I
September 9th, Fortress Odin.
At the entrance to the grand hall where the victory ceremony was to be held, the guards reminded Siegfried Kircheis that he could not bring weapons inside. The red-haired young man casually removed the beam gun from his waist but suddenly felt the need to clarify.
"I am Senior Admiral Kircheis. Are weapons truly forbidden here?"
"Even for Admiral Kircheis, there are no exceptions. This is the Marshal's order. My apologies."
"I understand. It's fine."
Kircheis handed over his beam gun to the guard. In the past, on occasions when other admirals were required to disarm, Reinhard had always made a special exception for Kircheis. Because of this, other officers had long recognized Kircheis as the second-in-command of Reinhard's faction. But now, it seemed this custom had changed.
He joined the group of admirals who had already entered the hall, exchanging nods with them. The glances of Reuenthal and Mittermeyer carried a subtle light—they too seemed to sense that something unusual had happened between Reinhard and Kircheis.
I must not cling to privilege—Kircheis reminded himself—but he couldn't help feeling a pang of melancholy. Perhaps his relationship with Reinhard would now be strictly that of lord and subordinate.
Was this truly all that remained? Kircheis tried to shake off the loneliness clinging to him. A subordinate could not demand equality with his superior. He would endure it for now. Even if Reinhard was momentarily confused or mistaken, he would eventually realize the truth. Hadn't it always been this way over the past eleven years? The past… Kircheis felt a flicker of unease. The past had indeed been like this, and he had believed it would last forever. But perhaps he had been too presumptuous…
The master of ceremonies, as if flaunting his lung capacity, bellowed: "His Excellency, Supreme Commander of the Galactic Imperial Forces, Reinhard von Lohengramm, approaches!"
Reinhard strode in on a crimson carpet, and the officers lining both sides saluted him in unison.
Before long, this salute would become the highest formal tribute—the salute reserved for the sole ruler of the galactic empire, the one who wore the crown. In another two or three years, this golden-haired young man, born into a family of nominal impoverished nobility, would solidly achieve his ambition.
When his gaze met Kircheis's, Reinhard quickly averted his eyes. Reinhard had followed Oberstein's advice and revoked Kircheis's privilege to carry weapons freely. He was a conqueror, a lord, and Kircheis was merely a subordinate. Special rights and privileges should not be granted. He had been negligent before, failing to draw the line. From now on, Kircheis would no longer be permitted to address him by name—he would have to use "Marquis Lohengramm" or "Your Excellency," like the other admirals. Power belonged to the ruler alone.
Before the victory ceremony, there was an audience with the captured enemy generals, one of whom was an old acquaintance of Reinhard's—Vice Admiral Fahrenheit.
"Fahrenheit? It's been a long time. Since the Battle of Astarte, I believe?"
"Yes…"
The admiral with aqua-blue eyes showed no fear, and Reinhard had no intention of humiliating a brave and capable defeated foe.
"Joining Duke Braunschweig's faction doesn't seem like a mistake you'd make. I can overlook the past. Tell me, will you serve under me now?"
"I am a soldier of the Galactic Empire. Since Your Excellency now holds the empire's military power, it is only natural that I follow you. Though it took a detour, I can now return to the right path."
Reinhard nodded and ordered Fahrenheit's handcuffs removed, allowing him to join the ranks of the officers. Talented individuals continued to gather under his banner. With this, Reinhard no longer needed to rely solely on Kircheis for everything… It was a pity that Merkatz had escaped…
A commotion arose at the end of the line.
It was the arrival of Duke Braunschweig's remains, encased in a special glass coffin. Everyone watched with mixed emotions as the body of the empire's greatest nobleman, clad in military uniform, lay within the glass coffin.
Brigadier General Ansbach accompanied the coffin.
The man regarded as the late Duke Braunschweig's confidant bowed expressionlessly to the young conqueror at the hall's entrance, then slowly advanced with the coffin.
A low, clear sneer rippled through the ranks on either side. It was the warriors' disdain for a man who had presented his lord's corpse as a gift to surrender.
These laughs formed an invisible whip lashing Ansbach's body. Reinhard did not stop them—a reflection of the youthful intolerance for impurity hidden in his character.
When Ansbach reached Reinhard, he bowed respectfully once more and pressed a button to open the glass coffin's lid.
Perhaps he intended for the victor to inspect the defeated's body firsthand. But that was not the case. Witnesses in that moment could not comprehend the scene before them. Ansbach reached into the coffin, swiftly opened the corpse's uniform, and pulled out a strange object resembling a combination of a cylinder and a cube—a portable cannon, the kind used in close-quarters ground combat! Ansbach had removed the corpse's internal organs and hidden the weapon inside. The battle-hardened generals stood frozen in shock. Even Reinhard, though aware of the danger, was paralyzed by the suddenness of the attack.
The cannon's muzzle pointed directly at the golden-haired young man.
"Marquis Lohengramm, I shall avenge my lord, Duke Braunschweig!"
Ansbach's voice pierced the deathly silence, followed by a deafening roar as the cannon spat fire.
The portable cannon's firepower was enough to obliterate a small armored vehicle or a single-seat fighter in one shot. Reinhard's body should have been torn to shreds. But the shot went wide, blasting a massive hole in the wall two meters to Reinhard's left. White smoke billowed as the wall crumbled, the shockwave scorching Reinhard's cheek.
Ansbach let out a cry of frustration. In that frozen moment when no one could move, only one person acted—Siegfried Kircheis! He lunged at Ansbach like lightning, wrenching the cannon's barrel aside.
The cannon clattered to the ground with a dissonant sound. The young, quick-witted, and agile redhead seized the assassin's wrist, trying to pin him down. Ansbach's face twisted with despair as he swung his free hand, pressing something against Kircheis's chest. A silver-gray beam of light burst from the redhead's back, accompanied by a spray of blood! Ansbach had prepared a ring-shaped laser gun! The searing pain from the chest wound felt as though it would tear Kircheis apart, but he did not loosen his grip. The ring flashed again, and this time the beam pierced Kircheis's carotid artery.
Everything happened in an instant. In that heart-stopping moment, a sound like several harp strings snapping simultaneously echoed, and blood gushed from Kircheis's neck, raining onto the marble floor like a sudden downpour.
Perhaps it was this sound that shattered the ten-second stupor. The admirals roared, boots pounding the floor as they swarmed Ansbach, pinning him down violently. A dull crack followed—Kircheis had broken Ansbach's wrist! Despite two fatal wounds and massive blood loss, Kircheis still refused to let go.
Mittermeyer hurriedly pressed a handkerchief to the wound on Kircheis's neck as he knelt on the ground. The white cloth turned crimson instantly.
"Call a doctor! Now!"
"It's… too late."
The red-haired young man was drenched in blood, his hair and uniform soaked in scarlet. The admirals fell silent, their faces grim. With their vast experience, they knew there was no saving him now.
Ansbach, pinned in the pool of Kircheis's blood by Kempf and Bittenfeld, struggled futilely. Then, suddenly, he let out a dry laugh, startling the admirals into thinking he had another trick.
"Duke Braunschweig, forgive me! I have failed! This incompetent subordinate could not fulfill his promise to send that golden brat to hell… It may take a few more years…"
"Shut your mouth, bastard!"
Kempf struck him across the face. Ansbach's head lolled, but he continued murmuring as if unfazed.
"My strength was insufficient… I shall accompany you, my lord…"
"Stop him! Now!"
Reuenthal, realizing Ansbach's intent, lunged forward. But before he could reach him, Ansbach's jaw moved slightly—he had bitten into a poison capsule hidden in his molar. Reuenthal's hands closed around his throat, but it was too late. Ansbach was determined to die.
His eyes widened, their focus fading.
Reinhard was plunged into darkness. Time seemed to stop. Summoning all his strength, he rose unsteadily from his seat and took one agonizing step after another. His ice-blue eyes saw none of his officers, nor the man who had tried to kill him. His vision was filled only with the friend who had sacrificed his life to save his.
To save his life—yes, Kircheis had always been there for him, no matter the time or place. Since the day they met as boys, the red-haired friend had protected him from countless enemies, stood by him uncomplainingly, and tolerated his caprices. A friend? No—Siegfried Kircheis was far more than a friend or brother to him! And yet, he had tried to treat this man as just another admiral! If Kircheis had been armed, the assassin would have been shot dead the moment he raised the cannon. Kircheis wouldn't have had to throw himself in front of the gun, wouldn't have had to shed a single drop of blood.
I killed him. Kircheis is lying in a pool of blood because of me!
"Kircheis…"
"Lord Reinhard… are you unharmed?"
The image of the golden-haired young man—his formal suit stained with blood, kneeling beside him, clutching his hand—grew hazy in Kircheis's vision. This must be what dying feels like, he thought. The world was narrowing, darkening. What he wanted to see grew fainter; what he wanted to hear grew quieter. Fear had become an incomprehensible sensation. The only fear left in his heart was that he would never see Annerose or Reinhard again. Before his life drained away entirely, there were things he had to say.
"I can no longer serve you, Lord Reinhard… Forgive me…"
"Fool! What are you saying?"
Reinhard wanted to shout but forced himself to lower his voice. This unbelievably beautiful young man, born with an overwhelming presence, now looked as fragile as an infant unable to take a step without support.
"The doctor will be here soon! A wound like this will heal quickly! Once you're better, we'll go see Sister together and tell her of our victory. Agreed? That's a promise!"
"Lord Reinhard…"
Kircheis coughed violently, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Reinhard cradled his head, his heart breaking.
"Don't speak until the doctor arrives!"
"You must seize the entire universe…"
"I will."
"Please tell Lady Annerose… that Sieg has kept his vow. I was useless… I could not fulfill her wishes… I can no longer stay by her side…"
"No! Don't say that!"
The golden-haired young man's lips trembled, pale as death.
"I won't tell her such things! If you have something to say, say it to her yourself! I refuse to relay it! How about this? Once you're better, we'll go see her together. I'm sure she has much to say to you too. You can tell her everything then."
Kircheis seemed to smile faintly. As the smile faded, Reinhard's heart seemed to stop. In that instant of trembling, he knew he had lost half of himself forever.
"Kircheis… answer me! Kircheis, why won't you speak? Kircheis, answer me! That's an order!"
Unable to bear it any longer, Mittermeyer placed a gentle hand on the young imperial marshal's shoulder.
"Marshal, it's no use. He's gone. Let him rest in peace…" He trailed off as he saw an unprecedented intensity flare in his lord's eyes.
"Mittermeyer, you're lying! Kircheis would never abandon me!"
II
"How is Marquis Lohengramm?"
"Still the same. He hasn't moved from that spot…"
The exchange was laden with deep emotion.
Reinhard's admirals had gathered in the high-ranking officers' club of Fortress Odin. Mittermeyer and Reuenthal, the highest in rank, presided over the meeting. Once a lavishly decorated room where the high nobles had indulged in luxury, it now held no appeal for the victorious commanders, their faces etched with sorrow.
Due to the tragedy during the victory ceremony, the admirals had imposed strict censorship to prevent the news from spreading. They jointly managed the fortress under martial law. But three days had passed—the limit of what they could maintain. They could no longer remain silent toward the capital, Odin.
Kircheis's body had been placed in a sealed transparent casket, preserved at low temperatures. But Reinhard, consumed by regret, remained by its side, deaf to all words, refusing food or sleep. The admirals were deeply worried.
"To be honest, seeing the marshal's usual composure on the battlefield, issuing commands like a mountain, I never imagined he could be so vulnerable."
"No, it's only human. If it were you or me who died, the marshal wouldn't grieve like this. Senior Admiral Siegfried Kircheis was no ordinary subordinate or friend to him—he was the most special of the special. In a way, the marshal has lost half of himself, and it's his own fault. His reaction is only natural."
Mittermeyer's response to Müller's words was met with silent nods from the other admirals. But their growing impatience made the passage of time unbearable.
Reuenthal's mismatched eyes gleamed sharply as he addressed his comrades in a forceful tone.
"We must make Marquis Lohengramm stand again. Otherwise, we'll all be singing the prelude to destruction in the galactic abyss!"
"But how? What can we do to restore the marshal?"
Bittenfeld's voice was hollow. Kempf, Mecklinger, Wahlen, and Lutz fell into a troubled silence.
These admirals could mobilize millions of warships and soldiers with a single command. Yet now, these conquerors of planets and star systems were at a loss, unable to devise a way to lift the young man from his sorrow and despair.
"If anyone can find a solution, it's probably him."
After a pause, Reuenthal muttered. Mittermeyer tilted his head.
"Him?"
"You know who I mean. The one who isn't here—Chief of Staff Oberstein!"
The admirals exchanged glances.
"What? If not for his damned suggestion, Admiral Kircheis wouldn't have had to die! And now we're supposed to rely on his wisdom?"
Mittermeyer's voice dripped with unconcealed disgust.
"It can't be helped. He knows his position exists solely because of Marquis Lohengramm's favor. Without the marshal, he's nothing! His inaction now is likely a ploy to force us to seek him out."
"So we're to beg him? What if he demands privileges in return?"
"Like it or not, we're all aboard the 'Lohengramm' ship. To save ourselves, we must save the ship first. If Oberstein tries to exploit this crisis for personal gain, we'll retaliate accordingly. Remember, military power remains in our hands. If necessary, we'll unite against him."
Reuenthal's words were met with unanimous agreement. Just then, a guard announced Oberstein's arrival.
"Speak of the devil," Mittermeyer said, his tone dripping with malice.
Oberstein entered, his artificial eye scanning the room before he spoke coldly.
"After such lengthy discussion, it seems you've reached no conclusion."
The admirals' faces darkened with anger.
"That's because the first and second seats of our military are absent. Who here can make decisions?"
Reuenthal's retort was equally sharp, highlighting how Oberstein's "harm of a second-in-command" theory had led to Kircheis's death. The two men locked eyes, tension thickening the air.
Mecklinger cleared his throat, breaking the stalemate.
"So, Chief of Staff, do you have a proposal?"
"There is a way to restore the marshal."
"Oh?"
"The best method is to seek help from his sister."
"Countess Grunewald? We considered that, but is it really feasible?"
No one had volunteered to deliver the news to Annerose—the consequences were unthinkable.
"I'll take responsibility for informing Countess Grunewald. But I have one condition."
"What is it?"
The admirals tensed, but Oberstein's next words caught them off guard.
"Return to the capital, Odin, immediately and arrest the murderer of Admiral Kircheis."
Even the quick-witted Reuenthal hesitated.
"That's absurd. The murderer was Ansbach."
"He was merely a pawn, an executor. We must find the true mastermind—a far greater figure."
"What do you mean?"
Oberstein explained—perhaps out of pride, Reinhard would never accept that Kircheis, more than a brother, had been killed by a mere subordinate of Duke Braunschweig. Kircheis's death demanded a grander villain, even if none existed.
"I see. But who? Duke Braunschweig is dead. Is there a suitable candidate?"
"Isn't there an excellent one right now?"
"Who?"
Mittermeyer asked suspiciously.
"Imperial Prime Minister Duke Lichtenlade!"
"..."
Mittermeyer recoiled as if struck. The other admirals stared at the chief of staff in shock. They understood—Oberstein intended to exploit this crisis to eliminate a political enemy.
"Thank goodness I'm not your enemy. Facing you would be hopeless."
Oberstein ignored Mittermeyer's thinly veiled disgust.
"You all know Lichtenlade must be removed eventually. And his hands are hardly clean—he's surely plotting against Marquis Lohengramm as we speak."
"So it's not entirely unjust? True, the old man is a schemer through and through."
Reuenthal muttered, as if convincing himself.
"Return to Odin at once, arrest Duke Lichtenlade for attempting to assassinate Marquis Lohengramm, and seize the imperial seal. This will solidify Lohengramm's dictatorship."
"But what if the one who takes the seal remains in Odin and declares himself ruler?"
Mittermeyer's sarcastic question challenged Oberstein's plan.
"No need to worry. Even if someone harbors such ambitions, other admirals of equal rank would prevent it. None here would willingly submit to a peer. This is precisely why I've always opposed a second-in-command."
Power's legitimacy lies not in how it's obtained, but in how it's exercised.
With this understanding, the admirals quickly made a grim decision.
Conspiracy and deceit were last resorts, but in this crisis, they had to strike first—to crush the enemies lurking in the imperial court and seize complete control of the state. Oberstein's strategy was worth attempting. Hesitation would only give their foes the advantage.
The admirals sprang into action. Oberstein, Mecklinger, and Lutz remained to oversee Odin's defenses, while the others led elite forces to the capital with unprecedented speed.
Their goal was to preempt Duke Lichtenlade's inevitable coup. The journey from Odin, normally twenty days, was completed in fourteen. Mittermeyer, the "Gale Wolf," ordered: "Leave the stragglers behind. Let them reach Odin whenever they can."
Of the twenty thousand high-speed cruisers that departed Odin, only three thousand arrived in the Valhalla star system after repeated space jumps.
Müller secured the satellite orbits with eight hundred ships, while the other admirals breached the atmosphere. Half the fleet had to land on lakes due to the spaceport's limited capacity.
It was midnight in the Neue Sanssouci Palace district. Mittermeyer led fully armed soldiers to the prime minister's residence, while Reuenthal stormed Duke Lichtenlade's mansion.
The prime minister, reading in bed, shrieked when the heterochromatic young admiral burst in.
"How dare you! You insolent brat! How dare you invade my home?"
"I'm here to arrest Imperial Prime Minister Duke Lichtenlade."
The elderly power broker felt not shock, but defeat. His plot to stab Reinhard in the back and seize power had been anticipated by Oberstein and thwarted by the admirals' lightning strike.
"On what charges?"
"You are the mastermind behind the attempted assassination of Marquis Lohengramm."
The prime minister's eyes widened in disbelief. After a long stare at Reuenthal, he trembled with rage.
"Nonsense! Where's your evidence? I am the imperial prime minister, the emperor's chief advisor!"
"...And a scheming conspirator. By this empire's tradition, evidence isn't needed to convict. Perish with the corrupt system you upheld!"
Reuenthal coldly ordered his men.
"Take him away!"
Common-born soldiers roughly seized the nobleman's wrists—unthinkable insolence in the past.
Meanwhile, Mittermeyer's team stormed the prime minister's office for the imperial seal.
"Where is the seal?"
Mittermeyer demanded of the elderly night guard, who trembled under the guns but refused to answer.
"By what authority do you ask? This is the prime minister's seal chamber. Unauthorized entry is forbidden. Leave at once!"
Mittermeyer stopped his enraged men—perhaps admiring the old soldier's courage.
But he didn't retreat. At his command, the soldiers ransacked the room, trampling classified documents underfoot.
"Stop! Have you no respect for the empire and the imperial household's authority? You should be ashamed of your treason!"
The old man's voice was hoarse with fury.
"Imperial authority? That's a thing of the past."
"Power begets authority, not the other way around. The evidence is before you."
A soldier shouted in triumph, holding up a small box adorned with grapevine patterns.
"Found it! This is the one."
The old guard wailed, lunging forward, only to be struck down. Blood streamed from his forehead as he writhed on the floor.
Mittermeyer opened the box, gazing at the golden seal wrapped in crimson velvet. The double-headed eagle seemed to stare back at him.
With a low chuckle, Mittermeyer ordered a doctor for the old man.
The events in the imperial capital were entirely under the control of Reinhard's admirals.
Hildegard von Mariendorf, already in bed, was roused by the city's unrest. Wrapping herself in a light robe, she stepped onto her balcony.
As the marching troops' cadence rose and fell in the night breeze, a servant approached anxiously.
"Whose army is this, my lady?"
"Armies don't appear without cause. In this empire, only Marquis Lohengramm commands such forces."
Hildegard murmured to herself, her short hair tousled by the wind:
"The old era ends. A vibrant new age dawns. There will be noise, but that's preferable to stagnation."
III
Was this a dream? Reinhard glanced around. The room was dim, chilly, and silent. Apart from himself, only Kircheis's body in the glass casket and the dry air remained. His red-haired friend was motionless, soundless, breathless.
It was no dream. Reinhard slumped in his chair, tightening his military cloak. He closed his eyes.
...Annerose had obtained leave from the emperor and invited Reinhard and Kircheis to Froidefontaine Manor—their first reunion in a year and a half. The golden-haired boy and the red-haired boy, dressed in school uniforms, adjusted each other's collars before sneaking out of their strictly monitored dormitory.
They traveled six hours by ground car—no aerial flights were permitted in the emperor's domain. They saw snow-capped peaks and vibrant flower fields.
Then, thunder rumbled, and gray rain veiled the pristine and colorful landscape. Confined to the manor for the entire vacation, the three of them were nonetheless happy. The fireplace crackled, golden flames dancing in their eyes as they sang every song they knew...
The memory shattered abruptly. Someone approached.
"Your Excellency, it's Oberstein. A superluminal communication from the imperial capital, Odin..."
After a pause, Reinhard responded in a lifeless voice.
"Who is it?"
"Countess Grunewald."
The figure before Oberstein suddenly moved. The golden-haired young man, who had sat motionless for hours—days—sprang from his chair. A cold fire blazed in his eyes.
"Damn you! You told her! You took it upon yourself to inform my sister about Kircheis?"
The chief of staff met his lord's fury unflinchingly.
"I had no choice. The superluminal communication just arrived."
"You overstep your bounds!"
"Perhaps. But you cannot remain like this forever."
"Enough!"
"Are you afraid to face your sister?"
"What did you say..."
"If not, then see her. Your Excellency, I still have great expectations of you. I'm grateful you didn't blame me, but your self-reproach is excessive. You cannot keep fleeing. Let the past be past. If you cannot rise from despair to face new challenges, then you are no greater than this, and the universe will slip into others' hands. Even Admiral Kircheis's spirit would be disappointed."
Reinhard clenched his fists, glaring at Oberstein as if his gaze could kill. But in the end, he merely strode past him into the communications room.
Annerose's clear image appeared on the screen. The young imperial marshal struggled to suppress his trembling body and pounding heart.
"Sister..." That single word choked him.
Annerose gazed at her brother. Her face was alarmingly pale, her blue eyes tearless but filled with something beyond sorrow.
"Poor Reinhard..." she murmured, her soft voice piercing his heart. He understood her meaning perfectly—in his pursuit of power, he had treated a friend who was half of himself as a mere subordinate. Now, he paid the price for his folly.
"You have nothing left to lose, Reinhard."
"...No, I still have you! Don't I, Sister? Isn't that so?"
His voice was barely a whisper.
"Yes, I'll always be your sister. We have only each other now..."
Her voice was so faint it startled him. Annerose seemed to notice his expression change.
"Reinhard, I'm so tired... I wish to leave Schwanenfeld Palace and retreat somewhere undisturbed. Could you find me a small house somewhere?"
"Sister..."
"And for now, let us not meet."
"Sister!"
"I should not stay by your side and influence you. Our paths are too different... I belong to the past, while you are the future."
"..."
"If you grow weary, come to me. But I know you—you'll never tire. And now is not the time for rest."
Yes, Reinhard had no right to dwell on the past, no right to rest. Since Kircheis had fulfilled his vow, Reinhard must do the same.
He would seize the universe. To achieve this, he could not falter, no matter what. The magnitude of his loss demanded an equal gain.
"I understand. If this is your wish, I'll obey. Once I've unified the universe, I'll bring you home. But before we part, I must ask you something—something I've long wanted to know."
Reinhard swallowed, steadying himself.
"Did you... love Kircheis?"
He watched his sister's face anxiously.
Annerose did not answer. But Reinhard had never seen her so transparent, so sorrowful. He knew he would never forget this expression.
...He had his answer.
Reuenthal hadn't volunteered to liaise with Odin—the admirals had drawn lots, and the heterochromatic young man had been utterly forsaken by luck.
From Reinhard's marshal's office, Reuenthal sent a superluminal transmission. Reinhard appeared on-screen immediately. His ice-blue eyes gleamed with reason and intensity—proof he had regained himself. His voice was firm, yet somehow inorganic.
"I've been briefed. Oberstein informed me the day you departed."
"Yes..."
"You've done well. I'll reward your service. I'll return to Odin shortly. Send someone to meet me en route."
"Understood. I'll dispatch Mittermeyer..."
After delegating the task to his friend, Reuenthal continued his report.
"Duke Lichtenlade's entire family has been arrested and imprisoned. Awaiting your judgment upon your return."
"No need to wait. Handle it as you see fit."
"And Duke Lichtenlade himself?"
"The imperial prime minister cannot be executed. Persuade him to take his own life—painlessly."
"Understood. And his family?"
"Exile the women to the frontier."
Reinhard's voice was as cold as shattering ice.
"Execute all boys aged ten and above."
Even Reuenthal hesitated before responding.
"Those under nine are spared?"
His question was perhaps an oblique plea for mercy—unnecessary bloodshed was not to this brave admiral's taste.
"I entered the military academy at ten. Those younger are only half-formed. I'll spare them. If they seek revenge when grown, they're welcome to try. The weak falling to the strong is nature's way."
Reinhard laughed softly—a sound both bold and strangely altered.
"The same goes for you all. If you're confident you can defeat me, challenge me anytime."
His perfectly sculpted lips curled into a brilliant smile. Reuenthal felt a tremor race through his nerves, his reply—"You jest"—coming out stiffly.
Reinhard seemed reborn. Having lost half of himself, he sought to compensate with something else. Reuenthal couldn't discern whether this was for better or worse.
After the call ended, Oberstein appeared before Reinhard, studying his young lord intently.
"Your Excellency, the Brunhild departs in one hour."
"Good. I'll board in thirty minutes."
"Your Excellency, regarding Duke Lichtenlade's family—was that truly appropriate?"
"War inevitably spills blood. Much has been shed already, and more will follow. What difference do a few drops from the Lichtenlades make?"
"If that's your view, then so be it."
"Dismissed. Attend to your duties."
Oberstein bowed deeply. As he lowered his head, his artificial eye gleamed with an indescribable light—one of satisfaction.
Alone, Reinhard sank into his chair, gazing at the star-filled viewport—the sea of stars awaiting his conquest.
A hunger gnawed at him.
Having lost Kircheis forever, with Annerose leaving him too.
Would destroying the Goldenbaum Dynasty, founding a new empire, conquering the Free Planets Alliance, annexing Phezzan, and ruling all humanity sate this hunger? Reinhard knew it wouldn't. Nothing could fill this void.
Yet he had no other choice. He could only fight, win, and conquer—endlessly—to stave off the hunger.
And he needed enemies—the stronger, the better. Only they could make him forget his heart's yearning. Though he now focused on consolidating his power, his mind was already on next year's anticipated clash with the Free Planets Alliance.
Yang Wen-li...
IV
The formidable foe in Reinhard's mind was, at this very moment, mired in extreme contradiction.
Yang had just quelled rebellions on the planets Neptunus, Carfo, and Palmehren and returned to the capital. A government envoy informed him of a grand rally celebrating the restoration of the alliance's constitution and legal order—the triumph of democracy over militarism—and demanded he publicly shake hands with Chairman Truniht.
Yang's initial reaction was childish.
"Why should I shake hands with that man?"
Catching himself, he hastily corrected:
"Shaking hands with Chairman Truniht is necessary."
When Truniht had emerged unscathed from hiding, Yang had sensed trouble looming. His foreboding had proven accurate, but he took no pleasure in it. A series of farcical, ugly spectacles had just concluded—or so it seemed.
No, if it were truly over, that would be one thing. But who could guarantee peace would follow?
Truniht, having survived an armed coup without reflecting on his political conduct, still sought to cling to power by manipulating public sentiment. The thought of shaking hands with such a man in public made Yang feel as though he were selling his integrity.
Yet, as his victories mounted and his status rose, so too would his political utility. How could he avoid such distasteful obligations? If only he'd lost. A crushing defeat would have shattered his reputation, turning praise into condemnation. He'd be branded a "murderer," and resigning his commission would seem natural. Few would protest.
Then he could escape the hell of officialdom, vanish into obscurity, and live quietly. A small house in the countryside, cold nights listening to the wind with a glass of brandy, rainy days sipping wine while watching the downpour—what bliss!
"Wait, that sounds like a life of perpetual drinking."
Yang chuckled ruefully, banishing the fantasy. Such a life might save him, but countless others would perish. His defeat would mean death for many—wives widowed, mothers childless, children fatherless.
In war, one must win. But what was victory's meaning? Inflicting casualties, ravaging societies, sundering families. The paths differed, but the destination was the same.
—In the end, neither choice was his to make.
A decade had passed since his graduation from the military academy. Yet Yang still hadn't unraveled this knot. It wasn't simple arithmetic—no clear logic could yield an answer. Though he knew pondering it led only to mental labyrinths, he couldn't stop.
Regardless, refusing Truniht's handshake seemed impossible.
It wasn't fear of retaliation that stayed his hand. But having fought to uphold civilian authority over the military, he couldn't now undermine the government's unity.
The ceremony was held in the suburbs.
Early autumn sunlight bathed the gathering in warmth. The golden leaves shimmered—a beautiful day. But Yang found no joy in it.
He told himself he wasn't shaking Truniht's hand, but that of the alliance's head of state. A necessary fiction. Of course, he knew this was self-deception, which only deepened his gloom.
Such was the price of his position. His success and status were envied by many, but the higher he climbed, the narrower and more perilous the footing became. That others willingly risked the ascent baffled him.
Truniht's speech was pure demagoguery. He extolled the dead, glorified sacrifice for the nation, and urged citizens to forsake personal freedoms for the coming holy war against the empire.
The same tired rhetoric from years past.
Men died. Stars aged. Even the universe might cease its motion someday. How could nations alone endure? If a nation's survival demanded immense sacrifice, better it perish swiftly. Who'd mourn it? As Yang mused, a voice interrupted.
"Admiral Yang..."
Truniht, back in his seat, smiled ingratiatingly. That smile had bewitched billions of voters. Some claimed his supporters cared not for policies or ideals, but for that grin alone. Yang, since gaining suffrage, had never been among them.
"Admiral Yang, you must have much to say. But