Seeing Only You
They had decided to claim the Saisalas, yet three problems remained.
First: the Saisalas was a space-use mecha. Built from the ground up for void combat, it became little more than dead weight the moment it entered a gravity well—unable to take even a single proper step. That issue resolved itself the moment Jincheon set his course toward extended operations in space.
Second: there was simply no room left for it. Four Garelds already packed the hangar to capacity. So Jincheon struck a trade—one Gareld plus its spare parts for the Saisalas. As mercenaries they had each earned four hundred thousand credits; by rights Confedon’s entire estate should have gone to Jotala. But Jincheon had already sensed how thoroughly his raw power unnerved the man. Refusing to earn money through his own strength any longer, he forced a clean one-for-one exchange. Jotala initially offered to pay the Gareld’s full value; Jincheon, unwilling to break a rule he himself had set merely for the sake of credits, refused. The B-class Saisalas was objectively more expensive, yet that difference was written off as the price of the battlefield victory Jincheon had delivered.
The third problem arrived with the repair estimate.
“What? Two whole weeks?”
Jincheon scowled at the mechanic in charge of the Saisalas, Calsira and Heliane standing at his side inside the hangar bay.
“The laser’s heat scorched the cockpit and cooked the precision components right along with it,” the man explained. Until moments ago he had belonged to Confedon’s crew. “Saisalas is built for close-quarters brawls, so every critical part is crammed into the center mass. Lucky for you the beam only burned the cockpit and the cascade damage stopped there. If it had punched clean through, you’d be looking at two months easy.”
“Tch. Fine.”
When a man who had actually maintained the machine said two weeks, two weeks it was. Jincheon could have shortened the timeline himself, but the delay sparked a different idea.
“Hey. Can you remodel the interior of a ship?”
He sought out one of Jotala’s own technicians.
“Possible, sure.”
“Good.”
For some time now Jincheon had been swallowing a quiet dissatisfaction: every meal aboard had been nothing but Calsorn Empire retort packs and calorie bars. If two weeks of downtime were inevitable, he might as well fix that too.
“There’s a storage bay we’re not using. Convert it into a galley, mess hall, and food locker. Credits after the work’s finished.”
He briefly considered upgrading the Garelds as well, but the pirate stockpile held almost nothing of acceptable quality.
“Honestly, you’d want a proper shipyard for that,” the tech admitted. “What we’ve got here won’t cut it.”
So Gareld modifications were postponed until they reached the free-trade city of Keren.
“Heliane. The Saisalas is yours.”
“Huh? Mine?”
“You charged straight at Calsira, and you love ramming into enemies. A brawler chassis suits you perfectly.”
Heliane had assumed Jincheon would claim the machine for himself. Learning he had traded a Gareld specifically for her left her stunned.
“…Why?”
“Hm?”
“Why give me something like this? I’m your property.”
She had already surrendered to the pleasure he forced on her, already accepted she could never leave him. He called them “bitches” and “possessions,” words that stripped away personhood; she had therefore expected him to hoard every good thing for himself. Yet he had handed over a nano-suit without hesitation, paid her four hundred thousand credits, and now gifted her a B-class mecha. She no longer knew which beat to dance to.
“You’re mine, so of course I take care of what’s mine.”
“What?”
“You’ll belong to me for the rest of your life. Can’t have you getting scratched up.”
“Ngh…”
The soft smile he wore—so different from the crushing dominance he usually showed—made Heliane’s violet skin pale. Her blood was white; the Terran flush of embarrassment appeared on her as a sudden whitening instead.
He pulled her close.
“Ah—”
“Mmm~ Your sweat smells good.”
“W-wait… people are watching…”
“They’re busy. Nobody’s looking.”
Ever since her formal surrender, nothing he did stirred the old revulsion. Even so, the way he buried his nose against her nape and openly inhaled left her burning with shame. Then a strange dissonance struck her: while he sniffed her scent he also took her hand—not roughly, but the way a man holds the hand of someone he cherishes, gently kneading her fingers.
This is…
Before she could name the feeling, Calsira’s voice cut in, sulky and sharp.
“I worked hard too!”
Jincheon only patted the girl’s head.
“Yeah. You did great. Good girl.”
“Heh~”
Calsira’s pout melted into an instant smile. Heliane watched her with the fond exasperation of an older sister regarding a spoiled little sibling.
That earlier sensation… it ties into the unease I’ve felt all along.
Every time Jincheon showered them with affection, the same subtle wrongness had prickled at her. She focused on it now.
The mechanics never noticed the display; every one of them was buried in damaged mechs and hull plating. Once a war ends, hyenas always circle the bloodied victor. Driving them off requires not a hidden dagger but open claws—proof that the pack is still strong. Jotala was repairing every machine and ship he could, determined to show that the losses, while real, had not broken them. Thanks to Jincheon the damage was far lighter than expected, so the show of force was not pure bluff.
“Ah, there you are!”
Gebel found them.
“Something wrong?”
“Wrong? The heroes of the victory banquet can’t just skip out.”
Had the casualties been heavier they would still be fending off scavengers; Jincheon’s presence had bought them the luxury of a proper celebration that evening. Confedon’s former pirates might feel mixed, yet everyone in this business understood winner-takes-all. In time they too would drink.
“We’re invited?” Calsira tilted her head.
“Of course. Come on—everyone’s waiting.”
“Well, when you put it that way, refusing would be rude.”
Jincheon glanced at the two women.
“You two? If the noise bothers you I won’t force it.”
“I want to go!” Calsira’s eyes sparkled; she had never attended a victory feast before.
“…I’ll go as well.”
Tonight Heliane felt like getting drunk.
“Aaaah~ Feels so good~!”
Calsira, properly drunk for the first time in her life, collapsed onto the guest-cabin bed with a blissful smile. The victory banquet—laughter, noise, the shared joy of winning—had been an entirely new sensation. The officers of the Jotala Family had treated her almost like an honored guest; the sectors she and Heliane had held had never once fallen behind. She had spent the entire night smiling and drinking far too much.
“We won an’ we partied! You bastards never let us have anything this nice~! You rotten Zabalcan dogs~!”
She hurled a few slurred curses at the empire that had raised her, then the pleasant heaviness of alcohol, victory, and a soft mattress claimed her. Within moments she was snoring.
“Haa… Loud drunk.”
Heliane, carefully only tipsy enough to keep her self-control, pulled a blanket over the younger woman.
“Heh. That’s cute as far as drunken rants go.”
Jincheon had seen far filthier displays; Calsira’s was almost endearing.
“You drank a mountain and you’re still fine?”
“I’m drunk. My body just refuses to show it.”
Ordinarily he would have burned the alcohol out with Inner Qi. Tonight, after finally tasting the mecha war he had dreamed of and winning it, he had chosen to drink freely. Even so, the liquor never quite conquered his mind.
Silence settled once Calsira was deeply asleep. More precisely, Heliane—eyes hazy with drink—was staring at him with open intensity.
What’s this? The air feels different tonight.
Even after pleasure had broken her into a willing bitch, Heliane had always tried to keep their interactions businesslike. The raw emotion in her gaze now made Jincheon tilt his head.
“I don’t like it.”
“Hm?”
“I said I don’t like it.”
The blunt declaration left genuine confusion in his eyes for the first time.
“What are you—”
“Your eyes. Your hands. All of it. I hate it.”
Whether the alcohol had loosened her tongue or something deeper had shifted, she jabbed a finger at him.
“Fine—you force a woman you like into bed, break her, then start giving her affection. I can live with that. But why do you look at us like that?!”
“Like what?”
“You’re not looking at us! You’re looking at something else through us!”
“……!”
The perpetual ease on Jincheon’s face hardened.
“I’ve felt it from the beginning! I watched in silence! You project someone else onto us!”
“That’s…”
He could only stammer.
“I am Duhinmaek Heliane! She’s Calsira! We are not replacements for anyone!”
“!!”
Jincheon’s deepest wound was the loss of his wives. Without realizing it he had been measuring every new woman against fragments of those lost loves, treating them as living substitutes. Heliane had sensed the truth: he never truly saw them; he saw ghosts. Every caress, every tender gesture had been a memory of the dead.
He stood silent for a long moment, then slapped both of his own cheeks hard enough to sting and rose to his full height.
“I’m sorry, Heliane.”
“Ngh…”
Their eyes met and she nearly flinched away. The easy smile was gone. In its place burned the raw, predatory hunger of a male who wanted his female—stronger even than the gaze he wore when he first violated her.
He stepped close, lifted her chin with a single horizontal finger.
“From this moment on I will treat you as Duhinmaek Heliane.”
“Ah…”
The promise that he would see only her—no projections, no ghosts—lit her face.
His actions might not change much. But the eyes that watched her would belong to her alone. He would face Heliane, not the shadows of the past.
Finally… he’s looking at me.
Only the subject of his gaze had changed, yet the heat that rolled off him felt entirely new.
Jincheon claimed her mouth, tongue thrusting deep and rough—no longer tailored to any dead wife’s preference, shaped solely for Heliane. She wound all four arms around him and answered with equal hunger. Still locked together they stumbled to the nearest bed and fell onto it as one.