Chapter 9

A hush fell over the entire hall.

The Internal Affairs Chief’s long-winded report was cut off without the slightest ceremony.

The fury on the Internal Affairs Chief’s face was undisguisable. He scanned the room until he finally located the source of the sound. Just as he was about to open his mouth in anger, his expression froze when he saw who was looking up.

It then twisted into extreme awkwardness. The reprimand that had been about to erupt was forcibly choked back, leaving him stuck, neither able to advance nor retreat. The stifled anger turned his face from red to green. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a barely audible, somewhat flustered short breath. Then, he quickly turned his head back, pretending nothing had happened, as if the earlier lapse in composure was just everyone’s imagination. Clearing his throat, he tried to cover his embarrassment with an even louder voice: “Ahem! As I was saying, the core advantage of this project lies in…”

At the same time, the gaze of everyone present converged on the single source of that buzzing sound.

Oh, no wonder.

It was Lu Mingjin.

Lu Mingjin, at the very center of this brewing storm, was utterly expressionless, as if the complex glances and the frozen atmosphere around him had nothing to do with him. The screen of his personal Terminal was still lit, showing a missed call that had just hung up. The caller’s name flickered clearly on the screen—Bai Ruonian.

Before anyone could clearly see the name, the flickering notification vanished, and the call interface instantly jumped back to standby.

He had originally intended to set it to silent, but for some reason, he’d put it down instead.

Was Bai Ruonian calling now because he’d broken something at home?

Or had he fallen down from somewhere again?

Lu Mingjin frowned, inexplicably recalling the blank, innocent blue eyes when Bai Ruonian had smashed that Antique Vase, and the scene where he’d stumbled and nearly tumbled down the spiral staircase.

It really wasn’t impossible that that Omega was causing some kind of ruckus at home again.

With a worry on his mind and someone waiting at home, Lu Mingjin found this meeting even more tedious and meaningless than usual.

“Sorry, it’s an alarm.”

Lu Mingjin spoke flatly, his fingertips making a symbolic swipe on the side of the Terminal. This excuse was so half-hearted even a three-year-old wouldn’t believe it. The Emperor merely raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly before lowering his gaze again.

Someone below muttered quietly, “An alarm? Do you believe that…?”

“I don’t… Isn’t he the one who barely sleeps?”

“I saw it just now. The profile picture that Terminal displayed was clearly…”

“Clearly what?”

“It was an Omega…”

Originally, no one had any interest in the Internal Affairs Officer’s mind-numbingly boring money-burning proposal. Now, with something else to divert their attention, the officials present had even less inclination to listen. Even the Emperor was visibly losing attention, the rhythm of his fingertips tapping the armrest clearly slowing down. He stared thoughtfully in Lu Mingjin’s direction.

The Internal Affairs Officer at the briefing podium, seeing he was losing control of the floor, was about to open his mouth to call for silence. Then he saw Lu Mingjin’s tightly furrowed brows. He had a reasonable suspicion that if he said a few more words, this man would humiliate him on the spot. So, before that could happen, he sheepishly ended his report early.

“My report ends here.”

The Speaker looked at the agenda on the Holo-Screen and glanced at the clearly restless assembly, wanting only to end this ordeal quickly. “Very well,” he cleared his throat and looked at the Emperor, his voice carrying a programmed calm, “then this is the last topic of this briefing. If there are no other urgent matters to add—”

People were already starting to pack up in twos and threes. However, before he could finish, someone stood up hastily. “Your Majesty, Mr. Speaker, I have important matters to report!!”

Everyone looked towards the source of the voice. It was the Chief Engineer of the Science Department.

“If it’s not on this meeting’s agenda, we’ll note it down and discuss it next time, Chief Li.”

However, the Chief Scientist of the Science Department, Li Liqing, had already rushed onto the reporting podium in a few strides. Looking at the bewildered faces below, he swallowed hard and cast a pleading look towards the Emperor.

“According to the Science Department’s probes, there are anomalous frequency fluctuations in the Zeruita Galaxy.”

Whether intentionally or not, the Emperor averted his gaze. Li Liqing then looked pleadingly towards the Military Command direction. “We suspect the presence of derivative Zerg or Zerg eggs there, and hope someone can be sent to investigate.”

The relaxed, pre-adjournment atmosphere that had pervaded the Capital Council Hall vanished instantly.

“Anomalous frequency? Truly bugs?”

The Emperor slowly opened his mouth to ask.

Li Liqing nodded and quickly submitted his prepared materials. “If it’s confirmed that Zerg have appeared in a Human Travel Zone, I request that the Empire reconsider carrying out a Project Eye of the Storm operation to eliminate the risk.”

Project Eye of the Storm meant using light-absorbing substances to lure the Zerg to a distant location, forming an eye of a storm, then using Mental Power to pull short-term gravity and create a Zerg Zone.

So far, only one attempt had ever succeeded.

Countless scientists had tested and simulated myriad models, all declaring this plan impossible. Yet it finally succeeded—during the most critical moment of the Zerg’s full-scale invasion.

The Emperor did not take the materials. Although Li Liqing’s words were directed at the Emperor, his gaze was fixed clearly, with a desperate, last-ditch plea, on another person—Lu Mingjin.

The sole executor of Project Eye of the Storm.

Lu Mingjin remained noncommittal, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. With the galaxy’s location, asteroid belt density, mineral composition, and travel routes all unclear, he wouldn’t make a rash judgment.

At that moment, someone spoke up urgently. It was the Eldest Prince, seated beside the Emperor.

“The Zerg are perfectly content staying in their own Zerg Zone in the Fringe Galaxy. How could bugs possibly appear in a Human Travel Zone? Chief Engineer Li, don’t be an alarmist. Do you know how much energy the Empire would waste based on that one sentence? Just because of your words, how much manpower, material, and financial resources would the Empire have to mobilize to ‘investigate’? Every reconnaissance ship launched, every deep-space scan, costs astronomical figures—not to mention the subsequent panic and pointless shifting of resources.”

He let out a cold sneer, his tone slightly sarcastic. “If you want funding, you don’t have to go about it this way.”

“Indeed. They build their Zerg Hives in the Fringe Galaxy and play their Zerg Zone games. They haven’t interfered with humans for how many years now? And now you’re telling us they’ll suddenly appear in the Empire’s meticulously planned, heavily protected ‘Human Travel Zone’?” An Internal Affairs Department council member quickly chimed in, seeing Shen Zeyi speak.

Li Liqing’s face instantly cycled from red to white, then flushed red again from sheer humiliation and fury, his body trembling slightly. In the Empire’s system, where the core discourse was dominated by military, political, and business magnates, scientists like them, buried in labs and data models, held an inherently awkward and fragile position. Facing a Prince’s public questioning and near-insulting accusation, his insistence, based on data and professional judgment, seemed pitifully weak.

His lips trembled, and finally, he could only look at the Emperor. “Your Majesty, if I were doing such a thing as deceiving for funds, may I die a horrible death. Truly.”

He was just short of raising his hand to swear an oath.

Shen Zeyi let out a scoff, turning his desperate oath into a joke.

Li Liqing’s eyes were red with anger, his fingers trembling. Billions could be spent building up the Capital Star, but funds couldn’t be allocated for a simple investigation.

Yet no one spoke for him. The Emperor remained silent until now. Who would dare say another word?

The scene froze for one minute—a silent, agonizingly long minute.

“It’s just a bit of fuel money. Our Military Command will cover it.”

A young, cold voice rang out, jarringly abrupt. Everyone’s gaze shot to the speaker.

It was Lu Mingjin. He said idly, “Whether it’s alarmist or not, we’ll find out by looking on-site.”

Shen Zeyi straightened up, his tone hostile. “Major General Lu has objections?”

Lu Mingjin glanced at him, his tone indifferent. “As far as I know, the Zeruita Galaxy is the Eldest Prince’s private property. As an interested party, you have no standing to criticize the Science Department’s normal work.”

Tears welled in Li Liqing’s eyes. To have someone speak for him when he was utterly isolated—for an old scientist who’d dealt with data his whole life, it was a feeling of being willing to die for a true confidant.

That single sentence landed like a thunderclap on flat ground. With just one statement from Lu Mingjin, the wind instantly shifted direction.

It was logical, really. After all, Shen Zeyi had initially raised the banner of wasting financial and material resources, playing the part of considering the Empire’s interests. But the moment it was linked to his personal interests, the flavor changed entirely.

Perhaps there really was something shady going on.

“It’s actually the Eldest Prince’s private property?”

“Could it be he doesn’t want the investigation because he doesn’t want the galaxy’s environment damaged?”

“Prince Shen so obviously preventing an investigation… that doesn’t look good, actually…”

“You…!” Shen Zeyi had originally wanted to deny it, but this guy Lu Mingjin always acted on his word, never making groundless accusations. If he dared to say it, he definitely had evidence in hand. A direct denial now, if exposed later, would only make him look guilty.

Shen Zeyi was grinding his teeth in hatred. Finally, he could only say, “It is indeed my property, but I am entirely motivated by considerations of manpower and material resources. When your Military Command carries out missions, isn’t the funding still the Empire’s money?”

Lu Mingjin said flatly, “A few of my men going there for a trip is enough. It costs next to nothing. Cheaper than your Capital Star construction project.”

Shen Zeyi was furious enough to jump. The Internal Affairs Department had strong ties to the Royal Family. Those words were openly insinuating that the money-burning project was his idea.

“You…!”

Shen Zeyi was about to retort when he was interrupted by an old man sitting directly opposite the Emperor. His hair was graying, his bearing energetic. His uniform collar bore the same general insignia as Lu Mingjin’s, but with an extra star.

“Eldest Prince need not worry. The various Divisions of Military Command have complete operational systems. Eighty percent of military expenditure is self-funded by Military Command. Mingjin’s 10th Division is the wealthiest one in our entire Military Command. Eldest Prince, truly no need to worry. Ha-ha.”

Stifled by this verbal jab, the Eldest Prince could only swallow his words. “Marshal Gu, you’d better keep your word.”

Gu Changde still let out a hearty laugh. “My word doesn’t count.”

He looked at the Emperor, his gaze sharp. “What does Your Majesty think?”

“Then let’s settle it thus.”

The Emperor, who had been silent for a long time, finally spoke. He narrowed his eyes, his expression unreadable.

“But Imperial Father…!”

Shen Zeyi was unwilling to give up, eager to argue further. But a casual glance from the Emperor instantly froze all his words. He could only grit his teeth and swallow his discontent. The Emperor still wore that genial smile, as if the tense, sword-crossing atmosphere in the court just moments ago had never existed. He even had the leisure to turn towards Lu Mingjin, his tone carrying a hint of a fatherly teasing, “It’s just a bit hard on you, Mingjin. Just about to marry, and now heading out on a mission, leaving that delicate Omega of yours all alone in an empty room.”

Lu Mingjin looked at him. The corner of his lips pulled upwards for an extremely brief moment, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, carrying nothing but icy mockery.

Shen Zeyi gritted his teeth. “I fear the relationship isn’t much to speak of. Him not being afraid of you is already something.”

Lu Mingjin glanced at him, remembering the way that Omega had proactively tried to cuddle close to him.

The discrepancy with what Shen Zeyi described wasn’t just significant.

The Emperor proactively smoothed things over. “That is all for today.”

The moment his words fell, an abrupt Communication Stream alert tone suddenly rang in the air, as if perfectly timed, producing a crisp, highly noticeable sound.

“Ring-ring-ring—”

“Ring-ring-ring—”

Lu Mingjin didn’t miss it this time. He casually tapped to answer, leisurely stood up, looked at Shen Zeyi, and sneered coldly. “Excuse me. Need to take my Omega’s call.”