The sterile glow of Baisha's light-brain illuminated her private workshop on Youdu Star, casting sharp shadows across the sleek, metallic surfaces of her mech design console. The room was a sanctuary of precision, its walls lined with holographic blueprints and shelves of prototype components, the air humming with the faint buzz of dormant machinery. Beyond the reinforced viewport, Youdu's twin moons hung low, their silver light bathing the imperial palace grounds in an ethereal sheen.
Han Cong's message blinked on her screen, abrupt and heavy with implication: [Are you aware that the Grand Princess's disappearance is tied to the Han family?]
Baisha's gaze sharpened, her fingers pausing over the console as a brief silence enveloped her.
It struck her that she knew little about the Grand Princess, her mother. Since her return to the empire, her uncle, Emperor Cecil Ronin, had never broached the subject. Perhaps he found it odd that she, an "orphan," showed no curiosity about her parents. Shouldn't a child yearn to unravel the truth of their origins?
But Baisha wasn't a typical child. From the moment she crash-landed on Lanslow Star, her mind had been mature, unburdened by the self-pity or longing that might plague others. She harbored neither attachment nor resentment toward her biological parents.
So she hadn't asked, and Cecil hadn't offered.
For a child, the burning question would be, Why did my parents abandon me? Cecil, unable to answer this inescapable query, likely avoided dredging up memories of the Grand Princess. Baisha sensed he was as clueless about her origins as she was.
Cecil had undoubtedly dispatched agents to trace her past, following the scant threads of her history—yet they'd found nothing. More telling was his reluctance to probe deeper, a reticence that surpassed her own.
Baisha's presence in the Federation suggested the Grand Princess had faced dire circumstances. To Cecil, she had been a sister who vanished without a word. Now, she was a sister who left behind a daughter and likely met a tragic end. His grief, Baisha knew, cut deeper than her own detachment. She had no desire to reopen his wounds.
Han Cong's message, however, carried a weighty revelation.
What did he mean, the Grand Princess's disappearance was tied to the Han family?
[Can you clarify?] Baisha typed, a touch of exasperation in her tone. [You're making it sound like the Han family caused her disappearance.]
Han Cong didn't reply for a dozen seconds, then: [That's not my intent. But my uncle, Han Xi, knows more about why the Grand Princess stepped down as heir and vanished. It's also tied to my late parents.]
Baisha: [?]
Han Cong: [My uncle only shared that much. My parents and the Grand Princess were close friends. Their deaths occurred around the same time. But all related information is sealed, and the truth is inaccessible.]
Baisha grasped his intent. Han Xi had dangled partial truths before Han Cong, prompting him to urge Baisha to seek answers.
[Have you learned anything from His Majesty? Perhaps we could piece together some hypotheses.]
Baisha paused, then replied: [Sadly, no. I don't even know what kind of person the Grand Princess was. I've only seen her portrait in Tianquan Military Academy's Hall of Fame.]
The academy displayed portraits of distinguished alumni in a vast exhibition hall. Baisha had seen many of her ancestors there, including her mother, during a memorial event. Her gaze had caught a silver-framed photograph by chance, its subject both familiar and alien.
A striking figure, proud and icy, stood in ornate attire, her frost-white hair cascading like a winter storm. Though her expression was neutral, an air of displeasure clung to her—unmistakably Cecil Ronin.
Beside him hung another royal portrait.
The woman shared Cecil's pale hair and eyes, her features less refined but more resolute. Unlike Cecil's stoicism, she faced the camera with a smile—light, almost playful, yet her gaze carried a piercing intensity, as if it could pierce the soul. Her crown and opulent gown were mere embellishments to her commanding presence, a demeanor born of inherent sovereignty.
The inscription read "Sipes Ronin," with her birth year. Deceased alumni bore full birth and death dates. The absence of a death year suggested she lived.
Baisha believed it. How could such a woman perish easily?
After the visit, she'd quietly gathered what little information existed about Sipes—old footage, news reports, mostly of her heirship ceremony, when the empire celebrated her ascent. Her disappearance, however, left scant traces, likely suppressed or buried. The change in heirship had surely sparked controversy, but only whispers of conspiracy remained, some accusing Cecil of orchestrating her vanishing.
Baisha had sifted through these reports, finding nothing substantial, and let the matter fade.
Now, Han Cong sought to trade intelligence, but she had little to offer.
[You say your uncle Han Xi knows the truth?]
[Then I'll visit him myself. He can't keep dodging then.]
Given the Han family's unwavering support and Cecil's trust in them, Baisha doubted they were culpable in her mother's disappearance. If they were, Cecil's wrath would have reduced them to ash.
She arranged a time with Han Cong and set course for Tianshu Star.
Despite its name, Tianshu Star was a sprawling star cluster, its main planet orbited by smaller celestial bodies and artificial satellites. The Han family owned several private planets within its gravitational sphere.
Baisha landed at their aerospace port, greeted by a majestic platform perched atop colossal floating stones, accessible only by sightseeing shuttles. Less ostentatious than Youdu Star, its vast openness resembled a scenic reserve.
Han Cong awaited her outside the port.
"Good afternoon, Your Highness."
Though driven to uncover his parents' fates, he remained composed, betraying no urgency or unease.
"You contacted me to get me to confront Han Xi directly, didn't you?" Baisha said.
"Yes, though it may earn my uncle's ire," Han Cong admitted. "We both need the truth."
They crossed a verdant lawn toward a shuttle boarding point.
"When my parents died, I was old enough to remember clearly, but as a child, I missed much," Han Cong said, guiding her. "My father, a Tianquan graduate like the Grand Princess, served in the imperial fleet. My mother, a researcher on exploration vessels, was often absent for months or a year. My father raised me until I was older, then entrusted me to my uncle to join her. I rarely saw them, relying on my uncle for updates, which limited my knowledge."
Baisha nodded. "Do you know what your mother researched?"
"I investigated," Han Cong said. "On the surface, standard starfield expansion projects."
They boarded a shuttle to the main estate, ascending wooden stairs to the second-floor study. Han Cong signaled for silence.
Baisha raised an eyebrow, puzzled: You didn't tell your uncle I was coming?
Han Cong nodded.
Baisha: [...?]
As their eyes met, the study door swung open, and Han Xi emerged, clad in a conservative brown coat. Despite being Cecil's contemporary, his attire was formal, devoid of trendy flourishes, suitable for a state visit.
His gaze landed on Baisha, his brow twitching sharply.
"…Your Highness?" he asked, voice hesitant.
"Hello," Baisha said, offering a polite, junior-to-elder smile and extending her hand. "I'm Baisha Ronin. A pleasure to meet you."
Han Xi shook her hand, his expression briefly dazed, as if her features stirred a memory. He recovered swiftly. "The pleasure is mine, Your Highness. I wasn't informed of your visit—forgive any lack of hospitality."
He shot Han Cong a narrowed glance.
Han Cong smiled, feigning ignorance.
"Here's the thing," Baisha said bluntly. "I hear you know why my mother vanished."
Han Xi: "His Majesty hasn't told you?"
Baisha shook her head.
Han Xi's eyes lowered. "Then perhaps he was waiting for you to ask me."
He stepped aside, gesturing her in. "Please, come in. I'll share all I know."
A voice called from downstairs: "Mr. Han, the meeting is about to start."
"Inform them it's delayed. I have more pressing matters," Han Xi replied, opening the study door. "Please, sit."
Baisha took a seat before the desk.
Han Cong moved to fetch a chair, but Han Xi said coolly, "No spare seats. Stand."
Han Cong: [...]
He stood beside Baisha.
"I know what you seek," Han Xi began. "But truthfully, like His Majesty, I know only fragments of the story, not its heart."
He pressed a button on the desk, and the curtains closed, plunging the room into shadow. A blue, lattice-like orb of light rose before them. Han Xi's fingers grazed it, and it expanded, its surface blooming with lines, images, videos, and text.
"These are all the clues we've gathered."
Baisha's eyes tracked the orb, noting two recurring names: Han Qing and Song Tingran.
"Han Qing, my brother, and Tingran worked on a research vessel in the Seder System," Han Xi said slowly. "One day, a disease swept their fleet—'Empty Nest Syndrome.'"
"Empty Nest Syndrome: imperial mental entities vanish for unknown reasons, driving victims mad, hallucinating, and attacking others."
The orb displayed data on the syndrome.
Baisha studied it, hesitant. "A genetic disorder?"
"Similar, but no," Han Xi said, his voice heavy. "Initially thought a disease, it was later identified as a virus—one that spreads solely between mental entities."
Baisha: [...]
"They realized too late. Few survived. Even Qing was infected," Han Xi continued. "Tingran brought him back to the empire, establishing a secret lab on a remote planet. Her research progressed rapidly—she isolated the virus, seeking a counteragent. But the viral extract was stolen by someone with ulterior motives…"
"Who?" Han Cong interjected, his eyes cold as a frozen lake.
Han Xi, silent, highlighted a name on the orb: Lexa Grez, leader of the Beastkin.
Baisha's stomach sank at the surname. The last Grez she'd met hadn't seemed particularly bright.
Han Xi rubbed his forehead. "Lexa was misled, believing Tingran, under the Grand Princess's orders, developed the virus to eliminate dissenters. Beastkin and Featherkin relations were tense then, and the Beastkin were formidable. Lexa led a fleet to raid the lab, seizing the virus. His subordinates betrayed him, causing its spread. The Grand Princess intervened to contain the chaos."
"Qing and Tingran perished in the upheaval. Lexa was assassinated. The Grand Princess, gravely injured destroying the virus, lost nearly all her mental force."
A royal heir without mental force was unthinkable.
By Ronin tradition, Cecil could challenge Sipes and claim the heirship. He refused. To break the impasse, Sipes vanished, piloting a starship into the frontier.
Silence gripped the room.
"The instigator?" Baisha asked.
"Killed in the chaos," Han Xi said. "A routine autopsy revealed a bio-program residue in his brain."
Baisha: "…A bio-program controlling thoughts?"
"A technology neither the empire nor Federation possesses," Han Xi said, his steady eyes darkening with unease. "From the long-dead Silver Empire."
The Silver Empire, ruled by the super-AI "Silver Core," destroyed a millennium ago.
Baisha's grip tightened. "The Silver Empire fell a thousand years ago. The Silver Core was obliterated by the revolutionaries…"
"Hard to say," Han Xi replied, dispersing the orb with a wave. "The Silver Core was beyond our comprehension. Whether it transferred its consciousness before its demise, we don't know. It could lurk anywhere."
Such disturbances, possibly the Silver Core's doing, weren't isolated. The Grand Princess had tackled the worst. To preserve stability, the Grez family faced no public blame, but insiders quietly marginalized them, relegating them to the border.
The Han family, with Han Xi as Sipes's steward and Qing and Tingran her close friends, escaped Cecil's wrath, instead treated as her loyal remnants.
"So, heed His Majesty's guidance," Han Xi urged. "Use the Po Jun fleet to protect yourself."
In Cecil's early reign, the empire was unstable. The Po Jun fleet, crushing Federation rebels, starbugs, and pirates, was an unrivaled blade.
As heir, Baisha could command far more than a mere detachment.
In Han Xi's eyes, she saw a familiar yet foreign blend of encouragement and expectation. As Sipes's steward, he hoped her daughter would claim the throne.
Baisha: [...]
"Ahem, I understand the gist," she said, coughing to ease the tension, averting her gaze. "One more thing."
Han Xi's demeanor softened. "Yes?"
"I'm curious… what was the Grand Princess—my mother—like?"
For the next two hours, Baisha sat captive to Han Xi's recounting of Sipes's exploits.
In his telling, she was a prodigy: mastering mental force attacks at three, dismantling combat robots at five, piloting mechs at seven, repairing them at ten. At twelve, she carved through starbug swarms, once slaying four 3S-grade queen bugs, prompting imperial troops to chant "Long live Her Highness!"
A born war goddess.
At thirteen, she tackled heirship duties, crushing Beastkin provocations with unyielding force, ignoring calls for unity. When the emperor curbed her aggression, she unleashed her cunning advisors, setting traps and outwitting foes. Rivals trembled at her footsteps in the council hall.
She defied convention, yet always achieved her aims.
Han Xi's eyes gleamed with reverence and nostalgia, despite the messes Sipes had left him to clean.
"You are her daughter, the heir's scion, the empire's hope," he said, nodding. "Cherish yourself, study diligently, and you'll claim the throne."
A chill of foreboding hit Baisha.
"My nephew says you excel at the academy but have room to grow in other subjects. If you need a tutor, I—"
"No, thank you," Baisha cut in, memories of grueling study sessions flashing. She forced a smile. "Oh, my mech blueprint needs refining. I should go—"
Talk more? Run!
She fled back to Youdu Star, seeking solace in her workshop.
If the Silver Core, even fragmented, sought to destabilize the empire, it was a formidable foe. But such threats were speculative—imagining them could paralyze her with fear.
Baisha focused on the present.
Brewing coffee, she activated her console to check if Vermilion Grace's blueprint had listed on the auction site.
Logging in, she was flooded with hundreds of messages: customization requests, studio invitations, media interviews, even apprenticeship pleas.
Skimming them, she noted four or five offers to buy Vermilion Grace outright.
The blueprint had hit the site's pre-auction spotlight. Per rules, buyers could negotiate privately. If their offer matched her price, she could skip the auction.
Two were from mech collectors, treating designs as art or investments. Baisha preferred her work see use, not gather dust in displays.
She ignored the messages, unaware the auction had begun.
The bidding surged:
Starting at 3 million.
5 million.
7 million.
…14 million!
Baisha, cup in hand, coughed, her brow arching.
Who bids double like that?