The next day, the trio packed their bags and boarded a starship bound for Capital Star with Homan—now properly Lieutenant Homan. It was a Military Inspectorate vessel, sent specifically for them.
Joan Pikor and Homan held modest ranks, not typically warranting such treatment. But their circumstances were extraordinary. The erasure of their agent statuses years ago remained unresolved—an internal flaw in the Inspectorate had stripped them of identity, leaving them stranded on Lanslow for eight years. To atone, the Inspectorate offered material compensation and likely a rank bump, but that was all.
Eight years lost could never be regained.
In those years, they'd had no direct superiors, and former colleagues had either risen or moved on, severing their old networks. Returning to duty was like starting from scratch. The Inspectorate's brass wouldn't entrust them with critical tasks right away. Once exceptional agents, they'd dulled on Lanslow, their brilliance tarnished, their edges rusted. Until their skills were reassessed, no one would risk deploying them.
Thus, the journey to Capital Star was less triumphant than imagined.
The small military starship, built for twelve, carried two pilots, a guide, a young agent sent to escort them, and the five from Lanslow, leaving ample cabin space.
Joan, hair cropped short, wore her agent uniform with a poised, vibrant air. She looked younger, though her posture and speech remained impeccably formal. The young escorting agent chatted quietly with her about changes in the Investigation Division, his tone humble, respectful, tinged with nerves.
Curious, Baisha asked Homan if they knew each other.
"He took Joan's class at the academy," Homan explained. "Joan's a master at intelligence oversight. She lectured at the academy every year."
"Feeling bored? It's a long haul to Capital Star—five hours, even with jump stations," Homan said. "Play on your light-computer or use the holo-projector to kill time."
Each seat had a holo-device for streaming StarNet channels or media.
Baisha glanced at Jingyi and Yaning, slumped together, fast asleep, and nixed the idea of watching anything.
The past few days' excitement had drained them. Onboard, they'd crashed hard, still out cold.
Baisha sighed, opening her light-computer to browse.
She meant to review Central Military Academy's admissions notice but was sidetracked by bold, red StarNet headlines.
"Federation Foreign Ministry: Federation and Empire to Hold 300th Anniversary Celebration of Diplomatic Ties."
"Pengchuan News on 300th Anniversary: Reflects Unique, High-Level Bilateral Relations."
"Minde University Federation Diplomatic History Society President: A Logical, Expected Move."
"Ares Empire Foreign Minister Boling to Attend StarNet Press Conference in Capital Star."
StarNet was ablaze with the news. Everyone was talking.
"Teacher, the Federation and Empire are celebrating 300 years of diplomacy," Baisha said.
"Routine," Homan lounged back, waving dismissively. "Our ties with the Ares Empire ebb and flow. Now's a thawing phase. These events happen every decade or so—big, showy affairs signal neither side wants war. Good news."
Baisha dug into StarNet's analyses.
The Federation and Empire had clashed before, branding each other "century-old foes" in wartime, then "mutual allies" during détente—diplomatic rhetoric, nothing more. But the Empire's Foreign Minister attending was rare; the last such visit was 130 years ago. It signaled strong mutual intent for peace.
Clicking a site, Baisha found a crisp photo of Minister Boling: brown hair, warm amber eyes, gold-rimmed glasses, smiling sagely. At forty-five, he looked youthful, a small gold-bellied, brown-winged lark perched on his shoulder.
His spirit form.
All Imperials had spirit forms—animal manifestations, constant companions, like extensions of themselves.
Comments below buzzed:
"Wow, the Empire's minister is hot! Do they pick diplomats by looks?"
"Show me an ugly Imperial, I dare you."
"That lark spirit fits a silver-tongued diplomat—his speeches must sing."
"Don't be fooled! Twenty years ago, he signed the Nelson Treaty, snatching thirteen of our border mining stars! His talks with our Foreign Ministry spell trouble."
"Chill, times change. StarNet's hyping this event—shows the official stance."
Debates over Empire relations erupted.
Baisha skipped the noise, spotting intriguing comments:
"Hey, the 300th anniversary includes a joint military academy exercise! @CentralMilitaryAcademy @SaintCyrMilitaryAcademy, wake up!"
"Why tag Central first? Snubbing Saint Cyr?"
"You two snubbing the other seven academies?"
"Saw academy mates hyped about this. The exercise picks a team from the nine academies—Central and Saint Cyr will hog the spots."
"No shady selections! No rigged picks! Hold an open academy tournament!"
"Seriously? You think Central and Saint Cyr top the ranks by cheating?"
The thread devolved into academy rivalries.
Baisha noted each academy's vibe. Saint Cyr students typed with lofty, cultured airs, dismissive of verbal spats, insisting "strength speaks true," but got roasted: You're the shadiest, Saint Cyr! Central and Saint Cyr, atop the nine-academy pyramid, faced attacks from the rest. Saint Cyr tried defending but wilted under fire, going silent. Central's students, however, sprang up like mushrooms, single-handedly fending off multiple academies with ease.
Baisha marveled—Central's prowess in the flame war stemmed from diverse tactics: fact-based debaters, snarky trolls, shameless rogues, and relentless flamers who shut foes down. They fought with strategy—advance, harass, exhaust, pursue—maximizing impact with minimal numbers.
Even online brawls showed why Central was number one.
Baisha, gleefully imagining herself a Central student, liked their posts en masse.
She rarely surfed StarNet, knowing its addictive pull. But the gossip and drama hooked her, and the five-hour flight vanished.
Before she knew it, they entered Capital Star's system.
From afar, Capital Star glowed orange, a radiant, unquenchable sun. Countless starships—shuttles, freighters, cruisers—wove through its spaceport, a disciplined river of steel.
"Welcome to Capital Star," Homan sat up, eyes fixed on the shining planet, then turned to the trio with a slow smile. "This is your home now."
Jingyi and Yaning, awake, pressed against the window, speechless, feeling like specks before the colossal world.
Military ships used the spaceport's green lane, bypassing the dense traffic that'd delay them half a day.
After docking, they disembarked with luggage. At customs, two silver-armored, armed guards saluted, then said gravely, "Present your clearance documents."
Joan and Homan showed their IDs, Inspectorate orders, and the trio's registry data. Confirming their Capital Star residency, the guards sped through checks, kindly urging Homan to get the trio's permanent IDs soon to avoid school delays.
The residency switch had nuances.
Capital Star's benefits dwarfed Lanslow's, but testing here meant facing stiffer competition. Capital's education outclassed border systems, its students leagues above Loden Star's. Encountering stronger peers was likely, and they needed mental prep. Also, Central Military Academy favored local applicants—if two candidates tied at the admission line, the Capital native often got the nod.
Homan explained these unwritten rules, gave them three days to settle, then sent them to the academy entrance exam.
Recalling their early-bird Lanslow Middle School signup, Homan and the trio rose at 4 a.m., piloting a flyer to the registration site.
At 4 a.m., Capital Star blazed with lights, yet held an empty quiet compared to day.
The academy registration point, however, was a mob.
They relived past chaos.
"I'll park the flyer," Homan sighed. "Can you three handle registration?"
The trio, clutching document folders, nodded.
Border systems skipped in-person registration—students submitted forms, tested on a main star, took mental strength exams, and awaited results. Capital Star's process flipped this, testing mental strength before applications to let academy recruiters scout talent on-site.
The trio hadn't expected the real drama to kick off at registration.
They queued outside the mental strength testing room with their folders.
The site had ten cutting-edge mental strength testers—Loden Star used three at most.
Ten machines churned efficiently, but the overseeing teachers were meticulous, each test taking three to five minutes.
The trio lined up together.
Ahead stood a well-dressed student, nervous but composed. Seeing them chat, he joined to ease his tension. "This line's endless. When's our turn? You three seem tight—same school?"
Yaning nodded. "Yeah, grew up together."
"Lucky. Only child here—no siblings to vent to," the refined boy sighed. "I'm not set on military academy. My grades could get me into Minde University. But my parents say officership brings status and job security, so here I am."
Even privileged kids couldn't escape the allure of "prestige" and "stability."
Jingyi and Yaning exchanged looks, unfamiliar with such "sweet" woes, unsure how to respond. Baisha, though, chimed in naturally. "Parents can be like that. Their path isn't always wrong, but it's your life. If military academy's bearable, fine, follow them. But if you've got a passion, think twice to avoid regrets."
The boy pondered, then sighed. "I'd rather do research."
He seemed deflated.
The line moved fast, and soon it was his turn.
A teacher called him in.
Three minutes later, he emerged, visibly relieved, clutching his results.
"B-grade mental strength," he smiled. "No chance for Central or Saint Cyr. My parents won't stop me from Minde now."
Yaning blinked, searching Minde University on his light-computer. He gaped—Minde topped Federation universities, birthing countless statesmen, tech giants, and elite talents. Its admission rate rivaled Central Military Academy's, a haven for prodigies.
Yaning looked at the boy with awe for the scholar.
The smiling boy bid them farewell, leaving the line. Soon, a new name echoed:
"Next, Yan Jingyi!"
Jingyi's limbs stiffened slightly. She inhaled, striding into the testing room.
The teacher calling her paused, struck by her aura, then led her in silently.
Five long minutes passed. The white testing room door opened, and Jingyi emerged with her report. Her face was blank, but Baisha saw her hand tremble.
Yaning, too nervous to look, blurted, "How'd it go? How'd it go!"
No reply. His heart sank. Glancing at Jingyi, he caught a sly smirk.
"S-grade," she whispered, joy leaking through. "They want me to stay—academy teachers will talk to me."
S-grade mental strength!
On mental strength alone, Jingyi was Central Military Academy material.
Yaning's eyes widened, but before he could celebrate, his name rang out: "Yaning Kelly!"
He hugged Jingyi quick—for luck, maybe—then dashed to the room, yelling, "I'm here!"
Yaning's test wasn't as swift. He lingered ten minutes, long enough for the queue to notice. Two lab-coated staff with toolkits entered the testing room.
Someone whispered, "What's up? Machine broken?"
"Heard they got two S-grades in a row—they think the tester's glitching!" another said, excitement hushed. "S-grade's one in ten thousand. Two at once? Teachers are floored."
"Both S-grades related?"
"No way—their surnames differ…"
Curious eyes fixed on Jingyi and Baisha. They exchanged glances, silent.
After what felt like ages, Yaning emerged, face flushed, clutching his report. His teary eyes locked on Baisha and Jingyi, words failing, only gesturing faintly.
"We know, S-grade," Baisha approached, patting his back. "Calm down. This is great—we're Central Military Academy-bound together."
Yaning turned, eyes glistening, nodding firmly. "Yeah!"
Finally, Baisha's turn.
She inhaled, following the teacher into the testing room.
"Close the door," the teacher, name-tagged, instructed. Baisha complied, as she would've anyway.
The young, dark-haired teacher buzzed with lingering excitement—two S-grades in one session was unprecedented, and he hadn't recovered. Three others shared his awe: a female teacher with a similar tag and the two toolkit-carrying researchers who'd likely verified the machine after Yaning's test. They whispered about the prior students, speculating they were scions of great houses testing together. Their guesses were far from reality.
"Lie here," the dark-haired teacher composed himself, directing Baisha. "We'll fit this helmet. You'll feel something probe your mind—slight discomfort, but don't resist. Once your brainwaves stabilize, follow my instructions."
"Like a sim-pod?" Baisha asked.
"Similar," he said curtly. Though both linked the brain, their mechanics differed. No need to explain, right?
Baisha lay down briskly, donning the helmet, her face half-obscured, faint light glinting from her neck.
"Close your eyes. Focus," the teacher's voice reached her. His footsteps echoed, and the machine hummed—a sensation like wind or current brushed her ears, giving a subtle weightlessness, as if floating on a cool, calm lake. In boundless dark, faint light bloomed before her.
"You'll see stars. Focus all your attention to sense and capture them. Hold their light in your gaze…"
Capture them?
Baisha breathed softly. Before her wasn't a mere cluster but a vast, boundless star-sea—each star a pulsing life, blazing eagerly, vying to leap into her vision.
This star-sea echoed the galaxy she'd seen from the starship, yet was distinct, mesmerizingly beautiful. Each star shone too brightly to single out, but she could trace their patterns like constellations. Amid the shifting sea, she glimpsed a giant bird's wing, studded with diamond-like points. The more she looked, the clearer the wing's outline grew. Suddenly, the star-sea stirred, the wing fanning slowly, its majestic sweep nearing her face, about to graze her eyes—
"Double S-grade!" The vision shattered, darkness returning. A thunderous shout jolted her. "It's double S-grade!"
"I'm contacting the Military—"
Baisha sighed on the testing bed.
If only the teacher had waited.
A moment more, and she'd have touched that vibrant star-sea—
The vanished wing, in memory, stirred a bone-deep familiarity and thrill.
As if she'd met it in a dream…
Forgotten.