The Aresian Empire's proposal for a peace summit caught the Federation off guard, a bolt from the blue that upended the calculations of its hawkish factions. The Empire's reputation was one of unyielding strength, its actions swift and resolute, its pride a shield rarely lowered. For them to initiate talks—ostensibly to quell rumors of impending war—was a move as surprising as it was strategic. The sincerity of their overture, delivered with a disarming candor, left figures like Ning Hongxue, leader of the Federation's war-mongering clique, scrambling to respond.
Recent events had primed the Federation for conflict. The joint military exercise's catastrophic mishap, followed by the chaos on Xiao Yang Star, had given Ning's faction fertile ground to sow anti-Aresian sentiment. Their plan was clear: stoke public hatred to secure larger military budgets and bolster their political capital. But the Empire, known for its martial bravado, had outmaneuvered them with an unexpected olive branch, painting themselves as champions of peace.
Simultaneously, a wave of clarifications flooded the galactic networks, particularly the Federation's Starnet, orchestrated with surgical precision by the Empire. Headlines blared across holo-screens:
"Joint Exercise Debacle: Silver Nexus, Not Empire, to Blame! Video Evidence Provided."
The accompanying footage captured the exercise's final moments, where starphage worms had been replaced by mechanical monstrosities, a chilling testament to the Nexus's interference.
"Both Nations Suffered in Exercise: Empire Reports No Fatalities, but Hundreds of Students Hospitalized Long-Term! Crown Prince on Medical Leave!"
Images showed rows of mosaic-blurred students in hospital gowns, their pale faces and the cold gleam of medical machinery underscoring the severity of their condition.
"Xiao Yang Incident a Misunderstanding: Empire Fleet Acted in Humanitarian Aid, Repelling Star Pirates with No Intent to Invade."
The Empire released a trove of evidence—flight logs, signal transcripts, photographs, and audio-visual recordings—proving Xiao Yang's spaceport had been breached by pirates, not their forces. The Empire's fleet had fired only on the invaders, and the spaceport's destruction was not their doing. To cap it off, the Empire's Diplomatic Security Office proposed a resolution for deeper aerospace military cooperation to combat interstellar piracy.
This barrage of reasoned arguments and ironclad proof washed the Empire's image cleaner than a lotus in a muddy pond. The Federation's military brass, eager to counter, found themselves outflanked by the meticulous evidence. Worse, the speed with which these clarifications spread—blanketing the Federation overnight—hinted at covert support from rival clans, gleeful at Ning Hongxue's failure to incite war.
The summit was inevitable. Lanslow Star, a neutral mid-tier world, was chosen as the venue. Both sides would deploy fleets for security, a necessity given the high stakes. The Federation sent heavyweights from its military and security sectors, while the Empire, in a bold move, included the reportedly convalescing Crown Prince Bai Sha Ronin.
Federation Starnet buzzed with speculation:
"Didn't they say the Crown Prince was recovering from injuries?"
"She's attending talks, not piloting a mech. Diplomatic duties are part of her role. She's got to balance martial and civil responsibilities."
"Maybe Aresian 'recovery' means something different… like, they're just built tougher?"
"She'll be surrounded by guards. As long as nothing goes wrong, she's safe. I noticed she's not on the speaker list—probably just a symbolic appearance to show commitment to peace."
"Being Crown Prince sounds rough. No rest, even when hurt."
When the Empire's delegation fleet touched down on Lanslow, the spaceport's exit was a fortress of journalists, their holo-cams and drones swarming like insects. Most broadcasted live, offering galactic audiences an unfiltered view of Bai Sha's descent from the starship.
The Federation public knew her well. During the joint exercise, her terrifying prowess and approachable demeanor had won hearts, embodying the ideal of the ultimate mech soldier. Her other persona—as Crown Prince—had captivated them too, from the viral "royal portrait" that sparked beauty debates to her radiant dignity at the coronation, a figure of awe and aspiration.
Yet the Bai Sha who emerged defied expectations. Clad in a simple silver gown, elegant but understated, she stepped down the gangway under the vigilant watch of Royal Guards. Her face, pale as parchment, was half-hidden by dark sunglasses, her lips an unhealthy crimson. Her frame was slight, her movements tinged with a subtle melancholy—likely anguish for her still-hospitalized comrades. She was a vision of fragility, a stark contrast to the invincible warrior of memory.
Live-stream platforms, including Bai Sha's fan forum, erupted. After a moment of stunned silence, comments flooded in like a blizzard:
"Oh my stars, she's really hurt bad. She's like a different person… but still gorgeous! Can I call you my love?!"
"Dude, that's illegal—she's not of age in the Empire!"
"You're so young, I'll keep my hands off (barely), but your frail beauty breaks and stirs my heart. Come to my arms, let me shield you forever (husky voice)."
"(slithering darkly) (writhing) (barking furiously) (chasing off other dogs)"
"Please, you're embarrassing us! Also, this stream's not just Federation viewers!"
"The Crown Prince rarely appears publicly. Aresians want to see how she's doing too. Every glimpse counts!"
Bai Sha was unaware of the Starnet's narrative casting her as a delicate, ailing heroine. Her frail appearance was deliberate, a calculated performance to lower defenses, but its impact exceeded her expectations. After brief pleasantries with the media and Federation diplomats, she retreated to her hotel suite, citing health concerns to decline all non-summit engagements.
Under the cover of night, she prepared her disguise—dark cloak, encrypted optic, and a subtle gait-altering implant. Ya Ning and Jingyi, her trusted shadows, joined her. The Empire's soldiers guarding the hotel, loyal to a fault, ensured her exit was seamless. Their familiarity with Lanslow's labyrinthine streets guided them swiftly to their true objective: the Edley Mining Field.
Edley had once been a lifeline for Lanslow's residents, a bustling hub where thousands of miners toiled with machines in its prime. Manual labor and early tech defined its operations, but a catastrophic collapse had spiked risks and costs. When richer veins were found elsewhere, Edley was abandoned, left to decay. Now, its terrain was a scarred wasteland of craters and rubble, littered with the rusted husks of colossal machinery. Air pollution lingered, and on rainy days, a gray-blue mist hung low, veiling the desolation in an eerie haze.
Bai Sha stood at the field's edge, her optic projecting a satellite map as she sifted through memories of Teacher Holman's words. "He said he found me northwest of the main shaft," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the wind's low moan.
Ya Ning scanned the horizon, his optic's thermal overlay flickering. "This place is a graveyard. If your pod's here, it's buried deep or hidden by Sea Kind tech."
Jingyi adjusted her cloak, her hand resting on a concealed Glimmergold dagger. "Holman found you in a junk pile, right? Sea Kind pods don't just blend in—they're built to vanish. Could be cloaked, even now."
Bai Sha nodded, her mind racing. Sea Kind technology surpassed the Empire's in stealth and durability. If her stasis pod remained, it might still hold navigational logs—coordinates, flight paths, perhaps a direct link to the Lone Light. But time and scavengers could have erased it, or worse, the Nexus might have reclaimed it.
"Let's move," she said, stepping into the field. The ground crunched underfoot, a mix of gravel and corroded metal. Her optic's augmented display highlighted the northwest vector, guiding them through the maze of debris. The air was thick, carrying a faint chemical bite that stung her nostrils.
As they neared the main shaft's northwest quadrant, the terrain grew treacherous, littered with jagged beams and collapsed tunnels. Ya Ning took point, his enhanced reflexes navigating the obstacles, while Jingyi trailed, her senses alert for any sign of pursuit. Bai Sha's heart pounded, not from exertion but from the weight of what she might find—or lose.
"Here," she said, stopping at a shallow depression ringed by twisted machinery. The map aligned perfectly with Holman's description. "This is where he found me."
Ya Ning crouched, sweeping his optic's scanner over the area. "No energy signatures, no metal alloys beyond the junk. If it's here, it's dormant or shielded."
Bai Sha knelt, her gloved fingers brushing the dirt. A faint memory stirred—cold metal, a hiss of air, the sensation of waking in darkness. "It was a pod," she whispered. "I felt it. Smooth, curved, warm to the touch. Not Federation or Empire tech."
Jingyi's eyes narrowed. "Sea Kind pods have adaptive camouflage. If it's buried or cloaked, we need a psychic pulse to ping it. You up for it, Sha?"
Bai Sha hesitated. Her resonance had drained her in the hospital, and Cecil's warning about her devouring talent echoed. A pulse could expose them to Nexus agents or Federation spies. But the pod was her only lead to the Lone Light—and the truth of her past.
"Do it," she said, closing her eyes. Her psychic energy surged, a silver-blue thread weaving outward, probing the earth. The xuanbird's shadow flickered in her mind, its wings brushing the void. For a moment, nothing. Then—a faint hum, like a heartbeat buried deep.
"There," she gasped, pointing to a mound of rubble ten meters away. "It's active, but faint."
Ya Ning sprinted to the spot, his hands clawing at the debris. Jingyi joined him, their movements swift and silent. Bai Sha followed, her breath catching as they uncovered a sleek, obsidian curve—a pod, its surface unmarred despite years in the wasteland. Its edges pulsed faintly, a soft green glow betraying its Sea Kind origin.
"It's intact," Ya Ning said, awe in his voice. "How's it still powered?"
"Sea Kind tech," Bai Sha said, running her hand over the pod's surface. It was warm, as she'd remembered, and a faint vibration hummed beneath her touch. "They build for eternity."
Jingyi tapped her optic, scanning the pod's exterior. "No external ports, no visible controls. We'll need to crack it open or interface psychically. Your call, Sha."
Bai Sha's fingers lingered on the pod, her mind racing. A psychic interface risked overloading her again, especially after the hospital. But cracking it physically could destroy its data—or trigger a failsafe. The Lone Light's fate, and the Nexus's plans, hung in the balance.
"Psychic," she decided. "I'll link with it. Cover me."
Ya Ning and Jingyi took defensive positions, their Glimmergold weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the darkness. Bai Sha sat cross-legged before the pod, her breathing steadying. She summoned her resonance, the xuanbird's form coalescing in her mind. Her psychic energy reached out, a delicate thread brushing the pod's consciousness.
A jolt hit her—a flood of fragmented images. A vast ship, its hull gleaming under distant stars. Voices, urgent, speaking in a tongue she almost knew. A woman's face, achingly familiar—Xipes? Then darkness, and a sense of falling, endless and cold.
Bai Sha gasped, her connection faltering. The pod's glow dimmed, then stabilized. "It's got a log," she said, her voice hoarse. "Flight data, coordinates. I saw the Lone Light."
"Can you extract it?" Jingyi asked, her voice tense.
"Not here," Bai Sha said, standing. "It's locked to my resonance. We need to move it to a secure lab."
Ya Ning frowned. "This thing's heavy, and we're on a Federation world. Smuggling it out under their noses—"
"Won't be easy," Bai Sha finished, a grin tugging at her lips. "But I've got a plan. The summit's my cover. We'll crate it as diplomatic cargo."
Jingyi raised an eyebrow. "Bold. If the Federation sniffs this out, the summit's toast."
"Then we don't get caught," Bai Sha said, her eyes glinting. "Let's move."
As they prepared to haul the pod, a distant hum broke the silence—a Federation drone, its sensors sweeping the field. Ya Ning's optic pinged, warning of approaching signatures. The Nexus, the Federation, or both were closing in. Bai Sha's hand tightened on the pod, her resolve steel. The Lone Light was within reach, and she'd tear through any obstacle to claim it.