1633

Chapter 1634: Disposal

When Xie Feng was sick, lying idle in bed, she replayed the short film and Dong Luorong’s explanation in her mind at least a dozen times, weighing every detail. This conclusion seemed the most likely to her.

It had been the last message sent by Lan Lingte on behalf of Dawnstar—a message concerning the survival of the human race.

At that moment, the usual limitations on resources and rules for interstellar communication no longer mattered. If the message was too large, it could have been sent in multiple parts, even if they arrived at Noonstar in fragments. At the very least, the complete information would have been conveyed.

If the Empire had received more than ten minutes of footage and had st.i.tched together an edited version… Xie Feng realized she wouldn’t even be surprised. It was exactly the kind of thing the Empire would do.

What she didn’t expect was Qiu Chantian’s sudden reaction the moment she said it. His expression s.h.i.+fted sharply, as if she had stabbed him, and he nearly broke free from his restraints. The man who had been calm and collected up to this point now wore his alarm on his face for all to see. Even Ah Cheng shot to his feet in shock, his face going pale.

Everyone instinctively took a step closer.

“You really did edit the footage?” The boy with the headband asked slowly, word by word.

“No,” Qiu Chantian snapped, spitting the word like a nail. Realizing how unconvincing it sounded, he clenched his teeth and added, “No, really. I’ve never even heard of such a rumor! The video we saw was exactly the same as the one you saw. Otherwise, how could I understand the situation well enough to do my job?”

The room went quiet for a moment.

“And besides,” Qiu Chantian continued, “we’ve made significant progress in preventing the spread of posthumans. We’ve even identified individuals whose physical abilities have increased far beyond normal. How do you explain that if they haven’t trained? It’s because they’re in the early stages of evolution. If we leave them unchecked, they’ll destroy your Tear City.”

He pressed on, using offense as a defense. “Where did you even hear such nonsense? Some conspiracy theory? Do you have any evidence?”

Xie Feng remained seated on the stairs, motionless and silent.

“Anyone would be emotional under those circ.u.mstances, especially Lan Lingte—she’s a woman, after all. It’s not surprising that she might have lost her train of thought or failed to be clear in the video.” Qiu Chantian’s voice took on a pleading tone. “If you have any questions about the video, I can explain them to you.”

The more Qiu Chantian explained, the clearer the truth became to her.

Suddenly, Xie Feng yanked up the cloth covering her face, pressing it tightly over her entire face.

She squeezed her eyes shut as hot tears soaked through the fabric. Her breath became ragged, and soft sobs echoed intermittently through the cabin.

The darkness beneath the cloth was her only refuge. She didn’t want to cry in front of Qiu Chantian, but she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

What was the point of all this?

Two years of resistance, estrangement from her family, sleepless nights filled with anxiety, and a gnawing sense of guilt—none of it had mattered. It had all been a waste.

All those late-night arguments with friends, the debates over what they would do if they ever reclaimed Tear City’s autonomy—whether they could survive the posthuman threat—had been over nothing. The entire idea of posthumans was a lie.

Tear City hadn’t needed to go through any of this. They hadn’t needed to become homeless, to live on the streets. Their lives could have carried on as usual. She could have continued with her studies, gone shopping, watched movies, without worrying about being forced to pair off with some imperial citizen.

But the Empire didn’t care. To expand its territory, it was willing to discard the people and lives on that land. Perhaps Tear City was only the beginning—just the first stop in their plan. And on Noonstar, there were other nations still waiting, unaware that they, too, were part of the Empire’s grand, ruthless scheme.

But her old life was gone, and it wasn’t coming back.

“You lied,” Xie Feng said, her voice heavy with congestion, still hitching with sobs. “You always lie. But I never thought… I never imagined it would be such an enormous lie.”

Ah Cheng finally spoke, his voice quiet. “It’s precisely because it’s so big that ordinary people wouldn’t even consider it could be a lie.”

Qiu Chantian stopped speaking, staring at them with cold disdain.

“Wait… I still don’t get it…” Black Dog muttered, clearly shaken by the weight of the revelation. His face had gone pale. “Are you saying the apocalypse is a lie?”

“No, Dawnstar was likely destroyed,” Ah Cheng said slowly, his gaze fixed on Qiu Chantian. “But only they know what really happened. Without scaring us into believing that posthumans would rise from among us—and that we’d need their help to maintain order—how else could they take control of our nation?”

“So… what really caused Dawnstar’s destruction?” Shortie mumbled.

To answer that, they’d probably need to figure out who Lan Lingte really was. But from the look on Qiu Chantian’s face, it was clear he wouldn’t give up any information so easily.

“I know he’s afraid of death,” Xie Feng said softly, her crying finally subsiding as a sense of calm returned to her. “Men obsessed with power and status are always terrified of dying. To be an imperial official, you have to stay alive first.”

Qiu Chantian pressed his lips together. Even in fear, he maintained the air of dignified righteousness that the Empire so carefully cultivated.

“The Empire—”

“I know,” Xie Feng interrupted, her voice weak but steady. “The Empire will retaliate. But maybe… maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

“How so?” Ah Cheng asked, playing along smoothly.

“Tear City is divided into two factions, which is why we’re in this mess,” Xie Feng said, her tone almost numb. “But if the Empire retaliates and decides to wipe out Tear City, everyone will come together again—just like that.”

Though it made sense in theory, in reality, things wouldn’t be so simple. How many people would end up dead or imprisoned? How would they resist the Empire’s strategy of dividing and conquering? And if the Empire opted for subtle, societal punishment rather than brute force, how could they fight back?

But Xie Feng knew she didn’t need to think that far ahead. She just needed Qiu Chantian to believe that these reckless youths were fully committed, that his life was genuinely in danger. That was enough.

Ah Cheng, sharp as ever, quickly caught on to her intention. The others were slower to grasp it, but after a few rounds of encouragement from Ah Cheng, they started chiming in. The more their agreement solidified, the darker Qiu Chantian’s expression became.

“Answer the questions, or we’ll kill you,” Ah Cheng said with a shrug. “Either option works for us.”

“Wait, I’m not lying!” Qiu Chantian interrupted, his tone urgent. “There are things I really don’t know!”

“Then what do you know?” Xie Feng asked immediately. “Who is Lan Lingte? What’s her actual position?”

At the same time, Ah Cheng pressed him, “Will posthumans really emerge from among us, or is that just another lie?”

Qiu Chantian instinctively turned to Ah Cheng and answered, “It’s true. The apocalypse will come with the rise of posthumans. I swear it on my life.”

“What caused Dawnstar’s destruction, then?” Shortie asked again.

Qiu Chantian turned to Shortie and said, “You might not believe me, but I really don’t know. All I know is that posthumans are a phenomenon that emerged from the apocalypse. The destruction of Dawnstar likely wasn’t caused by them, but they can still create significant chaos and crises for us. As for what actually caused Dawnstar’s downfall… my clearance level isn’t high enough to know.”

It sounded like the truth.

“So, the Empire had no legitimate reason to take control of Tear City, and Tear City had no valid reason to submit to the Empire,” Ah Cheng said quietly. “Ah, I know exactly what to do with you now.”

Xie Feng, who had been planning to ask her own question after the others were finished, was startled by this. Everyone’s attention immediately s.h.i.+fted to Ah Cheng.

“The way it looks now,” Ah Cheng began, “the Empire received the message from Dawnstar, but they edited the footage to make it seem like posthumans caused the destruction—and that posthumans could soon appear on our planet too. Using that as an excuse, they struck a deal with our governor. And he must have gained something from it, right?”

Qiu Chantian gave a stiff nod.

“Ha. Whatever benefits he got don’t even matter anymore, because he still used this manufactured crisis to hand our nation over on a silver platter. Am I right?”

Qiu Chantian winced, as if in pain, sucking air through his teeth. “No one will believe that story. I advise you not to spread it around carelessly. This is cla.s.sified information. If it gets out, the Empire will mark you as their top enemy.”

Ah Cheng smiled slightly.

“Thanks for the concern, but I understand the stakes—I won’t say a word,” Ah Cheng said smoothly. “That’s why you will. As the acting governor of Tear City, anything you say carries much more weight.”

Qiu Chantian stared at him as if Ah Cheng had just asked him to sacrifice his own mother.

“W-What?”

Ah Cheng seemed to have thoroughly thought through his plan. “We won’t kill you. We won’t even hurt you. In fact, we’ll send you back safe and sound. All we need is for you to sit in front of a camera and tell the whole truth—everything about the Empire’s conspiracy and the real cause of the apocalypse. If you refuse, well, the ocean is just outside.”

“Stop—don’t joke around! That would be the end of me!” Qiu Chantian’s face flushed with anger, and he shouted uncontrollably, “I’d be arrested and sentenced immediately. Do you think prison is any better than being thrown into the sea?”

“I’m not forcing you down a dead-end path,” Ah Cheng said slowly. “After you record your confession, I’ll give you two days to escape before we upload the footage. It won’t be as comfortable as things are now, but you’ll still have your life and freedom—more than most of our captured brothers and sisters can say.”

“Stop joking. Stop joking…” Qiu Chantian repeated the words over and over, his eyes bulging, as if his mind had shut down completely.

Xie Feng felt a chill run through her entire body.

Record the video, and then release Qiu Chantian?

But what about Dong Luorong? If Qiu Chantian’s political career were to end in disgrace, what would happen to her? As someone treated like a lucky charm, would she still have a way to survive?

Chapter 1634: Disposal

When Xie Feng was sick, lying idle in bed, she replayed the short film and Dong Luorong’s explanation in her mind at least a dozen times, weighing every detail. This conclusion seemed the most likely to her.

It had been the last message sent by Lan Lingte on behalf of Dawnstar—a message concerning the survival of the human race.

At that moment, the usual limitations on resources and rules for interstellar communication no longer mattered. If the message was too large, it could have been sent in multiple parts, even if they arrived at Noonstar in fragments. At the very least, the complete information would have been conveyed.

If the Empire had received more than ten minutes of footage and had st.i.tched together an edited version… Xie Feng realized she wouldn’t even be surprised. It was exactly the kind of thing the Empire would do.

What she didn’t expect was Qiu Chantian’s sudden reaction the moment she said it. His expression s.h.i.+fted sharply, as if she had stabbed him, and he nearly broke free from his restraints. The man who had been calm and collected up to this point now wore his alarm on his face for all to see. Even Ah Cheng shot to his feet in shock, his face going pale.

Everyone instinctively took a step closer.

“You really did edit the footage?” The boy with the headband asked slowly, word by word.

“No,” Qiu Chantian snapped, spitting the word like a nail. Realizing how unconvincing it sounded, he clenched his teeth and added, “No, really. I’ve never even heard of such a rumor! The video we saw was exactly the same as the one you saw. Otherwise, how could I understand the situation well enough to do my job?”

The room went quiet for a moment.

“And besides,” Qiu Chantian continued, “we’ve made significant progress in preventing the spread of posthumans. We’ve even identified individuals whose physical abilities have increased far beyond normal. How do you explain that if they haven’t trained? It’s because they’re in the early stages of evolution. If we leave them unchecked, they’ll destroy your Tear City.”

He pressed on, using offense as a defense. “Where did you even hear such nonsense? Some conspiracy theory? Do you have any evidence?”

Xie Feng remained seated on the stairs, motionless and silent.

“Anyone would be emotional under those circ.u.mstances, especially Lan Lingte—she’s a woman, after all. It’s not surprising that she might have lost her train of thought or failed to be clear in the video.” Qiu Chantian’s voice took on a pleading tone. “If you have any questions about the video, I can explain them to you.”

The more Qiu Chantian explained, the clearer the truth became to her.

Suddenly, Xie Feng yanked up the cloth covering her face, pressing it tightly over her entire face.

She squeezed her eyes shut as hot tears soaked through the fabric. Her breath became ragged, and soft sobs echoed intermittently through the cabin.

The darkness beneath the cloth was her only refuge. She didn’t want to cry in front of Qiu Chantian, but she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

What was the point of all this?

Two years of resistance, estrangement from her family, sleepless nights filled with anxiety, and a gnawing sense of guilt—none of it had mattered. It had all been a waste.

All those late-night arguments with friends, the debates over what they would do if they ever reclaimed Tear City’s autonomy—whether they could survive the posthuman threat—had been over nothing. The entire idea of posthumans was a lie.

Tear City hadn’t needed to go through any of this. They hadn’t needed to become homeless, to live on the streets. Their lives could have carried on as usual. She could have continued with her studies, gone shopping, watched movies, without worrying about being forced to pair off with some imperial citizen.

But the Empire didn’t care. To expand its territory, it was willing to discard the people and lives on that land. Perhaps Tear City was only the beginning—just the first stop in their plan. And on Noonstar, there were other nations still waiting, unaware that they, too, were part of the Empire’s grand, ruthless scheme.

But her old life was gone, and it wasn’t coming back.

“You lied,” Xie Feng said, her voice heavy with congestion, still hitching with sobs. “You always lie. But I never thought… I never imagined it would be such an enormous lie.”

Ah Cheng finally spoke, his voice quiet. “It’s precisely because it’s so big that ordinary people wouldn’t even consider it could be a lie.”

Qiu Chantian stopped speaking, staring at them with cold disdain.

“Wait… I still don’t get it…” Black Dog muttered, clearly shaken by the weight of the revelation. His face had gone pale. “Are you saying the apocalypse is a lie?”

“No, Dawnstar was likely destroyed,” Ah Cheng said slowly, his gaze fixed on Qiu Chantian. “But only they know what really happened. Without scaring us into believing that posthumans would rise from among us—and that we’d need their help to maintain order—how else could they take control of our nation?”

“So… what really caused Dawnstar’s destruction?” Shortie mumbled.

To answer that, they’d probably need to figure out who Lan Lingte really was. But from the look on Qiu Chantian’s face, it was clear he wouldn’t give up any information so easily.

“I know he’s afraid of death,” Xie Feng said softly, her crying finally subsiding as a sense of calm returned to her. “Men obsessed with power and status are always terrified of dying. To be an imperial official, you have to stay alive first.”

Qiu Chantian pressed his lips together. Even in fear, he maintained the air of dignified righteousness that the Empire so carefully cultivated.

“The Empire—”

“I know,” Xie Feng interrupted, her voice weak but steady. “The Empire will retaliate. But maybe… maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

“How so?” Ah Cheng asked, playing along smoothly.

“Tear City is divided into two factions, which is why we’re in this mess,” Xie Feng said, her tone almost numb. “But if the Empire retaliates and decides to wipe out Tear City, everyone will come together again—just like that.”

Though it made sense in theory, in reality, things wouldn’t be so simple. How many people would end up dead or imprisoned? How would they resist the Empire’s strategy of dividing and conquering? And if the Empire opted for subtle, societal punishment rather than brute force, how could they fight back?

But Xie Feng knew she didn’t need to think that far ahead. She just needed Qiu Chantian to believe that these reckless youths were fully committed, that his life was genuinely in danger. That was enough.

Ah Cheng, sharp as ever, quickly caught on to her intention. The others were slower to grasp it, but after a few rounds of encouragement from Ah Cheng, they started chiming in. The more their agreement solidified, the darker Qiu Chantian’s expression became.

“Answer the questions, or we’ll kill you,” Ah Cheng said with a shrug. “Either option works for us.”

“Wait, I’m not lying!” Qiu Chantian interrupted, his tone urgent. “There are things I really don’t know!”

“Then what do you know?” Xie Feng asked immediately. “Who is Lan Lingte? What’s her actual position?”

At the same time, Ah Cheng pressed him, “Will posthumans really emerge from among us, or is that just another lie?”

Qiu Chantian instinctively turned to Ah Cheng and answered, “It’s true. The apocalypse will come with the rise of posthumans. I swear it on my life.”

“What caused Dawnstar’s destruction, then?” Shortie asked again.

Qiu Chantian turned to Shortie and said, “You might not believe me, but I really don’t know. All I know is that posthumans are a phenomenon that emerged from the apocalypse. The destruction of Dawnstar likely wasn’t caused by them, but they can still create significant chaos and crises for us. As for what actually caused Dawnstar’s downfall… my clearance level isn’t high enough to know.”

It sounded like the truth.

“So, the Empire had no legitimate reason to take control of Tear City, and Tear City had no valid reason to submit to the Empire,” Ah Cheng said quietly. “Ah, I know exactly what to do with you now.”

Xie Feng, who had been planning to ask her own question after the others were finished, was startled by this. Everyone’s attention immediately s.h.i.+fted to Ah Cheng.

“The way it looks now,” Ah Cheng began, “the Empire received the message from Dawnstar, but they edited the footage to make it seem like posthumans caused the destruction—and that posthumans could soon appear on our planet too. Using that as an excuse, they struck a deal with our governor. And he must have gained something from it, right?”

Qiu Chantian gave a stiff nod.

“Ha. Whatever benefits he got don’t even matter anymore, because he still used this manufactured crisis to hand our nation over on a silver platter. Am I right?”

Qiu Chantian winced, as if in pain, sucking air through his teeth. “No one will believe that story. I advise you not to spread it around carelessly. This is cla.s.sified information. If it gets out, the Empire will mark you as their top enemy.”

Ah Cheng smiled slightly.

“Thanks for the concern, but I understand the stakes—I won’t say a word,” Ah Cheng said smoothly. “That’s why you will. As the acting governor of Tear City, anything you say carries much more weight.”

Qiu Chantian stared at him as if Ah Cheng had just asked him to sacrifice his own mother.

“W-What?”

Ah Cheng seemed to have thoroughly thought through his plan. “We won’t kill you. We won’t even hurt you. In fact, we’ll send you back safe and sound. All we need is for you to sit in front of a camera and tell the whole truth—everything about the Empire’s conspiracy and the real cause of the apocalypse. If you refuse, well, the ocean is just outside.”

“Stop—don’t joke around! That would be the end of me!” Qiu Chantian’s face flushed with anger, and he shouted uncontrollably, “I’d be arrested and sentenced immediately. Do you think prison is any better than being thrown into the sea?”

“I’m not forcing you down a dead-end path,” Ah Cheng said slowly. “After you record your confession, I’ll give you two days to escape before we upload the footage. It won’t be as comfortable as things are now, but you’ll still have your life and freedom—more than most of our captured brothers and sisters can say.”

“Stop joking. Stop joking…” Qiu Chantian repeated the words over and over, his eyes bulging, as if his mind had shut down completely.

Xie Feng felt a chill run through her entire body.

Record the video, and then release Qiu Chantian?

But what about Dong Luorong? If Qiu Chantian’s political career were to end in disgrace, what would happen to her? As someone treated like a lucky charm, would she still have a way to survive?