At the same time, aboard the military vessel en route to the black market—
Since that night at Starry Hall, Gu Qing had seemingly vanished from the world: no messages, no explanations, not even a single greeting.
Milton had thought he could remain composed.
He was a military general, disciplined and calm, fully aware that some things were beyond his control.
Yet that day, as he was returning to his quarters, a flicker of strange light caught his eye from the side corridor.
He instinctively paused, turning back. At first, he thought it was a patrolling soldier’s shadow, but the movement didn’t match standard military protocol.
Frowning, he crept closer, footsteps nearly silent.
Around the corner, a storage compartment door was ajar. From inside came muffled laughter and chatter.
“You really got it?”
“Hee hee hee, keep your voice down… don’t let the others hear. I bought it at high price from the star network—it’s supposedly from that night—”
The next second, a shameful audio clip suddenly played in the enclosed space.
A sultry, teasing voice breathed heavily, the tone alternating between pride and seduction:
“Gu Qing in bed is… incredible… that waist, that strength… ah, when he’s on top of me I feel like I’m floating…”
“…he even kissed me… my legs… they went weak…” The voice faltered, broken as if compressed by some module, yet even more provocative.
The speaker’s tone was vivid, high and low, interspersed with faint water sounds and gasps, like a post-produced erotic live broadcast. Mechanical echoes and static punctuated the clip, some lines oddly timed, as if deliberately edited.
Even worse—two female soldiers were listening and whispering excitedly:
“Damn, I’m so jealous… I want to be kissed by General Gu Qing until my legs go weak!”
“His waist is so strong… ah, I really want to feel what that’s like!”
The name Gu Qing stabbed into Milton’s nerves like a blade.
He froze, pupils contracting, struggling to breathe.
Those eyes he remembered as clear and gentle were now tainted with lust and falsity.
He should have turned, should have told himself it was malicious editing or deliberate rumor—
But—he couldn’t move.
The normally irresistible gentleness of Gu Qing, and that night at Starry Hall… all of it had transformed into shards, stabbing violently into his mental sea.
“Is… he really that kind of person…?”
Milton muttered, voice trembling. Fingers tightened, veins standing out, as if he were using all his strength just to pull himself away from that door.
He forced his eyes shut, trying not to imagine the voices, the scenes.
But the harder he suppressed it, the more violently his mental sea trembled.
He gritted his teeth, nails digging into his palms, stumbling back toward his quarters.
—He was Milton Collins, a military general, the faith of countless insects rested on him. He still had a mission: to save the oppressed males of the black market.
He could not break down here…
Yet his body trembled uncontrollably. When he reached the door to his quarters, he finally slumped against the cold wall, sliding to the floor.
Hands pressed firmly to his forehead, he struggled to calm the storm raging in his mind, sweat beading his temples.
What hurt the most wasn’t the pain itself—
It was Gu Qing’s silence, and the trust in his heart that split inch by inch.
He had once believed in him, thought Gu Qing and all the others were different.
“…Turns out I’m the fool being played.”
His eyes blurred, vision indistinct, heart shredded, leaving only endless emptiness and bitterness.
Pressing his forehead against the cold metal wall, he drew deep, steadying breaths, forcing himself to separate emotion from duty.
He pulled an emergency purification agent from his pocket and injected it sharply into his neck.
The cold liquid coursed through him, eliciting a shuddering pain. His mental sea convulsed violently, nearly causing him to faint.
He gripped the wall, forcing his consciousness to cool down.
—This was not the first time. He had always known how to stay lucid.
The mission continued; the fate of the black market males still hung in the balance. He could not falter. He was Milton Collins, the last ace of the insects.
Minutes later, he stood, straightening his uniform, restoring a cold, controlled expression.
When the door opened, all who saw him saw only the composed general, calm and measured. He issued orders, assigned tasks, confirmed routes with his adjutants—
As if nothing had happened.
But only he knew that somewhere in the corner of his mind, emotion quietly gnawed at his reason, creeping inward, imperceptibly, piece by piece.