Chapter 261

“The next stage of humanity, eh? Quite the tall tale.”

The low, rumbling bass of Grand Marshal Reinhardt—one of the absolute peak power-players in the Galactic Empire—echoed across the polished marble floor.

The audience chamber wasn't just big; it was obnoxiously big. It wasn't some boring, empty hall; it was a yawning void of architectural arrogance designed for the sole purpose of making visitors feel like tiny, insignificant ants. Every square inch screamed that the man sitting at the end of it was someone you didn’t want to mess with.

In the dead center sat a single chair, flanked by a ridiculously opulent wooden sculpture that existed purely to make the chair look more impressive. Aside from that, there was nothing but vast, wasted space—the kind of luxury only the truly powerful could afford. On a space station, where every cubic centimeter was a precious resource, this room was the ultimate middle finger to efficiency.

“However, we can’t exactly ignore it,” a voice added.

Standing to the side of the Marshal—positioned more like an attentive shadow than a conversational peer—was Dean. To any observer, their body language made the power dynamic crystal clear.

“Of course not. But how much of a threat are we talking about?”

Reinhardt crossed his legs and leaned his cheek against his hand, casting a lazy sideways glance at Dean. The General, a personal favorite of the Marshal, took a second to weigh his words. “Well...”

“If the status quo holds, the probability is practically zero. But things rarely stay stagnant.”

It was a clipped, slightly vague answer—the kind that bordered on disrespectful—but the Marshal just let out a sharp, predatory smirk.

“True enough. And their movements?”

“Nothing overt. They’re being annoyingly cautious. But an organization that bloated can’t hide everything forever. We’ve flagged some… creative accounting in their resource consumption reports.”

“Hmm. I trust you haven't touched them yet?”

“Naturally, Your Excellency. I’m letting them swim for now.”

“Good. But is there really a need to rush? They still have plenty of bootlickers in their camp. I wonder what they’re playing at.”

The Marshal shook his head in exasperation and let out a long, weary sigh. Dean debated offering a witty retort but settled for a non-committal nod.

The "they" in question was the Cornelius Faction—the Reinhardt Faction’s bitter rivals. Looking at their recent track record, they had definitely been tripping over their own capes. Two major blunders stood out.

First: The collapse of their monopoly on Razor Metal refining. Since 50 Materials had been the backbone of the Cornelius support network, the fallout was catastrophic.

Second: Their failed attempt to push back into Alpha Region Space because the Mercenaries they’d hired ended up on the government’s "To-Be-Executed" list. The military had actually been excited for that op, so the cancellation had sent morale straight into the incinerator.

Still, Dean wondered if that was enough to actually destabilize a faction of that size. The Imperial Military was a massive, bloated beast. Sure, the power balance had tilted toward Reinhardt, but was it enough for the other side to try a "win big or go home" gamble? Dean didn't see it.

“There’s something else…” Dean muttered.

“There always is,” the Marshal replied. The two men locked eyes and shared a grim, knowing nod.

“I’ll keep a tail on them. I’ll make it the Intelligence Department’s top priority.”

“Mm, do that. I’ll poke the other generals, too. We need to be on the same page when the hammer drops.”

“Understood. Leave it to me.”

“Good. I think that’s enough plotting for one day.”

Reinhardt ended the meeting and stood up, leaning on a staff covered in enough ornate gold leaf to buy a small moon. Dean gave a deep, elegant bow and stood perfectly still as the Marshal swept out of the room.

“Oh, right. One more thing.”

The Marshal stopped, acting as if he’d just remembered a trivial detail. Dean knew better than to buy the "absent-minded" act, but he played along, tilting his head with a perfectly rehearsed look of curiosity. “Yes?”

“Depending on the circumstances… you know what to do, right?”

Reinhardt wore a gentle, grandfatherly smile. Dean could feel the cold, black shadow of malice lurking beneath that expression and cursed the man in his head. Of course he’d say that. He’d learned a long time ago that you didn't reach the top of the military by having a soul. At the rank of Grand Marshal, "decency" was just a word people used in history books.

“Yes. Perfectly,” Dean answered, his face a mask of calm.

The Marshal nodded, satisfied, and finally vanished. Once he was truly alone, Dean let his shoulders drop and exhaled a breath he’d been holding for ten minutes.

“'Depending on the circumstances,' huh? Well, I can't say I'm surprised.”

The Marshal hadn't spelled out the details, but he didn't have to. You didn't last long as a General in the Galactic Empire if you needed someone to draw you a map.

“Does the sweet scent of power fascinate everyone that much?”

Muttering to himself, Dean started running through his contingency plans. Specifically, the one where he’d drag a certain group over to his side if the opportunity arose.

He was thinking of "The Voice," Coleman, and the rest of that crew.

“The ancient navigation Route is this accurate? Are you pulling my leg? How did you even pull this off?!” Taro’s jaw was practically hitting the floor as he gaped at Dr. Arzimof.

The doctor beamed like a kid who’d just discovered fire. He started tapping away at a massive Electronic Paper Board—basically a high-tech version of a chalkboard from the dawn of time.

“It was quite simple, really! Just boring, steady, old-fashioned science. I just took the new data, smashed it against our existing knowledge, and followed the breadcrumbs. Nothing a genius couldn't handle!”

As the doctor’s finger danced across the white surface, lines of black data began to swirl into existence. Mathematical formulas, graphs, and statistical tables—the same stuff Taro had seen on his terminal—started to form a coherent picture. Seeing it explained in person was a completely different beast.

“Young Coleman—if I may call you that—the hint was in the words Mr. Joachim of Zyle Strategic told you. 'Search for Earth, for Eden is there.' See, we’d been laboring under a massive misunderstanding. Do you see it yet?”

The doctor paused and glanced over his shoulder. Taro felt like he was back in a classroom, a wave of nostalgia washing over him. His actual school memories were a blurry mess thanks to repeated memory [OVERRIDES], but the feeling of being excited to learn was still there.

[AFFIRMATIVE, DR. ARZIMOF. THE ORIGINAL SURVEY TEAMS INTERPRETED THE WORD 'EDEN' IN THE NEW EDEN DATA AS A SIMPLE ABBREVIATION FOR THE COLONY ITSELF. THAT WAS A FUNDAMENTAL CATEGORICAL ERROR.]

Koume, the AI currently wobbling on the desk, chimed in. Arzimof nodded enthusiastically.

“Precisely! It’s a tiny shift in perspective, but it changes the entire equation. Add one new theorem, and the whole universe looks different! Naturally, that changes where we think Earth is. Now then—”

The doctor cleared his throat with a loud, dramatic ahem.

“By reverse-engineering the expansion of the Early Galactic Empire, we found the 'ground zero' region in the depths of Alpha Region Space—right near Nuke. We tracked the Drive Particle Density shifts—see this chart? Then, we calculated the life-support limits and Spatial Jump ranges of ancient ships to narrow down the possible Routes. I’m basically using a paradoxical application of the famous Stitchin's Proof here. When you apply ray-tracing to the optical tracking data, you get—”

The doctor was officially in the "Mad Scientist" zone. He was scribbling across the board with a feverish intensity that was actually a little scary. He ran out of space, wiped the board clean at a speed that would have triggered a student riot in a real school, and immediately started filling it with more formulas.

“You look suspiciously calm,” Marl whispered, leaning toward Taro. “Do you actually understand any of this?”

Not a single word, Taro thought. “Not a chance,” he whispered back.

“There’s a five-thousand-year gap in our science textbooks. Honestly, I’m not even sure if he’s speaking Galactic Standard anymore. But I know he’s a genius, so I’m just assuming the math checks out.”

Taro spoke with the blunt confidence of a man who had outsourced all his thinking to experts. Marl just snorted. “Fair enough.”

“At least I’m awake, unlike Alan. Besides, we’ve got Koume to translate the nerd-speak later.”

Taro glanced at Alan, who was currently face-down on the desk, snoring like a chainsaw. Taro reached out, slapped a Transparent Electronic Sheet onto Alan’s forehead, and set it to display a high-def image of a marbled steak with the word MEAT hovering over it in neon letters.

“—and that leads us to this proof!” the doctor shouted, finishing with a flourish. “Now we can account for natural interference, stellar radiation, and even WIND utilization! This effectively locks down the target sectors! Do you see?!”

The doctor was panting, sweat beading on his forehead, his face glowing with triumph. Taro understood absolutely none of it, but he stood up and gave a slow, respectful round of applause. Marl followed suit, clapping awkwardly.

“Incredible! Bravo, Doc! Seriously! I bet there isn't another person in the galaxy who could've cracked that. Bella must be bursting with pride. For real.”

Taro poured on the flattery, using the silver tongue he’d developed while running a company. The doctor tried to wave it off, but he was clearly loving the ego stroke.

“Now, now, I might have rushed through the last bit. But here’s the rub. This is where things get… problematic. Does this distribution map of the predicted Routes look familiar to you?”

An enlarged map of the local star systems filled the board. Taro leaned in, squinting at the glowing dots and lines.

“It’s not particle density… and it’s not stellar radiation… doesn't look like a Debris Belt either…” Taro muttered, scratching his head.

“That’s a WIND distribution map.”

The voice came from behind them. Taro turned to see Alan sitting up, the word MEAT still glowing on his forehead like a neon brand.

“When I was leading the Dandelion Squad to harvest WIND, we had to map every puff of the stuff. Our lives depended on it. I’d recognize those patterns anywhere.”

Alan looked grim, likely remembering the day they’d used those maps to wipe out the Mercenaries. Dr. Arzimof nodded slowly, his expression turning solemn. The rest of the group looked at each other, the weight of the realization finally sinking in.