"I wish to help the people," Rover said at last.
Scar's expression darkened. Beside him, Phrolova let out a soft sigh. 'Well, I guess that's it… Regardless… we do not explicitly need him' she thought silently, not surprised, yet still slightly disappointed.
"C'mon!" Scar snapped, stepping forward. "Are you seriously telling me you don't want to know your past? We can offer far more than Jinzhou ever could!"
But Rover shook his head, calm and resolute. "I've made up my mind."
"There are better ways to survive than playing the hero, Rover," Scar warned, his voice dropping low.
Rover didn't flinch. "I'm certain of my choice. Who I was doesn't matter as much as who I am—and who I want to become."
Yangyang smiled softly at his declaration. Sanhua released a long, quiet sigh, while Lian—unmoved and calm—turned toward her.
"Are you mad that I interfered?" Lian asked, voice low but clear.
Sanhua narrowed her eyes at her, replying in a whisper, "Shouldn't I be?"
Lian smiled faintly, then looked toward Rover. "Then should I be angry at Jinzhou… for trying to decide someone else's future?"
"You see, Sanhua…" Lian's voice lowered, reaching a frigidity that Sanhua had never experienced. "There was once a time when a faction tried to decide my future."
Her eyes darkened. "I nearly wiped that faction off the map."
The words weren't loud—but they landed with the weight of an execution. Sanhua instinctively stiffened, a cold shiver crawling down her spine at the ice threading through Lian's tone.
"Rover… wouldn't do that," Sanhua murmured, trying to find grounding.
Lian's smile returned—subtle, unreadable. "Why?" she asked gently.
"Because… he's kind," Sanhua replied, but her voice wavered as a thought came to her. Sanhua's gaze flickered, surprise briefly clouding her eyes as she glanced at Lian. 'Wait, was she…'
Thinking about the whole picture now, Sanhua wondered if Lian was quietly orchestrating the entire unfolding scene like a conductor mid-performance.
Lian understood Rover's kindness all too well—his instinct to help, to shoulder burdens not his own. But it was precisely that compassion Jinzhou sought to exploit, binding him with unseen chains.
And that… was why she stepped in—before they could turn goodwill into quiet servitude.
She offered Sanhua a reassuring nod. "Rover is deeply magnanimous," she said. "That's precisely why, I believe someone like him must never be adorned with invisible shackles."
Lian crouched slightly, her voice low but resolute as she addressed the blinking Terminal strapped to Sanhua's back. Her eyes were sharp, yet weighed down by a quiet sorrow.
"My dear friend Changli," she began, each word deliberate, "if Rover truly matters, make sure his bond with Jinzhou doesn't become like ours—cold, transactional."
She slowly straightened, the faintest shadow of pain flickering across her face.
Her fingers clenched briefly at her side before she spoke again, softer now, laced with regret. "It's a shame... that our friendship is built not on compassion, but on cold exchange."
Yangyang stepped closer, her brow furrowed with curiosity and something softer—concern. Her eyes searched Lian's face, wide and earnest. "Are you friends with the counselor?" she asked quietly.
Lian's lips twitched into a wry, almost bitter smile. "Business friends, yes," she answered, but the weariness in her eyes betrayed the hollow truth behind the words.
Yangyang's gaze sharpened, her disbelief evident. "How so?" she pressed, unsettled by the depth of sorrow that didn't seem to belong to mere business ties.
Lian's hand rose, gesturing subtly toward Rover, who stood not far off. "Much like how you and Rover share a bond forged in necessity—business, nothing more."
"No! Rover and I..." Yangyang faltered, voice trembling with emotion.
But Lian's tone softened, almost coaxing, as if trying to guide a hesitant child through harsh truths. "Are you certain, little lady, that your friendship isn't also transactional?"
Yangyang's head shook emphatically. "No. We're friends out of compassion. I want him to be happy."
Lian's eyes narrowed, a piercing intensity settling over her. Her voice dropped to a near whisper, yet it cut through the air with undeniable weight. "Then tell me—will you toil for Rover's happiness? And if he is not happy, would you not feel disappointed?"
Yangyang's contemplated, then answered, "A person toils for the happiness of their loved one, their friends," she said gently, "of course they would want their loved ones to be happy?"
Lian's gaze locked with hers, her eyes kind and mixed with a quite sorrow. "Whatever a person does for their loved ones—is it business... or love?"
"It's love," Yangyang answered without hesitation.
Lian's voice softened, though the challenge lingered in her tone. "Then why desire more? Why sow the seeds of endless wishes? Wasn't the original purpose simply the well-being of your loved ones?"
Yangyang blinked, unsettled by the question's quiet gravity, her chest tightening with a vague, unspoken ache. "Profits are considered in business," Lian murmured, "but not in love."
Sanhua's terminal flickered, the blue ring at its base pulsing with a nervous, spectral light. On the other side, the observer flinched—a tremor passing through her, subtle yet rattling, as Lian's words lingered in the air.
Then, with a soft but final chime, the call came to an end.
At that moment, Rover returned from his talk with the Fractsidus. Scar's smile had long vanished—his jaw clenched, a flicker of irritation twisting his features. A dark gleam passed over his eyes, the kind that warned of stormy tempers barely held in check.
Without a word, Scar raised his hand slightly—black light crackling around his fingertips, the cards of his Elysium forming in his grasp.
But before he could summon it fully, Phrolova's voice rang out, sharp and cool. "We're leaving."
Scar turned his glare on her, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Didn't you promise me some alone time with Rover?" His voice was low, biting, as if each word scraped against the edge of control.
Phrolova met his fury with a firm, unimpressed stare, arms crossed over her chest. "With one condition," she reminded him pointedly. "I trust you haven't forgotten?"
Scar's lip curled. He let the card dissolve in his hand with a sigh—exaggerated, petulant.
"Don't let your improvisations trouble others," Phrolova warned again, her tone edged with steel.
"Ugh, look at you," Scar muttered with a scoff, rubbing one ear as though her scolding had physically irritated him. "Rushing in to protect your precious Perfect Movement."
Still, he stepped back, the tension in his posture slowly bleeding off. He withdrew his remaining cards with a flick, then turned his attention back to Rover.
"Rover," he called, his tone lighter now, but still tinged with something bitter. "Looks like our happy little date… has to end." He tilted his head slightly.
"Gae!" Lian called out from the side, too blunt and too amused.
Scar's brow twitched—an irk mark visibly forming as his eye twitched. He resisted the urge to react, but a dangerous pulse sparked beneath his skin. 'Maybe I should trap her in my Elysium,' he thought, but the moment passed. 'Not yet,' he thought.
Ignoring her, he looked back at Rover with a half-smile, half-warning. "But don't forget what I told you."
His gaze narrowed, glinting with a razor's edge. "Let me know what you decide, Rover: a gift you never expected, a true exchange… or a wager with everything at stake."
He retreated a pace as a swirling black doorway unfurled behind him, its surface etched with red and white sigils that shimmered like embers. Without a backward glance, Phrolova slipped through, her silhouette vanishing into the gloom.
But Scar lingered, his presence hanging in the air a moment longer. He offered the group a sly, knowing wink. "You're clever, Rover. I doubt you'll rush into anything."
Then, with a final step, he disappeared into the darkness beyond, his voice trailing after him—half promise, half warning: "We'll meet again... in the not-too-distant future."
***
It was a dusty, barren evening.
The air clung still to the dry earth, as the Vanguard Base prepared for whatever threat the night might bring. The wind carried no promise of warmth—only grit, and the weight of anticipation.
A voice rang out across the flickering tent light: "Come eat."
It was dinner time.
The soldiers filed out swiftly. Trained by repetition and necessity, they knew how to eat efficiently—fast hands, empty vessels.
The clatter of metal trays against mess tables rose briefly and then faded, replaced by the more subdued rhythms of chewing and murmured talk.
Lian was the last to arrive.
He moved without hurry, not too eager, nor like a tortoise. Fortunately, one plate remained on the counter.
"Enjoy." The woman at the serving station offered it with a smile, relief in her eyes. Lian accepted it, but asked quietly, "Has everyone eaten?"
She blinked, a little surprised by the question, then nodded. "Yes, yes—everyone's already done. Don't be shy. After all that firing earlier, you deserve at least this much."
Lian gave a faint, grateful nod, then turned, scanning the room. But every seat was taken—no space left for him among the ranks, no place where he wouldn't be crowding someone else.
So he walked past the tents and campfires and headed into the empty barrens.
It was ironic—where most would feel uneasy, even afraid of the open land where Tacet Discords could strike without warning, Lian felt peace.
There were no hungry souls here. No eyes watching, hoping for a bite. In this emptiness, he could finally allow himself to eat.
He settled beneath a withered tree, spine leaning gently against its brittle trunk. He exhaled slowly, letting the silence settle over him like a worn cloak.
The meal was modest—a single plate of rice, salted boiled vegetables, and a strip of tough meat. Ration food. Lifeless to most. But for Lian...
The moment the first bite touched his tongue, a tremor ran down his spine.
Ten months. Ten months without eating. His body remembered what his will had endured. His hands trembled—just faintly—as he brought the next spoonful up.
There was no ascetic pride in his restraint. He was not above hunger. He simply chose, always, to feed others first. He had made a habit of stepping aside for those with emptier stomachs.
But now, with no one around—he ate. Slowly. Almost reverently.
Each bite was like a lost warmth rediscovered.
"..."
"..."
"!!?"
He was nearly finished when something caught his ear—a murmur of raised voices carried by the wind.
Lian's spoon paused midair.
He turned his head slightly and saw two figures in the distance: the same woman who had served him, and a man whose face was knotted with hesitation. They were speaking in hushed urgency.
Curiosity piqued, Lian finished the last bite and rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his sleeves, and followed the voices into the barrens.
His steps were soft, his presence weightless, as though the land itself parted for him. Soon, he stood at a distance—close enough to hear, yet hidden within the hush of twilight.
"Sorry, Xie… I can't do that." The man's voice was thick with sorrow, his gaze cast downward, shame tightening his shoulders.
Xie's eyes trembled, but her resolve did not waver. "Jian… my family has already begun arranging my marriage. But I don't want anyone else. I want you." She took a step closer, her voice soft but insistent. "And I know—you want me too."
Jian clenched his fists. His breath stuttered with frustration.
"But… to just… steal you away? How could I do that?" His cheeks flushed pink as he turned aside, shame and pride wrestling in his chest. "I'm a soldier. A warrior. To elope like that… it's too shameful. It's disgraceful for a man of honor…"
Xie looked at him, pleading, her eyes shimmering with sincerity. "I would be happy with you, Jian. Truly."
But Jian stood like an iron gate—his honor bolting him shut.
Just then—a voice, calm and teasing, drifted between them. "Is something wrong here?" a new voice pierced the stillness
"But before silence could stretch into surrender. "Is something wrong here?" a new voice pierced the stillness."
"Ahh!" Both yelped in surprise, turning to see a young woman with flowing navy hair and brilliant aquamarine eyes, a faint smile playing on her lips. Lian—now in her female form—tilted her head, stepping forward with quiet amusement.
The surprise had sent Jian stumbling—straight into Xie's arms. In a blink, he found himself cradled in a perfect princess carry, legs dangling, eyes wide with panic.
Xie stood frozen, equally flustered, as if unsure whether to drop him or run. And standing before them, like a bemused observer at a stage play, was Lian—tilting her head, a spark of curiosity dancing in her eyes.
"I heard," Lian whispered, her voice laced with mischief, "that the two of you were caught in a lover's dilemma."
Jian's face reddened instantly. "W-what are you—put me down, Xie!"
"But you wouldn't act, right?" Lian continued, her tone light, almost dismissive of Jian's frantic gestures. "So perhaps let her be the one to woo you."
A glimmer of mischief flickered in her aquamarine gaze. "Who decided it must always be the man who sweeps their beloved away?"
She drew closer, her eyes bright with quiet amusement, voice dropping to a gentle, conspiratorial hush as she addressed Xie.
"Lady, this gentleman may lack the nerve to spirit you off..." she murmured, nodding toward Jian, whose cheeks burned with embarrassment, "…but you, my lady, certainly can steal him instead."
Xie and Jian were utterly baffled. Her suggestion—unorthodox, wildly out of line with social norms—bordered on absurdity.
And yet… there was something strangely comforting about it. As if, in that absurdity, a quiet permission had been given—to simply follow their hearts.
Lian leaned in, her tone soft, laced with playful mischief. "Make sure to invite me to the wedding however," she whispered with a wink.
To be continued...