Orion was jolted awake by a shrill alarm.
He sprang upright from the platform, the neural interface port at his nape still tingling—last night, after Peregrine fell asleep, he'd used the command deck's equipment to access some files. Military records about the "Campaign of the Fall." Those documents were encrypted at the highest level, but he'd tried the backend passwords from the game lore, and they worked.
Then he'd fallen asleep. Beside Peregrine, with the crown prince's silver-white hair brushing the back of his hand, beneath the Seventh Sector's false starfield.
"Alert: Sector B-7, unauthorized access. Alert: Sector B-7..."
The mechanical female voice repeated its warning. Orion snapped fully awake. B-7 was the archive designation he'd queried last night, the military's contingency plan for the "Campaign of the Fall"—something that theoretically shouldn't exist.
Someone had set a trap.
Peregrine was already awake, golden pupils clear, none of the disorientation of recent sleep. He looked at Orion, then at the flashing alert light, his expression as calm as if watching a performance.
"You accessed my terminal," he said. Not a question—a statement. "What did you search?"
"Campaign contingency plans," Orion chose truth, "I wanted to confirm whether my dream was real."
"And?"
"It was real," Orion said, his voice tight, "Eighty-four days from now, the Seventh Sector falls. Your flagship covers the retreat, perishes with the Zerg hive-mind. The plan includes a detailed timeline, even..." he paused, "even a succession list for after your death."
Peregrine's expression didn't change.
He rose, silver-white hair spilling over his shoulders, walked to the terminal, and traced his fingers through the air a few times. The alarm stopped. The red warning on the screen was replaced by a document Orion had never seen—"Project Celestial Dome · Top Secret."
"You accessed the old plan," Peregrine said, his voice flat, "Three months ago, I discovered this document, and then..." he turned, looking at Orion, "then I changed it."
Orion froze.
"Changed it?"
"Deleted the succession list," Peregrine said, "Canceled the covering retreat mission. The plan to perish with the hive-mind..." he paused, "was changed to evacuation. If the campaign truly breaks out, I will be the first person to leave the Seventh Sector."
This wasn't game lore.
In the game lore, Peregrine died covering the retreat, died protecting civilian evacuation, died in that "perfect heir's" self-sacrifice. But now, this crown prince was telling him that he'd discovered the plan, altered the scheme, intended to survive?
"You..." Orion searched for the right words, "aren't you afraid of being called a coward?"
"Afraid," Peregrine said, returning to the platform's edge, looking down at Orion, "but more afraid of dying. When I was five, hiding in the wardrobe, watching my mother dragged away, I swore then..." His golden pupils gleamed in the light, like some nocturnal creature, "swore never to hide in darkness again, swore to live, to live until I could change everything."
Orion looked up at him.
This Peregrine was different from the game lore. That perfect, self-sacrificing, heroically dead crown prince—in this real body, was someone who feared, who altered contingency plans, who admitted he was afraid to die.
"Your dreams," Peregrine said suddenly, "are different from mine. I dream of the past. You dream of the future. Why?"
Orion's heart accelerated.
The fatal question. He couldn't answer "because I'm a game designer," couldn't answer "because your entire future was written by me." He needed a lie, one that would let Peregrine continue trusting him.
"Because I'm from the future," he said, choosing the boldest option, "Not dreaming—remembering. I remember what happens eighty-four days from now. Remember that you die, that the Empire splits, that..." he paused, "that I die too."
Peregrine was silent.
Long, long silence. Long enough that Orion thought his lie had been seen through, long enough that he began calculating escape routes from the command deck.
"Prove it," Peregrine finally said, his voice light as a snowflake, "Prove you're from the future."
Orion closed his eyes, searching his memory. What happened today in the game lore? After the Third Fleet's monthly simulation war... it was... it was Shen Cetus's mecha launch, the formal debut of the "Star-Chaser" series. At the launch, Shen would announce a "surprise"—cooperation with the Cinder family to jointly develop the next-generation flagship.
But that cooperation was a trap. Shen's true purpose was to obtain the Celestial Dome's design data, preparing for betrayal during the "Campaign of the Fall."
"Today," he said, "Shen Cetus will announce cooperation with the Cinder family to jointly develop a flagship. But it's a trap. What he truly wants is the Celestial Dome's data, so that during the campaign..."
"So he can install backdoors on my flagship," Peregrine interrupted, his voice calm, "I know. Three months ago, when I modified the contingency plan, I discovered Shen's scheme."
Orion froze.
"You knew?"
"I knew," Peregrine said, "But I need evidence. Need the right timing. Need..." he looked at Orion, something flashing in his golden pupils that Orion couldn't read, "need someone from the future to help me confirm my judgment was correct."
Orion's heart skipped a beat.
This wasn't a test. It was... recruitment? Peregrine had long suspected Shen, long modified the contingency plan, long planned to survive. His "prophetic dream" wasn't a variable—it was the validation Peregrine had been waiting for.
"What do you need me to do?" he asked.
"Be my consultant," Peregrine said, "Not a companion student. Not a stabilizer. A consultant. Tell me everything you know. About the future. About the campaign. About..." he paused, "about how I can survive."
Orion looked at his hand. That hand was pale and slender, knuckles distinct—an imperial heir's hand, but also the hand that had curled in the corner at dawn whispering "afraid."
"I can tell you," he said, "but I have a condition."
"Speak."
"After the campaign," Orion said, his voice more certain than he expected, "if you survive, give me a ship. Give me freedom to leave the Empire."
Peregrine's expression changed.
Not anger—something deeper, more complex. He looked at Orion as if at a piece of porcelain that had suddenly shown a crack.
"You want to leave," he said—not questioning, stating, "Even if I survive, you want to leave."
"Yes," Orion said, "I have my own future. Not the Empire's. Not the Cinder family's. My own."
Peregrine was silent.
The command deck's climate control emitted a faint hum, like some massive creature breathing. Orion waited, waited to be refused, punished, thrown off the Celestial Dome.
"Deal," Peregrine said, his voice light as a snowflake, "but with an additional condition."
"What?"
"Before you leave," Peregrine said, golden eyes locking onto him, "you must teach me how to sleep without you."
Orion froze.
This wasn't a political transaction. This was... emotional blackmail? Peregrine was using his "departure" as leverage to extract more time together, more pheromones, more... dependence?
"I can use synthetic stabilizers," he said, "Medical has the formula..."
"Useless," Peregrine interrupted, "I tried. Only you."
Only you.
Three words, like a key opening some box Orion didn't want to touch. In the game lore, Peregrine's "only cure" was a hidden attribute, never triggered for any character. But now, he had become that "only," become the crown prince's necessity.
"Deal," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'll teach you. Then I'll leave."
Peregrine extended his hand, pale slender fingers suspended in midair. Orion looked at that hand, remembering how it had pressed against his artery at dawn—burning, trembling, carrying some desire he dared not name.
He grasped that hand.
"Pleasure doing business," Peregrine said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly—not a perfect smile, but something more real, touched with bitterness, "Consultant."
Shen Cetus's mecha launch began at three in the afternoon.
Orion attended as "Consultant to the Young Master Peregrine," wearing the Direct Fleet's formal uniform, the warrant officer's insignia on his shoulder gleaming under the lights. Three months ago, he'd been the defective product the Ember family discarded; now he stood beside the Imperial Crown Prince, introduced as an "important partner."
"Consultant Orion," Shen Cetus approached with a smile, silver hair and violet eyes, warm as jade, "I heard you performed excellently in yesterday's simulation war, personally promoted by the Young Master Peregrine?"
"Good luck," Orion lowered his head, assuming a submissive posture, "But the Young Master Shen's Star-Chaser series is truly impressive."
"Impressive?" Shen's smile didn't change, but his eyes sharpened, "You knew the Star-Chaser's weaknesses. How could it be 'impressive?'"
A chill ran down Orion's spine.
Shen knew. Or guessed. About the Meteor's activation code, about extreme mode, about his "prophetic" ability.
"A guess," he said, using the same line he'd used with Peregrine, "Good luck..."
"Luck cannot explain everything," Shen interrupted, his voice light as if speaking to himself, but loud enough for Peregrine beside him to hear, "Consultant Orion, you remind me of someone. On my mother's side, our family once produced a 'prophet,' capable of dreaming the future. Finally burned as a heretic."
Orion's heart accelerated.
This wasn't game lore. Shen's backstory contained no "prophet" family, no "heretic" history. This was a new variable, another face of this real world revealed to him.
"I'm not a prophet," he said, "I'm just..."
"Just what?"
"Just had a dream," Peregrine's voice cut in from beside him, icy, sharp, like an unsheathed sword, "Shen Cetus, you're quite interested in my consultant?"
Shen's expression froze for an instant, then restored itself to perfection.
"Of course I'm interested," he said, "Anyone beside the Young Master Peregrine is worth attention. Especially..." he looked at Orion, something flashing in his violet pupils that Orion couldn't read, "someone capable of making the Young Master change contingency plans."
Orion's fingers tightened.
Shen knew about the contingency plan. Knew that Peregrine had modified "Project Celestial Dome," knew the crown prince intended to survive rather than sacrifice. This was top secret—Peregrine had told only him—and Shen...
"You installed listening devices on my flagship," Peregrine said—not questioning, stating, "Three months ago, when I modified the contingency plan, I discovered them."
Shen's smile finally cracked.
Not shock—... appreciation? He looked at Peregrine as if at a weapon finally revealing its edge.
"The Young Master Peregrine is indeed clever," he said, his voice light as discussing weather, "But cleverness cannot change the ending. Eighty-four days from now, the Seventh Sector will fall. No matter how you modify contingency plans, no matter how many 'consultants' you hire..." he paused, looking at Orion, "the ending won't change."
"Unless?"
"Unless you're willing to cooperate," Shen said, "Shen family technology, Cinder family fleet, jointly developing weapons that can truly change the war. Rather than..." he sneered, "rather than hiding in your consultant's pheromones, pretending you can survive."
Orion felt Peregrine's body stiffen beside him.
That wasn't anger—it was fear. The fear of being exposed, of being seen through, of being reminded "you're just a sick man."
"Shen Cetus," Peregrine's voice was light, but carried a dangerous calm, "you're provoking me."
"I'm saving you," Shen said, "and saving myself. When the campaign breaks out, I don't want to die, nor do I want to watch the Empire split. Consultant Orion can dream the future, but changing the future requires power, requires..." he extended his hand, "requires cooperation."
Orion looked at that hand.
Same as in the game lore—Shen was a pragmatist, willing to use any means to survive. But in the game lore, his cooperation partner was the Zerg, was betrayal, was the true mastermind behind the "Campaign of the Fall."
And now, he was inviting Peregrine, inviting the Imperial Crown Prince, to join his plan.
"What's your plan?" Peregrine asked.
"Cannot be spoken here," Shen smiled, "Tonight. My private starport. Only the three of us. If you truly want to survive, Young Master Peregrine, you need to hear my proposal."
He turned and left, silver hair trailing an arc under the lights. Orion watched his back, remembering the ending from the game lore—Shen died in the post-campaign purge, executed for "treason" by Peregrine's successor.
But now, Peregrine wouldn't die. No successor existed. Would Shen's fate change too?
"Don't go," Orion said, his voice barely above a whisper, "It's a trap."
"I know," Peregrine said, "But I must. If he truly has technology that can change the war..."
"He doesn't," Orion interrupted, "His technology is a backdoor for the Zerg, it's..."
"What is it?"
Orion fell silent.
In the game lore, Shen's technology was a "biological signal jammer," capable of making the Zerg misjudge fleet positions, thereby protecting specific targets during the campaign. But the cost of that technology was that all humans within the jammer's range would develop genetic collapse symptoms—berserker rage like Peregrine's, but irreversible.
"It's poison," he said, choosing partial truth, "Can make the Zerg not see you, but will turn those beside you into monsters."
Peregrine looked at him, something flashing in his golden pupils that Orion recognized. Not shock—... resonance?
"I'm already a monster," he said, his voice light as a snowflake, "I don't mind being more of one."
Orion's heart skipped a beat.
This wasn't game lore. This was Peregrine's choice, made by this real person who feared, who wanted to survive.
"I'll go with you," he said, "but I have a condition."
"Speak."
"If Shen's technology truly is poison," Orion said, "you cannot use it. Whatever the cost, however many it could save, you cannot become..." he paused, "cannot become the kind of monster your mother feared."
Peregrine was silent.
Long, long silence. Long enough that the launch's host began introducing the Star-Chaser series' performance parameters, long enough that surrounding applause and cheers surged like tides.
"Deal," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "but you promise me something too."
"What?"
"If I truly become a monster," Peregrine said, golden eyes locking onto him, "you kill me. Use your methods, your technology, your..." he paused, "your pheromones. Let me die smelling you, rather than hurting others in berserker rage."
Orion looked at him, remembering the person curled in the corner at dawn whispering "afraid." That crown prince who needed his pheromones to fall asleep, now asking him to become his executioner.
"I promise you," he said, his voice rougher than he expected, "but you won't become a monster. I'll teach you how to control it, how to sleep without me, how..."
"How to survive?"
"How to survive," Orion repeated, "as a person. Not a weapon."
Peregrine extended his hand, pale slender fingers suspended in midair. Orion looked at that hand, remembering their agreement at dawn, remembering his identity as "consultant," remembering freedom eighty-four days from now.
He grasped that hand.
"Pleasure doing business," Peregrine said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly—not a perfect smile, but something more real, touched with bitterness, "My consultant, my..."
He didn't finish the last word.
But Orion heard it. In the surrounding applause and cheers, in the shadow of Shen's conspiracy and the campaign's approach, he heard that unspoken, dangerous, seductive word.
Not "possession." Not "stabilizer." Not "consultant."
Something more dangerous. More intimate. More impossible to exist within this Empire.
That evening, at Shen Cetus's private starport.
Orion stood beside Peregrine, looking at that pitch-black ship. No markings, no designation, only a line of small characters carved at the bow: "Prophet."
"My mother's family legacy," Shen said with a smile, silver hair gleaming violet under the starlight, "The true legacy left by those who could dream the future. Consultant Orion, would you like to go inside and see?"
Orion's heart accelerated.
In the game lore, this ship didn't exist. No "Prophet," no secret of Shen's mother. This was a brand-new variable, a future he couldn't predict.
"I would," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "I want to know how else the future can change."
Shen laughed, extending his hand, as elegant as inviting a dance partner.
"Welcome," he said, "to the true future."
Orion looked at that hand, then at Peregrine. The crown prince's golden pupils gleamed in the darkness, like some nocturnal creature, carrying vigilance, carrying curiosity, carrying... trust?
He grasped Shen's hand.
The starport's lights suddenly flickered, like voltage instability, like some massive creature breathing. Orion smiled in the darkness, remembering notes from his previous life designing games:
"The best plots are always those created by the players themselves."
Now, he was both player and character. Both designer and participant. Both Jiang Jin and Orion Ember.
And the future—the true future—had only just begun.