Orion Ember woke to a violent, splitting headache.
Not the dull throb of exhaustion—this was something else entirely, as if someone had pressed an electric drill to his temple and casually stirred the contents of his skull. Instinctively, he tried to raise his hand to clutch his head, but his arm felt encased in lead, heavy and unresponsive.
"Orion. His Highness summons you."
An impatient female voice cut through the haze, followed by a sharp clack—something struck his face and slid down his cheek, cold and metallic.
Orion forced his eyes open, vision swimming, and caught a glimmer of silver-white. A badge. Crossed fleets and a sword, and beneath them, words he knew too well:
Celestial Military Academy · Third Fleet Reserve
Celestial Military Academy.
Third Fleet.
Orion's focus sharpened abruptly.
This is the setting from Starfall—the game I was designing before I died.
"Stop playing dead," the voice grew sharper. "His Highness returned from field exercises today, and his Cinder Plague is flaring. A Defective like you has pheromones stable enough to serve as a sedative. Move, before I say it twice."
A black military boot slammed into his ribs. Orion grunted, rolling off the narrow cot. His skull struck the metal floor with a heavy thud. The impact cleared his consciousness, and memories flooded in—
The body's original owner: Orion Ember, nineteen years old.
The illegitimate son of House Jordan's Marshal. His mother a nameless half-blood commoner, dead shortly after his birth. Genetic optimization incomplete—silver hair streaked with dull grey, eyes a rare pale grey-blue. To House Jordan, he was a "Defective."
Three months ago, at a word from the Marshal's legitimate wife, this embarrassment was shipped to the Celestial Military Academy. On paper, a "study attendant." In truth, a gift delivered to the Crown Prince of House Peregrine.
Peregrine Cinder.
First heir to the Empire, eldest son of the Five Great Houses' leader, President of the Academy's Student Council. Silver hair, golden eyes—the flawless image of Pureblood nobility.
Also the first key NPC destined to die in the Starfall Campaign, according to the game's main storyline.
Orion—or rather, Jiang Jin—had spent his final living hours designing that very battle. He remembered every data point: the war would erupt on November 17, New Era 284. Which meant—
He looked up sharply at the digital calendar on the wall.
August 22, New Era 284
Eighty-seven days.
Eighty-seven days until Peregrine Cinder's death.
"What are you staring at?" The voice's owner finally emerged from shadow—a girl in logistics uniform, dark hair, brown eyes. Her name tag read: Lumen Sage · Junior, Logistics Department. "If you don't go now and His Highness tears the dorm apart in a frenzy, can you afford the damages?"
Orion pushed himself up, legs trembling. He looked down at his hands—pale, slender, neatly trimmed nails. Hands of privilege, nothing like his previous life's hands, slightly deformed from decades of keyboards.
He had transmigrated.
Actually transmigrated.
Worse, he had become one of the game's most pathetic cannon fodder. In the original lore, the "Jordan bastard" didn't even merit a name; the official setting book held only one line: "The Jordan bastard died during the Zerg invasion; no further records."
"I'll change," Orion said. His voice was lighter than expected, hoarse with sleep.
Lumen frowned but pressed no further. She studied this "Defective" a moment, gaze lingering on his grey-blue eyes. Her tone softened slightly. "Hurry. His Highness is in a bad state today. Just... be careful."
Orion caught the shift in her voice but asked nothing. He grabbed the uniform from his bed—silver-grey, no insignia, standard attendant kit—and pulled it on.
As he dressed, he assessed his situation.
Previously: Jiang Jin, twenty-eight, lead game designer for Starfall. Dead after seventy-two hours of overtime on the "Starfall Campaign" DLC. He knew this plot's every detail.
Peregrine Cinder, the game's most popular NPC. Official ending: "To cover civilian evacuation, he personally piloted the flagship to hold the rear, perishing with the Zerg Hive Mother."
But Orion knew the truth.
Peregrine was already Cinder-mad before death. Mindless, the flagship commander had turned cannons on his own fleet. The "covering civilians" narrative was a lie fabricated by House Cinder to hide their heir's loss of control.
In those final ten minutes, the real Peregrine Cinder was a monster.
And now, that monster waited next door, expecting his "service."
Peregrine's dormitory occupied the "Sky One" suite—half the Academy's top floor, outer rooms for study and reception, inner chambers for bedroom and private training. As an "attendant," Orion should sleep on the outer sofa, but for three months, the original Orion hadn't warmed the carpet—Peregrine refused him entry.
Today was different.
The moment Orion reached the door, it slid open, and the stench of blood hit him like a wall.
"Enter."
The voice came from within—low, rasping, sandpaper against metal. Nothing like the cold, regal tones of the Crown Prince in game cinematics.
He stepped across the threshold and froze.
The reception room was wreckage. The solid wood table shattered in three pieces, the holographic projector smoking, a fist-sized crater punched into the wall. Blood everywhere—floor, sofa, even ceiling. Dark splatters against cold white light.
And the blood's source leaned against the bedroom doorframe.
Peregrine Cinder.
Silver-white hair tangled over his shoulders. Golden eyes narrowed to vertical slits, some great predatory cat. His uniform jacket discarded on the floor, white shirtsleeves rolled to elbows. His forearms laced with claw marks—some deep enough to show bone, still weeping.
Self-inflicted. Classic Cinder Plague symptom—using pain to suppress the madness.
"You're the one House Jordan sent?" Peregrine tilted his head, movements possessing an inhuman, eerie grace. "Come here."
Orion didn't move.
Game settings: Peregrine, 188cm, S+ physical stats, double-S mental power. The Empire's once-in-a-century perfect heir. But no player knew the price of that "perfection"—the Cinder Plague. Low emotional threshold, rage granting explosive power at the cost of reason, followed by memory blackouts and extreme physical frailty.
Current Peregrine: post-frenzy frailty period. But "frail" was relative; crushing a "Defective" attendant would be no harder than crushing an ant.
"I said, come here." Peregrine's golden eyes narrowed further.
The prelude to impatience. Orion had written this in design documents: Peregrine narrows eyes = Danger level +30%. Players advised to save immediately.
But he had no save points.
Orion advanced two steps, maintaining distance. "Your Highness, what do you require?"
"Remove your clothes."
"...I beg your pardon?"
"Your pheromones." Peregrine's voice softened, almost to himself. "The Jordans called you Defective, but your scent..." He inhaled, throat working. "It's clean."
Orion's skin crawled.
He had forgotten. In the Interstellar Era, Pureblood Nobles identified status through pheromones; each person carried a unique "scent." The original Orion's pheromones were judged "Defective" for their lack of aggression—gentle and bland as plain water, shame in noble circles.
But the game's hidden settings revealed the truth: this "non-aggressive" pheromone held a secret attribute—Ember's Grace. It could soothe Cinder Plague madness. One of the few stabilizers compatible with Peregrine.
House Jordan had hidden this secret, sending Orion as a "gift," gambling that Peregrine would unconsciously become dependent on this "Defective," binding the houses closer.
The original Orion knew none of this. He only knew Peregrine despised him, three months locked outside, barely glimpsing the Prince's face.
But the current Orion knew everything.
"Your Highness," he kept his voice steady, "my pheromones are truly unremarkable. If you require a stabilizer, the medical bay offers synthetic—"
"Synthetics don't function." Peregrine interrupted, suddenly smiling. Beautiful and terrifying—curved lips, no warmth in those golden eyes. "I've tried. Only yours works."
He extended his hand, pale fingers still stained with blood. "Come. Let me scent you."
The scene was grotesque. The Empire's Crown Prince, like some great predator, inviting him near simply to "smell" him.
Orion recalled a game detail: Peregrine's olfactory sensitivity—seventeen times human standard, forty times post-frenzy. He could read emotional states from pheromones—fear, anger, or...
Orion breathed deep, suppressed his trembling, and advanced three steps.
One meter from Peregrine now. At this distance, if the other lunged, he might retreat in time.
"Closer."
Orion took one more step.
Peregrine moved like lightning, seizing Orion's wrist. Strength staggering—Orion felt his bones groan. The next instant, he was yanked forward—
His cheek struck something warm.
Peregrine buried his face in the hollow of Orion's neck.
"Don't move." A rasped command, breath hot against skin, sending shivers down his spine. "Let me..."
Orion froze. He felt Peregrine's nose brush his carotid artery, felt the rise and fall of the other's chest, could even feel... Peregrine's heartbeat, slowing from frantic 120 beats per minute to 90, 80, 70...
It truly worked.
His pheromones—Ember's Grace—truly calmed Peregrine.
"What is your name?" Peregrine's voice was muffled against his collarbone, regaining some cold, aristocratic texture.
"...Orion Ember."
"Orion." Peregrine repeated it, as if tasting. "House Jordan didn't give you that name."
Orion blinked. The original name had indeed come from his mother. "Ember" meant hope, but House Jordan never legally recognized it, referring to him only as "the Jordan bastard."
"My mother," he said.
Peregrine was silent several seconds, then suddenly released him and stepped back. His golden pupils had rounded to normal circles. Still bloodshot, but that inhuman slit-quality had vanished.
"From today," he turned toward the bedroom, silver hair trailing in a graceful arc, "you sleep on the outer sofa. You enter the inner rooms only by my permission. You leave this dormitory only by my summons. Is this understood?"
Orion rubbed his numbed wrist. "Understood..."
"And," Peregrine paused at the bedroom door, not turning, "your pheromones... they are for me alone. If I discover you've allowed another to touch you..."
He didn't finish. Orion understood.
Possessiveness. Pathological, nascent possessiveness rooted in physiological dependence.
In the game, Peregrine never had this storyline. In the original, the "Jordan bastard" never came within three meters of Peregrine before death, so the "Stabilizer" hidden quest never triggered.
But now, fate's threads had shifted.
"Understood, Your Highness." Orion lowered his head in submission. "I am yours."
Peregrine turned slightly, peripheral vision sweeping over him. Complex—scrutinizing, suspicious, something else Orion couldn't read.
"Clean this," he said, then vanished behind the door.
Orion spent twenty minutes on basic cleanup. He dragged the broken table to a corner, wiped away blood with cleaning agents, ignored the smoking projector for now.
Finished, he collapsed onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling.
Soft leather, some material he didn't recognize, faint cedar scent. The same scent clinging to Peregrine.
He lifted his wrist, examined the red marks. Bruises forming already, fingerprints clear as stamps.
"This is fucking ridiculous," he muttered.
Before transmigrating, he was lead designer, creator of this world. He knew all Peregrine's data: 188cm, 76kg, born March 15, New Era 262. Favorite food: black coffee and synthetic protein blocks. Hated sweets. Frenzy threshold: emotional value 90/100. Post-frenzy frailty: 6-8 hours average...
He knew Peregrine would die. In eighty-seven days, amid the fires of the Seventh Sector, this man who had just pressed his face into Orion's neck would become wreckage that wouldn't leave a whole corpse.
And now, he was Peregrine's "property."
Survive first, he thought, lips twitching in a fleeting smile before tightening. Just survive.
Beyond the window lay the Seventh Sector's night sky. Three artificial suns orbited the planet, pouring eternal daylight onto this interstellar fortress. Orion watched that false brightness and recalled a game detail:
When the Starfall Campaign erupted, the Seventh Sector's stellar defense system would be obscured by Zerg spore clouds. The entire sector would fall into seventy-two hours of absolute darkness. In those seventy-two hours, Peregrine's flagship, the Celestial, would be the only lighthouse—and the only target.
He closed his eyes, pulled up the battle map in his mind. Zerg attack routes, fleet defensive vulnerabilities, bottlenecks in civilian evacuation corridors... every data point clear as yesterday.
Change it.
He could change it.
Not for Peregrine—for himself. He didn't want to die. Didn't want to be an anonymous corpse eighty-seven days from now. Didn't want this world he designed with his own hands to follow the tragic script he'd written.
"Orion."
The bedroom door opened suddenly, Peregrine's voice drifting out. He'd changed into clean clothes, silver hair tied back, the perfect heir once more. Only the bloodshot veins in his eyes betrayed his earlier state.
"Your Highness?"
"Can you cook?" Peregrine asked.
Orion was taken aback. "...Somewhat?"
"Then cook." Peregrine tossed something over; Orion caught it instinctively. A clearance chip. "Kitchen is downstairs. Use my account. I want something hot. No synthetics."
Orion looked at the chip, then at Peregrine.
Game settings: Peregrine's kitchen clearance, S-rank, usable only by himself and three trusted confidants. And now he'd tossed it to a "study attendant" he'd known ten minutes?
"Problem?" Peregrine raised an eyebrow.
"No." Orion clenched the chip, lowered his head. "I'll go immediately."
He turned toward the door, and from behind came Peregrine's voice, soft as a whisper to himself:
"Your pheromones... they smell like snow."
Orion's steps faltered a fraction. He didn't look back, pulled the door open, walked out.
In the corridor, he leaned against the wall and breathed deep.
Like snow. In the game lore, Peregrine's mother died in a Seventh Sector blizzard—his only memory from age five. Afterward, he was raised by AI in the palace, never seeing real snow again.
Orion's pheromones were judged "Defective" for being "scentless." But Peregrine smelled snow.
This was good. It meant that in the Crown Prince's heart, Orion was already linked to a hidden, primal memory of his mother.
"Eighty-seven days," he said to empty air, voice light but determined. "It's enough."
Chapter 2: Starfall
In the kitchen, Orion found a bag of flour.
Not synthetic protein powder—genuine Earth-origin wheat flour. Packaging stamped "Earth Native · Premium," three months until expiration. In the Interstellar Era, such luxury was absurdly expensive; a single kilogram could trade for a small scout ship's energy core.
He checked Peregrine's secondary account balance: Unlimited.
Orion fell silent three seconds, then decided on plain Yangchun noodles. In his previous life, during overtime nights, he often ate this at a small shop below his office. Hot soup, hot noodles—five minutes to serve, enough to carry him another three hours.
As water came to boil, he replayed the previous night.
Peregrine had eaten the noodles. Said nothing, but finished every drop of broth. Afterward, he didn't send Orion back to the outer room. Instead, he made Orion sit on the carpet by the bedroom door while he handled official business. Every thirty minutes, Peregrine would look up, as if confirming Orion remained.
That look wasn't how one regarded a person. It was how one regarded a newly acquired, exotic object—scrutinizing, evaluating, tinged with undetectable possessiveness.
At 3:00 AM, Peregrine finally allowed him to leave. Orion collapsed onto the outer sofa and slept instantly. When he opened his eyes, it was already 10:00 AM.
"Orion."
Lumen Sage's voice came through comms, somewhat mischievous. "His Highness has gone to tactics class. You're free today. However—" she paused, "Sheer Midas waits downstairs. He wishes to 'chat.'"
Sheer Midas. Youngest son of House Midas, billionaire playboy among the Five Great Houses. In game lore, one of the few Starfall Campaign survivors, and the only one who eventually bothered to recover Peregrine's remains.
Orion turned off the stove, packed the noodles into a thermal container as Peregrine's lunch. Then washed his hands and headed downstairs.
Sheer leaned against a hover-bike, silver-grey hair streaked with purple, three data-rings hanging from his earlobe, studying a holographic game. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, revealing a face completely unlike Peregrine's. Where Peregrine possessed sharp, oppressive beauty, Sheer was soft and non-threatening—pretty in a pampered way, like a well-kept cat.
"So, you're the Defective from House Jordan?" He got straight to the point, gaze lingering on Orion's grey-blue eyes. "Better looking than your photos."
Orion stopped three meters away. "Lord Sheer, is there something you require?"
"Can't I simply visit?" Sheer shut off his game, pulled something from the bike's rear, tossed it toward Orion. "Catch."
Orion caught it instinctively, sudden weight in his palm. A keychain, micro-chip engraved with crossed mechs and star chart: Starfall · Prototype.
His fingers went stiff.
Game settings: Starfall, crowning achievement of House Shen's Mech R&D—unreleased experimental model, performance triple any active-duty mech. Three months from now, it would sell for 300 million credits at black-market auction to an anonymous noble.
And now, Sheer had tossed it to him like trash.
"A Defective should pilot Defective-grade hardware," Sheer smiled harmlessly. "Shen Cetus gave me this last year. I found it ugly, never unboxed it. Yours now. Not like you deserve better."
Classic Sheer Midas insult. Orion had written these very lines in game script, adding a note: [Sheer's criteria for 'gift recipients' is extremely strict. Only those he deems 'interesting' receive this kind of 'trash'.]
Interesting. Sheer found him interesting.
"Lord Sheer," Orion gripped the keychain, lowered his head, "this is too valuable. I cannot accept."
"If I tell you to take it, you take it. Why so much talk?" Sheer climbed onto his bike, engine letting out a low, predatory growl. "3:00 PM, Training Ground Three. Show me what a 'Defective' can do with such a machine. Don't appear, and I'll tell Peregrine you stole my property."
He made a throat-slitting gesture, laughed, twisted the throttle, vanished down the corridor.
Orion stood there, staring at the Starfall key.
300 million credits. In his previous life, he'd written a tagline for this mech: [Where stars fall, only this remains eternal.]
And now, a star lay in his hand, light as a feather.
Training Ground Three was the Academy's primary mech combat zone—three football fields in size, floor paved with impact-absorbing nanomaterials, dome simulating various galactic environments. By 3:00 PM, a crowd had gathered—news of Sheer's challenge traveled fast.
Orion, in his grey attendant's uniform, stood out sharply among the sea of silver-white noble uniforms. He walked to the field's edge and saw Sheer talking to a small group. One of them made his focus sharpen.
Shen Cetus. Second son of House Shen, silver hair, purple eyes. One of the "Twin Stars" alongside Peregrine, but also late-game's major antagonist—the true architect of the Starfall Campaign, conspirator who used the Zerg to eliminate rivals.
Currently, Shen Cetus still wore that gentle, jade-like mask, smiling as he listened to Sheer brag about "how fun the Defective is."
"He's here." Sheer waved Orion over. "Come, get in the mech. Show me something."
Orion walked over, handed the keychain to a nearby technician. "Could you initialize this, please?"
The technician, a half-blood, frowned taking the chip. "Starfall? I've never seen this model..."
"A Shen family prototype," Cetus spoke suddenly, voice warm. "A birthday gift I gave Sheer last year. Not officially named yet. Student Orion, are you certain you wish to start it here? Prototype operating systems differ from mass-produced units; they might require... adaptation."
He was testing him. Orion heard it. Cetus wanted to know if Orion knew the mech's secrets. Too skilled would be suspicious; too clumsy would solidify his "Defective" label.
"Thank you for the warning, Lord Cetus," Orion bowed. "I'll do my best."
The technician inserted the chip. The holographic screen exploded with dense data streams. Orion watched the parameters, heart accelerating—exactly as he'd designed. Power core output, joint torque, neural link latency... every number etched in memory.
"What's the boot code?" the technician asked.
Orion remained silent half a second.
In the game, Starfall's code was Shen Cetus's birthday—but that was the post-release version. The current prototype used a different system—one he'd written into a discarded design draft. Temporary boot code: STARDUST.
"STARDUST," he said. "All caps."
The technician entered it. The screen flickered, flashed red warning: Insufficient Permissions.
Chuckles broke out in the crowd. Sheer tilted his head but said nothing.
Orion stared at the warning, then remembered—before the draft became official setting, he'd changed the logic. The prototype's true code wasn't a string. It was a gesture password.
On the metal panel below the reader, he drew a five-pointed star with his index finger.
The screen went black an instant, then surged back with a new interface: [Welcome, Unregistered Pilot. Select Operation Mode: Standard / Advanced / Limit.]
"Limit," Orion said.
The technician gasped. Limit Mode was a hidden prototype feature, theoretically known only to the designer—it increased neural synchronization to 300%. The pilot would feel every micro-damage to the mech as if happening to their own body.
"Are you certain?" Cetus's voice changed, sharpness piercing through warmth. "Limit Mode places extreme load on mental power. Even for Pureblood Nobles..."
"I'm certain," Orion said.
He climbed into the cockpit. Neural link tentacles wrapped around his neck like jellyfish. A sting, then scalding flood—he became the mech. The three-meter steel frame was his limbs; the power core's roar was his heartbeat.
In his vision, the training dome switched to Seventh Sector simulation. Three artificial suns, grey-blue nebula, floating target ship in distance.
"Basic test," Sheer's voice crackled through comms. "Destroy the target ship. Shortest time wins. Current record: Shen Cetus at 47 seconds."
Orion flexed the mech's fingers. Starfall's handling matched the game model—better, actually. No keyboard or controller lag; thought translated directly to action.
He remembered his dev-note: [Limit Mode is a gift for 'geniuses'. Ordinary people suffer mental collapse within 30 seconds, but true pilots feel the ecstasy of 'Man-Machine Unity'.]
"Begin," he said.
The moment countdown hit zero, Starfall moved.
Not running—gliding. In Limit Mode, thruster output was liberated to theoretical maximum. Orion felt the heat of back jets, vibration of torn air, even... where the target ship's weakness lay.
Port side, third armor plate—a 0.3mm gap at the seam. A texture error from the game's original 3D modeling, but in this reality, a genuine structural flaw.
He unsheathed the plasma blade. Instead of aiming for the main hull, he lunged diagonally into that tiny gap. Energy surged through. The target ship's power core overloaded, exploding within three seconds.
Dead silence filled the comms.
"...How many seconds?" Sheer's voice rose an octave.
"3.17 seconds," the technician's voice trembled. "And... he's in Limit Mode. Mental power readings... normal. No fluctuations."
Orion disconnected the neural link and climbed out. Connection points on his neck were still numb, but the rush of "Unity" was addictive—like strongest liquor, or deepest all-nighter.
He looked at Shen Cetus. The gentle smile had finally cracked—not with shock, but with gaze re-evaluating a commodity's value.
"How did you know about that gap?" Cetus asked.
Orion tossed the keychain back to Sheer. "A guess. The target ship's modeling is flawed. The port armor's texture doesn't match actual structure. I guessed the designer was lazy."
Truth and lie. The "modeling error" existed; the "guess" didn't—he knew because he was that lazy designer.
Sheer caught the keychain but didn't throw it back. He stared at Orion several seconds, then suddenly laughed. Different—less playful, more serious.
"Interesting," he said. "Does Peregrine know you can pilot at this level?"
"No."
"Does he know you took my mech and showed off right in front of me?"
"Also no."
Sheer laughed harder. He hopped onto his hover-bike, tossed something else to Orion—a data chip embossed with House Midas crest.
"Thirty million credits in there," he said. "Buying your time this afternoon. Come with me. I want to see how much more you can 'show off.'"
Orion caught the chip. He didn't look at it, didn't refuse. He knew Sheer's routine—the "insulting gift." The more the recipient seemed not to care, the more the young master wanted their gratitude.
"Lord Sheer," he said, "I belong to His Highness Peregrine."
"I know," Sheer revved the engine. "That's why I'm 'buying your afternoon,' not buying you. Get on, or I'll go ask Peregrine to borrow you myself."
Orion looked at the chip, then at Sheer. Thirty million. In his previous life, he'd set Sheer's annual allowance at fifty million. This playboy was spending over half his yearly income for one afternoon.
"I need to leave lunch for His Highness first," he said. "Then I'll go with you."
When Orion returned to Peregrine's dormitory, he found the door open.
Peregrine stood in the reception room's center, silver hair still damp—clearly just back from training. He held the thermal container Orion had left, staring at the Yangchun noodles inside with unreadable expression.
"Your Highness," Orion stopped at the door. "I'm back."
Peregrine looked up, golden eyes devoid of emotion: "Where were you?"
"Lord Sheer found me." Orion placed the thirty-million chip on the foyer table. "He gave me this and asked me to accompany him this afternoon."
He spoke bluntly on purpose—reporting, but also testing. Game lore never specified how intense Peregrine's possessiveness was, but he wanted to find the boundary.
Peregrine set the container down, walked toward him. Every step slow, but pressure doubling with each footfall. Orion's back hit the doorframe; nowhere left to retreat.
"Thirty million," Peregrine whispered, leaning down until his nose nearly brushed Orion's forehead. "To buy one of your afternoons?"
"Yes."
"And you agreed?"
"I said I had to leave lunch for you first."
Peregrine was silent a moment, then suddenly smiled. Cold—unlike Sheer's, a calculated output of emotion.
"Orion," he said. "Do you know why Sheer gave you that money?"
"Because he finds me entertaining."
"Wrong." Peregrine's fingers tilted Orion's chin up. Grip not heavy, but inescapable. "Because he wants to steal what is mine."
Orion's focus sharpened.
"Of the Five Houses, the Cinders lead," Peregrine's voice was soft, like a bedtime story. "But House Midas has money. House Shen has technology. House Viper has intelligence. And House Jordan..." He paused. "House Jordan has you."
"I'm a Defective," Orion said. "The family wouldn't—"
"House Jordan doesn't know your pheromones can stabilize me," Peregrine interrupted. "But I know. And now, Sheer knows too."
His thumb pressed against the carotid artery in Orion's neck—where pheromone concentration was highest. Orion felt his own pulse thumping under the Prince's fingertip, felt Peregrine's breath against his skin, smelling of bitter black coffee.
"You are mine," Peregrine said. "Since last night, only I may scent you. If Sheer touches you..."
He didn't finish. Orion understood. The possessiveness was a hidden attribute triggered only under "specific conditions." In the original game, those conditions never occurred—because the original Orion never came within three meters of the Prince.
Now, conditions were satisfied.
"I won't let him touch me," Orion said, voice steadier than expected. "But I need this money. Thirty million is enough to buy a second-hand engine for a small battleship."
Peregrine narrowed his eyes. "What do you need an engine for?"
"The Starfall Campaign," Orion looked directly into his eyes. "Eighty-six days remain. I want to live, Your Highness. I want to buy a ship fast enough to take you with me when the battle erupts."
Truth and test. He wanted to see Peregrine's reaction to the campaign's name—in the game, the Prince shouldn't know of the impending disaster yet.
But Peregrine's expression shifted.
Not surprise—something deeper, darker. His golden pupils contracted an instant, as if a switch flipped.
"How do you know of the Campaign?" he asked, voice so low he was almost talking to himself. "That is military secret. Even I..."
He stopped mid-sentence.
Orion's heart skipped. He realized he'd overstepped. This was a real world, not merely a script—the "Starfall Campaign" might not follow his timeline exactly.
"I guessed," he recovered quickly. "The frequency of Zerg activity, defense vulnerabilities in the Seventh Sector, and..."
"And?"
"And you," Orion lowered his head. "Your recent state suggests preparation for something significant. I guessed... it is war."
Peregrine was silent a long time. So long Orion feared his lie was exposed. Sweat formed on his neck's back. Peregrine's fingers remained on his artery, feeling that moisture.
"You are very clever," Peregrine finally spoke. "So clever it makes me want to lock you away, so you can serve only me."
Orion dared not respond.
"But clever or stupid," Peregrine released him and stepped back, "you are mine. Go with Sheer, take the money, but remember—"
He turned toward his bedroom, silver hair trailing behind.
"When you return tonight, I will scent your pheromones. If I cannot, or if I smell another on you..."
The door slid shut, cutting off the rest with sharp metallic click.
Orion leaned against the doorframe and exhaled slowly.
He had gambled correctly. Peregrine's possessiveness was weakness, but also weapon. As long as he could provide "stabilizer" value, he could buy enough time beside this Prince to change the script.
Eighty-six days.
He looked at the chip in his hand. Thirty million credits, glowing blue in his virtual account.
Enough for a ship. A ship that, during the Starfall Campaign, could take Peregrine and run.
Chapter 3: The Direct Fleet
Orion followed Sheer Midas to the "Starport."
Not the Academy's public harbor—House Midas's private docking bay, located in the Seventh Sector's outer orbital ring. Looking out from the porthole, light from the three artificial suns filtered into soft, warm amber, illuminating moored vessels like a pack of slumbering leviathans.
"Which do you like?" Sheer leaned against his hover-bike, showing no intention of dismounting. "Pick one. It's yours."
Orion didn't move. He stared at the ships. In the game's original 3D modeling, these were merely background textures—the Midas private fleet, described in the setting book by a single line: "Immensely wealthy; fleet count unknown." Now they were real, hull numbers clearly legible.
"Lord Sheer," Orion said, "thirty million was already more than sufficient."
"The thirty million bought your afternoon," Sheer tilted his head. "These are because I wish to give them. Pick one, or shall I pick for you?"
He snapped his fingers. The light-strips of the frigate closest to the dock suddenly flared. The words "Starfall-II" emerged from the hull's darkness.
Orion's fingers went stiff.
Starfall-II. In the game, this was the sister-ship to the Starfall mech, designed under the concept of "Man-Machine Unity." The pilot could interface directly with the ship's control system. Three months from now, it would auction on the black market alongside the mech for 700 million credits.
"The other 'gift' Shen Cetus gave me last year," Sheer smiled harmlessly. "Pairs with the mech, but I have no pilot's license. Can't fly it. Yours now. A 'Defective' ship for a 'Defective' pilot—a perfect match."
Same insulting rhetoric, same astronomical price tag.
Orion looked at the ship and realized what Sheer was doing—investing. Masked in "insults," throwing resources at someone he deemed "interesting," gambling on future returns.
In the game, Sheer was the only one who recovered Peregrine's body. Not from loyalty, but because before dying, Peregrine had handed Sheer the blueprints for the Celestial flagship—the Empire's highest military secret, worth more than the entire Midas conglomerate.
"I want this one," Orion said. "But on one condition."
"Name it."
"Teach me to fly it."
Sheer froze, then burst into laughter. Different—less playful, more... appreciative?
"Interesting," he said. "Does Peregrine know how greedy you are?"
"He knows I took the thirty million," Orion said. "He doesn't know I want a ship."
"Does he know why you want a ship?"
Orion was silent a moment.
"To run," he whispered. "In eighty-six days, the Seventh Sector will fall. I want a ship that can escape."
Sheer's smile froze.
The starport's lights flickered once, as if voltage was unstable. Orion looked up at the dome; the artificial suns were steady, but chill crept up his spine—he'd said too much.
"What do you know?" Sheer's voice changed. The playboy's flippancy vanished, replaced by sharp, dangerous calm.
"A guess," Orion said—the same line he'd given Peregrine. "Zerg activity frequency, defense loopholes, and..."
"And?"
"Intuition."
Sheer stared at him a long time. So long Orion began calculating escape routes from the starport.
"Get on the ship," Sheer said suddenly. "I'll teach you. But you're going to tell me where that 'intuition' comes from."
They spent six hours, from basic maneuvers to limit-jumps. The Starfall-II's controls overlapped 80% with the game models Orion had designed. He learned fast—fast enough to make Sheer frown.
"Have you flown before?"
"Never."
"Then how did you know to pre-cool engines three seconds before a jump?"
"It was in the manual."
"The manual is six hundred pages long," Sheer said. "You only looked at it once."
Orion didn't answer. He watched the star chart on the main screen. The Seventh Sector's defense nodes were like pearls strung into a net. In eighty-six days, that net would be shredded by the Zerg, and the first point of failure would be exactly where they were now: the "Outer Orbital Ring."
"Lord Sheer," he said, "if I want to survive when the battle erupts, what preparations do I need?"
Sheer leaned back in the co-pilot seat, silent. His fingers tapped the armrest in rhythmic code Orion didn't recognize.
"Buying a ship isn't enough," he said. "You need gate passes, flight permits, and you need to know which corridors won't be blockaded by the military. And all of that..." He paused. "Requires Peregrine Cinder's authorization."
Orion turned to look at him. "Are you teaching me to use him?"
"I'm teaching you to survive," Sheer said, voice mere whisper. "Peregrine won't live long. Everyone knows it. Genetic collapse, frenzy, loss of control... it's a miracle he's still heir today."
Orion's heart skipped.
In the game, Peregrine's death was "covering evacuation." But Sheer's words hinted at another truth—the Empire's upper echelon knew Peregrine was a ticking time bomb that wouldn't last through the next war.
"Why tell me this?"
Sheer smiled. Different from Peregrine's—no warmth, but no calculation either. Just... exhaustion.
"Because I don't want to die either," he said. "In eighty-six days, if the Seventh Sector truly falls, I need to know where to run. And you," he looked at Orion, "you seem to have the answer."
Orion was silent. The lights flickered again, this time three seconds. He looked at the map—the defense nodes he had designed, the Zerg routes he had pre-set, the death list he had written into the lore.
"The Outer Ring," Orion said. "When battle starts, the military will prioritize blockading inner corridors. The outer ring becomes a blind spot. A jump from here to the Third Sector takes seventeen seconds—enough to dodge the first wave of Spore Clouds."
Sheer's fingers stopped tapping. "How do you know about the Spore Clouds?"
Orion realized his slip again. The Zerg "Spore Clouds" were a secret weapon used late in the campaign; the military shouldn't receive intel until the day before the fall.
"A guess," he used the excuse a third time. "Zerg biology suits large-scale diffusion..."
"Enough," Sheer interrupted. "I don't care how you guessed. I only want to know: if I invest in you, what is my return?"
Orion looked into his eyes. In those soft, non-threatening eyes, he saw something familiar—the look of investors from his old game company.
"I can keep you alive until after the war," Orion said. "In return, you do three things for me."
"Go on."
"First, this ship is now under my name. Second, before the battle, you help me stockpile supplies for three hundred evacuees. Third..." He paused. "If Peregrine loses control during the battle, you help me knock him out and drag him onto the ship."
Sheer's expression shifted. Not shock—something deeper. He looked at Orion like he was looking at a madman, or a kindred spirit.
"You plan to save him?" he asked, incredulous. "You know his condition is terminal. You know he's destined to die in that battle. And you still plan to save him?"
"He made me smell snow," Orion said softly. "When my mother died, it was snowing in the Seventh Sector. It was the only snow she ever saw—real snow, the kind artificial suns cannot replicate."
It was the original Orion's memory, and his own. Since transmigration, emotions had flooded in; he could no longer tell which belonged to him, which to the nineteen-year-old boy who had vanished.
Sheer was silent a long time. "Deal," he said. "But I'm adding a clause—if Peregrine cannot be saved, his flagship blueprints belong to me."
Orion understood. In the game, Sheer recovered the body for the blueprints. Now, he was moving the trade forward by eighty-six days, with a frigate and three hundred people's supplies, in exchange for the Empire's highest secret.
"Deal. But if he lives, the blueprints stay with him."
Sheer smiled and reached out. "A pleasure doing business with you, Orion Ember."
Orion shook his hand. Sheer's palm was warm and dry, unlike Peregrine's scalding heat. A businessman's hand, a gambler's hand, a survivor's hand.
"A pleasure, Lord Sheer."
Orion returned to the Academy after midnight.
Peregrine's dormitory was dark, but he knew the Prince was awake—a sliver of blue light from a holographic screen leaked through the door, accompanied by faint black coffee scent.
He pushed the door open softly. Peregrine sat on the sofa, silver hair loose, golden eyes glowing faintly in the dark. On screen: a battle report—"Third Fleet Monthly Simulation · Tomorrow."
"You're back?" Peregrine didn't look up.
"I'm back."
"I can scent it."
Orion blinked. He sniffed his collar—starport disinfectant, Starfall-II exhaust, and... his own pheromones, smelling like snow, intensifying when nervous.
"Sheer didn't touch me," he said. "He only taught me to fly."
"I know," Peregrine finally looked up, golden eyes locking onto him. "If he had touched you, you wouldn't be standing."
Chill ran down Orion's spine. He realized Peregrine's intelligence network was far vaster than he'd imagined.
"The simulation," Peregrine said suddenly. "You're participating tomorrow."
"I'm only an attendant—"
"I said you're participating," Peregrine interrupted. "Sheer taught you six hours. I want to see the results."
He stood and walked toward Orion. Every step slow, pressure compounding. Orion backed up until he hit the foyer wall.
"Your Highness, my mental power is only Rank C. It isn't sufficient to pilot a mech—"
"Use the Starfall prototype," Peregrine said. "Limit Mode. I want to see how far you can go."
He leaned in, his nose brushing Orion's neck, taking a deep breath. Same greedy, predatory gesture as the night before, but this time, Orion felt the difference—Peregrine was trembling.
"Your pheromones," Peregrine's voice was muffled against his collarbone. "They're afraid. Why?"
"Because you're too close."
"I was closer last night."
"Last night, you weren't this..." Orion searched for the word. "Lucid."
Peregrine let out a low chuckle and stepped back. His golden eyes shone in the dark like some nocturnal predator.
"Tomorrow," he said. "Lead your squad and destroy the enemy flagship. Succeed, and you're promoted to Warrant Officer in my Direct Fleet. Fail..." He paused. "And you prove Sheer was wrong. You're merely a fortunate Defective."
The Direct Fleet. Orion's heart raced.
In the game, Peregrine's Direct Fleet was wiped out to the last soldier during the Starfall Campaign. The Prince's most trusted force, and his heaviest loss.
And now, Peregrine was inviting him in.
"I'll do it," he said. "But I have a question."
"Ask."
"What is the Direct Fleet's mission during the battle?"
Peregrine's expression shifted—not surprise, something darker. He scrutinized Orion like a weapon that had suddenly revealed its edge.
"Covering civilian evacuation," he said softly. "If the Seventh Sector falls, we are the final line of defense."
Orion closed his eyes.
Exactly like the game. Peregrine's death script was written the moment one joined the Direct Fleet.
"I understand. I'll do it."
He would destroy the enemy flagship, would be promoted to Warrant Officer, would join the Direct Fleet. Then, in eighty-six days, he would change that script—not as spectator, not as designer, but as participant.
As Orion Ember.
The simulation began the following afternoon.
The Celestial Military Academy's monthly simulation was routine—reserve units scrambled into teams for virtual combat. Orion was assigned to "Grey Team"—teammates five half-blood commoners, equipment the Academy's oldest mass-produced mechs.
Opponents were "Silver Team," led by Shen Cetus. Every member Pureblood Noble, equipped with the newly developed Star-Chaser series mechs.
"How are we supposed to fight this?" One teammate, a half-blood named Chen Mo, wailed at the gear list. "Their firepower is triple ours, armor five times thicker. This is slaughter!"
Orion didn't speak. He sat in the Starfall cockpit. Neural link tentacles wrapped around his neck, bringing that familiar scalding rush. Limit Mode. 300% sync. He could feel every vibration of the mech, every degree of temperature change.
"Listen," he opened the team channel. "The Star-Chaser's weakness is the knee joint. To increase mobility, Cetus sacrificed structural integrity. Focus fire there. One hit paralyzes them."
"How do you know that?"
"A guess."
His fourth "guess" of the day. He was tired of the excuse, but had no choice.
Countdown hit zero. Battlefield: Seventh Sector asteroid belt—turbulent gravity, restricted comms. Orion had designed this map himself; every rock's location etched in memory.
"Follow me," he said, thrusters at maximum. "To Sector B-7. There's a passage."
"B-7 is a dead end!" Chen Mo shouted.
"Trust me."
Five old mechs followed him like pups behind an alpha wolf. Orion wove through the asteroid belt. In Limit Mode, he felt every gravitational pull, predicted every trajectory.
Silver Team mechs closed in, firing plasma bolts carving arcs of death through the void.
"Scatter!" Orion yelled, pulling sharp turn against a massive asteroid. "Chen Mo, go to B-7's east side. There's a gap!"
"What gap? It's not on the map—"
"Trust me!"
Chen Mo gritted his teeth and turned. Three seconds later, his mech passed through a seemingly solid rock wall—a fissure, marked by Orion's searchlight, discoverable only through Limit Mode's high sensitivity.
"Is this... a secret passage?" Chen Mo's voice shook.
"A design flaw," Orion said. "Cetus knows about it. He thinks we'll hide inside so he can blockade the exit."
"Then why go in?"
"We're not," Orion smiled. "We're coming out the other side to hit his flagship."
He banked hard, Starfall drawing an impossible arc. Five old mechs followed like a dagger aimed at Silver Team's heart.
Cetus's flagship sat in the belt's center, guarded by twelve Star-Chasers. From any angle, impenetrable defense—except for the shadow zone directly beneath, a sensor blind spot.
Orion knew this because he had designed the AI's perception logic.
"On me," he said. "Three, two, one—"
Starfall surged from shadows, plasma blade piercing the flagship's energy core. Not frontal assault—from below, at an angle existing only in game models, piercing armor theoretically invulnerable.
Time in the virtual battlefield seemed to freeze. Then, the flagship detonated.
"Enemy flagship destroyed," the system announced coldly. "Grey Team wins. Time: 4:17. MVP: Orion Ember · Starfall."
Orion disconnected and climbed out. Link-points on his neck were bleeding, but he didn't wipe them.
He looked toward the observation deck. Peregrine stood there, silver hair and golden eyes, apart from the crowd. Their eyes met. The Prince's lips curved upward—a smile Orion had never seen in any game cinematic. Not perfect, calculated, but real, tinged with pride.
"Orion Ember," Peregrine's voice boomed over the intercom. "Promoted to Warrant Officer. Effective immediately, assigned to my Direct Fleet."
Silence, then uproar. An attendant, a "Defective," promoted by the Crown Prince himself before everyone.
Orion lowered his head in submission. But he knew that in shadows, eyes were watching—Cetus's scrutiny, Sheer's amusement, and... the naked hatred of his brother, Jordan Thorn.
In the original lore, Jordan Thorn would frame him before the battle, ensuring the original Orion died in the Zerg invasion.
But now, the script had changed.
"Your servant obeys," he whispered, voice barely audible. "Your Highness."