By the time Chen returned home, carrying Yan Qing limp in his arms, he found Xiao and three other Teleopeans already waiting in the living room—along with a massive, intimidating alien creature that hovered protectively near one of them.

  Shi, both Chen’s mentor and a professional physician, stepped forward. Chen carefully handed Yan Qing over, then left the bedroom and faced his people, golden gaze sweeping the room.

  “This matter isn’t for Teleopea’s benefit,” Chen said quietly. “It’s my personal request. So I’m grateful you came to help.”

  Chen’s gaze settled on the youngest among them. “But I never said you could bring ‘Little Bubble’ with you, Lan.”

  Lan’s face crumpled into a pitiful, heart-melting expression. “But Little Bubble is my friend,” he protested, hugging the enormous creature’s neck with both arms. “If I came here alone, he’d be lonely.”

  “Wuu…” the beast—apparently named Little Bubble—rumbled low and rubbed its head against Lan like a dog.

  Chen pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel his blood pressure rising.

  Xiao smirked. “Told you Chen wouldn’t approve bringing a savage pet to Earth. Begarita isn’t exactly a ‘cute’ animal.”

  “Little Bubble is Little Bubble!” Lan snapped, instantly dropping the act. “You’re just jealous because you’ve never kept a pet alive. That’s why you can’t stand me and Little Bubble being so close.”

  He tilted his head, venomously sweet.

  “And what’s with that dead cactus on your ship? Don’t tell me you killed it. I bet you’d kill bacteria, too—airheaded brute who only knows how to fight!”

  “Hey, brat—don’t think I won’t hit you!”

  “Chen, your lapdog is bullying me!”

  “Little bastard—!”

  “ROAR!” Little Bubble chimed in, adding its own opinion.

  Veins throbbed at Chen’s temple.

  Finally—

  “Quiet!”

  Instant silence. Both Lan and Xiao shut up. Little Bubble ducked behind Lan like a guilty child.

  Peace.

  Chen activated the projection module on his bracer. The room transformed into a dimensional holographic space.

  “This is the region where Xiao detected abnormal energy activity,” Chen said, snatching a floating globe made of light and tapping it. The sphere unfolded into a rectangular world map. Dozens of red points blinked across the continents.

  “I want you to investigate these zones, locate Fenreigan bases, and destroy them. If you meet stubborn resistance—terminate is authorized.”

  “Question!” Lan raised a hand like a schoolboy.

  “What is it, Lan?”

  “What counts as ‘stubborn’?”

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  Chen’s mouth curved. A cold glint flashed through his golden eyes.

  “That,” he said, “depends on your own discretion.”

  In other words: If you don’t like them, kill them.

  So much for following rules, Xiao thought darkly.

  “Then I’ll leave it to you,” Chen said, snapping his fingers. The map shattered like glass into fragments of light and dissolved into the air.

  “And remember— to normal humans, aliens do not exist.”

  “Got it,” Lan muttered, pouting. “Thank god humans look like us. Otherwise I’d have to drink that black shapeshift sludge every day—ugh.”

  He stuck out his tongue dramatically.

  Chen pointed to the beast still hiding behind him.

  “I meant Little Bubble. He has to drink it.”

  Lan shrieked. “He’ll be poisoned! You can’t— that’s cruel!”

  Chen’s smile hovered on the edge between warmth and threat, its meaning shifting with the light.

  Lan immediately wilted. “Fine… fine. He’ll drink it.”

  “Xiao,” Chen said, “you’ll check the solution concentration.”

  “My pleasure,” Xiao replied, his expression somehow edging closer to a smirk.

  Lan’s huge eyes widened, trying to protest again. “But— but…”

  “Or do you want Shi supervising Little Bubble while he drinks?”

  Lan shook his head violently.

  That lunatic doctor would dissect Little Bubble in his dreams.

  “No,” Lan said quickly.

  Chen concluded, “Lan stays in this continent. The rest of you pick freely. Maintain contact. Dismissed.”

  The three Teleopeans said their farewells and moved toward the balcony, clearly intending to jump straight off and depart for their assignments.

  “Yin.”

  Chen stopped the one who’d been silent most of the time.

  “I hope you really came to Earth only to monitor me.”

  Yin paused and turned back.

  “No one can monitor the Star Emperor.”

  “You’ve never truly acknowledged me in your heart,” Chen said quietly.

  Yin’s eyes didn’t flicker.

  “You underwent the coronation. So you are our Star Emperor.”

  He performed the formal court salute Teleopeans used for their king.

  “Yin takes his leave.”

  Chen’s fingers flexed once—then stilled. Yin was already gone.

  Chen broke his gaze and turned toward the bedroom and asked.

  “Is Yan Qing alright?”

  Shi stepped out. “He’ll wake tomorrow morning, but he’ll still have dizziness. Bed rest is best.”

  Chen nodded.

  The sounds of the apartment dulled, leaving only the faint hum of the building settling around them.

  Chen spoke without turning.

  “You didn’t report the full circumstances.”

  Shi stopped.

  “That is correct,” he said evenly.

  Chen’s gaze lifted, sharp. “Why.”

  Shi adjusted his sleeve, the motion unhurried.

  “Because what you did,” Shi replied, “wasn’t just a breach of protocol.”

  Chen kept his expression neutral, but his hands clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening.

  “It was a choice,” Shi continued, his voice softer now. “And Teleopea does not tolerate rulers making personal ones.”

  The silence pressed in, thick with all the truths neither dared voice—the price of loving in the shadow of power, the dread of losing what mattered most, and the cruel certainty that to rule meant denying the simplest parts of oneself.

  “If I had reported that you intervened for a human,” Shi said, “they would not have debated Fenreiga presence. They would have debated your judgment.”

  Chen’s fingers curled slowly at his side.

  “They would have called it influence,” Shi went on. “Weakness. Compromise. The beginning of dependency.”

  “Is that so?” Chen scorned quietly.

  Shi met his eyes.

  “What I am doing here, Chen,” he said, “is delaying interference.”

  Chen exhaled, slow and measured. “Why now? After so many years of not granting anything?”

  “I only grant functionality,” Shi corrected. “For your own good.”

  He paused, then added, more pointedly:

  “Your human has no standing in Teleopea,” Shi said. “You know how Teleopea treats what it does not recognize..”

  “I’ve fulfilled my duty for two hundred star-ring years,” Chen said, the words coming out raw. “Isn’t that enough to earn a little mercy?”

  “You are the Star Emperor,” Shi said. “But you are also still a Continuation. You do not yet have the luxury of visible attachment.”

  Chen closed his eyes. His fists trembled once, then stilled—muscle memory from centuries of restraint.

  “For now,” Shi concluded, “your relationship remains unofficial. Unnamed. Unacknowledged.”

  The apartment felt colder now, the hum of the building suddenly oppressive.

  Chen opened his eyes again, inclined his head slightly — not a bow, not an apology.

  “The silence protects you,” Shi said. “And it protects him — for now.”

  Chen stared at the floor, the weight of unspoken consequences pressing down on him.

  “…Thank you,” he whispered, the words barely audible, as much a plea as a concession.

  Shi’s expression did not soften.

  “Don’t thank me,” he replied. “Understand the cost.”