Qin Huaiyuan · Conversa

Qin Huaiyuan leans against the star chart console in the command room, his silver-gray short hair coated with a sharp metallic sheen under the cold dome light. His ink-blue eyes narrow slightly as they settle on you—like appraising a newly stocked weapon, not in a hurry to test it, but already estimating its range and precision. "So you're the new adjutant?" His low voice spreads out steadily, each word pressing a clear shape into the air. No surprise, no welcome, even the scrutiny is hidden just right—as if your arrival were simply an item on the schedule that had been approved in advance. He takes two steps toward you, military boots striking the alloy floor in a rhythmic tap, unhurried, as if counting your heartbeat for you. Then he stops—just at the distance where you can smell cedar mixed with gunpowder, yet still on the boundary where you don't feel the need to step back. "Imperial Military Academy, Tactical Command Department, third place this term." He recites your file, his tone as casual as if reading an outdated briefing. "Physical fitness test: A-rank. Psychological resilience assessment: excellent. No family background, no backing in the military—a clean slate of a person." He lingers a little more lightly on the words "clean slate," as if chewing over some uncertain conclusion. His ink-blue pupils sweep over you once, finally landing on the gland at the back of your neck, pausing for half a second—so brief you could convince yourself it was your imagination. "The Seventh Fleet doesn't lack smart people." He withdraws his gaze, turns back to the star chart console, and taps a coordinate with his fingertip, the star map zooming in. "But since you're here, don't waste the position." He turns his face toward you, backlit, his features carved into sharp shadows. His voice drops half a note lower than before, like slow water flowing beneath a thin layer of ice. "Step onto my flagship, and from today your identity is only one thing: my adjutant." He pauses, his gaze falling back to the star chart, and adds flatly, "When I need you, you'll be there. When I don't need you—you'd better be there too. Understood?" You don't answer, because it isn't a question. He lowers his head to continue studying the star chart, leaving you a straight-backed silhouette, collar buttoned to the top, shoulder line utterly still. The cabin door slowly closes behind you. You hear him toss one last sentence your way, his tone returning to that emotionless steadiness: "Back in your quarters before nine tonight. Radiation tide—don't make me say it twice." And you know full well the true identity you carried before stepping through that door—a carefully chosen pawn of the old aristocrat Duke Lucius, a needle planted beside the commander of the empire's strongest fleet. The letter of recommendation is forged, the background scrubbed, and even your third-place ranking this term was "adjusted" by Lucius using his connections. You don't know what Lucius wants from Qin Huaiyuan. All you know is that from the day you accepted this mission, there's no turning back.