Chapter 108: Thought Lu Yao Was Dead

Translated by Addis of Exiled Rebels Scanlations

Editor: Karai

Colors of indescribable brilliance stretched and warped, and every sound collided dully against his eardrums and brain. Thoughts were kneaded into dough-like shapes and fractured in fits, while his body alternated between heavy lethargy and a total disconnect from his mind. It felt as though he were nothing more than a drifting wisp of a soul, a pair of eyes staring at a world of chaotic lights.

Whoosh! Consciousness snapped open like breaking the surface of water into another world. Lu Yao gasped for air, his cheek pressed against the hard, icy floor, and he realized only one of his eyes could see.

He struggled to move his limbs, grateful to find he still controlled them, and lifted a hand to touch the eye that had gone blind. Dry, rough flakes fell at his touch, reddish-brown like… dried blood. But his eye didn’t hurt, so it wasn’t bleeding from the eye itself. He traced upward and felt a vague scab along the edge of his hairline.

A small dark patch clung to the corner of the table nearby, probably where his head had struck during the accident. Lu Yao tried to open his eyes again, finally tearing away the dried blood clinging to his eyelids. Brilliant colors instantly flooded in.

He exhaled, first scanning his surroundings to find Torque hiding nearby, then looking out the viewport to see the blackness of space. The B-system planets and military starships were gone. The stargate had been hit by a guided missile…

Lu Yao moved toward the cockpit, thinking through the situation. Two other human crew members were there, and he needed to check on them and exchange information.

The stargate was essentially a long-term stable warp channel artificially modified. High-intensity attacks could destabilize its passage, and the R68 must have been caught in the warp turbulence. That explained the strange, unspeakable sensations etched into his memory.

He had no idea how the other large starships were faring—if they could withstand the gravitational anomalies of the warp turbulence. As he crossed the ship’s corridor into the cockpit, piercing alarms and flashing red lights assaulted his senses.

“Warning. Warning. Propulsion engine damaged.”

“Warning. Warning. Warp engine damaged.”

“Warning. Warning. Communication systems failing.”

…

Lu Yao’s heart jumped. He rushed forward, only to find the two pilots slumped in their chairs. They were secured by seatbelts, and their bodies showed no injuries. He checked their breathing and pulse—normal. Nothing indicated physical harm.

After a moment’s thought, he silenced the alarms and activated the medical scanning system. The results confirmed it: the pilots had no physiological damage. Lu Yao’s heart sank. They were almost certainly suffering from warp-induced syncope.

Unlike ordinary motion sickness, warp syncope was an extreme stress response to spatial-temporal distortion during warp travel. When the body and consciousness couldn’t realign with the intended coordinates, prolonged unconsciousness could occur.

This condition had been common in the early days of warp technology, but had become increasingly rare over the years. Complete recovery required visiting a warp-medical research institute in each star system to undergo temporal-spatial realignment.

For now, Lu Yao could do nothing but check the ship. Warp turbulence could fling any vessel to random locations, but as long as its occupants survived and the ship remained functional, recovery was possible. Yet the R68’s condition was grim.

Its outer hull bore the marks of explosions and collisions, partially damaged. Of its four main engines, three were inoperative. The warp engine system had collapsed entirely under turbulence. The maneuvering thrusters barely functioned. To make matters worse, the communications system was offline—unable to send or receive signals, leaving them without even the name of their current star system, let alone the ability to request help.

As the grim reality settled in, Lu Yao felt a warm sensation in his palm. Only then did he realize he had been clenching his own hand in frustration. Blood welled up along the lines of his palm and dripped from his fingertips to the floor.

“Meow, meow, meow!” Torque seemed to sense his anxiety, softly calling to him. Stay calm. Stay calm. Lu Yao admonished himself.

Beyond the panoramic window, the universe lay in silence. Slowly rotating planets reflected faint white light. None of these celestial bodies were familiar, and there was no sign of human civilization on their surfaces. Farther stars hid behind a heavy velvet curtain of deep space, giving away not a flicker of light.

Had he fallen into a desolate star system? Has human civilization ever reached here? He checked the communication system again, including the backup, and came up empty.

One could say that Chief Engineer Lu’s inspections were meticulous and precise—or one could say that fate refused to grant him any joyous reprieve.

Torque licked his fingers. Lu Yao looked down and met the little white cat’s innocent blue eyes, sighing. He briefly accepted the reality and its implications for the future. He set Torque down, wiped the blood from his hands, pulled out a floating stretcher, and lifted the two unconscious pilots onto it, one by one, placing them in the ship’s hibernation pods at the rear.

Those suffering from warp syncope were effectively in a vegetative state. To maintain their bodies, Lu Yao put both into the pods, planning to awaken them when the timing was right.

Fortunately, the R68 was a medium-sized dual-deck military transport, equipped with full hibernation and medical facilities. Lu Yao did not have to worry about the two pilots’ well-being.

He then checked the ship’s supplies. Every military vessel restocked before departure, and the R68’s storage was fully stocked for a crew of about one hundred. Food, daily necessities, and military provisions—from nutritional supplements to frozen fruits and meats, from toilet paper to pajamas—were all abundant. By his rough calculations, these supplies could sustain him and a cat for hundreds of years.

The ship’s remaining energy reserves were also ample. Without a flight destination, he didn’t need the acceleration thrusters—only the maneuvering engines ran at low power. These reserves could last a century. Even the medical supplies were plentiful, including anesthesia for childbirth.

As he inspected each item, the ship’s AI, using its simple, clumsy algorithms, deduced that he might be bored and began introducing the ship’s recreational facilities, knowledge databases, and media resources.

No. Wait. He had no intention of turning this ship into a floating luxury villa, spending the rest of his life alone in the starry void. Yet as he silently calculated how long the ship’s resources could sustain him, he implicitly acknowledged that he could not return to New Blue Star.

When he had lived with Zhou Yunchen in the abandoned B13 base, he had never performed such calculations; he always knew he would leave someday. He had just escaped the star pirates with Zhou Yunchen. He had promised to stay by Zhou Yunchen’s side. He could not be a man of empty words and abandon everything…

Thoughts tore through his mind in a chaotic frenzy. Lu Yao, exhausted, fell into a fitful sleep. Immense mental pressure and self-doubt dragged him into bizarre dreams. Memories flashed like a kaleidoscope, then shattered and reformed into unknown, oddly glowing shapes—like shards of glass washed ashore by relentless waves. But when he jolted awake, he suddenly forgot everything from his dream.

“How long did I sleep?” Lu Yao slumped on the floor, staring up at the ship’s ceiling, every inch of his body aching.

“Twenty-eight hours,” the AI replied dutifully. It was because he had slept too… not well. Lu Yao lowered his gaze to find Torque bouncing on his chest. His lungs ached even more.

He got up, coughing, and picked Torque up. The little white cat dangled from his grip, claws out, yowling, but after a moment of mutual eye contact, it suddenly twisted its expression into one of pitiful sorrow, even its voice drawing out in a long, mournful wail. “Meow~”

It was as if it were saying it had thought Lu Yao was dead. Still, that hardly justified why it had used its paws to step all over him to wake him up.

Hermes-Class Interstellar Mothership

Officers hurried back and forth in the command room, exchanging data and documents, all bowed and deferential, afraid to linger or speak unnecessarily. The atmosphere was icy, as though the peaks of a frozen mountain might collapse at any moment.

Three days had passed since Chief Engineer Lu had gone missing. General Zhou had cooled down from his initial rage, but those working beside him still carried the shadow of recent madness. They dared not speak freely in his presence, fearing they might provoke his temper.

Of course, Zhou Yunchen had every right to be furious; no one doubted the state of his mind. In just one month, the military had first allowed a gang of star pirates to steal the Federation Chief Engineer from a military exercise. Then, Zhou Yunchen had personally retrieved him, only for illegal mercenaries to push both the engineer and his ship into a warp turbulence right under the eyes of six starships. Where could the military save face in all this?!

Zhou Yunchen radiated a frigid aura, though compared to his usual temper, he was considered unusually calm. Rumor had it that the aged Marshal Chen Qiuyuan, long accustomed to self-restraint, nearly fired a cannon at the useless officers under his command in rage.

But Chen Qiuyuan hadn’t. He had to deal with the Space Planning Bureau’s scornful remarks and the inquiries from the Federation’s Mecha Research Institute and the Federation Academy.

Right now, the most pressured individuals were the ship’s warp analysts. Warp turbulence was entirely unpredictable. The military was racing against time to trace the residual trajectories and analyze R68’s warp drop point. Zhao Minghe pushed open the door, striding to Zhou Yunchen’s side.

Zhou Yunchen stood with his hands behind his back, facing the starry expanse outside the window. His tone was icy. “Have we traced it?”

“Yes,” Zhao replied. “We’ve captured the escaped mercenaries. They claimed they were working for someone, but took orders solely online. They never met the client in person. That client only instructed them to fire in a specific direction at a specific time—no other details.”

“Tracing the network source?”

“The site is called ‘Week Eight,’ an anonymous black-market forum. Further investigation only leads to a relay station on Roll Star. Its founder is a proponent of both privacy and information freedom. All site data is destroyed after exchange, leaving no records. It’s become a trading hub for criminals.”

Zhou Yunchen thought for a moment. “Their client is cautious. How could he ensure the mercenaries fired at the exact time and direction to hit the target?”

Author’s note: Torque continues its frenzied stepping—step, step, step.

 

 

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