha said, grinning. "They won't touch me publicly. Besides, Lanslow's my turf—I know its underbelly."
Jingyi crossed her arms. "You're hunting the Lone Light, aren't you? That pod's your only lead."
Bai Sha nodded. "If it's there, it's Sea Kind tech. Could point to the Lone Light's path—or confirm it's Nexus-controlled."
"I'm in," Ya Ning said. "But we'll need backup. Federation spies will be crawling."
"Kaixin's coming," Bai Sha said. "He's leading the Greiz delegation for the Tomb prep but wants in on this. Zhou Ying's assigning fleet escorts, too."
Jingyi smirked. "Big party. What's the plan if you find the pod?"
"Analyze it," Bai Sha said. "Sea Kind tech logs everything—flight paths, origins. If it's intact, we'll have a map to the Lone Light. If not… we'll still learn something."
The lab's fabricator pinged, ejecting a freshly forged Glimmergold sword. Bai Sha lifted it, its blade catching the light in a cascade of golden motes. "These might come in handy," she said, her voice low. "The Nexus has agents everywhere. We can't trust the Federation to play nice."
Ya Ning tested a spear, twirling it with ease. "These weapons… they're game-changers. You sure about bringing them to Lanslow?"
"Not deploying them," Bai Sha said. "Just a precaution. The summit's a stage, not a battlefield."
Her optic buzzed again: Kaixin. Greiz team ready. Tomb trials progressing—worms viable but unstable. Lanslow details?
She replied: Meet me tomorrow. Summit's a cover; pod's the goal. Bring your A-game.
As night fell over Youdu, Bai Sha stood by her lab's viewport, the city's violet glow reflecting in her eyes. Lanslow loomed, a bridge to her past and a key to the Nexus's defeat. The Glimmergold blade rested on her desk, its faint shimmer a promise of power—and peril. The Nexus watched, its whispers faint but persistent. Bai Sha's resolve hardened. She'd find the Lone Light, tear down the Nexus, and protect her people—or burn out trying.