The Imperial Marshal’s Darling at the Tip of His Heart - Chapter 25

The Imperial starship Iron Curtain floated silently above the treacherous mists of Wuyin Star. On its outer hull armor, scorch marks and crystal dust remained from the planet’s energy eruptions. Inside, the corridor lights were cold, reflecting the hurried movements of soldiers and technical officers as the atmosphere grew tense and oppressive.

Yun Shu was brought back once again to that pure white medical prison cell. Compared to when he left, he looked as though his last ounce of life had been thoroughly drained. Like an overused and broken tool, he was supported by soldiers and placed back onto the medical bed. His heavy protective gear was removed, revealing a life-support suit soaked in sweat and traces of blood, and a face so pale it was nearly transparent.

The monitoring equipment instantly captured his rapidly deteriorating vital signs, emitting a series of sharp alarms. His lung function was in severe failure, his crystallization index was skyrocketing, and his neurological system was overloaded. Multiple indicators flashed a startling red. The medical officer performed emergency procedures with a grave expression, injecting potent drugs into his veins in an attempt to forcibly pull back a lifeline that was sliding toward the abyss.

Once the violent coughing subsided, a deeper numbness and exhaustion set in. Yun Shu lay on the cold bed, his eyelids too heavy to lift. Every breath was accompanied by the slight yet clear sound of crystal friction within his chest, a constant reminder of how little time he had left.

However, his brain refused to stop working. The heart-stopping confrontation in the control core, the terrifying truth revealed by the ancient system, the flash of cold murderous intent in Ling Yao’s eyes followed by a calculated silence; all these images and information fragments echoed repeatedly in his mind.

Tartarus, Shackles, Star Tears, Matrix; these words carried a magical power, pointing toward a shocking secret regarding the nature of the Turbid Core and perhaps the origin of the world itself. And Ling Yao, the blade of the Empire, seemed to be privately pursuing this secret, even at the risk of touching forbidden zones of the highest Imperial clearance.

He knew Ling Yao’s secret now. This was a double-edged sword: both a protective talisman and a death warrant. Ling Yao needed his abilities for the moment, so he was allowed to live. But once his value was drained, or once they left this perilous place, what would await him?

As his thoughts swirled in confusion, the sliding door opened again. It was not a military doctor who entered, but Ling Yao himself. He had removed his combat gear and changed back into his crisp, ink-black Marshal’s uniform. He was meticulous, looking as though he were not the same man who had just faced life and death on the planet’s surface amidst smoke and fire. His expression was colder than usual, and deep within his eyes lay a trace of imperceptible fatigue and profound calculation.

He waved his hand to dismiss the medical officers and soldiers. Only the two of them remained in the cell, along with the rhythmic, unsettling ticking of the monitors. Ling Yao walked to the bedside, his gaze like a precision scanner, taking in Yun Shu’s extremely poor condition. He did not speak immediately, simply looking down from his height as a silent, suffocating pressure filled the air.

Yun Shu struggled to lift his eyelids and meet the gaze. He remained silent, waiting for the other to speak first. He knew that any unnecessary word at this moment could lead to unpredictable consequences.

“The things you saw,” Ling Yao finally spoke, his voice low and steady, devoid of emotion yet more chilling than a roar, “and the things you heard, had best rot completely in your brain.”

This was a warning and a setting of terms. The scene in the control core was now officially classified as having never happened.

Yun Shu moved his dry, cracked lips slightly, his voice weak but clear. “I am only a dying prisoner. I only care about things that can save Xilan. What do other matters have to do with me?”

He skillfully avoided a direct response, re-emphasizing his core demand and his lack of involvement, hinting that he had neither the intent nor the power to use that secret to threaten an Imperial Marshal.

Ling Yao stared at him, seemingly judging the truth of those words. A few seconds later, he gave a cold sneer. “It had better be so.”

He shifted the topic, no longer dwelling on that dangerous subject, and returned to the mission itself. “Regarding the data from the control core, specifically the regularity model of the overflow channels and the parameters of the harmonic signals, I need a preliminary report. I will give you four hours.”

Four hours? In his current state, this was a nearly impossible task. It was another form of pressure and testing.

Yun Shu did not refuse immediately, but said slowly, “I need access to a higher-level analysis server. The computing power of the isolation pad is insufficient.”

He was testing Ling Yao, seeing how much clearance the Marshal was willing to grant him while laying the groundwork for what he truly needed to do. He had to find a way to cross-reference the findings from Wuyin Star with the information he had stolen about Tartarus and the private node.

Ling Yao narrowed his eyes, appearing to see through the intent, but unexpectedly, he did not refuse. “Very well. I will grant you restricted temporary access to my private research server. Remember, any abnormal operation will immediately trigger the highest-level alarm.”

A private research server? Yun Shu’s heart stirred. This might be an opportunity, a crack through which he could glimpse Ling Yao’s true research directions.

“That is enough,” Yun Shu replied.

Ling Yao operated his wrist terminal. Soon, the data interface indicator beside Yun Shu’s bed turned green, signifying that the connection was established. Although restricted, the power was far greater than that of the isolation pad.

“Four hours,” Ling Yao repeated the deadline and turned toward the door. Before the sliding door opened, he paused without looking back and dropped an ambiguous sentence. “The medical team will use the best medicine for you. Do not actually die. Your value has only just begun to manifest.”

The sliding door closed.

Yun Shu took a deep breath, suppressing his extreme physical discomfort. He struggled to sit up slightly and connected the data pad. With the access opened, a concise and efficient Imperial military research interface popped up. The computing power was immense, but surveillance was undoubtedly everywhere.

He first quickly organized and input the data regarding the energy eruption patterns and harmonic signals obtained from the control core, building a preliminary model. The process itself was exhausting, forcing him to stop frequently to catch his breath as cold sweat dripped from his forehead.

After about an hour and a half, he completed a preliminary report sufficient to pass inspection, containing real discoveries but hiding the most critical associations. Then, the true risk began.

Under the cover of the model calculations, he extremely carefully diverted a tiny portion of the computing power. Walking as if on the edge of a cliff, he began to perform cross-referencing. He matched the energy signature of the Wuyin Star etchings with the Calante signal fragments. He conducted a correlation analysis between the constraint field parameters mentioned in the system logs and the abnormal Tartarus readings he had intercepted earlier. He even attempted to use a certain ancient encryption pattern discovered in the control core to touch the peripheral firewall of that hidden private node.

The process was perilous. Every probe felt like walking a tightrope. His mental tension was so high that he nearly triggered several system security warnings, all of which he narrowly covered up using the massive data stream from the model calculations.

The harvest was immense. The degree of matching was startlingly high!

The Calante signal was very likely a faint mapping of the Wuyin Star energy after it leaked through some sort of hyper-dimensional channel. The Tartarus anomaly’s energy pattern was highly consistent with the constraint field weakening characteristics described by the control core. Even the encryption method of the private node bore a trace of extremely ancient technical origin, sharing a source with the etching system.

All these clues pointed to one conclusion: Wuyin Star, Tartarus, Calante, and even the forces behind that mysterious private node were all connected by an invisible, ancient web centered around the Turbid Core. And the highest levels of the Empire were clearly not ignorant of this, yet they had enforced a strict information blockade.

Ling Yao, as an Imperial Marshal, was conducting a private investigation and might have encountered obstacles or surveillance because of it.

Just as Yun Shu attempted to delve deeper, a sudden wave of intense dizziness and nausea washed over him, leading to a minor operational error. A source address for a data request contained a nearly negligible deviation in its disguise.

Instantly, a cold, high-authority system alarm pierced through his interface. It did not originate from the server itself, but from a much higher level of monitoring.

Almost simultaneously, the sliding door burst open!

Ling Yao had returned. His expression was terrifyingly dark as he strode to the bedside and snatched the data pad away. His gaze, sharp as a blade, swept over the operational logs and the real-time data stream on the screen.

“What are you doing?” his voice was low, yet charged with the dangerous energy of a pre-storm gale.

Yun Shu’s heart nearly stopped. He forced himself to remain calm, coughing to mask his momentary panic. “I was trying to… optimize the model. I called upon an… uncommon… algorithm library. Did it… trigger some… security protocol?”

The explanation was weak. Ling Yao’s eyes told him he didn’t believe a word of it.

Ling Yao’s fingers slid rapidly across the data pad, appearing to reconstruct the trajectory of Yun Shu’s recent operations. The air in the room seemed to solidify, and the temperature plummeted.

A few seconds later, Ling Yao looked up sharply. His gaze was not on Yun Shu, but directed at the four corners of the prison cell, as if scrutinizing invisible surveillance cameras. He suddenly gave a cold laugh toward the empty room—or rather, toward the potential listeners.

“A dying prisoner attempting to use top-tier algorithm libraries to optimize a model,” he said coldly. “Truly… foolish beyond measure. It seems the Empire’s security system overreacts even to academic curiosity.”

It sounded like an explanation, yet also like a message directed at an unseen entity. Having spoken, he applied pressure with his fingers, as if he might crush the data pad, and deleted the operational records that had triggered the alarm. He then threw the device back to Yun Shu.

“Watch your ‘curiosity,'” Ling Yao stared at Yun Shu, each word sounding as if it were squeezed through shards of ice. “The next time you trigger an alarm and waste my time, I will personally inject you with a permanent sedative.”

This time, the threat was unmistakably direct.

Yun Shu lowered his eyelashes and whispered, “Understood.”

Ling Yao gave him one last deep look. That gaze was complex to the extreme: a mixture of warning, scrutiny, a fleeting flash of appreciation, and a deeper impatience, eventually settling into a mask of icy indifference. He turned and strode out without another word.

The sliding door slammed shut.

Yun Shu collapsed onto the bed, his back completely soaked in cold sweat. He knew that Ling Yao’s words just now served both as a warning to him and, perhaps… as a cover? By addressing the potential listeners and categorizing his dangerous operation as “academic curiosity” and a “system overreaction”?

The mind of this Imperial Marshal was deeper and more inscrutable than he had imagined. Their silent gambit had not ended after leaving Wuyin Star; instead, it had entered an even more complex and hazardous phase.

And his time was truly running out.

He looked at the numbers on the monitor, still flashing in the red, and felt the cold touch of the crystals growing within his body. He had to move faster.