Orion found a bag of flour in the kitchen.
Not synthetic protein powder—genuine wheat flour. The packaging was stamped "Earth Native · Premium," with three months left until expiration. In the Interstellar Era, such ingredients were absurdly expensive; a single kilogram could be traded for the energy core of a small shuttle.
Peregrine's account balance displayed: Unlimited.
Orion fell silent for three seconds, then decided to make a bowl of plain Yangchun noodles. In his previous life, during late nights of overtime, he would often eat this at a small shop downstairs from his office. Hot soup, hot noodles—five minutes to serve, enough to carry him through another three hours.
As the water came to a boil, he replayed the previous night in his mind.
Peregrine had eaten the noodles. He hadn't said a word, but he had finished every drop of the 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 at him, as if confirming he was still there.
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 returned to the sofa in the outer room, lay down, and fell asleep instantly. When he opened his eyes again, it was already 10:00 AM.
"Orion."
Lumen Sage's voice came through the comms, sounding somewhat mischievous. "His Highness has gone to tactics class. You're free today. However—" she paused, "Sheer Midas is waiting for you downstairs. He says he wants to 'chat.'"
Sheer Midas. The youngest son of House Midas, the billionaire playboy among the Five Great Houses. In the game's lore, he was one of the few survivors of the Starfall Campaign and the only one who eventually bothered to recover Peregrine's remains.
Orion turned off the stove, packed the noodles into a thermal container, and left them as lunch for Peregrine. Then he washed his hands and headed downstairs.
Sheer was leaning against a hover-bike. His short silver-gray hair was streaked with a few tufts of purple, and three data-rings hung from his earlobes. He was looking down at a holographic game. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, revealing a face completely different from Peregrine's. While Peregrine possessed a 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, his gaze lingering for a moment on Orion's grey-blue eyes. "Better looking than your photos."
Orion stopped three meters away. "Lord Sheer, is there something you need?"
"Can't I just visit?" Sheer shut off his game and pulled something from the back of the bike, tossing it toward Orion. "Catch."
Orion caught it instinctively, feeling a sudden weight in his palm. It was a keychain with a micro-chip engraved with crossed mechs and a star chart: Starfall · Prototype.
His fingers went stiff.
In the game settings, Starfall was the crowning achievement of House Shen's Mech R&D—an unreleased experimental model with performance specs three times higher than any active-duty mech. Three months from now, it would sell for 300 million credits at a 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 thing last year. I found it ugly, so I never even unboxed it. It's yours now. It's not like you deserve anything better."
A classic Sheer Midas insult. Orion had written these very lines in the game's script, adding a note at the time: [Sheer's criteria for 'gift recipients' is extremely strict. Only those he deems 'interesting' receive this kind of 'trash'.]
Interesting. Sheer thought he was interesting.
"Lord Sheer," Orion gripped the keychain, lowering his head, "this is too valuable. I cannot accept it."
"If I tell you to take it, you take it. Why so much talk?" Sheer climbed onto his bike, the engine letting out a low, predatory growl. "3:00 PM, Training Ground Three. Show me what a 'Defective' can do with a machine like this. If you don't show up, I'll tell Peregrine you stole my property."
He made a throat-slitting gesture, laughed, and twisted the throttle, disappearing down the corridor.
Orion stood there, staring at the Starfall key.
300 million credits. In his previous life, he had written a tagline for this mech: [Where the stars fall, only this remains eternal.]
And now, a star lay in his palm, light as a feather.
Training Ground Three was the Academy's primary mech combat zone, spanning the size of three standard football fields. The floor was paved with impact-absorbing nanomaterials, and the dome simulated various galactic environments. By 3:00 PM, a considerable crowd had gathered—news of Sheer's challenge had traveled fast.
Orion, dressed in his grey attendant's uniform, stood out sharply among the sea of silver-white noble uniforms. He walked to the edge of the field and saw Sheer talking to a small group. One of them made his pupils contract.
Shen Cetus. The second son of House Shen, with silver hair and purple eyes. He was one of the "Twin Stars" alongside Peregrine, but also the major antagonist of the late-game—the true architect of the Starfall Campaign, a conspirator who used the Zerg to eliminate his rivals.
Right now, 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 was sharp-eyed and waved Orion over. "Come on, get in the mech and show me something."
Orion walked over and handed the keychain to a nearby technician. "Could you initialize this for me, please?"
The technician, a half-blood, frowned as he took the chip. "Starfall? I haven't seen this model before..."
"A Shen family prototype," Cetus spoke suddenly, his voice warm. "A birthday gift I gave Sheer last year. It hasn't been officially named yet. Student Orion, are you sure you want to start it here? Prototype operating systems are different from mass-produced ones; they might require adaptation."
He was testing him. Orion heard it. Cetus wanted to know if Orion knew this mech's secrets—if Orion appeared too skilled, it would be suspicious; if he appeared too clumsy, it would solidify his "Defective" label.
"Thank you for the reminder, Lord Cetus," Orion lowered his head. "I'll give it a try."
The technician inserted the chip into the reader slot, and dense streams of data flooded the holographic screen. Orion watched the parameters, his heart gradually accelerating—it was exactly as he had designed. Power core output rate, joint torque, neural link latency... every number was etched into his memory.
"What's the boot code?" the technician asked.
Orion remained silent for half a second.
In the game settings, Starfall's boot code was Shen Cetus's birthday, but that was the officially named version. The current prototype used a different system—one he had written into a discarded draft of the design documents. The temporary boot code was STARDUST.
"STARDUST," he said. "All caps."
The technician entered it. The screen flickered, then displayed a red warning: Insufficient Permissions.
A few chuckles broke out in the crowd. Sheer raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Orion stared at the warning, then suddenly remembered—before the draft became official setting, he had changed the logic once. The prototype's true boot code wasn't a string of text. 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 for an instant, then lit up again with a brand-new interface: [Welcome, Pilot · Unregistered. Please select operation mode: Standard / Advanced / Limit.]
"Limit," Orion said.
The technician gasped. Limit Mode was a hidden feature of the prototype, theoretically known only to the designer—it increased neural link intensity to 300%. The pilot would feel every micro-damage to the mech as if it were happening to their own body.
"Are you certain?" Cetus's voice changed, a hint of sharpness piercing through the warmth. "Limit Mode places an extreme load on mental power. Even for a Pureblood Noble..."
"I'm certain," Orion said.
He climbed into the cockpit. Neural link tentacles wrapped around his neck like jellyfish. A sting, then a scalding flood—he became the mech. The three-meter-tall steel frame was his limbs; the roar of the power core was his heartbeat.
In his field of vision, the training ground dome switched to a simulation of the Seventh Sector. Three artificial suns, a grey-blue nebula, and a floating target ship in the distance.
"Basic test," Sheer's voice came through the comms channel, carrying a hint of playfulness. "Destroy the target ship. The shorter the time, the better. The current record is Shen Cetus's 47 seconds."
Orion flexed the mech's fingers. Starfall's handling was identical to the in-game model—no, even better. There was no lag from a keyboard or controller; thought translated directly into action.
He remembered the design note he had written in his previous life: [Starfall's Limit Mode is a gift prepared for "geniuses." Ordinary people will suffer mental collapse within 30 seconds, but a true pilot will feel the ecstasy of "Man-Machine Unity."]
"Let's begin," he said.
The instant the countdown hit zero, Starfall moved.
It didn't run; it glided. In Limit Mode, the thruster output was liberated to its theoretical maximum. Orion could feel the heat of the back jets, the vibration of air being torn apart, and could even feel—where the target ship's weakness was.
Port side, the third armor plate—a 0.3mm gap at the seam. A texture error from the game's original 3D modeling, but in this reality, it had become 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 into a firework in the third second.
Dead silence filled the comms channel.
"...How many seconds?" Sheer's voice went up an octave.
"3.17 seconds," the technician's voice was trembling. "And... and he's in Limit Mode. His mental power readings... they're normal. No fluctuations."
Orion disconnected the neural link and climbed out of the cockpit. The connection points on his neck were still numb, but that feeling of "Man-Machine Unity" was indeed addictive—like drinking the strongest liquor, or pulling the deepest all-nighter.
He looked at Shen Cetus. That gentle young master of House Shen finally had a crack in his expression—not shock, but scrutiny, as if re-evaluating the value of a commodity.
"How did you know about that gap?" Cetus asked.
Orion tossed the keychain back to Sheer, lowering his head. "A guess. The target ship's modeling has flaws. The texture on the port armor plate doesn't match the actual structure. I guessed the designer was being lazy."
This was the truth and a lie. The truth was that the "texture error" did exist; the lie was the "guess"—he knew because he was that lazy designer.
Sheer caught the keychain but didn't throw it back this time. He stared at Orion for several seconds, then suddenly laughed. This laugh was different from before—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 even more happily. He climbed onto his hover-bike and tossed another thing to Orion—this time a data chip embossed with the Midas family crest.
"There's 30 million credits in there," he said. "Buying your time for 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, nor did he refuse. He knew Sheer's routine—the "insulting gift." The more the recipient appeared not to care, the more the young master wanted their gratitude.
"Lord Sheer," he said, "I belong to His Highness Peregrine."
"I know," Sheer twisted the throttle, "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.
30 million. In his previous life, when he designed this plot, he had set Sheer's annual allowance at 50 million. This tycoon young master was spending more than half his yearly income for one afternoon.
"I need to leave lunch for His Highness first," he said, "then I'll go with you."
Sheer raised an eyebrow but didn't object.
When Orion returned to Peregrine's dormitory, he found the door open.
Peregrine was standing in the center of the reception room, his silver hair still damp—clearly just back from training. He was holding the thermal container Orion had left, his gaze fixed on the Yangchun noodles inside with an unreadable expression.
"Your Highness," Orion stopped at the door, "I'm back."
Peregrine looked up, his golden eyes devoid of emotion. "Where did you go?"
"Lord Sheer found me," Orion placed the chip on the foyer table, "gave me this, and asked me to accompany him for the afternoon."
He deliberately spoke bluntly, as if reporting in, but also as a test. How strong was Peregrine's possessiveness toward his "property"? The game settings hadn't specified, but he wanted to test the boundaries.
Peregrine set down the thermal container and walked toward him. Every step was slow, but the pressure was multiplying with each footfall. Orion's back pressed against the doorframe; he had nowhere left to retreat.
"30 million," Peregrine leaned 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 for a moment, then suddenly smiled. That smile was different from Sheer's—it carried no warmth, like a precisely calculated expression output.
"Orion," he said, "do you know why Sheer gave you that money?"
"Because he finds me entertaining."
"Wrong." Peregrine's fingers lifted Orion's chin. The grip wasn't heavy, but it was inescapable. "It's because he wants to steal what is mine."
Orion's pupils contracted.
"Of the Five Great Houses, House Cinder leads," Peregrine's voice was light, as if telling 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 secretion was most concentrated. Orion could feel his own pulse beating under the Prince's fingertip, could feel Peregrine's breath brushing against his skin, carrying the bitterness of black coffee.
"You are mine," Peregrine said, "from last night onward, only I may scent your pheromones. If Sheer touches you..."
He didn't finish, but Orion understood.
In the game settings, Peregrine's possessiveness was a hidden attribute that only triggered under "specific conditions." In the original plot, those conditions never appeared—because the original Orion had never come within three meters of the Prince.
Now, the conditions were satisfied.
"I won't let him touch me," Orion said, his voice steadier than expected, "but I need this money. 30 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, "86 days remain. I want to live, Your Highness. I want to buy a ship fast enough to take you with me when the battle breaks out."
This was the truth and a test. He wanted to see Peregrine's reaction to the words "Starfall Campaign"—in the game settings, the Prince shouldn't know about the impending disaster yet.
But Peregrine's expression changed.
It wasn't surprise; it was something deeper, darker. His golden pupils contracted for an instant, as if a switch had been triggered.
"How do you know about the Campaign?" he asked, his voice so low he was almost talking to himself, "that's military classified. Even I..."
He stopped mid-sentence.
Orion's heart skipped a beat. He realized he had misspoken—game settings were game settings, but in this real world, the "Starfall Campaign" might not follow the timeline and script he had imagined.
"I guessed," he quickly remedied, "the recent activity frequency of the Zerg, the defense vulnerabilities in the Seventh Sector, and..."
"And?"
"And you," Orion lowered his head, "your recent state looks like you're preparing for something. I guessed... it's preparation for a great war."
Peregrine was silent for a long time.
So long that Orion thought his lie had been seen through, so long that fine beads of sweat began to form on the back of his neck. Peregrine's finger was still pressed against his artery, feeling the moisture of that sweat.
"You're very clever," Peregrine finally spoke, "clever enough to make me want to lock you away, for only me to use."
Orion didn't dare respond.
"But whether clever or stupid," Peregrine released him and stepped back, "you are mine. Go with Sheer, take the money, but remember—"
He turned toward the bedroom, his silver-white hair trailing behind him in an arc:
"When you return tonight, I want to smell your pheromones. If I can't smell them, or if I smell someone else's scent..."
The door closed behind him, cutting off the rest with a sharp metallic collision.
Orion leaned against the doorframe and slowly exhaled.
He had gambled correctly. Peregrine's possessiveness was a weakness, but also a weapon. As long as he could continue providing the value of a "stabilizer," he could buy enough time by this Prince's side to change the script.
86 days.
He looked at the chip in his hand—30 million credits, glowing blue in his virtual account.
Enough to buy a ship. A ship that, during the Starfall Campaign, could take Peregrine and run.