Chapter Text
Once, he had dared to ask an Ancient a question. At the time, he was nothing more than a shimmer, thin and fragile, a newborn flicker among the constellations. Yet the innocence of his first light had urged him to approach the towering red star who watched over them.
Can the humans live forever?
It seemed to him that those beings had existed since the dawn of the cosmos itself: the oldest tales whispered between nebulae already spoke of them. Stories carried from moon to moon told of creatures made of flesh and metal, moving awkwardly through the dark void of the universe, scattering shards of iron in their wake, announcing their arrival with the hesitant pulse of their lights.
The humans… these stubborn wanderers, forever searching for a new world on which to build a life brief yet incandescent, a life that had fascinated him from the moment he learned they existed.
All the great stories echoing through the ages seemed to summon them: heroes and murderers at once, bearers of hope and sowers of ruin. Men who lifted their eyes toward the Suns to plead for their wishes to be granted. Women lost in the vastness whom the constellations gently guided home. A people whose wars had once consumed an entire galaxy.
You ask far too many questions, little light…
The Ancient found him endearing. His curiosity pleased her as much as it troubled her: stars of his generation were meant to be silent, patient, absorbed in observing the world.
But can they? he insisted, his glow trembling with impatience.
No, the Ancient answered. The humans are fragile. The breath of their lives is snuffed out too quickly… And when they die, they do not dissolve into stardust as we do. Their souls walk along the milky way, toward a new universe shaped solely for them.
I wish I could be one of them, he whispered.
No, dear one.
The Ancient’s mind brushed against his, an ethereal touch, cold and familiar, fluid and comforting, like drifting through the folds of a nebula.
You would hate it.
***
A century later, his own kin cast him out.
For treason.
— 1 —
They found him curled at the edge of a river, on a tiny mining planet lost within a half-forgotten star system. A world of coal, gas, and men who survived more than they lived. A place far from anything he had ever known, so far from anything he had once called home.
The first-time touch struck him, it hit like a violent surge. Nothing like the gentle radiance of the nebulae; this was a dense, brutal shock, sinking deep into his new-made body like a foreign substance. Darkness receded slowly and, through that pale crack of awareness, he made out a face leaning over him, distorted by the curve of a helmet.
And then… a vertigo. A world tearing open.
The universe shattered into splinters. Galaxies aflame. Worlds collapsing.
He was seeing with eyes that were not his own.
The sensation was unbearable; too sharp, too vivid, too real.
And the cold… a cold without end, biting all the way down to the core of this unfamiliar body. The cold of a creature cast out.
The darkness fell back over him without mercy. He tried to resist, lifted his gaze toward the sky, reaching desperately for the stars — his sisters and brothers — but all he found was a closed, black horizon already crashing down upon him.
Then there was nothing.
Nothing but silence.
***
The sensation was strange, almost unpleasant in its newness. When he finally regained full consciousness, he was startled to realise he had been moved. The freezing cold no longer bit into his skin, and his body now sank gently into a mattress.
Slowly, awkwardly, he raised an arm, testing the sudden heaviness of this new body, trying to grow familiar with a form he knew nothing about. He opened his eyes carefully and was instantly assaulted by the too-white glare of the infirmary lights, a brightness sharp enough to feel like it was burning his retinas. A groan escaped him as he immediately shut them again, lifting a hand to shield his face.
Oh. He had hands.
Shivering, he pushed himself upright on the bed, the mattress creaking under him. With fascination, once his pupils had adjusted to the painful brightness, he studied his left hand, lingering on the delicacy of his fingers and the gentle curve of his palm. Slowly, he curled his fingers into a fist, then uncurled them, repeating the motion as though relearning something forgotten.
In his chest, deep within this unfamiliar torso, he could feel the faint rustle of a heartbeat. He pressed his palm to his sternum, following the tremors that seemed to ripple through his entire body: a sound, a low hum rising from his stomach and climbing toward his throat.
He had no idea how he was producing that sound, but he had to admit; it helped soothe the sudden rush of anxiety tightening inside him.
Everything was too new. Too sharp. Too intense.
Trying to calm his too-quick breathing, he finally allowed himself to look around. He was in a small, blindingly white room, steeped in a sterile scent that made his stomach churn. He was alone. A cabinet stood to his left, and several empty beds were lined up against the walls. When he finally sat up fully, his gaze dropped to his feet. He wiggled his toes, mesmerised, until his eyes lifted and met his own reflection.
Forgetting all hesitation, he let himself slide off the bed, his legs still a little unsteady, and slowly walked toward the enormous mirror covering an entire wall. In doing so, he paid no attention to the catheter in his right arm; the metal stand toppled with a dull crash. Startled, he flinched, then simply tore the needle from his skin, his attention fixed entirely on the image staring back at him.
Was that him? Was this what he looked like?
He came so close his nose nearly brushed the glass. Eyes wide, he studied his own reflection for a long moment. He was tall, slender, with a narrow waist. His hands were delicate, strange looking for a human of his height. His hair was jet-black, spilling over his shoulders; his neck was graceful, and something faintly pulsed beneath the skin at the nape.
With quiet fascination, he ran his fingers along the soft curve of his lower lip, then opened his mouth to inspect the slightly pointed canines there, letting a curious tongue glide over them. The last thing he noticed was his gaze: two purple irises reflecting the face of a male omega; tired, lost, and worn. It wasn’t surprising really, after all he had existed in this form for barely a few hours. His eyes were the only trace of what he had once been: a purple star, meant to guide wandering souls.
That thought washed over him with a deep, unfamiliar sadness, a new melancholy that rose sharply in his throat. He thought of home, of his sisters and brothers, of the Elders, of the life that had been his for more than a thousand years. A thousand years; barely dust in the universe’s history and still, he had been a young star.
Had been.
He was no longer a star. His own kind had cast him out, locked him inside a human body far too small to contain his light.
His punishment was cruel.
Fitting for his crime, one of the Ancient had declared.
He felt strange, and he wasn’t sure he liked the sensation. That unsettling feeling that he was no longer entirely himself. The persistent impression that a piece of what he had been was missing. And yet, he could still sense the other part: the part that made him him. Buried deep within this body that was now his own, he could still feel his mind, his voice, shackled tightly, deeply wounded, but unmistakably present.
No. It was something else that had vanished.
It was the feeling of weightlessness. Of no longer being bound by the laws of gravity. It was the familiar, comforting sensation of drifting freely through galaxies, surrounded only by the light of the stars. It was the warmth of sharing a communion of millions; minds, thoughts, emotions intertwined. His family, his friends, his home. His people.
But it was far too late for regret.
His gaze returned to his reflection. His fingers slid down his throat and rested there, exactly where his vocal cords lay. He was alone. No one would be in danger if he allowed himself to speak.
Slowly, he parted his lips, preparing to speak for the first time…
Then froze.
He stared at himself for a long moment, his heart lodged against the back of his tongue, doubt gathering in the pit of his soul. He closed his mouth again, swallowing the words that threatened to escape. His power, the very core of what he was, pressed insistently beneath his skin, desperate to break free and erupt.
He pressed his lips together, forcing it back down. Holding back both power and voice, both equally capable of destruction.
After all, he was the remnant of a supernova, a star made of neutrons, everything he was distilled into a blinding, ancient mass of energy contained inside something far too small. No living being could survive its release.
Slowly, concentrating fully, he tried to steady himself, to control the weight inside him. Because if he slipped, if he failed, he would collapse inward… dragging everything around him into the fall.
Becoming a black hole. A destroyer of worlds.
“Well. You’re awake.”
He jumped at the sound, stepping away from the mirror as if he had been caught in the middle of something forbidden, as if he were a criminal on the verge of committing a second unforgivable act.
Turning, he found himself facing a human woman, a young brunette with long hair loosely tied in a ponytail. She wore a white coat, dark circles under her eyes, her features drawn and a faint, tired smile resting on her face. His nose wrinkled suddenly; a strange scent of rose and vanilla rose from her. The fragrance startled him; he wasn’t used to the act of smelling at all. For a brief moment the scent made him grimace, and the reaction didn’t seem to escape the young human, who lifted an eyebrow.
“I’m surprised,” she went on, setting a tablet down on what he assumed was her desk. “I expected you to stay unconscious at least until tomorrow.”
Not knowing what to answer, unable to, he simply frowned at her. The woman let out a sigh, shook her head, and stepped closer to take his arm, placing two fingers lightly against his wrist. He allowed her to, watching her with quiet interest. After observing humans for so long, after being fascinated by them from afar, here he was at last in contact with one: one of the very beings whose existence had led to his downfall among his own.
“I’m Doctor Ieiri Shoko,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Now that you’re awake, I can finally start asking you a few questions. You’re quite the scientific anomaly, you know. Hold on…”
She bent to pick up the fallen IV stand and set it upright.
“Come sit. Now that you’re conscious, I want to examine you properly.”
With a hand both gentle and authoritative, she guided him back onto the bed.
“Alright. ARI, record the conversation and transmit the encrypted file directly to Colonel Gojo.”
A soft electronic beep sounded, followed by a feminine voice:
Understood, Doctor Ieiri. Recording active. Encrypted transmission 654CXS-21 prepared for Colonel Gojo.
He lifted his eyes, searching for the source of the voice. He had observed human vessels long enough to recognize it as an artificial intelligence; one of the assistants humans relied upon. He found the concept endlessly fascinating. The vessels people were so ingenious; witnessing their creations up close only deepened his admiration.
Unable to look away, he watched her for a long moment, tracing with silent fascination the delicate curves of her face, despite the fatigue that seemed to weigh on her features. He observed her tapping on her tablet, curiosity stirring — he wanted so badly to ask the hundred questions burning on his tongue.
“Do I have something on my face that amuses you?” Shoko asked abruptly, without even glancing up at him.
Lost in his observation, he hadn’t realized the wide smile that had spread across his lips. It felt impossible to suppress it, the moment was too strangely euphoric.
“So?” she pressed, her tone dry but not unkind. “Are you going to share whatever’s making you grin like that?”
He shrugged, legs swinging idly off the edge of the bed, and shook his head. He had nothing to tell her, and even if he could, he doubted she would believe him. At his silence, Shoko sighed, finally lifting her gaze to meet his directly.
“We’ll start simple. Your vitals are stable, and none of the scans show any anomalies. You’re in perfect health; better than most of the crew on this ship, actually.” She paused, her tone shifting, more measured. “Now tell me: how did you end up on Kvasir II? I don’t know if you’re aware, but it’s a mining planet under full control of the Interstellar Authority. Being there without authorization is considered a criminal act.”
Silence.
Kvasir II. A planet within the Spiral of Lutheon: a stellar phenomenon unlike any other, a cluster of stars locked in perpetual formation, aligned in a perfect spiral that defied the laws of gravity. It wasn’t vast enough to be a galaxy, yet far too immense and too precise to be a mere nebula.
He knew many of the stars within the Spiral, most of them green giants whose harmonic songs echoed faintly through the abyss of space. Kvasir itself was a dwarf planet, hidden deep within the Spiral’s luminous coil. For centuries, it had remained unseen by human eyes… until they found it. They had drilled into it, stripped it bare, bled it dry, searching for gas, oil, energy, anything to fuel their fragile survival.
Kvasir was dying now; a planet on its last breath, its very existence fraying into silence.
What they had done to Kvasir became the first stone laid in the foundation of the stars’ distrust toward humankind and time did nothing to soften that suspicion. Humans kept expanding, pushing ever farther into the infinite dark of the universe, drifting from galaxy to galaxy; invading, ravaging, stripping planets of their vital resources with no regard for the indigenous peoples who already lived there. The stars, silent observers of all existence, watched with growing horror the atrocities carried out by mankind.
Yet cruelty and selfishness were not the humans’ only defining traits. He had seen their profound generosity, their kindness, their capacity for selflessness; they were a people as resilient as they were inventive, capable of building entire worlds out of nothing but hope.
He had tried to plead that truth to his own kind. There was good in humans; he was certain of it. But the Ancients had refused to listen. They feared the day humans would discover their existence, would lift their hungry gaze toward the stars and lay claim to what had never belonged to them.
Humanity had an unceasing need for energy in order to survive within an environment hostile to their very nature: to fuel their machines, their ever-growing, ever-more extravagant cities. And the energy contained within a single star could power an entire human world for hundreds of thousands of years.
“You refuse to answer?"
He blinked, turning his gaze toward Shoko, who now watched him with narrowed eyes, as though attempting to read whatever hid behind his calm façade.
“Do you at least understand what I’m saying?”she pressed. “Do you know the Common Tongue?”
Taken aback by the question, his smile widened, and a soft laugh, amused, warm, escaped him. Know the Common Tongue? He spoke every language ever created, forgotten, or yet to be discovered; human tongues, alien dialects, and the silent languages carried by stars.
Shoko let out a tired little huff of laughter just as the infirmary door slid open with a sharp whoosh. A woman stepped inside, shorter hair, same white coat, and froze the moment she took in the scene.
“Professor Itadori,”Shoko sighed, turning toward her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence in the medical wing?”
The newcomer’s surprise evaporated quickly, replaced by an expression of forced cordiality.
“I asked to be notified the moment Subject Zero regained consciousness.”
Shoko raised an unimpressed eyebrow.
“Protocol requires that I verify Subject Zero shows no transmissible pathology that could compromise the Astraeus’integrity.”
“Oh, please.” Both women knew the barb beneath the politeness. “He’s been examined three times since we brought him aboard, Dr. Ieiri.”
“Colonel Gojo ordered me to personally supervise the procedure.”
“And I,” Professor Itadori replied with smooth acidity, “have a direct mandate from the Interstellar Authority to take charge of Subject Zero. Which means Gojo has no authority here whatsoever.”
That piece of information seemed to catch Shoko off guard. Her brows drew together as she subtly shifted, placing herself between Itadori and Subject Zero. Intrigued, he let his gaze flick from the doctor to the professor, not quite understanding what was unfolding in front of him.
“The Interstellar Authority?” Shoko repeated, one eyebrow lifting. “In what way would the High Council be interested in a simple patient we recovered from a dead planet?”
“Patient?” Kaori let out a short, brittle laugh. “Come on, Ieiri. You and I both know there is nothing simple about him.” She stepped closer to the examination table. “He was found outside and without a suit. On a planet where the atmospheric pressure would kill any human in less than ten seconds.”
A brief silence followed.
“Minus a hundred degrees on Kvasir’s surface,” Kaori went on, her gaze sliding towards Suguru. “And he doesn’t have so much as a scratch. Not a single lesion. I’ve also received his preliminary results. There are… several intriguing anomalies. I want to run a few tests to confirm one or two hypotheses and above all, I have questions for him.”
Shoko crossed her arms, her expression shuttered.
“Too bad for you, Kaori. He doesn’t speak Common Tongue, and he doesn’t seem to understand us.”
Kaori’s smile was thin, eager.
“I’ll find a way to communicate. That’s never a problem for long,” she said, adjusting her tablet with a sharp flick of her wrist. “Now, if you don’t mind, Shoko… Subject Zero comes with me. Whether you like it or not. He’s no longer your responsibility.”
Behind her, the door slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss. Two soldiers in dark uniforms, clearly assigned by the Interstellar Authority took position in the doorway. Shoko felt her jaw tighten. She still didn’t understand how Satoru had agreed to let them aboard his ship. Kaori gave a curt wave.
One of the soldiers stepped forward and grabbed the omega with mechanical roughness. The young man let out a muffled whimper, startled and overwhelmed.
“Hey!”
Shoko was on him in a heartbeat, pushing the soldier back with a practiced gesture; not violent, but enough to make a point.
“You can serve the High Council, that’s not my concern, but you’re on Colonel Gojo’s ship.”
Her gaze hardened, turning ice-cold. “I don’t think you want to answer for your actions once he hears you laid hands on someone under his command. Do you?”
The soldier, a broad-shouldered beta with a closed-off expression, stiffened, then immediately stepped back. He released Subject Zero, who pulled his arm against his chest, eyes full of an painful confusion. Shoko softened her expression and set a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Easy… I’ve got you.”
She helped him off the bed; he wavered, and she kept hold of him until he found his balance. Then she raised her head toward Professor Kaori Itadori.
“I’m coming with you. And that’s non-negotiable.”
Her tone was absolute, military.
***
The Astraeus sailed at lightspeed through the Hyperia Galaxy, heading for Vespera, the capital city of the Interstellar Authority. Standing in the center of his office, Satoru Gojo waited as the blue glow of the holographic projectors flared to life, forming a crescent of translucent silhouettes around him. Six members of the High Council appeared one after another: Admiral Kamo, Senator Gakuganji, Counselor Zenin, and three other figures whose faces he recognized but whose names he had never bothered to remember. The Admiral’s voice was the first to resonate.
“Colonel Gojo. Your preliminary report on Kvasir-II has been received. We expect clarification.”
Silence. Gojo remained motionless, hands clasped behind his back. His pitch-black uniform caught the holographic halos as though it absorbed the light entirely.
“Clarification?” he repeated evenly. “You’ve read the report. The facilities were empty. No survivors. No active hostile force. Only selective destruction and anomalies we still can’t explain.”
Senator Gakuganji stepped forward within the projection, his cold gaze cutting cleanly through the space between them.
“Unexplained, really?” he pressed, sliding a transparent file across his tablet. “We reviewed your scans. Several zones show damage inconsistent with any known mining incident. You found nothing else? Nothing at all?”
Gojo inclined his head slightly. A polite gesture, deferential… but anyone who knew him could see exactly where patience ended and danger began.
“I submitted what I found, Senator. If you were expecting a show, you should’ve sent me to a theater, not a dead planet.”
A ripple of annoyance stirred through the silhouettes of the Interstellar Authority. Counselor Naobito Zenin spoke next, a finger resting against his chin, visibly displeased.
“The data you sent is incomplete. There are twelve missing minutes of environmental recording between 09:51 and 10:03 PM. An absence we cannot account for in our archives.”
Gojo didn’t so much as blink.
“Intermittent atmospheric interference rendered several scanners inoperative. I noted it in section 2.1.”
“Such an omission, Colonel,” Zenin cut in, “seems rather… convenient.”
Gojo remained impassive.
“Rather?”
Admiral Noritoshi Kamo slammed his fist against the table, muted through the hologram, but unmistakably sharp.
“Enough. We are not here to argue semantics,” he snapped, fixing Gojo with a hard stare. “Kvasir-II is a critical mining site with significant military relevance. You were sent to investigate a major disaster, not to improvise.”
“And I did exactly what I was sent to do,” Gojo replied, perfectly steady, never raising his voice. “Inspect. Analyze. Secure.”
“Secure what?” Gakuganji burst out. “You return with a report that says nothing, concludes nothing, and explains nothing! How is the High Council supposed to respond to… this? The Interstellar Authority expects results, Colonel.”
Gojo let a brief silence settle. Then:
“Perhaps the Interstellar Authority should have cared about what was happening on Kvasir before sending miners there without proper protection and with inadequate military oversight.”
One of the Council members inhaled sharply. Kamo’s jaw tensed.
“That is not for you to judge, Colonel.”
“No,” Gojo conceded, “but it is my place to report the consequences. Which I have done.”
Senator Gakuganji spoke again, colder than before.
“We also noted that you did not deem a second sweep necessary, despite the inconsistent data. Why?”
“Because prolonging my team’s exposure on an unstable, frozen, structurally compromised planet would have achieved nothing… aside from filling body bags.”
He paused. Not to think but only to restrain himself.
“You sent us to Kvasir less than forty-eight hours after Kharune.” His eyes lifted, sharp, assessing. “My men are exhausted, some were still bleeding and others had just been evacuated to another ship because they couldn’t stand anymore.”
He leaned forward slightly, presence tightening like a coiled muscle.
“I don’t spend my people to prove a point.” Then, colder and final. “And my conditions were clear before accepting the assignment. Preliminary inspection only. No military occupation.”
The Council members exchanged glances. Heavy. Calculated. As though they were waiting for him to slip, waiting for him to erupt, to lose control. But Gojo remained motionless, unshaken, almost… implacable.
At last, Admiral Kamo exhaled sharply, irritation twisting his expression.
“Colonel Gojo, we require a complete final report within forty-eight hours. With all the data.”
“Understood.”
Gakuganji added, “And we expect you to remain available for another briefing session. Certain points must be clarified.”
Gojo inclined his head again, a mocking, predatory smile flashing full teeth.
“I’m never far, Senator. You know where to find me.”
Another silence, heavy, electric. Then the silhouettes began to dissolve but just before fading completely, Kamo spoke:
“One last thing, Colonel: Kvasir must remain under strict administrative control. No element from the site may leave Interstellar Authority hands. We trust we won’t need to repeat ourselves.”
Gojo didn’t answer. He simply watched the Admiral until his hologram faded. The luminous circle dissolved gradually… all except for a single projection that remained. He had recognized the presence even before the image solidified.
Akiko Geto stood straight despite the age weighing on her shoulders, dressed in her long ceremonial coat. Her silver hair was pulled into a severe chignon, yet her gaze held a gentleness Gojo had never seen in anyone else on the High Council.
She waited a moment, as if making sure they were alone, then inclined her head slightly.
“Satoru,” she said softly.
He exhaled, finally releasing the tension he’d been holding far too long.
“Akiko. Always a pleasure. ARI, secure and wipe all upcoming communication logs with Senator Geto.”
Directive received, Colonel Gojo. Securing now. Communication data with Senator Akiko Geto will be removed from official archives and secondary subsystems.
She smiled in amusement, an imperceptible curve, but a sincere one.
“You’ve always been a cautious boy,” she said, with a tenderness that had nothing professional about it.
Satoru finally released a long, weary sigh, undoing the collar of his military uniform with one hand.
“I had good teachers,” he replied simply as he dropped into the chair behind him. It creaked under his imposing frame. “You were an excellent one.”
The Gojo and Geto Clans had always been close, bound by numerous marriages of varying political weight. And for several decades now, the two clans had shared overlapping spheres of influence: military for one, political for the other. Akiko had taken Satoru under her wing the day he was born; the same day his mother had died delivering him.
His father, shattered by the loss, had never managed to love the child who reminded him at every moment of what he’d lost, so much so that his wounded heart convinced itself that his omega’s death was, in some twisted way, his son’s fault. Masayoshi Gojo was a strict, authoritarian alpha, a man full of a rigid sense of honor that many claimed Satoru lacked entirely. A former fleet admiral of the Interstellar Authority, Masayoshi had spent more time on battlefields than anywhere near the son he avoided instinctively.
It had never truly bothered Satoru. He had grown up surrounded by uncles, aunts, a myriad of attendants, and just as many loyalists and devotees who saw in him the reincarnation of a deity. Yet among this bustling crowd, only Akiko mattered. Her advice, her opinions, even her silences, he always listened to them with unwavering attention.
Akiko’s smile faded noticeably as she laced her fingers beneath her chin and studied Satoru for a long moment.
“You understand this perfectly well: the Interstellar Authority orchestrated this mission from the start. And I know you’re aware of it.”
A mirthless laugh slipped from Gojo as he shook his head, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, one tired hand raking through the unruly strands threatening to fall over his eyes.
“It’s obvious enough,” he muttered, suddenly feeling drained. “I knew the moment the orders came in; they didn’t even let me leave Kharune… They didn’t even give us the decency of burying our dead.”
Silence, broken only by Akiko’s quiet sigh.
“Don’t let them get to you. The High Council and the Interstellar Authority fear you, Satoru… they’re afraid of what you represent, and of the power you hold,” she said, her gaze softening even further. “They’re trying to weaken you, to push you into making a mistake. But public opinion is on your side, they support the war hero you’ve become. The Destroyer of Vaskor, the Conqueror of Kharune… and the man who has saved more lives than that Council will ever be able to count.”
A grimace tugged at his expression. Satoru despised those titles. They all ignored the atrocities he had committed to wrench those victories out of blood and fire in the name of the High Council and the Interstellar Authority.
“And they’re trying to find another energy source, one that doesn’t rely on Astralyte, on you, or on the Gojo Clan.”
Astralyte, the cornerstone of the Interstellar Authority’s energy supremacy, existed thanks to a single woman: Masako Gojo, a distant ancestor of Satoru. She had discovered the luminous substance and created the process to extract it, stabilize it, and harness it. But she had never revealed her secrets, neither her techniques nor the true nature of the energy itself. Upon her death, her knowledge passed solely to her descendants. Thus, the Gojo Clan became the only authority capable of producing and activating Astralyte.
The colonies’ generators, fleet engines, major urban centres; everything depended on them. Without their expertise, Astralyte was nothing but an unstable, temperamental, sometimes dangerous material. And within that lineage, Satoru was the most accomplished heir: in his presence, the energy stabilized, crystals resonated harmoniously, engines responded as if recognizing a familiar signature. The entire Interstellar Authority prospered thanks to a secret no one understood, and a family whose influence had become inescapable.
The real problem was that Astralyte was weakening, year after year, first imperceptibly, and now dangerously so. That was why Kvasir mattered: it held the raw resources and the potential to replace, even briefly, Astralyte.
“Ah! Tell me something new,” Satoru scoffed. “They’ve been looking for an alternative for a long time.”
In any case, even though the Gojo Clan held the monopoly on Astralyte, they couldn’t act as they pleased; they were bound by contracts, alliances, and political obligations that strictly limited their freedom of action.
“Truth be told, I’m relieved to hear you’re back,” Akiko said. “Tensions are rising within the High Council. The Interstellar Authority will send several representatives next week, and the signs are clear. They intend to place the blame for the Kvasir sabotage on you… a convenient way to discredit you and undermine your influence. They assumed you’d still be far from the capital. They didn’t expect you to get ahead of their timetable.”
A low, irritated rumble escaped Satoru as he straightened, his gaze shifting slightly to the right just as Nanami stepped into the room. Expression unreadable, the alpha cast a brief look at Gojo, who answered with an almost imperceptible nod.
“Satoru.”
This time, he turned his bluish gaze back to Akiko. She tensed instantly, breath catching; no one ever remained truly at ease under those eyes — eyes that had bent empires and silenced armies.
“I know you’re not telling me everything,” she continued, hesitation slipping into her voice. “And I know you and the information gap in your report is abnormal. I won’t ask what it is… but should I be worried?”
Satoru immediately thought of the stranger found on Kvasir. He hadn’t met him yet, hadn’t even seen him, but the mere fact that the man was alive, and uninjured, was enough to pique his curiosity. Satoru suspected an operative from the Interstellar Authority, either embedded or abandoned there for reasons he had yet to uncover. He had already instructed Shoko to begin the interrogation, without the slightest concern for the outcome.
Whether someone cooperated with him or not had never made a difference: Satoru always got what he wanted, and the truth inevitably bent to his will.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted honestly. “You’ll be the first to know if that changes.”
Akiko pressed her lips together before giving a small nod.
“Very well. In that case, let me handle the High Council and the media until you return. I’m going to buy you some time.”
Senator Geto, formidable politician and exceptional diplomat, knew how to manoeuvre among serpents better than anyone. She knew every weakness, every rule, every hypocrisy of the nobility. She was an irreplaceable ally.
“Thank you, Akiko.”
One last smile, and the bluish glow of her hologram vanished, plunging his office into brief half-darkness. The lights brightened again instantly, and Satoru leaned back in his chair, turning toward Nanami, who shot him a decidedly unimpressed look.
“What is it?”
“You received an encrypted video link directly from Shoko.”
That piece of information made him raise a surprised eyebrow. He gestured for his second to continue.
“You should take a look. It might interest you.”
Really? After a morning like this, a little action would almost feel like a relief.
***
It all began with humanity’s expansion into the infinity of space.
The stars had watched them with curiosity, sometimes even with something like tenderness, their progress, their discoveries, their audacity as they crossed galaxies.
Then came fear: when their homeworld, Earth, went up in a deafening burst of fire, the stars held their breath. They only sighed in relief when humanity, stubborn as ever, raised its first colonies from the ashes.
For centuries, they celebrated their accomplishments, delighted to see humans carve out a place for themselves within the vastness of existence. But humanity was still a young species: unfinished, brilliant, unstable. And though they could be inventive and creative, they were also dangerously impulsive, destructive, ravenous for anything that shone.
The stars could only watch, powerless, as war after war erupted; conflicts so violent they set entire planets and star systems ablaze. Humans seemed driven by an insatiable hunger, a fierce desire to seize what was not theirs, to expand their borders at the expense of everything else.
The white stars — wisest and the most impartial of all, the Judges of universal memory — gathered to deliberate over humanity, whose growing threat could no longer be ignored. Never before had so many stars assembled in one place: green, yellow, orange, red, blue, purple, drawn together to hear, with sacred attentiveness, the Verdict about to be delivered.
One of the purest stars of the Varionis system spoke first. Its white light cut through the darkness of space, illuminating it with a calm, implacable radiance. Its voice slipped into every mind at once; cold and gentle, commanding and perfectly fair.
We have witnessed the rise of this young species, whose already destructive ambition endangers the worlds it touches. How many planets, how many star systems, how many galaxies have humans already ravaged out of greed? What they have done to Kvasir is, to us, nothing but a warning. We will remain hidden… for now.
But if humans threaten even a single one of our lights, then we will have no choice but to end their existence before they destroy ours.
It’s unfair! That was the first thought that crossed his mind, even as the blue stars were already outlining war strategies with chilling composure. He had tried to argue, to defend his ideas — he, a small purple star, still far too young for anyone to truly heed his voice. It frustrated him deeply; he was utterly convinced that if humans were aware of the stars’ existence, they would abandon their frantic pursuit of energy. They would stop fighting, stop reducing innocent worlds to ash, stop stripping entire planets of the minerals that kept them alive.
Humans had no choice if they wanted to survive; if they were offered an alternative: one made possible by the stars, everything would change. He was certain of it.
So he had knowingly disobeyed the Judges’ orders when he attempted to make contact with humans.
In the hierarchy of the stars, the purple stars were considered too emotional. The Purples — the Mystics — were destined to read the dreams of worlds, to listen to the heartbeat of species, to whisper their warnings into the cosmic silence… They sensed catastrophes before they occurred, and they were meant to bear that burden alone, without ever intervening.
Slipping into the minds and dreams of humans had been nothing but a formality; he had tried to speak to them, to explain what was at stake… but none of them listened. Each time they awoke, they forgot his warnings, shoving the “strange dream” into some dim corner of their minds.
Years spent trying to make himself understood through dreams, until despair finally tightened around him; humans ignored him, and continued waging war after war, eventually sickening the stars, who now saw in them nothing but destroyers.
And just as he was preparing to change his approach, he suddenly felt a mind pulling him in; undeniably human, yet unlike anything he had ever perceived. Its dreams shone with an cosmic intensity, a brilliance that even stars would have envied.
The mind was welcoming, yes, but unbearably fierce, like a light too bright to approach. Curious, insatiable, vast… a mind that searched, that questioned, that burned instead of simply existing.
He hadn’t resisted. He slipped into that consciousness; certain the human would never perceive him. Mortals never sensed the stars; it was an absolute rule of existence. But this one — this mind — knew immediately. The light of the dream tore open. A presence turned toward him, sharp and aware.
Impossible.
“Who are you?” the human asked, voice clear and honed. “What are you doing here?”
He froze, stunned that the man could see him, hear him, feel him. Disbelieving, he stared at him: the human stood only a few meters away, white hair tousled, wide bluish eyes fixed on him without blinking.
A wave of hope surged through him: after so many years, someone was finally willing to hear him.
He tried to answer, but he never got the chance.
A red star — an Ancient — had found him. The rupture was brutal: she ripped him out of the human’s mind with such violence that his light flickered, nearly extinguished by the force of the taboo he had just broken. And the sentence for such treason was immediate, irrevocable: Exile. Condemned to fade away inside a human body never meant to contain the power of a star.
“What's your name?”
The question pulled him from his thoughts. He lifted his gaze toward Kaori Itadori, staring at her for a long moment, unsure how to respond. He didn’t know where he was; they had made him walk through the entire ship until they reached a vast room, where they had strapped him firmly to a chair. Behind her stood Doctor Ieiri, arms crossed, silently observing the scene, her expression unreadable.
He tried to catch her eyes; he didn’t like where he was, and the scent coming from Professor Itadori made him uneasy, a mix of eucalyptus and cinnamon.
A faint exhale left the alpha as she frowned.
“You do have a name, right? I suggest you cooperate; I'll find it out sooner or later.”
A name?
Oh. He suddenly realized: I don’t have one. Stars didn’t possess names; they recognized each other by their colors and called one another by their qualities.
His silence seemed to irritate Itadori, because she let out a low growl before turning toward her colleagues in white coats. They were gathered behind a console; bright white lights switched on above him without warning, blinding him. Someone stepped forward and placed electrodes on his face and wrists. He frowned, uncertain of their purpose.
Shoko frowned as well, but out of concern. For the first time since they had entered the laboratory, she stepped forward, only to stop short as she turned toward Professor Itadori.
“Kaori,” she called. “What exactly are you planning to do?”
“His immune system is showing an abnormal level of Aster-Core.”
“Aster-Core?” Shoko repeated, eyes widening.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice,” Kaori replied with a mocking smile.
No. It was information she hadn’t had access to; she hadn’t even asked for it. Why would she? Aster-Core was a unique receptor; a rare DNA structure found only within the Gojo Clan. It was a network of energetic microfibers that allowed immediate synchronization with Astralyte. It was as if their blood sang at a frequency only the stone could hear, activating instantly in their presence.
Her gaze immediately returned to Subject Zero, that strange omega with eyes so reminiscent of Satoru’s. Not in color, but in intensity, that unbearable gleam that seemed to hold the secrets of another world.
Was he a Gojo? He shared nothing, absolutely nothing, with the clan she knew.
She blinked when a storage tray was brought in, carrying a containment capsule in which a vial of Astralyte rested.
“Possessing Astralyte without authorization is illegal,” Shoko said, her jaw tightening.
“It’s only an extract,” Kaori replied without even looking up, her focus fixed on the console where her fingers danced across the keys.
“Wait…”
Her breath caught in her chest. Her eyes slid toward the omega, who didn’t seem to understand what was happening. He watched with innocence, attention, and curiosity as one of the scientists connected the stone to one of the electrodes. They intended to activate it.
“No,” she burst out suddenly. “Wait!”
Her shout vanished the very instant Kaori triggered the energy discharge.
***
Beneath his deceptively affable exterior, Colonel Gojo’s crew knew all too well that their commander’s moods could shift quickly. Behind every smile lurked a barely veiled threat. Whether one liked him or not, everyone agreed on one thing: he was someone you preferred to follow rather than face.
He rarely raised his voice; he didn’t need to. A change in tone, a gaze a little too clear, a silence a little too heavy; those were enough to remind anyone of his rank and of what he was capable.
Some described him as a tactical genius, a predator in a state of permanent rest. In the corridors of the Astraeus, people whispered that he could sense lies before they were spoken, that he anticipated betrayal the way others anticipate the weather.
No one forgot, either, that he had survived battles simulations deemed impossible, that he had shattered entire fleets on his own, that he had turned hopeless situations around simply by walking into a room. And his smile only made it worse: too calm, too white, too sure of itself.
One of only two prime alphas born in more than two generations, he was not merely an heir — he was a living anomaly. His blood carried the Sixth Eye, that absolute clairvoyance capable of reading intentions, weaknesses, trajectories, of perceiving energy down to its smallest variations. And with it came the Infinity, that impossible power that warped the space around his body, slowing, distorting, or nullifying anything that touched it.
To some, he was a god. To others, a weapon. And to a select few… a reason enough to want him eliminated before he became truly unstoppable.
Colonel Gojo strode across the upper deck with long, decisive steps, Major Nanami at his side. His uniform was immaculate, insignia perfectly aligned across his chest, his hair pulled back with military precision. Nothing, on the surface, betrayed the profound irritation simmering within him. Nor the cold, contained anger vibrating just beneath.
Only those in his inner circle could recognize the signs: the slight tension at the corner of his jaw, and above all the subtle narrowing of his gaze, heralding an imminent storm.
“I should have dealt with them from the start. Would’ve spared us this waste of time,” he growled. “Any news from Shoko?”
Nanami glanced down at his watch, which projected a holographic display.
“No. But her presence was detected in the laboratory on Level Four.”
“I should have broken them before they even imagined they could lay a hand on someone under my command,” he muttered through clenched teeth, striding toward the laboratory.
He had already drafted the arrest order in his mind, but he had taken only a few more steps when he came to a sudden halt. Nanami nearly walked into him.
“Gojo?”
He didn’t answer. A shiver crawled up his spine, as though an invisible hand had just seized his vertebrae.
A breath. A vibration. An echo in his blood. He felt the Astralyte. Someone was using it, and it wasn’t him. His heart tightened painfully. A wave rippled through the air… and then everything slipped out of control.
The lights on the upper deck flickered dangerously before cutting out entirely, plunging the Astraeus into darkness; total, suffocating, silent. A ripple of panic rose around them: voices, hurried footsteps, the crackle of overloaded systems.
Gojo didn’t move. He stood frozen, tense, fists clenched, his gaze fixed on the empty air as if he were seeing straight through matter. The lights snapped back on with a sharp crack, bringing the ship to life again. The crew let out a collective sigh of relief but Satoru did not catch his breath.
He had felt something shudder in the very depths of his soul. And he wasn’t entirely sure he liked the sensation. His eyes narrowed, only a fraction of a second too late to hide the disturbance flickering in their blue depths.
***
The surge hit him with a shocking violence that knocked the breath from his lungs. He didn’t even have time to understand what was happening: Professor Itadori had pressed the command, and electricity rushed through the electrodes with a low, crackling hum.
Silence. At first, nothing — nothing but the tension hanging in the laboratory — and then suddenly, startlingly, the pain struck him full force.
The horrible pain…
A concept he had never known, never imagined, never even conceived of. It tore into his human body like a burning blade, slashing through every nerve, every fiber, every fragment of this fragile vessel he had inhabited for only a short time. His back arched violently, his fingers clenched until his knuckles turned white. A silent scream died in his throat, unable to take shape.
He didn’t understand. He understood nothing.
Why was his heart pounding like this? Why did his ragged breathing burn in his chest? Why did everything suddenly feel too tight, too heavy, too alive?
And through the fever, through the suffocating flood of emotions, he understood one thing with terrifying clarity: the pain frightened him. A raw, primal fear: utterly foreign to his nature as a star, filled him until it choked him. And that fear triggered something else.
The Astralyte.
He felt its call, deep, visceral, like a cord pulled to the point of breaking. The stone resonated: a sharp, distorted sound, organic, vibrating in his ribcage before spreading through the entire laboratory.
The resonance magnified the pain, twisted it, set it ablaze… and then the stone began to smoke.
The lights burst one after another in showers of sparks. Consoles blew out under the overload, hurling scorching fragments across the walls. The very air vibrated, saturated with uncontrolled energy.
“Stop it! STOP!” Shoko shouted, her voice tearing through the chaos.
She lunged at Kaori without hesitation, slamming her against the console, her fingers frantically searching for the switch to cut the discharge. The room was engulfed in a deafening roar. He was still trembling, his wide eyes reflecting a childlike, incomprehensible terror. The world around him was collapsing under the force of an energy he had never meant to unleash.
And for the first time since his fall… he discovered the true suffering humans could inflict.
***
The elevator shuddered as it descended toward the lower deck, a low hum accompanying the controlled drop of the module. Nanami stood to his right, as still as a statue, and two trusted soldiers waited behind them in silence. No one dared speak. Not with the expression Gojo still wore after what had just happened on the ship.
The colonel stared straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back, face unreadable. A cold anger thrummed beneath his skin, a contained storm ready to break.
Silence. A subtle sensation, almost imperceptible, brushed against his mind. A pulse. A breath. A faint shiver that came from neither the ship nor his own aura.
Gojo lifted his head.
“Satoru?” Nanami called, worried, momentarily breaking military distance by daring to use his name.
He didn’t answer right away. He was listening; not to sound, but to energy and raised a hand, signaling for silence when the sensation returned.
The Astraeus was vibrating.
Not physically. Not like a tremor or an external impact, but as if something in space itself had just resonated. A deep echo, ancient, a muffled call rising toward him like a wave released into the interstellar void. His breath caught for a fraction of a second.
“…Did you feel that?” one of the soldiers murmured.
Nanami raised an eyebrow.
“An energy fluctuation?”
Gojo shook his head. His blue gaze had sharpened, gleaming with an unusual light.
“No. That wasn’t the ship.”
He placed a hand against the metal wall, as though to confirm what his instincts were already shouting at him. A foreign warmth, painful, climbed up his spine. His heart reacted, speeding up against his will as if something, or someone, had tugged on an invisible thread tied directly to his being.
Gojo straightened, his expression calm, icy, implacable.
“Open the doors. Now.”
The tension in his voice made even the metal walls seem to shiver.
***
The pain stopped abruptly. Silence fell, heavy, brutal, as if the air itself had been emptied of all substance. He collapsed onto his side, torn free from the now-charred restraints, his body still shaking with involuntary spasms. A thin curl of smoke rose from his skin where the electricity had left reddish, stinging marks.
He was gasping. Long, ragged, chaotic breaths; humiliating for a being who had never needed to breathe before. His gaze, usually vast and calm, was clouded with pure, animalistic, incomprehensible terror. He tried to place a hand on his chest, but the simple contact ripped a hoarse sound from him: his heart was beating too fast, too hard, as if it meant to burst. Each pulse felt like a hammer blow inside his ribcage. He hadn’t known the human body could endure so much suffering. He hadn’t known he could feel this much.
Pain. Fear. The sensation of suffocating.
Words, concepts foreign to his stellar nature, now carved into him by force, by violence. He felt as though the inside of his being was burning.
Chaos erupted in the laboratory the instant the door unlocked to let more scientists in.
A gasp tore from him: a jolt, a movement far too fast to be human. He wasn’t thinking anymore; terror alone was guiding his body.
He ripped himself free from the already-burned restraints in an feral motion, his feet striking the cold floor. The first soldier didn’t even have time to react before he was already out of the room, breath ragged, panic coiled tight in his throat.
Shouts echoed behind him.
But he was running, breathless, stumbling forward as if his life depended on it. His heart hammered against his ribcage; too fast, too hard, as though it refused to be contained inside this foreign body. His lungs burned and his feet slammed against the metal of the upper deck.
Alarm sirens tore through the air.
He recognized nothing of this ship, nothing of these metallic corridors stretching before him like cold arteries under his weight. The lower deck of the Astraeus was a narrow labyrinth, saturated with the hum of machinery and the steady clicking of pressurized conduits. Dark walls were lined with luminous strips marking technical zones, and the air carried an acrid scent of ozone and heated metal. Below, the greenish light of the laboratory pulsed behind a reinforced window, revealing exam tables, flickering consoles, and containment equipment bolted to the floor like silent threats. Everything here felt functional, precise and dangerously alien.
Instinctively, he took a staircase, climbing the steps as fast as his unsteady legs allowed. On the walkway, he kept running, ignoring the shouts behind him ordering him to stop. The doors of one of the elevators suddenly slid open, revealing more soldiers. One of them, huge and imposing, nearly blocked his path. He slipped past just as their eyes met for an instant.
A moment of pure surprise.
A silent tear in the fabric of the world. His insignia marked him as someone important; he tried to slip around the colonel, to flee, again, but Gojo moved before he even realized what was happening.
A powerful arm shot out, swift as a white blade, fingers closing around his wrist. His momentum stopped dead, the abrupt halt almost sending him off balance. He struggled, pulling, twisting his arm to break free, but the alpha didn’t move an inch. He held him, unyielding, implacable.
“That’s enough,” Satoru growled, his voice unnaturally low.
And then he lifted his eyes and saw, behind Satoru, the immense observation window opening onto the interstellar void. The stars, the constellations, the ribbons of starlight he knew better than his own breath. His world. His home. What he had lost.
He froze.
His breath faltered. A moment suspended outside of time. A deep sadness surged through him suddenly, knotting his stomach and tightening his throat until it burned. He didn’t understand this sensation, this weight crushing his chest but he knew he wanted to cry. An overwhelming urge, foreign, human, painful. He wanted to flee this brutal sorrow, this unbearable vulnerability clinging to him like a wound. He wanted to tear himself free from this fragile body, to move through glass, through walls, through space itself… and return to his own. To return to the warmth that did not hurt, to the light that did not burn. To what had once been his home.
Sensing the sudden shift, Gojo gently but firmly forced him to turn his head back. He caught his chin between thumb and forefinger, compelling him to meet his gaze.
Their eyes met once more.
And everything shifted. Satoru inhaled sharply, thrown off balance. A strange, burning, electric sensation surged up his arm and into his chest, as if something inside him were waking after a sleep far too long. The omega, for his part, seemed to recognize him instantly. He recognized the light hidden behind the colonel’s blue iris.
A trace. A fragment. An echo of a star.
It’s you, he realized in stunned disbelief.
The dream. The man whose mind had been vast enough, bright enough to perceive him. The forbidden human. The human who had cast him into downfall.
Suguru’s throat vibrated with a trembling breath. He lifted his hand, slowly, reverently, reaching to touch Gojo’s cheek, to confirm what he knew, what he felt.
Startled for a second, Satoru reacted purely on instinct. Infinity unfurled around him, invisible yet implacable, a perfect barrier preventing any contact. It wasn’t the first time a stranger had tried to touch him… Except the omega’s hand passed straight through his power. As if Infinity did not exist. As if the world itself chose to open for him.
With shy, gentle, childlike motions, his fingers slid from Gojo’s temple down to the strong curve of his jaw. And the light shining in the purple of his eyes held nothing but fascination and soft curiosity.
Nanami’s eyes widened with surprise. The soldiers who had just caught up to them froze, horrified. No one should have been capable of this. Gojo didn’t move. He couldn’t.
The omega’s fingers brushed his cheek; warm, alive, thrumming with an ancient, familiar energy.
Two impossible existences, intertwined in a single breath. They stared at each other, unable to find words, unable even to comprehend what was passing between them. Something connected them. Something dangerous. Something sacred. Something profoundly forbidden.
And yet utterly… inevitable.
Satoru drew in a breath, shaken. It wasn’t just the shock of the contact; it was the effect it had on him. The omega’s hand, warm and pulsing with life, had passed through Infinity as if it didn’t exist… and the instant that palm touched his cheek, something in Satoru gave way.
A wave of energy shot through his chest. His heart kicked into a wild, ravenous rhythm, his alpha roaring beneath his skin like an animal kept on a leash for far too long.
And in the midst of that chaos, he caught his scent.
A subtle fragrance, strange, undefinable — something soft and luminous, blending icy honey, fresh bergamot, and a hint of ozone — a scent soothing yet impossible to forget. A scent that jabbed at his instincts, that made every fiber of his body vibrate.
Satoru’s throat tightened, his breath turning uneven. He leaned toward him; imperceptibly, instinctively, before he even realized he was doing it. His grip on the omega’s wrist tightened slightly as he drew him closer, his other hand sliding to the nape of his neck with firm authority, holding him in place, preventing him from fleeing.
For a few suspended seconds, he allowed himself to look — really look — at the stranger in his arms.
The alpha lingered on those violet-tinted eyes, strange and shining with confusion; on the long black hair, tangled and falling in soft waves; on the skin still warm from the discharge, flushed at the cheekbones. He noted the slender waist, the chest rising too quickly, revealing a fragility that dug claw-deep into his instincts. Satoru felt his alpha anchor itself to that image, coil around it, claim it; as if this fragile, wounded, exhausted body had suddenly become the center of his gravity.
A brutal pull, inexplicable, painful, twisted through his gut. The instinct to protect. To possess. To draw closer. A physical need, visceral, impossible to ignore. But beneath that heat… something even stranger stirred: A recognition.
Satoru felt his fingers tremble; a tiny detail, invisible to anyone else, but to him it was an admission. It was an admission of attraction. Of desire.
The realization caught him off guard; in thirty years of life, never had an omega elicited such a reaction from him. Driven entirely by his alpha, forgetting where he was, he pulled him even closer, ready to bury his face in the omega’s neck and breathe his scent in fully…
“Satoru!”
His eyes snapped open. His gaze, still bright with that strange resonance, slid past the omega’s shoulder and locked onto Shoko. She was staring at him, pale, disheveled, looking as though she’d just survived an explosion.
A low growl, deep, warning, dangerously feral, rumbled in Gojo’s chest; a primal, animal sound. His fingers tightened for half a second before he straightened, stepping back, tearing himself away from the tempting warmth of that body despite every instinct screaming at him. With a blink, he wiped away the shadow of that moment of weakness and in an instant, he was the commander of the Astraeus again.
Kaori Itadori appeared, flanked by scientists and an armed escort reporting directly to the Interstellar Authority.
“Professor Itadori.”
Her name, spoken like that, without raising his voice, rang like a sentence.
He took his time studying her, letting that gaze rest on her, the same gaze that had already bent seasoned officers and silenced political representatives far more arrogant than she. She attempted to straighten, to adopt a confident posture, but the tension stiffening her shoulders betrayed her.
“You have overstepped your authority.”
She instinctively drew herself up, trying to regain composure.
“Colonel, the Interstellar Authority…”
“I did not give you permission to speak.”
Gojo’s voice cracked sharply through the air, dark and threatening, draining the color from several soldiers’ faces.
“You conducted experiments on a civilian without consent, used an Astralyte extract without command authorization, triggered a major power failure aboard the Astraeus, and nearly compromised the safety of my vessel and my crew.”
Itadori clenched her jaw.
“With all due respect, Colonel, the Interstellar Authority is…”
Satoru’s gaze turned glacial.
“The Interstellar Authority is not here. I am.”
An incredulous murmur rippled across the deck. The Authority soldiers exchanged uneasy looks.
“On this ship,” he continued without raising his voice, “there is only one chain of command and it runs through me.”
One of the scientists attempted to intervene.
“Colonel, you cannot seriously be considering…”
Satoru turned his eyes on him, and no further words were necessary. The man fell silent at once.
“Major Nanami,” Gojo said, never taking his eyes off Itadori. “Place Professor Itadori and all Interstellar Authority agents currently aboard under arrest. Secure confinement. No external contact. They will be transferred to Vespera and tried for insubordination, abuse of power, and endangerment of a military vessel.”
“At your orders, Colonel.”
Without losing a second, his gaze briefly brushing over the omega, deliberately forcing himself not to linger, he turned toward Shoko.
“Doctor Ieiri,” he said, intentionally using her formal title, “see that Subject Zero receives immediate medical care.”
He paused, then added in a lower, more precise tone:
“I want him fit to answer my questions.”
Nodding in response to the colonel’s implicit order, Shoko approached the omega with a softness incongruous amid the lingering tension in the air. Her hand settled gently on his shoulder, as if anchoring him to the present before guiding him toward one of the elevators that had just opened with a metallic hiss, revealing behind its sliding doors soldiers bearing the insignia of the Astraeus. They stood straight and silent, ready to execute instructions without the slightest question.
His breathing was still rapid, his chest still shaking from the remnants of the discharge and the intensity of the confrontation. He allowed himself to be led away, his unsteady steps betraying both exhaustion and the inner vertigo that overwhelmed him. Just as he crossed the threshold of the elevator, he turned his head to cast one last glance toward Satoru.
There was deep confusion in his eyes, painful, as though he were trying to make sense of what had just happened. That look, heavy with a silent question, met Satoru’s for the briefest fraction of a second, and that fleeting contact was enough to reignite the tension, the recognition still humming beneath his skin.
Satoru did not hold his gaze for long; he looked away with a composure too swift, redirecting his attention to Nanami, who methodically secured energy restraints around Professor Itadori’s wrists, sealing with that gesture the decision he had just made and the consequences that would inevitably follow. Around them, the Interstellar Authority agents, now surrounded by the men of the Astraeus, remained silent, fully aware that a single misplaced word could worsen their situation.
Slowly, solemnly, the elevator doors slid shut behind him, removing him from the colonel’s sight. And it was only at the precise moment when the muted click of the mechanism signaled their departure that he finally felt the frantic pounding of his heart begin to slow, the dull ache in his chest easing; as though the imposed physical distance had temporarily loosened the invisible vise that had tightened around him.