“Earth’s magnetic field is down ten percent.” Xiao’s voice was tight, almost brittle, as he hovered at what he hoped was a safe distance from the seething white light. The screen’s glow flickered across his face, painting his skin in blue and white. “And there’s worse: a solar storm will reach Earth in one hour.”

  Shi didn’t look up. He was hunched over his own monitor, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. His lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line, and his eyes never left the screen, where the red dot marking Chen’s vitals had been shrinking for minutes now, flickering like a dying ember.

  “I’m sick of bad news,” he muttered, voice rough and raw. “Give me one piece of good news.”

  But there was no good news. The air itself was being sucked toward the beam, accelerating, beginning to spiral. The wind howled, carrying the sharp tang of burning metal and the distant, acrid bite of smoke.

  Xiao’s head jerked. He jabbed a finger at the horizon, lips parted in disbelief. “Good news: our High Chancellor has arrived with the Starstrike: Eos.”

  Shi shot him a look—eyebrows arched, nostrils flaring, mouth twisted in a grimace that was half disbelief, half outrage. “You call that good news?!”

  Xiao’s mouth twitched, the corners pulling tight in a nervous, apologetic grimace. He shifted his weight slightly as if bracing for a blow. “Well… I messed up. The High Chancellor intercepted my communications, so—”

  “Then you don’t need a salary for the whole star-ring year!” Shi’s voice was sharp, but beneath the sarcasm, his nostrils flared with a barely contained anger. He genuinely didn’t know what Xiao was made of—how could he joke at a time like this?

  The sky answered before Xiao could. It went black—so black that even the starlight seemed to vanish. A massive black warship tore through Earth’s atmosphere, blotting out half the heavens, its shadow falling over the world like the hand of a vengeful god. The ground shuddered, and the air filled with the low, electric hum of power gathering.

  In the unreal, hollow space at the heart of the storm, Yan Qing’s ears rang with a silence so absolute it felt like the world had been erased. His skin prickled with cold sweat, every hair standing on end. Somewhere, far away, a child’s voice echoed—thin, plaintive, impossibly familiar.

  Hey—what are you doing?

  Yan Qing’s mouth moved, stiff and numb, the words barely more than a breath. His own voice sounded foreign, as if it belonged to someone else, echoing up from the bottom of a well.

  …I don’t know.

  The wind, which had been screaming and tearing at his clothes, died in an instant. The sudden stillness was suffocating. Yan Qing felt the pressure in his ears pop, as if the universe itself had drawn in a breath and refused to let it go. An invisible barrier snapped into place, sealing him and Chen away from the world. The only sound left was the frantic thud of his own heart, pounding in the vacuum.

  Calm down. You can control the power inside you, Yan Qing.

  The air rippled, shimmering like water disturbed by a stone. A small figure began to take shape before him, golden hair floating as if underwater, untouched by gravity or wind. The child’s face was strange, yet so painfully familiar it made Yan Qing’s chest ache. His eyes snapped wide open, vision blurred by tears he hadn’t realized were falling. His lips trembled, salt stinging the corners of his mouth.

  “You’re… the one from back then…” The words broke on a sob.

  The child beamed at him, bright and pure, as if the universe had just handed him its greatest treasure.

  I’m so happy you didn’t forget me, Yan Qing.

  Yan Qing’s breath hitched. He looked down at the sleeping face in his arms—Chen’s face, pale and still, lashes trembling against his cheek.

  You two… look so alike…

  The child glanced at Chen, then nodded. Yeah.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He pressed his lips together in a smile, and then—like a film reel skipping frames—the child’s face blurred and grew, golden eyes lengthening, deepening, turning sharp and dark. Yan Qing’s vision swam.

  “…Chen?” Yan Qing whispered. His face was wet—he hadn’t even realized he was crying until the tears dripped onto Chen’s skin.

  The golden-haired man—wearing the same face as the one in his arms—tilted his head, childlike and gentle.

  So you really were that kid… you were always—

  Yan Qing broke, sobbing. His shoulders shook, breath coming in ragged gasps. The Teleopean frowned, lifting a hand as if to touch Yan Qing’s face, but in the end, he let it fall. Sorrow flickered across that perfect face, quickly smothered beneath a smile.

  Don’t be sad.

  He comforted Yan Qing in the exact same way Chen always had, and the familiarity of it made the pain sharper, cutting through him like glass. Tears spilled down Yan Qing’s cheeks as he shut his eyes in despair, his whole body curling around Chen’s limp form.

  I want to save you… but… I can’t. I can’t do anything…

  Those golden eyes softened with pity. The Teleopean reached out again, but his hand passed through the air—intangible, unreachable. Yan Qing’s fingers closed on nothing.

  Nothing is without possibility. That’s the law of the universe.

  Yan Qing opened his eyes—and saw the smile turning transparent, fading like mist in the wind.

  What do you want to do?

  I want to protect you.

  A searing flash of white erupted behind his eyes, obliterating the last remnants of vision. When he finally looked again, the ghostly presence had vanished—and the world around him had erupted into utter chaos.

  HUMAN!! ARE YOU TRYING TO DESTROY YOUR OWN PLANET?!

  A cold voice slammed into his ears, crushing and absolute, jolting him awake. His altered eyes swept the scene. It was like standing inside the eye of a tornado—annihilation circling him—yet he remained untouched, suspended in the heart of the storm.

  “What… what’s happening?!” Yan Qing stared at the energy coiling around him, completely lost. He raised both hands before his face. They were covered in the same strange patterns as on his neck—only now they glowed blue, as if every line was a conduit feeding the storm itself.

  “Chen…” He bowed his head, fingertips brushing the pale face in his arms. “Tell me. What’s happening?”

  Outside the beam, a solitary figure stood atop a rise, his silhouette stark against the bruised sky. The wind howled around him, snatching at the shredded remains of tree limbs and flinging grit and leaves in wild spirals. His hair—silver, metallic, and sharp as cut steel—caught the last light of dusk, reflecting it in cold, fractured shards. The air itself seemed to recoil from his presence, the gale tugging at his long coat, making it snap and billow like a banner at the edge of a battlefield.

  He didn’t flinch as debris whipped past, nor did he blink when a splintered branch clattered at his feet. When he spoke, his voice was as chill as the wind, slicing through the roar with a clarity that left no room for warmth.

  “You two—and Lan—have no excuse for what you’ve done, playing games alongside the Star Emperor.” The man’s eyes narrowed to slits. He turned his attention to Xiao and Shi, both kneeling in the mud, their heads bowed beneath the weight of his scrutiny. “And you especially, Shi. As an Elder, you not only failed to report any of this—you told the Council everything was going smoothly. This is what you call ‘smooth’?”

  Shi’s jaw clenched, his hands digging into the wet earth. The wind stung his cheeks, but he met the man’s gaze with a defiant glare. “If you’ve got time for a lecture, you’ve got time to figure out how to stop the Ultimate Weapon’s full activation and pull Chen out!” His voice was raw, scraped thin by exhaustion and fear, but it didn’t waver.

  The silver-haired man lifted an eyebrow—a gesture so familiar it sent a jolt through Shi, echoing Chen’s own mannerisms. But where Chen’s expression might have softened, this man’s was all hard edges and cold intent. His words landed not like a blade, but like the sudden drop in air pressure before a storm breaks. “We’ll settle accounts when I get back, vot’z Frolendii.”

  Shi’s body jerked as if struck. A chill shot up his spine, prickling every nerve. He bared his teeth, voice barely more than a growl. “Mian…”

  Mian’s gaze lingered for a heartbeat, then he turned away, his coat swirling around his legs. He raised his left hand, wrist-bracer glinting in the dying light. “Prepare the array.”

  High above, the warship responded. Its prow unfurled with a slow, mechanical grace, petals of black metal peeling back to reveal a core that pulsed with molten red energy. The air vibrated with the charge, the ground trembling beneath their feet.

  “Fire.”

  At Mian’s command, a lance of red light erupted from the warship, tearing through the storm. It slammed into the white beam with a soundless violence, the two forces twisting together in a furious spiral. Red coiled around white, climbing the pillar that pierced the sky, their collision painting the clouds in wild, unnatural colors.

  For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The wind died. The trees stilled. The only sound was the low, electric hum of power straining against power.

  Then, as if some invisible hand had pressed down on the world, everything went quiet. The red and white lights, locked in their struggle, faded into a single, blinding flash that reached all the way into space—leaving only silence and the taste of ozone in the air.

  Red and white clashed in the sky, two impossible forces entwined in a furious struggle. They pressed and twisted, each refusing to yield, until their brilliance fused into a single, blinding core. The light collapsed inward and silence swept across the land. All that remained was the echo of power, and a hush so deep it seemed the earth itself was waiting to breathe again.