Chapter 13
Chapter 13
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: Ghosts of the Past
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After a long silence, Edna spoke stiffly: “Your Majesty, Celia is already dead. What do you need his DNA for?”
Heinrich gave her a cold glance. His eyes were particularly deep and narrow, with faint crow’s feet at the corners from age, giving him an air of maturity and restraint honed by time, along with a potent authority that simmered just beneath the surface.
“This is none of your concern, Konsettlin. The DNA of the Alliance Phoenix or Celia—you must hand over one or the other.”
Caroline and Edna exchanged a look, both women’s eyes filled with fierce resistance. Then Caroline spoke up: “Your Majesty, forgive me, but I cannot do it—the political significance of the Alliance Phoenix goes without saying. Back then, the Radiant Legion’s hundred thousand soldiers laid down their arms not so you could dismantle their spiritual totem.”
“I know.”
“The Alliance fell only fifty years ago. The Empire was built on the promise of respecting parliamentary ideals. Countless eyes are watching the Empire’s every move. Do you know how much distrust lingers in their hearts?”
“I know.”
“Then at a time this sensitive, you still want to dismantle the Alliance Phoenix? Are you trying to stir up political unrest?”
“I just want the DNA.”
“Then go explain it to them!”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“...Celia was a Beta. His genes can fuse with mine.” Heinrich stared at her. After a long silence, he finally spoke the truth: “I want a child.”
Edna lunged forward in a flash, so fast Caroline could barely hold her back: “—Don’t even think about it! Heinrich! You can dream—don’t even think about it!”
“Enough, Edna!”
“Shut up! I’m not asking for your opinion!”
“How come Celia didn’t let Fortsen kill you back then?! Why should someone like you survive!” Edna was on the verge of collapse, her voice shrill and breaking: “He saved you! Raised you! Promoted you step by step! And what did you people do, arrogantly staging your Chenqiao Mutiny, forcing Celia to become the dictator you wanted! Do you have any idea the democratic ideals of the Alliance were something Celia defended for centuries?!”
A rare flicker of embarrassment crossed Heinrich’s eyes: “Enough about that!”
“Celia was so furious, but he still spared your lives, exiling you to the frontier systems—and how did you repay him?! The Battle of Venus Fortress, that once-in-a-century solar storm. Celia risked everything to shield both Alliance and Empire forces for a safe withdrawal, and what did you do? You stabbed him in the back while he lay gravely wounded on the brink of death, annihilating a million Alliance soldiers in one blow!”
“Shut up! That was war!”
“When Celia stood alone against the storm to buy you time to retreat, why didn’t you call it war then! Heinrich! What were you doing when the solar storm hit?! What were you Empire generals, clinging to life, doing!”
With a deafening crash, Edna seized a teacup and smashed it to the floor.
“You’re not fit to be his rival. You’re not fit to have his child.” She jabbed a finger at Heinrich, grinding her teeth: “If you dare touch Celia’s body, I’ll broadcast your actions across the universe. Then we’ll see who has more supporters—you or Celia!”
Her final word echoed through the lab for a long time, every molecule in the air freezing solid.
No one spoke. No one moved. The entire scene was like a mute horror play pushed to its extreme.
“...I mean,” Caroline said with difficulty, “Your Majesty, the Empire has plenty of... outstanding Omegas. Perhaps if you just wait a little longer...”
“Everything I’ve done has been to end the war as quickly as possible.” Heinrich cut her off coldly: “It took me a century to destroy the Alliance. Without the Battle of Venus Fortress, it might have taken two.”
Edna sneered: “To seize power as fast as possible?”
“To stabilize order as fast as possible.”
“Call it whatever you want...”
“The fact is, I succeeded. I’d make the same choice again.”
Heinrich paused, his expression cold and resolute: “You can accuse me all you like, but today’s Empire proves I didn’t betray the Marshal’s sacrifice. Now I want his DNA. Hand it over or not, it doesn’t matter—the Phoenix will change hands at the mecha league in one month.”
Edna’s face twisted in extreme fury, on the verge of saying more, but Caroline stopped her.
“We’ll do everything to win,” the headmistress said calmly.
Heinrich’s gaze swept over them with contempt, his thoughts plain on his face—fat chance.
Caroline met his stare without flinching, though her hands clenched behind her back trembled faintly. After a moment, the emperor let out a cold laugh and turned to leave: “Then I wish you all the best in battle.”
His black military uniform seemed to carry the chill of an oncoming storm. Edna mustered every ounce of strength to keep from drawing her gun and pulling the trigger.
Caroline pressed her shoulder, signaling with her eyes to stay calm, then hurried after him.
The emperor exited the research building, and the attendant officer waiting outside bowed slightly before falling into step beside him. Caroline knew as headmistress she didn’t need to see him out further and stopped in her tracks.
But at that moment, at the end of the corridor, a student was supporting another as they approached. They saluted from afar: “Headmistress Caroline! Is Dean Edna in?”
Caroline turned at the voice and recognized an elite from the mecha team: “Dean? You—”
Her words cut off abruptly.
The student slung over his shoulder, pale-faced and drenched in cold sweat, was none other than Gavin!
Caroline’s mouth opened, but before she could speak, Heinrich glanced back casually.
It was perhaps the strangest scene Caroline would ever witness—one she’d never forget, even years later: Galactic Emperor Heinrich and military academy student Gavin stood at opposite ends of the corridor. The former, in his prime, exuded majestic authority, a flicker of shock crossing his angular features; the latter, in the bloom of youth, unfamiliar in demeanor, glanced at the emperor once before looking away.
As if time itself had played a colossal joke—or fate a malicious prank.
This single glance bridged two centuries of war and grudges, upending history before Caroline’s eyes.
“You... you’re...”
Heinrich hesitated, taking a step forward, then froze abruptly.
2.
An eerie silence fell over the corridor. Dean was about to speak when Caroline cut him off sharply: “He’s Edna’s student.”
No one cared about etiquette in that moment. The headmistress added calmly: “He’s a mute. He can’t speak.”
The emperor seemed to hear her, yet as if he hadn’t. He advanced a few steps as if entranced, staring at Gavin’s face from afar, his expression a mix of shock, doubt, and uncertainty.
“This—” Dean asked, puzzled, but Gavin pressed him hard from behind, silencing him instantly.
“...What’s your name?” The emperor finally reached them, leaning down slightly to gaze at him.
Gavin said nothing.
Caroline had to remind him again: “He can’t speak.”
The emperor showed no anger, just stood motionless, scrutinizing Gavin from head to toe. His gaze moved from the boy’s face to his neck, lingering long on the vivid finger marks at his throat.
The silence was suffocating. Dean couldn’t help but explain: “Mecha mental contamination. Just an accident...”
The emperor nodded but didn’t look at him, instead locking eyes with Gavin.
“Sorry... you remind me of someone I used to know.”
Gavin politely lowered his gaze.
From this angle, the boy no longer matched the image in his memory in several ways. The emperor frowned slightly, the nightmarish disorientation in his mind nearly overwhelming.
No one spoke on the corridor. Everyone watched cautiously.
At last, the emperor nodded: “My mistake. Sorry.”
He took a deep breath and turned toward his attendant, his steps slightly unsteady, almost like a retreat in disarray.
No one said goodbye. Caroline skipped the formalities of seeing off the emperor. Heinrich left swiftly. Even as the shuttle lifted off and vanished, Dean hadn’t realized who he’d just faced: “—Headmistress? Who was that?”
Caroline’s face was ashen. After a long pause, she said gravely: “Someone you can’t afford to cross.”
Heinrich sat in the shuttle, dazed.
The shuttle sped along the airway, the cabin empty save for him. Bian, transformed into a holographic terminal, floated in the air, observing the emperor’s face for a long time before suddenly asking: “Are you searching your memories for someone matching that military academy student’s features?”
“...He looks like Celia.”
“That’s an error, Your Majesty,” Bian said mechanically. “System comparison shows the student matches Marshal Celia’s facial features by less than 15%—of course, images of the Marshal from his youth are completely lost, and the age gap could cause some discrepancy.”
“I understand, but it’s just that feeling...” Heinrich paused, murmuring: “I’m losing it.”
“Admitting fault is a rare virtue.”
But the words stirred a hidden ache in the emperor’s heart. The wound Edna had ripped open throbbed faintly again. He fell silent for a moment, then asked slowly: “Bian...”
“Yes.”
“From an AI perspective, in the Battle of Venus Fortress, was I wrong?”
The emperor had fought countless battles in his life, watching brothers-in-arms die before his eyes, some without a final word. At first, he’d tormented himself with doubt: Were those sacrifices worth it? Did I make a mistake? But as the war intensified and the Alliance pressed on, he realized many choices were inevitable.
He hadn’t started this era—the era had chosen him in its transformation.
Any hesitation or weakness on his part would cost more lives. The bloodshed would never end.
The Alliance-Empire War lasted nearly a century, with the Alliance hounding the Empire for the first eighty years—until the Battle of Venus Fortress flipped the tide entirely, marking the point of no return for the Alliance’s decline.
In that battle, both armies were caught in a once-in-a-century solar storm with no time to escape. As the million-strong force faced annihilation by the flood, Celia alone stood before the storm. His 4S cosmic-grade weapon, the Spear of Nirvana, unleashed its anti-energy field to the max, piercing spacetime with a neutralizing layer at the critical moment, buying both armies twelve precious seconds to retreat into hyperspace.
Those twelve seconds saved a million lives. Heinrich would never forget that instant: the apocalyptic particle flood roaring in like the judgment of gods at world’s end. In the infinite sea of light, the Phoenix mecha burned and melted inch by inch, ultimately becoming a brilliant fireball.
It was undoubtedly the most splendid, most spectacular firework in Alliance history.
In that moment, Heinrich knew Celia was doomed—but he ordered a full-speed retreat.
No one knew the emperor had shed all his tears and grief in hyperspace. The troops only heard him emerge to declare to the entire army:
“Turn around and counterattack. Annihilate the Alliance legion that’s lost its commander.”
“Your decision was flawless, Your Majesty.” Bian said calmly: “First, you were piloting me, then an A-grade mecha—even charging in wouldn’t have helped. Second, without your lead into hyperspace, everyone would have perished there.”
Heinrich remained silent.
That battle rewrote Empire military history: Intercepting the demoralized, intact Alliance force mid-route was like a divine intervention, encircling and destroying hundreds of thousands of Alliance ships, even penetrating to the command vessel.
Had they blasted the command ship, it would have been total victory, slaughtering the Alliance to the last soul. But at the time, not a single Empire vessel fired on it.
—Because it was towing the wreckage of the Phoenix mecha.
It was one of the rare times in Heinrich’s life when emotion overrode reason. Once victory was assured, he ordered a ceasefire, the fleet in formation watching as the command ship dragged the charred, shattered Phoenix remnants slowly into the cosmic depths.
He was glad then that the Alliance’s acting commander, Radiant Legion Major General Kaleyan, was a man of reason over sentiment. Otherwise, had he rammed the enemy fleet, Marshal Celia’s remains would have been obliterated, denied even a return home for burial.
Heinrich barely remembered the days that followed. He locked himself in his room, sleepless night after night, staring blankly at the ceiling through entire days, forgetting time’s passage. If someone had come with a blade then, he might have sat numbly offering his neck.
Until a week later, Aaron kicked down the door, stammering in excitement: “Check the news! Heinrich! The Marshal’s alive! He didn’t die!”
—Marshal Celia hadn’t died.
Despite the Empire’s shock and suspicions of Alliance fakery, the facts proved it: he simply hadn’t.
“The Alliance will forever remember those warriors who gave their lives for her. And we, the survivors, will carry their memory forward toward freedom and our ideals.”
On the screen, Celia in black, pale-faced and iron-cold, pushed through the media scrum, white chrysanthemums in arms, striding steadily into the martyrs’ cemetery.
Heinrich was stunned. He stood frozen before the screen as immense joy and sorrow surged from his heart, merging into a dark tide that drowned him utterly.
The Battle of Venus Fortress was the war’s turning point: Defeat brought Celia under parliamentary scrutiny, stripping him of command for twelve years in all but name. The Empire seized the Gemini Cygnus Star as a base, recuperating and expanding rapidly, soon consolidating surrounding systems.
The Alliance parliament, finally rid of Celia at the power center, accelerated its decline amid rampant corruption. Daily announcements of provincial secessions plagued them. Internally fractured, externally helpless, their assaults were futile, only exhausting resources and breeding resentment.
—Fortunately, the chaos didn’t last.
In the ninety-second winter of the Galactic War, the Empire annexed the Gemini Stars, peaking in military might, civilian morale, and interstellar opinion.
That same year, Empire Marshal Heinrich led the charge, facing off against the Alliance legions in the Ophiuchus M12 Star Cluster.
There, every story would reach its end—including the faint, distant hope in Heinrich’s heart, and Celia’s after reclaiming command following long wait. In that fated clash, they each met their finale.
“Your Majesty,” Bian said flatly, “if I may speak bluntly, you and Marshal Celia are different.”
The cabin was utterly still. Heinrich turned to look at it.
“The Marshal was a true powerhouse, but you are a great statesman. Your historical burdens differ, so it’s a matter of opposing stands, not right or wrong.”
Heinrich shook his head with a smile, offering no judgment on the AI’s words.
“But based on data analysis,” Bian continued, “I deem your choice of the Marshal as the other genetic contributor for your heir highly appropriate: First, his genetic quality is unimpeachable. Second, even if Miss Edna goes public, your supporters will outnumber the opposition.”
“...Yeah, I know.” Heinrich trailed off, distracted: “I just worry they’ll destroy the body outright.”
He thought of the mecha league in a month. If the Royal Military Academy lost and surrendered the Phoenix, no one could complain. But a win would complicate everything.
He didn’t want to wait. He wanted a child—a child inheriting his and Celia’s blood.
The thought burned like fire, setting Heinrich’s heart ablaze.
“How to make them lose...” Heinrich rubbed his brow with his knuckles, suddenly recalling the boy he’d seen at the Royal Military Academy. Subconsciously, he overlapped the face with Celia’s again.
His mecha skills wouldn’t match too, would they?
...But how could that be?
The emperor shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. Too fanciful. He leaned against the window, watching the traffic blur past outside, and sighed almost inaudibly.