Chapter 77
Chapter 77
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 77
Chapter Title: Chores and Desert Ghosts
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The kitchen fell silent. Heinrich and Celia locked eyes, neither saying a word.
Gryphon glanced from one to the other, then wisely retreated to the side and stayed quiet.
After a long moment, Heinrich drew in a breath. His voice was surprisingly even: "If you already know, why ask? To be honest, I only discovered it myself after returning to the Empire from Shuron Star. Bi'an said it might be your pheromones affecting the quality of my marrow fluid..."
Even with mental preparation, Celia's heart clenched at the confirmation. His mind went blank as countless terrifying thoughts flashed through his subconscious in an instant. He didn't catch a word of what Heinrich said next. In his head, only one horrifying suspicion slowly rose from the depths of his memory.
"But we've already marked each other mutually, so you can't just say you're backing out now... What's wrong with you?" Heinrich finally noticed something off in Celia's expression.
"...Nothing." Celia waved a hand dazedly, rising to pick up his teacup and head out—but for some reason, his reach missed. His slightly trembling fingers brushed past the rim of the glass.
It was the tiniest detail. Just as he turned back to grab the cup, his hand was suddenly seized by Heinrich.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"What are you thinking?"
"Nothing!"
Heinrich's eyes were deep and icy blue, fixed unblinkingly on Celia's face as if he missed not even the slightest twitch. After a moment, he spoke softly: "Eunys...?"
Celia's face drained of color: "What kind of joke is that!" He wrenched his hand free and stormed off.
From that day on, the Marshal's expression was like the frozen Siberian tundra, without the slightest thaw.
Heinrich's mental peak barely rivaled Celia's baseline, so under normal circumstances, he naturally couldn't wrest control of Gryphon away. He was locked down without mercy once more. Though according to Gryphon, out of respect for their having slept together twice, Celia went a lot easier this time—chaining only one of the Emperor's ankles under the command platform's oversized armchair, forcing him to spend the entire day parked in front of the massive screen, staring at star charts.
Staring at star charts was arguably one of the most boring parts of any voyage: billions of stars scattered across the cosmic depths, twinkling in different lights as the navigation route shifted—like fireflies dancing in the night sky, or glowing orbs drifting across the horizon, brimming with mythical splendor... Any civilian who'd never voyaged through space would be entranced, lost in wonder. But to someone like Heinrich—who'd lived two centuries, with one-eighty spent at war—star charts were basically tactical sand tables. Staring at them for seven or eight straight days left him so dizzy he felt like puking up yesterday's dinner.
On the tenth day, he grabbed Celia's hand and pleaded with rolling eyes: "Darling, punish me with manual labor instead—sweeping, bed-making, laundry, anything. Just no more of this damn thing..."
Celia thought of the Alpha's freakish stamina, and fury flared. He agreed with relish. That day, Heinrich huffed and puffed his way through scrubbing the entire battleship deck. Come evening, he truly had no energy left for mischief, collapsing into the chair like a spent bull, panting as he glowered at the mirror-polished floor beneath his feet: "Daring to make the Emperor mop! This ship's done for! Next time, lock Aaron in a museum!"
Celia asked coldly: "Fancy staring at star charts?"
Heinrich: "...I'll stick to mopping."
Who knew the next day Celia switched tactics—no more floors, laundry instead. The battleship's living quarters warehouse was stuffed with countless uniforms. Heinrich buried his head and scrubbed all day. By evening, the corridors were festooned with hundreds of dripping shirts, resembling a field of black mourning banners from afar.
Celia stood on the steps, admiring the spectacle. His face was expressionless, but inside he was smug. He was just about to call out a tease when Heinrich suddenly lifted his head from the washbasin: "Darling! Got any underwear for me? I can give 'em a good scrub~!"
The shout rang out with gusto. The Marshal turned on his heel and left, his face half-shadowed in gloom.
Physical labor did indeed toughen a man. In no time, the Emperor had been whipped into a housework whiz. Celia even taught him mending: first, use industrial solvent to etch a needle from a metal scrap; then draw thread from fabric remnants, tear out patches of leather or cloth, and stitch them artfully over every kind of tear—the holes mostly inflicted by Celia's own brutal ripping.
After days of housework boot camp, the Emperor had grown resigned. He numbly watched as Celia swiftly patched fur onto a ragged cloak, then asked after a beat: "Is the Alliance that broke?"
Celia blinked at the question, then recalled their recent days on Jinshui Star and answered honestly: "Not looking good."
"...Even so, Parliament wouldn't train officers to sew their own clothes, right? Who taught you this?"
Celia concentrated for a moment, as if recalling something, then shook his head with a sigh.
His expression turned distinctly sour. After much hesitation, Heinrich coughed tentatively: "Your master? I've vaguely heard of the Desert Saint Walton. They say you trained for years with him in the far systems' deserts—"
Heinrich paused, sneaking a peek at his face: "Was it rough...?"
In truth, Desert Traveler Walton didn't appear in Celia's official record. Only after he became Alliance Commander did assorted unofficial tales leak the story.
In life, Walton had been an obscure desert wanderer, with no authority or guild ever canonizing him as a saint. But people weren't about to let their Alliance Commander's teacher be just some ordinary old codger. Once his existence came out, several far-systems desert guilds issued statements proclaiming Walton a saint and offering to build him a lavish monument tomb—Celia neither confirmed nor denied the sainthood but firmly declined the monument:
"My teacher was just an ordinary man, resting in the desert depths like countless wanderers before him. He needs no further commemoration. On his behalf, I thank you for your kind intentions."
—Of course, that was mere surface humility. The real message: "You did jack for him alive—don't play pretend now. Think I'd owe you one?"
No one knew if the desert guilds got it or not, but the monument idea fizzled out. From then on, Walton's title of "Desert Saint" spread far and wide, accepted as fact.
Logically, given the Empire-Alliance enmity and Heinrich's status as Emperor, the "saint" honorific could be shrugged off. But Heinrich spoke it with utter sincerity, no strain whatsoever. Celia couldn't help glancing at him: "You've heard of him too?"
"Konsetlin once mentioned..."
"She didn't know much either."
Heinrich keenly sensed Celia wanted no more talk of Edna. After a silent beat, he abruptly changed tack: "—Truth is, I don't remember much myself. But centuries back, the far systems were brutal—whole planets nothing but endless deserts. Folks survived on mining and hunting sandbats to trade with interstellar convoys for water and salt. Sometimes when a local kid fell ill with no meds around, they'd beg a traveler to scour the deep wastes for resurrection grass. Even then, odds of survival were maybe three or four in ten."
"Resurrection grass?"
"Just a herb. Locals called anything that healed 'resurrection grass.'"
It was Heinrich's first time hearing grass could cure illness. He couldn't help marveling: "How come the Empire's never heard of it?"
"The Empire's got it too—they just don't know." Celia gave a faint smirk: "Herbalism's ancient knowledge, passed down orally by travelers in just a few far-systems spots. Hard to verify how real it even is... And even if you learned it, what's the point? Med pods are advanced now. Why choke down that bitter swill?"
As he spoke, he draped the cloak over the armrest and rose to pour a cup of mint tea. Heinrich's gaze clung to his tall, lean back. After a long while, he asked softly: "How'd he die?"
Celia's movements stilled.
"If he could teach you, his combat skills must've been solid. How'd he just..."
Celia gripped the teacup, back turned to him, silent for ages. Just as Heinrich figured the silence would stretch on, Celia turned slightly and said flatly: "Eunys... and the Darkstar Warriors... killed him."
Heinrich swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
He recalled the fragments from Celia's memories: the howling sandstorm, blood spraying skyward, severed heads tumbling alongside the black-and-gold spear, and that desperate, ferocious last stand. Those gore-soaked scenes were likely among the most agonizing of Celia's life—and even now, before his memories fully returned, they'd been secretly, completely shared with him.
"So you've always hated Eunys, haven't you?" Heinrich asked quietly.
"I hate myself too," Celia replied calmly, closing his eyes.
·
That conversation was never brought up again, vanishing as if it had never happened.
But Heinrich knew he wouldn't forget it—just as he'd never forget a single detail of this voyage. It was the first time he'd spent more than twenty days in close quarters with Alliance Commander Gavin Celia: not as enemies, on equal footing.
They remained rivals, but also like old acquaintances, like friends—even, in some hidden way, like secret lovers.
On the twenty-fourth day of the interstellar voyage, the battleship made its final jump, heading for the first stop in the extragalactic systems—Umbra Star.
Space tech was advanced, but a major jump across the galaxy still carried risks and took a heavy toll on the body. Celia and Heinrich both sat strapped in at the command platform, encased in tempered transparent shields with safety harnesses locked tight. The screen flashed blood-red text: "Ten seconds to jump... nine... eight... seven..."
"Celia!" Suddenly Heinrich started thrashing. His voice blared wildly from the comms: "There's something I have to tell you! If I die, you have to know I've always loved you! It wasn't for your mental power that I—"
"Six seconds, five..."
"Years ago, when everyone thought you were an Alpha, I already—! Listen! I'm scared if I don't say it now—"
"Four seconds, three..."
"These past twenty-plus days have been pure bliss! So if something goes wrong, we're dying together as lovers! As lovers—"
"Two seconds, one..."
"But I won't regret it because I'm with you—"
"Enough!" Celia finally snapped: "Back in the war, the Empire jumped seven or eight times a day. You trying to turn your last words into a novel?!"
A hum sounded as spacetime locked in. The battleship plunged through the warped channel into the wormhole, reality twisting infinitely around them.
In that instant, electromagnetics went haywire and time flowed backward; their figures stretched endlessly. Then, as if an entire century had crammed into seconds, the ship burst from the jump exit at the universe's far other end. Every distortion inside "snapped!" back to normal.
Garbled code flew across the screen like snowflakes. Red letters blazed again, the system intoning mechanically: "Jump complete. Approaching Umbra Star's atmosphere!"
"Target arrival in twenty minutes. Prepare for landing!"
Gravity slammed back. They both dropped into their seats. Heinrich rubbed his bruised waist and shouted: "You okay, Celia?"
"..." In the neighboring shield, Celia's face looked a bit strange: "...Fine."
One hand rested on the armrest, nails digging deep into his palm. The sharp pain barely suppressed the surging heat deep in his body.
The sensation had hit too abruptly, surging up in the jump's split second—numb tingles and limp weakness crawling densely from his central nervous system across his whole body. He hadn't even had time to clamp it down. The few seconds of weightlessness right after the jump intensified the awful emptiness. He could even feel a deeply private passage inside him contracting, loosening in the vertigo the port that stayed sealed under normal conditions.
The feeling wasn't unfamiliar. He'd just gone through it once before.
It was his heat.
A purely natural heat, no drugs forcing it. The initial fever would last one to two days, during which he'd emit an ever-intensifying sweet scent, like fruit slowly ripening. Fail to inject an inhibitor within those two days, and his reproductive tract would soon flood and open wide, entering full heat. Knotting then meant near-one-hundred-percent chance of pregnancy.
A faint crack showed in Celia's composure.
It hadn't been long since his last marking. Normally, heat should've waited half a year. He never imagined it'd hit now.
—But at this absolutely critical moment, where the hell was he supposed to find an inhibitor?!