Chapter 91
Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 91
Chapter Title: —Feigning Illness.
This message arrived in the strict format of an interstellar diplomatic note, beautifully worded with a tactful tone, capped off by Celia's flamboyantly swirling signature.
Yet from the Emperor to the imperial generals, the whole group passed it around three times and could only reach one conclusion—provocation!
This was blatant provocation!
From Alliance Goldwater Star to the Empire's New Kremlin Palace, twelve star gates in between—with fast ships, it took just days. All that time spent aboard an Alliance warship, drinking recycled water from the circulation system and eating synthesized rations—how exactly were you supposed to get "homesick for the soil"?
What chance did you even have to get "homesick for the soil"?!
"The Marshal has no intention of attending the welcome ceremony," the cluster of imperial generals concluded after huddling together for a while, shaking their heads. "The Marshal's stance on these talks may be extremely hardline. Suggest His Majesty reconsider the treaty terms."
The leaders who'd come along to the New Kremlin Palace were mostly former Alliance officers—the old comrades-in-misery who'd been exiled alongside Heinrich for hard labor back in the day. They harbored a complicated mix of love and hate for Celia, still calling him "Marshal" to this day. Poor Comrade Karyan had taken the marshal's rank only to get stuck with countless voodoo dolls from them.
The Emperor held the slim diplomatic note, a chill flickering in his narrow, fathomless eyes. After a long moment, he let out a cold laugh: "No intention of attending the welcome ceremony..."
The generals exchanged glances. One with a more direct temper spoke up: "Isn't that perfect if he doesn't show? I've never liked that Karyan punk anyway, and this time there's no Marshal to back him up! Screw it, nobody stop me—I'm gonna beat him till he's picking his teeth up off the floor!"
A chorus of agreement erupted around him: "Damn right!" "What the hell is with that slacker attitude?" "We gotta pound him, and none of those Alliance bastards are any good!" ...
"Ahem ahem!" Elder Langfero cut in sharply: "General Dresay! General Fuller!"
The ones called out ducked their heads a bit, but their faces still screamed indifference. Only General Aaron snorted a laugh: "What're you afraid of? Karyan's got that little bit of smarts, sure, but real blade-to-blade? He's total cannon fodder—"
Elder Langfero could only sigh inwardly: *That "little smarts" propped up the Alliance military for fifty years and shot him straight to the top as the new Marshal—can you lot be a tad more realistic?*
But that was just in his head. Out loud, he turned away and pretended not to hear—Elder Langfero led the Elder Council, old and seasoned, commanding plenty of respect from most military brass. But in front of Aaron, that one-man shoulder-to-shoulder king, he always felt a little short on gravitas. All he could do was shoot Heinrich meaningful glances, signaling the supreme Emperor to step in and shut them down.
But the supreme Emperor stared at the exquisite note in his hand, his knife-edged thick brows furrowing slightly. After a moment's thought, a cold smile crept across his face:
"—Cannon fodder, huh..."
Elder Langfero: "..."
Elder Langfero went dark before the eyes, a bad feeling welling up from the pit of his stomach.
...
The Alliance fleet descended with the nightfall. Sure enough, Celia didn't show his face upon landing—a limo whisked him straight to the inner palace of the New Kremlin Palace to "rest."
The Alliance delegation, led by Karyan, entered through the main gate. From afar, they saw two ranks of honor guards in resplendent military dress uniforms, tassel sashes across their chests, long swords in hand. They lined down from the palace's main entrance, across the broad steps, through the vast palace forecourt, all the way to the outermost gilded bronze gates. The moment Karyan and his group stepped onto the red carpet, the salute cannons boomed ahead—fifty-two blasts in a row, golden-red fireworks rocketing into the night sky, bursting into countless dazzling sparks that lit the palace's majestic silhouette in breathtaking splendor.
The imperial military leaders stood at the main palace entrance, all in black Empire uniforms, chests out, chins high, radiating grandeur. Arrayed across the topmost steps, Emperor Heinrich stood front and center, hands clasped before him, his face held in arrogant tilt, gaze sweeping downward—right as Karyan and the others crossed the expansive palace gardens and reached the steps, looking up.
In that instant, their eyes locked, sparking a crackle of lightning bolts.
Karyan thought: *Fuck you! Filling the top steps on purpose to make us shake hands from a lower level, huh?!*
The Emperor thought: *The intel from the Alliance was spot on! Karyan's uniform epaulets are empty!*
A proper marshal's uniform bore a gold crest on the chest and one on each shoulder, symbolizing command over army, navy, and air force. Celia even had an extra titanium-silver dress sword denoting his marshal rank. But Karyan's uniform had just the one chest badge—no shoulder crests, no sword. Hadn't Celia given him those yet?
The Emperor's gaze softened a touch. He extended a hand with polished courtesy: "It's been a while, gentlemen of the Alliance."
In that split second as Karyan reached the steps' base, he'd already mapped out his countermove.
He halted, peering up across a dozen-plus gold-brick steps at Heinrich with a smile: "You too, esteemed Emperor陛下."
His Majesty the Emperor: "..."
The scene was absurdly comical—the two sides staring across the steps, one high one low. Only after an eternity did Heinrich casually withdraw his hand, as if nothing happened: "I hear the Marshal is under the weather. Nothing serious, I hope?"
This "Marshal" clearly meant Celia—Karyan, whose own claim rang a bit hollow, couldn't flatly object that Celia was now just a legion commander. But objecting smacked of overcompensation. After seconds of awkward silence, Karyan turned to Lieutenant General Mo Wen with utmost sincerity: "Remember to pass His Majesty's regards to Lord Celia. He'll be touched to know his old guard captain cares so much."
The former guard captain: "..."
"Ahem ahem ahem!" After a bizarre hush, Elder Langfero, unable to stand it, cleared his throat forcefully with a beaming smile, stepping forward: "Marshal Karyan, you've come a long way—please, come in for the state banquet!"
.
Though the Empire had shown zero hospitality to Karyan and his crew, the state banquet was still top-tier—nobody had anticipated Celia's sick note when prepping, or they might've just served Karyan a bowl of thin gruel.
The banquet filled the palace's grand hall, decked out like an opulent Winter Palace: silver-white snowflake decorations glittering across the soaring dome and walls. The floor gleamed snowy-white, dominated by a massive rectangular banquet table. The royal orchestra played welcome tunes from the stage, while court ladies in formal attire glided about, serving courses with seamless efficiency.
Empire leaders and Alliance delegates sat on opposite sides of the table, Heinrich at the head—Empire to his left, Alliance to his right. The Emperor's status transcended all, so the setup wasn't rude. But as Karyan took his seat, he realized he'd been placed second in the Alliance section.
No wonder Celia insisted on calling in sick... Karyan's eyes narrowed. He'd probably foreseen the Emperor pulling something like this.
The Empire's scheming was downright sinister—putting the Alliance legion commander above the marshal? How badly did they want to stir shit...
The Emperor, for his part, acted oblivious, raising his glass from the head seat with a smile: "To jointly resisting the extragalactic invasion, the Alliance generals have traveled light-years from the Andromeda galaxy—We offer Our deepest thanks!"
With that, he tossed back his drink, and Empire and Alliance alike rose to toast—though "toast" was generous; glasses barely clinked, especially Karyan and General Aaron across from him, whose cups didn't even graze.
Heinrich pretended not to notice, taking a crystal goblet from a lady-in-waiting: "Dark Star Hall's terror forces invade the galaxy—only together can we safeguard nations and peoples. To the success of these talks—second round!"
Another sloppy clatter of toasts. This time many didn't even raise arms, just downed straight from the neck. Karyan and Aaron doubled down, leaving mere dregs.
Heinrich still played blind, waving for attendants to serve the third round, raising his with a smile: "This one—for Marshal Celia's health—"
Before he finished, a chorus of clinks rang out. Finally a shared topic—everyone meant it this time. Even Karyan and Aaron grudgingly tapped rims before slamming theirs back.
Three rounds in, the awkwardness thawed a bit. Elder Langfero warmly ushered everyone to sit and dine.
Thank god for that neutral voice—the Empire orchestra poured it on up front, keeping up a veneer of harmony. A few brass hats even managed stiff smiles and chit-chat, sticking to safe topics—too bad "safe" was scarce between the Empire and Alliance, whose grudge ran ocean-deep. They ended up yammering about the food, the music, and Celia's phantom ailment, scraping the barrel till words ran dry after ten-odd minutes.
Heinrich sipped quietly. Aaron poked at his steak listlessly. After an eternity of silence, Karyan mustered dryly: "The banquet is splendid—your nation is most hospitable—"
Aaron's head snapped up, his face and tone screaming "Finally": "You know why?"
Karyan: "...Because your nation is so hospitable?"
"No!" Aaron declared flatly. Elder Langfero promptly sprayed wine in a perfect arc.
But General Aaron ignored him, staring at Karyan with utmost gravity: "—Today is our Empire's Army Founding Day."
Karyan: "..."
*Who you foolin'? Who you foolin'? Your military history's all hot air, victories pure bluff—no such thing as Army Founding Day!*
A thousand galloping mud horses thundered through Karyan's mind. After an age, lips twitching: "So...?"
"So it's a special day." Aaron grinned mysteriously, turning to Heinrich: "Your Majesty, shall we let our far-traveled Alliance guests witness our Empire's Army Founding Day traditions?"
The Emperor set down his glass at once, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and beckoned his aide close, murmuring just loud enough for two: "Marshal still in his room?"
The aide gave the tiniest nod: "Yes, resting—hasn't come out."
Satisfied, the Emperor turned, spotted Karyan sitting there baffled, and flashed an ultra-friendly smile. Then, to Aaron, he uttered just one word:
"—Fine."