Inside the Supreme Commander’s office, a suspended light screen shimmered in the air, casting a pale glow over three solemn faces.
Milton sat at the head of the table, silent. To his left, his adjutant Yier wore open impatience across his features; to his right, the adjutant Feili was as cold and expressionless as ice. On the floating display was Gu Qing’s file—so clean it bordered on falsified, a life stripped of background, of history, of anything real.
“It looks deliberately erased,” Feili said evenly. His tone was calm, but his vigilance never wavered.
“Or it is fake to begin with.” Yier let out a sharp, contemptuous laugh. “That file is so spotless it is laughable. During today’s purification operation, his performance was too perfect. Have you ever seen a male face a collapsing military female without the slightest fluctuation in his aura?”
“The first three males released their spiritual power, and Weili showed no response at all. The moment Gu Qing touched him, Weili stabilized.” Yier’s voice lowered. “No matter how strong spiritual compatibility is, it should not be that precise.”
“Unless it was not coincidence at all—but a calculated design. A performance meant to create the illusion that he is ‘special.’”
“You suspect he is acting?” Feili asked.
“If it were only acting, that would be generous.” Yier’s gaze sharpened like a blade. “I suspect he is a spy sent by the aristocrats to watch us. Perhaps even a dog of the imperial clan. Or worse.”
“An agent of a hostile species, disguised as a male and infiltrated into our ranks. Do you think the Empire has never encountered such a thing?”
“…You are being extreme.” Feili frowned. Though he did not agree, neither did he refute the idea too forcefully.
He did not believe the world was divided neatly into black and white. But he trusted even less in the goodwill of a stranger. A figure who appeared overly “perfect” from the very beginning—those were always the starting point of traps.
Milton listened in silence, lightly tapping the desk with his fingers. He did not rush to interrupt. Instead, he replayed his encounters with Gu Qing.
—At the hospital discharge, Gu Qing had quietly asked after the humiliated sub-female nurse, his voice carrying a trace of concern.
—At the small villa, Gu Qing had said, “Do not be afraid. I will not truly bully you.” The words were playful, yet he had not crossed a single line.
—On the day he reported for duty, Gu Qing had remarked, “If a trapped insect does not abandon itself, then one day, even within a crack, it can carve a path with its own hands.” He had spoken as if he truly understood the cruel fate imposed upon females.
—And today, standing before a military female teetering on the edge of collapse, he had not retreated, had not evaded. His voice had remained steady and gentle.
Those eyes—clear, mild, devoid of contempt or indulgent mockery. Instead, there had been something faintly hidden within them… tenderness.
This world had never required males to possess tenderness.
This world was already rotten to its core.
The fate of females was decided at birth. Whether slave, attendant, or spouse, they were treated as playthings—exploited, tortured, traded, even having their wings severed for collection. Every law dissolved into waste paper before a single sentence from an aristocratic male: “I like it.”
Milton thought of his own origins. He had once been nothing more than a low-ranking civilian soldier. No background. No resources. He had climbed step by step on nothing but defiance and endurance. He had witnessed too much pain and injustice: female attendants who died on the battlefield, denied military merit and reduced to objects of male amusement; colleagues who exposed corruption, silenced and erased without a trace; even females once “favored,” whipped to death the moment that favor waned.
On official records, such ugliness would be reduced to “isolated cases.” But Milton knew better. The rot of the system had seeped into the marrow.
Yet Gu Qing stood in stark contrast to all of it.
He respected females. He did not fear power, nor bow to the system, nor belittle the weak. It did not feel like an act. It felt as though he truly believed that every life deserved dignity.
And that was precisely what made Milton uneasy.
Such qualities, in a male, were not merely rare—they were heretical, a defiance of “common sense.”
“…He does not seem like a bad insect. But he is certainly not simple,” Milton said quietly, his voice softer than usual.
Yier let out a cold laugh. “Not simple means there is a problem. I do not believe he is a good insect. You should not either.”
Milton did not respond. His brows knit faintly.
How could he not be wary? From the very first glance, he had sensed something off about this male—few words, strange actions, always wearing that harmless expression. He appeared to do nothing, yet somehow altered everyone’s perception of him.
Feigning obedience. Feigning innocence. Wearing the mask of a good male—while making a fool of him.
Throughout these weeks, Gu Qing had not once allowed him the upper hand.
Every probe, every interrogation, every open or veiled taunt—Gu Qing received them with docile composure, leaving Milton grinding his teeth in frustration, unable to find a single flaw.
He was angry. He was unwilling. He was irritated.
And yet—
“I did not say I trust him.” Milton shook his head slowly. “But… he has never truly harmed anyone.”
Yier’s gaze flickered. “That may simply mean the time has not yet come.”
“Perhaps.”
Milton did not argue. He turned his eyes once more to the light screen.
Gu Qing never spoke much, never seized the spotlight. Yet at the most critical moments, he would act in ways impossible to ignore.
Today, for example—he had almost single-handedly stabilized the riot.
How did he do it?
Milton had suspected Gu Qing of being an actor, a watcher, a latent threat. Yet none of those explanations accounted for the logic behind his actions. He did not move like someone acting under orders. It was more as if—he carried his own rhythm, advancing the situation step by unnoticed step.
He never manipulated with words, yet always stood at the center of events.
He did not overstep. He did not retreat. And he was steadier than any seasoned officer.
As though he deliberately allowed everyone to see him as “nothing”—clean, compliant, harmless.
Yet at decisive moments, he would strike—silencing skeptics, cutting off doubt at its root.
A natural strategist.
Like a smiling little white flower—blooming calmly among thorns, treading through blood and fire without ever staining a single petal.
“If he is not a blade wielded by someone else, not a hound sent by the aristocracy, not a disguise worn by another species… If he is like us—someone who has seen through this corrupt system and still chooses to draw a sword…”
Milton’s eyes sharpened slightly. His voice dropped like wind howling across steel.
“—Then perhaps he is the blade we have been waiting for.”
When the words fell, silence lingered for several seconds.
A blade could cut down enemies.
It could also wound its bearer.
And now, he could not yet be certain—
When that blade finally descended, where its edge would point.