The invitation appeared on Orion Ember's data tablet while he was verifying the serial number of the new mattress Peregrine Cinder had sent over last night—the logistics system's remarks column read: *Crown Prince's habit.* Orion stared at those two words for three seconds, feeling like he'd been written into a configuration file that shouldn't exist.
The next second, an encrypted message popped up.
The sender's name was properly formal: *Shen Mecha Research Institute · Academic Exchange Division.* The body was even more proper, proper as a verdict wrapped in candy paper:
*"Respectfully inviting Lieutenant Ember to the private simulation chamber at 'Tranquil Wave Court' at 20:00 tonight, to participate as third-party observer in the 'Star Chaser Series Neural Synchronization Extreme Test.' This invitation has been filed with military headquarters, with copy confirmation from Peregrine Direct Fleet Command."*
*Copy confirmation.*
Four words that nailed "private" dead onto the table. A chill ran down Orion's back. Shen Cetus wasn't inviting him for tea—he was telling the entire fleet: the Crown Prince knows about this, and permits it to happen.
He closed the tablet and looked up at the thin wall of the standby cabin. Beyond that wall was the command cabin, where Peregrine usually stood before the star chart at this hour.
He knocked.
"Enter."
Peregrine wasn't at the star chart. He stood by the viewport, silver hair bound up, his profile cut by the afterglow of the Seventh Sector's artificial sun into a cold white edge. When Orion entered, he seemed to have known who it was all along, not even turning his head: "You saw?"
"I saw." Orion held out the tablet.
Peregrine didn't take it, only glancing at the screen, his golden pupils showing no ripple: "Cetus submitted the application last night, approved this morning. Those old men at headquarters love their 'five houses co-governance' rhetoric—Shen family wants 'academic exchange,' they're happy to do favors."
Orion's throat tightened: "You agreed?"
Peregrine finally turned, his gaze settling on Orion's face, lingering longer than usual: "If I disagreed, he'd find another path. Cornering you privately, inviting you halfway, or assigning you to a suicide squad in simulated battle—Cetus never lacks for roads."
Orion fell silent.
In the game setting, Shen Cetus was the hidden hand of the "Fallen Campaign." Gentle, clean, every step legal. Legality was the hardest blade to defend against.
"You'll go tonight," Peregrine said, "but only to Tranquil Wave Court. Overtime, location change, getting in his car alone—"
He paused.
Orion continued, voice dry: "Otherwise?"
Peregrine stepped closer. Orion instinctively retreated, his lower back pressing against the cold console edge. Peregrine didn't press further, only raising his hand, fingertips pressing against the pulse point on Orion's neck—not choking, just holding that point of skin, as if reading some data.
"I'll come find you," Peregrine said, tone flat as reciting operational regulations, "until I do."
Orion's heart slammed once.
This wasn't threatening tone—it was statement. The statement held no anger, only a certainty that chilled Orion more: Peregrine said it, so he would do it.
"I'll return on time," Orion said.
Peregrine "mm'd," but his fingertips didn't immediately leave. Instead, they brushed slightly, as if confirming the temperature at the edge of pheromones. Orion's ears burned, hearing the other add in a volume only they could hear:
"Whatever Cetus asks you, you can answer 'I don't know.'"
Orion startled.
Peregrine's golden pupils lowered, lashes casting a shallow shadow under the light: "Not knowing isn't shameful. What's shameful—is letting him think he got something real."
Orion suddenly understood. This wasn't teaching him to play dumb.
This was teaching him to choose battlefields: truth for Peregrine, nonsense for Cetus.
"Understood, Young Peregrine," Orion said.
Peregrine raised his eyes.
Orion's throat moved, pressing the latter half into the air like snow into palm: "...Peregrine."
Peregrine's breath lightly hitched for an instant, then resumed level. He withdrew his hand, turning toward the star chart, as if that moment of loss of control had never occurred: "Go prepare. Lumen Sage will meet you at the door—her official role tonight is logistics coordination, actually she's eyes."
Orion's heart loosened, then immediately tensed: "You even prepared eyes."
Peregrine didn't turn back, but his voice cooled slightly: "Cetus has prepared far more. I simply don't want you becoming an isolated case in Tranquil Wave Court."
*Isolated case.*
Orion recalled those gazes on the training ground, recalled Lieutenant Zhou's ten minutes entering and exiting Cetus's lounge. He lowered his head in salute, exited the command cabin, palms full of sweat.
Eighty-two days.
He silently changed the number in his heart. Less time meant faster movement from people like Cetus—like sharks smelling blood, smiling politely, approaching elegantly.
Tranquil Wave Court wasn't at the main military academy campus, but on a floating island at the inner ring edge of the Seventh Sector. The building's exterior looked like a drop of solidified mercury, reflecting light from three artificial suns. When Orion exited the vehicle, Lumen Sage indeed stood under the portico, wearing logistics uniform, holding a stack of unnecessarily paper documents, as if waiting for signatures.
She saw him, eyes flicking: "Lieutenant Ember, punctual. Young Shen likes punctual people."
Orion moved to her side, voice pressed extremely low: "What did the Young Peregrine have you bring?"
Lumen Sage passed him the top sheet, fingertips tapping three times on the paper edge—three taps, their direct fleet's signal for "safe passage confirmed."
"Bring you back alive," her lips didn't move, voice squeezing through teeth, "and don't drink anything. Shen family's tea can make you speak your dreams as dissertations."
Orion: "..."
He recalled the "drugging tropes" he'd written in templates, suddenly feeling some absurd transmigration sensation. Except here, what they drugged wasn't aphrodisiac—it was intelligence drug.
Inside, attendants smiled and bowed, leading them through the long corridor. The walls were alive, like some translucent jellyfish skin, rippling slightly with footsteps. Orion mentally tagged this scene: *[Shen aesthetic · Expensive as hell · Perfect for hiding surveillance].*
The private simulation chamber was smaller than the training ground, but more precise. The dome pressed low, like an inverted pot, and beneath the pot stood Cetus.
Silver hair, purple pupils, uniform changed to research institute white robes, collar embroidered with extremely faint Shen family crest. He still smiled warmly: "Lieutenant Ember, good evening. Miss Lumen came too? Welcome. The logistics sign-off desk is in the side chamber, if you need refreshments—"
"Unnecessary," Lumen Sage was all business, "I'm waiting for someone. Young Peregrine ordered, Lieutenant Ember must return to port before 23:00 tonight."
Cetus lightly "ah'd," like regret, like appreciation: "Peregrine calculates time so tightly now."
He looked at Orion, gaze soft as if asking about weather: "You don't mind?"
Orion lowered his head: "I don't mind. I listen to Young Peregrine."
This landed very obedient, obedient as the companion student he was. Cetus's smile deepened one degree.
At the simulation chamber's center, two neural interface chairs rose, with a skeletal model of "Star Chaser-III" standing beside them, metal bones under light like some cold white beast.
"Tonight isn't battle," Cetus said, "it's observation. I want you to wear the sync ring and enter a new 'extreme scenario' I wrote. You don't need to win, just... follow your instincts."
A chill ran down Orion's back.
New scenario. Cetus was writing his own "exam questions," and Orion was the only examinee.
"Do I have the right to refuse?" he asked.
Cetus tilted his head, gentle as teaching a student: "You may. But refusal records enter the research institute archives, appearing in military headquarters review tomorrow—'Lieutenant Ember refuses to cooperate with five houses joint technical project.' Lieutenant Ember, do you want Peregrine explaining at the review meeting?"
Orion closed his eyes.
Legal. Proper. Forcing you to walk into the cage yourself.
"I'll cooperate," he said.
The interface ring clicked onto his nape, stinging like fine needles into spinal cord. Orion bit down, vision swallowed by white light. When it brightened again, he stood in an unfamiliar star sector.
Not the Seventh Sector. Not any standard chart from the military academy.
Orion's stomach plummeted.
He knew this place.
In game discarded drafts, he'd drawn a "insectoid advance infiltration" map, later cut for pacing issues. That map never went live, only remaining on internal server backups—and the asteroid belt arrangement here, gravity trap positions, even that "ghostly" reconnaissance ship silhouette in the distance, matched seventy percent with the discarded draft.
What was Cetus testing?
Cetus's voice came through the channel, gentle, carrying near-tender amusement: "Lieutenant Ember, see those three beacons ahead? Please choose destruction order within thirty seconds. No standard answer—I only want your first instinct."
Orion's fingertips went ice-cold.
Standard answers certainly existed. In the draft, destroying the left beacon triggered chain minefields, the center was bait, the right was the weakness—that's how he'd designed it, to let expert players show off, let ordinary players pay tuition.
If he played the "correct answer," Cetus would conclude: you've seen internal materials.
If he played randomly, Cetus would conclude: you're hiding.
Orion completed a game designer's self-betrayal in 0.5 seconds.
He deliberately aimed at the center bait, then "trembled" half a degree off before firing, grazing the left beacon edge, triggering half the chain, forcing himself into狼狈 evasion—like surviving on luck under extreme pressure.
Thirty seconds ended. System score popped up: D-.
Orion disconnected, looking up from the chair, face pale, sweat dripping down his jaw onto the white robe collar's projection. He gasped, as if truly frightened.
Cetus stood two steps away, holding a cup of tea, not drinking, only watching him.
"You chose center," Cetus said softly, "yet touched left. Very like... someone who dreams, sees explosions in dreams, so trembles in reality."
Orion's heart thundered, face showing blankness: "I just... panicked."
Cetus smiled, setting down the tea, approaching, bending down, looking into his eyes with that excessively tender distance: "When panicking, ordinary people hide first. You calculate first. Lieutenant Ember, your three evasion angles just now precisely avoided the chain minefield's maximum kill sector."
Orion's throat went dry.
Cetus made it clearer, like placing a knife gently on the table—not stabbing, just letting you see the edge:
"You weren't panicking. You were 'pretending to panic.'"
The simulation chamber was quiet enough to hear the circulation system's water flow.
Orion slowly raised his eyes, gray-blue pupils empty: "Young Shen, I don't understand."
The highest level of playing dumb wasn't playing stupid—it was playing incomprehension—because this world's most forgiving explanation for nobility was "defective brain."
Cetus stared at him three seconds, then suddenly smiled again, as if that sharpness had never existed: "Not understanding is fine too. Those who understand too much often don't live long."
He raised his hand, signaling Orion to rise: "Second test is simpler. Look at this star chart—"
The holographic screen unfolded, Seventh Sector outer ring orbit defense nodes flashing like a string of pearls.
"If you were deploying defenses," Cetus asked softly, "where would you place the 'reserve force'?"
Orion looked at that map, yet overlaid it with the game's沦陷 animation. Reserve force misplaced, command chain cut by spore cloud at minute seventeen—that was the plot kill he'd written.
He placed his fingertip on a point in the map.
Not optimal solution.
The solution most "mediocre noble staff would choose": close to inner ring, safe, looks good, sounds responsible.
Cetus's lashes moved almost imperceptibly.
"Why?" he asked.
Orion lowered his head, voice steady as reciting text: "Inner ring communications stable, reserve force needs to listen to flagship dispatch anytime. Young Peregrine said, fleet must believe in command chain."
He brought out Peregrine, like raising a shield.
Cetus was silent a moment, smile softening again: "Peregrine would like your answer. It's correct, loyal, and..."
He paused, purple pupils flashing cold light: "And beautifully wrong."
Orion's fingertips went numb.
Cetus didn't explain where wrong, only reaching out to brush nonexistent dust from Orion's shoulder, movement intimate as old friend, yet making all the hairs on Orion's nape stand up.
"Lieutenant Ember," Cetus said, "I'm increasingly certain. You're not a genius."
Orion's heart clenched violently.
Cetus bent down, voice light as whisper, content like iron:
"You are—someone who knows the exam questions."
Orion raised his eyes, struggling to keep pupils empty: "Young Shen, if you suspect me of leaking secrets, you can follow military law procedures. I'll cooperate with investigation."
He kicked the ball back, kicked to "procedures"—wasn't Cetus best at making everything legal? Then he'd use legality as shell.
Cetus looked at him a long time, so long Lumen Sage coughed outside the door, like reminding time.
Cetus finally retreated half a step, resuming that relaxing warmth: "Don't be nervous, this is only academic exchange. Without evidence, I won't speak recklessly."
He passed over a new chip, smaller than last time, like a fingernail.
"This is Tranquil Wave Court scenario's raw data package," Cetus said, "You can take it back for Peregrine to see. I have nothing to hide."
Orion didn't immediately accept.
"Afraid I poisoned it?" Cetus smiled, "Then you should take it back for Peregrine to verify. He verifies, then you and I are both clean."
Orion accepted the chip, palm like holding ice.
This wasn't gift.
This was provocation, also bait—if Peregrine verified, Cetus could know what Peregrine verified, what he investigated; if Peregrine didn't verify, Cetus could spread outside "the Crown Prince dares not touch Shen technology."
Advance or retreat, both were nooses.
"Thank you, Young Shen," Orion lowered his head.
Cetus looked at him, suddenly asking another question, like casual chat: "When you dream of campaigns, do you dream of me?"
Orion was silent two seconds, choosing Peregrine's taught answer: "I don't know."
Cetus startled an instant, then laughed aloud, laughing until eye corners curved, as if truly happy: "Good answer. Peregrine taught you?"
Orion didn't answer.
Cetus didn't press, only opening the door for him: "Go back. Give Peregrine my regards—say, I look forward to next simulated battle. If Star Chaser loses too embarrassingly, I'll be unhappy."
Orion walked from Tranquil Wave Court, night wind like knives, scraping his temples sore. Lumen Sage followed at his side, only cursing low after entering the vehicle: "Fucking smiling tiger."
Orion leaned in his seat, closing his eyes, feeling his heart hadn't yet recovered from that D-狼狈.
He'd fooled the system score, hadn't fooled Cetus's eyes.
Cetus was suspicious.
Not "this person is a bit strange" suspicious—it was "exam questions leaked" suspicious. Villain lines didn't need guns to open, only needed sufficiently beautiful suspicion, slowly fermenting in military headquarters review, in five houses博弈.
The vehicle stopped outside *Celestial Dome* berth with seven minutes to eleven.
Orion entered, command cabin lights on. Peregrine stood before the star chart, spine straight, as if never leaving. Hearing footsteps, he didn't turn back: "Returned early."
Orion saluted: "Reporting to Young Peregrine, mission complete."
Peregrine finally turned, golden pupils scraping inch by inch across his face, like counting wounds. Orion knew his complexion was poor, lips pale, as if the interface had drawn a layer of blood.
"The chip," Peregrine reached out.
Orion handed it over. Peregrine accepted, didn't look, first raising his hand to grip Orion's wrist, fingertip pressing pulse, holding five seconds.
"You were afraid," Peregrine said, not questioning.
Orion's throat moved: "Cetus is very smart."
"I know," Peregrine's voice was flat, "otherwise he wouldn't live to today."
He inserted the chip into the reading slot, screen lighting up, data streaming. Orion stood beside, watching those codes he "shouldn't understand," forcing himself to keep gaze scattered—before Peregrine, he couldn't expose himself too thoroughly either.
After a moment, Peregrine spoke: "Scenario data is real. No backdoors, at least not at this layer."
Orion startled.
Peregrine turned his face to look at him, golden pupils flashing cold light: "Cetus gave you clean things to bring me to see, saying—he fears no investigation. What's truly dirty isn't in the chip."
A chill ran down Orion's back: "In people's hearts."
Peregrine "mm'd," like praising this response. He withdrew the chip, casually tossing it into the encrypted destruction slot, metal biting sound crisp as locking.
"What did he ask you?"
Orion briefly described both tests, omitting the fear from draft overlap, only preserving Cetus's final judgment: "He said... I'm not a genius, I'm someone who knows the exam questions."
The command cabin was terrifyingly quiet.
Peregrine looked at the star chart, long without speaking. Orion thought he would rage, grow cold, order isolation review—but Peregrine finally only reached out, pressing Orion's nape, force not heavy, yet steady as anchor.
"You're not exam questions," Peregrine said, voice hoarse, "you're my variable."
Orion's breath caught.
This sentence crossed too many boundaries, crossing like tearing open a corner of the "Crown Prince" shell, revealing the burning, unreasonable things inside.
Peregrine seemed to realize his own loss of control too, fingers releasing, gaze averting, resuming that cold regulation tone: "Tonight you sleep on the command cabin platform. Don't return to standby cabin."
Orion: "Young Peregrine—"
"I can't smell your pheromones," Peregrine interrupted, tone hardening an instant, then suppressing, "I'll... uncomfortable."
Those final three words, he said very light, like unwilling to admit, yet having to admit.
Something in Orion's heart was lightly struck.
He recalled that previous "afraid," "habit" and mattress, recalled Cetus's smile tonight. Three lines twisted together, twisted into a rope, one end tied to Peregrine's wrist, the other end... tied around his own neck.
No, not choking.
Someone feared the rope would break.
"Understood," Orion said, voice softer than he imagined, "Peregrine."
Peregrine's shoulder line imperceptibly loosened.
He turned toward the platform, like escaping something, like yielding half his territory. Orion followed, lying on his side in the narrow space, pheromones slowly spreading, like snow falling on warm skin.
Peregrine buried his face in Orion's neck hollow, inhaling deeply, muffled voice saying: "If Cetus invites you again in the future..."
"I don't go?" Orion asked.
Peregrine was silent two seconds, actually giving an answer unfitting his "control freak persona": "Go. But tell me the location in advance. I'll have Lumen Sage go, I'll be there too."
Orion's heart skipped: "You'll personally be there?"
Peregrine's voice was muffled, like ashamed to speak dependence clearly: "Cetus wants to see me. You alone, too conspicuous."
Orion closed his eyes.
He suddenly understood—when the villain line opened, it wasn't only Cetus laying out the board—Peregrine was also forced to play bigger moves. Protection was no longer "you're mine," but "I'm here."
Outside the window, the Seventh Sector's starry sky remained fake, artificial suns still regular as programs.
Yet at this moment, Orion actually felt the fake starry sky was better than the true apocalypse in the discarded drafts.