The Federation's military headquarters was a monolith of cold steel and shadow, its corridors silent save for the faint hum of automated systems. In Ning Hongxue's private office, the air was thick with tension, the dim light casting stark angles across his chiseled features. His black-gloved hands rested on the desk, fingers interlocked, the star on his shoulder a solitary gleam in the gloom. Before him, the light-screen flickered, the masked man's purple-robed figure a specter of calculated menace.
Ning leaned forward, his dark hair slipping across his brow, his presence a storm compressed into human form. The air seemed to tighten, the masked man's half-exposed face losing its veneer of amusement under the weight of Ning's gaze.
"So, what's your move?" the masked man asked, his voice strained. "Ending our partnership?"
"No," Ning said, each word deliberate, a blade honed to cut. "I want partners who think, who tread carefully. Your blunders could drag me down with you."
He leaned back, his fingers brushing a stack of pristine files, his tone deceptively mild, like frost creeping over glass. "Let's review our deal: disrupt the arena, sow distrust between Empire and Federation, then let me fan the flames to reignite war. We're halfway there—distrust festers. But my contingencies? Wasted. And you left tracks."
The light-screen shivered, a glitch betraying the masked man's unease. His lips, painted a dark crimson, curled into a grotesque smile. "Those tracks are gone now."
"Gone?" Ning's eyes glinted, his voice dripping with disdain. "You killed them? Just now?"
The masked man's silence was damning. Ning's gaze hardened, his contempt palpable. "You had them believe the crew was cutting corners, slipping 'debris' into hollow walls. Brilliant cover—temporary structures, meant to crumble. No one would look twice. I had a thousand ways to silence them, and the blueprint swap might've gone unnoticed. But you chose now to kill them, waving a flag for all to see."
"Dead men don't talk," the masked man countered, his tone defiant.
"Timing, you fool," Ning snapped, his patience fraying. He drew a deep breath, steadying himself. "Before your Undying Cicada approached me, I faced the Silver Core's tactics in the military. Its terror lies in its omniscience, its omnipresence. It manipulates through information, technology, turning humans into unwitting cogs without their knowledge. That's its true danger."
He paused, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "People expect the Silver Core to leave no traces. Investigate a few times, find nothing, and they give up. But your actions scream human error, not divine machination. You've signaled that this isn't the Core's work, but some arrogant mortal's. They won't let it go now."
The logic was perverse but undeniable. If the Silver Core was blamed, investigators would assume an impenetrable veil, abandoning the chase. But a human culprit? That was a scent the Federation's hounds would pursue relentlessly, potentially sparking a purge to root out suspects. Ning's carefully laid plans—backchannels, scapegoats—were now liabilities, threatening to ensnare him.
"Doing nothing was the play," Ning said, his face a mask of ice. "Let it fade, like mud settling in a rain-soaked pond. But you stirred the waters."
The masked man's expression was a storm of indignation. "You question the Silver Core's choice in us?"
Ning's eyes were glaciers, unyielding. "Speak. Fix this, or vanish from my sight."
"Wait," the masked man blurted, his breathing ragged. "We can't stop here. I'll offer new tech—advanced cyborgs. How's that?"
Ning's lips curved, a rare, genuine smile, cold as starlight. "Good. I expect results next time."
He shut off the screen, the room plunging into shadow. Pressing a desk button, the ceiling lights flared, illuminating every detail, from the tassels on the curtains to the files on his desk. He summoned his secretary, sliding a roster across the table—names likely dead or missing. His task was to mask their fates as accidents.
Before he could speak, his light-brain pinged. Ning glanced at it, his gaze lingering for a full second. "Out," he said, his voice flat.
The secretary, sensing the storm, grabbed the files and slipped away, her steps silent. Ning reopened the message, his eyes narrowing. His informant had struck gold: Gongzhili, the retired general, had joined the Silver mechanoid investigation, probing the arena's construction team. They'd found the blueprint discrepancies.
It was faster than Ning had anticipated, a crack in his carefully woven web.
Days later, Bai Sha was in her workshop, a cavernous space filled with the hum of machinery and the tang of molten metal. She perched on a hover-chair, tweaking a mech blueprint on a holographic display, her wrench glinting in the light. Her light-brain chimed, and she swiped the screen to Han Xiao, her chief minister, his face grim on the video feed.
"What?" she said, her chair morphing into a stool as she planted her feet. "They're all dead? And people buy it as 'accidents'?"
"No one buys it, Your Highness," Han Xiao said, his voice heavy. "But the records list drownings, falls, traffic crashes, sudden deaths—a grim parade, timed too perfectly. It smells like the Silver Core, but could be human."
Bai Sha exhaled, her mind racing. "So the investigation's bogged down."
"They're tracing the deaths," Han Xiao said. "If it's the Core, there'll be no tracks. If it's human, there might be. Either way, it's a slog."
The joint military exercise's second round loomed, its shadow lengthening over her thoughts. Bai Sha dusted her hands, standing. "Let them dig. If they stall, we'll lean on them diplomatically."
Han Xiao sighed. "I've been wondering if you should withdraw from the exercise."
Bai Sha's brow arched. "Why?"
"You've shone enough," he said, his tone cautious. "As Prince, you don't need to risk barren planets. I know you're strong, but remember Xipes Roning—her accident haunts us. The Silver Core's tricks are unpredictable."
Bai Sha's lips twitched, a mix of amusement and defiance. "I get it, but I'm the Empire's commander. I don't run. Besides, it's just an exercise. After that, it's the sophomore elite team match—I'm not even competing."
The prior attack had thrived on the arena's sparse military presence. An exercise with hundreds of trained cadets was a fortress by comparison. Han Xiao faltered, conceding her point.
"If you're worried, move the next match to Imperial space," Bai Sha teased, flexing her wrists. "Where's it set?"
"Dead Omen Star," Han Xiao said.
Bai Sha blinked. "...Seriously? Who drew that lot?"
The name was a curse, a planet synonymous with peril. The Federation's luck was abysmal, and Bai Sha couldn't help but wonder what cosmic joke had landed them there.