Chapter 96#

Distant Star Reflection 04#

The secretary led the way. Both he and the driver were familiar with the Isabella’s internal structure. According to the secretary, this was one of three transition-capable fortress ships the empire owned. He frequently took it back to the Landon star system to handle family affairs.

“But you very much dislike transition ships. This is your first time aboard the beautiful Isabella.”

Yu Feichen: “Do you know you’re talking nonsense?”

Secretary: “…I know.”

Returning to the “what are priests doing here” question, the secretary went blank for two seconds before answering: “Priests… are just priests. Father!”

Yu Feichen: “Can’t others operate starships?”

After a pause: “Can I operate them?”

“What are you thinking!” The secretary’s pupils trembled wildly, spitting repeatedly.

Yu Feichen: “Why can priests operate them but I can’t?”

The secretary said: “Obviously because you’d drive it into a ditch, while priests wouldn’t.”

Finishing, mindful of the duke being essentially mentally disabled, he added that priests possessed vast knowledge and were messengers of truth on earth. Only they understood how all things operated, knew how to drive machinery.

Yu Feichen nodded thoughtfully, revising his world impression.

Tan Per wanted him viewing the world through an outsider’s lens rather than native eyes—deliberately training him so only this approach enabled fair judgment. Now it seemed in this world, those outside ecclesiastical systems couldn’t access important technology and knowledge.

Just then, the destination arrived. The Isabella’s cockpit was a circular space filled with complex displays and buttons. The symbols and text were in another language entirely—completely different from the local spoken tongue. For untrained ordinary people, it resembled a kindergartner reading chemistry formulas—completely unreadable.

The entire cockpit held one priest and ten lower-rank clergy, each concentrating on operations.

What surprised Yu Feichen was General Ashley being here too. He stood with hands clasped behind his back before the wide viewport, gazing outward.

“You came too,” Ashley said.

Yu Feichen: “General.”

General Ashley wasn’t unkind to Landon, though the secretary said he greatly disapproved of the duke’s behavior. Yet only those hoping you’d improve would criticize you.

Ashley gazed at the boundless starfield. “Every time the ship transitions, I come to the cockpit to observe this mysterious process,” he said. “Ten stellar years ago, when you were still a child from the Landon system visiting the capital, it took half a year’s long journey. Now it takes five days.”

He turned, observing the clergy in the circular chamber, his gaze stern yet reverent: “This is everything Truth has granted us.”

“I hope when you return to govern your Landon territory, you also remember the cathedral’s virtue and the empire’s glory—not drifting through life as before.”

Yu Feichen assumed a receptive posture, yet the general’s instruction continued relentlessly—far more words than the deity spoke. Yu Feichen would rather be criticized by the deity now.

“I’ve even heard you disbelieve in transition ships’ miraculous effects, thinking people can’t vanish from one place and appear elsewhere, fearing accidents during transition and spreading such claims everywhere,” the general’s tone grew harsher. “You grew up under the Pope’s knee, and he wouldn’t rebuke you. Yet those disrespecting truth receive no truth’s favor. Now you’ve boarded Isabella. Do you still fear transition accidents?”

What worthless nonsense Duke Landon spouted had nothing to do with Yu Feichen. To end this unwarranted disaster, he said without hesitation: “This was all Bishop Tan Per’s influence. I’m now fearless.”

General Ashley snorted coldly: “Good then.”

Yu Feichen’s ears found peace for a moment. Blaming Tan Per certainly worked well.

One minute after ending the criticism, as if remembering to comfort juniors, the general said: “Father Hope, leading this voyage, is the Pope’s most beloved student. The journey will proceed without incident.”

If Tan Per was the Pope’s most beloved student, Hope at least looked unintelligent, his features plain and ugly—how he became the most beloved student was incomprehensible. The Pope’s aesthetic was questionable.

Yu Feichen withdrew his focus, beginning to think seriously.

The cathedral’s full name was the Holy Truth Cathedral. Everything technical aboard was managed by clergy. The general’s speech also oozed praise for “Truth.” In other words, this cathedral wasn’t a group of con men worshipping void deities for peace. They were those controlling this world’s knowledge.

In this stellar empire, people’s reverence for knowledge had evolved into something quasi-religious. Scholars called “priests” naturally held transcendent status.

Especially—when ordinary people lacked qualification to study knowledge.

But he had to admit, he agreed with Duke Landon’s view. He didn’t particularly trust these world’s transition technology, just as he disliked others piloting aircraft.

Just as Yu Feichen pondered with lowered eyes, surrounding instruments beeped. A steady broadcast sounded: “Transition beginning. Countdown: 10, 9, 8…”

Clergy’s expressions simultaneously grew grave, each staring unblinkingly at their operation screens, keystrokes dense and rhythmic. General Ashley even half-closed his eyes, experiencing the transition, reverent as pilgrims.

In the countdown gaps, silence pervaded the cockpit—pin-drop quiet.

Yu Feichen calmly observed everything—especially instrument and console construction. This was his specialty.

“6, 5, 4…”

When the countdown reached “4,” an eerie scene appeared before Yu Feichen.

On the cockpit’s right side, a pure white human-shaped figure suddenly appeared—a white silhouette.

It had a head, torso, and limbs, five or six times human size, requiring looking up to see fully. No visible hair, features, or clothing—like a paper cutout silhouette. The thing emitted no light, pure white throughout. Yet it absolutely wasn’t a physical object, as instruments originally in its position sat undisturbed—it passed through them, their bodies phasing through it.

A projection? Yu Feichen calmly looked at the ceiling, searching for projection equipment. But the next moment, the nearest junior priest saw it.

He immediately recoiled in terror, his chair crashing backward, shattering on the floor. The fallen priest, rather than standing, used arms to push against the ground and legs to propel himself frantically backward, emitting heavy “hoh hoh” breathing sounds from his throat.

His behavior revealed he not only knew what the white figure was, but feared it intensely.

Yu Feichen’s gaze returned to the figure as General Ashley suddenly gripped his arm.

“Move back!” the general’s voice sounded battle-ready. Yu Feichen followed Ashley back several steps, pressing against the viewport. The circular cockpit descended into chaos—all clergy turned ghastly pale, trembling violently, breathing heavily, hastily abandoning positions and retreating to edges, staring fixedly at the white figure on the right—like pious believers beholding Satan himself. The secretary even slipped, falling to the floor.

Yu Feichen studied the white figure. He sensed no malice from it, yet felt something else—quiet, death-like stillness.

General Ashley muttered: “Snowman…”

Just then, the figure moved. It lifted its leg, walking from the cockpit’s right side toward center, approaching the secretary’s direction, passing through several instruments’ edges.

The secretary, completely terrified, desperately tried backing away. The driver pulled him backward to the wall, then fled behind an operations console.

Yet the “snowman” didn’t advance directly at the secretary. It seemed unable to see the cockpit’s people or surroundings—just walking with stops, even turning directions midway, like someone strolling leisurely through a garden.

Unfortunately, it ultimately walked toward the secretary’s position, now nearly paralyzed with terror.

Yu Feichen tried wrenching free from Ashley’s grip to go there, but the snowman’s pace suddenly accelerated. It raised its leg high, about to step on the secretary.

The white shadow drew near.

The broadcast continued calmly counting: “3, 2, 1. Transition beginning.”

Stars outside the viewport vanished instantly. The massive fortress ship entered a pitch-black subspace.

The secretary squeezed his eyes shut, emitting a collapsed, desperate scream: “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!”

Yu Feichen pushed back, freeing himself from Ashley’s control.

The white figure was about to touch the secretary’s body.

Yet in the next instant, it abruptly, ghostlike disappeared.

Completely vanished—no visible trace of departure or dissipation, just as mysteriously as it appeared. The moment it vanished, Father Hope slumped backward against the wall, and everyone wore relief-washed expressions.

So danger was averted now?

Father Hope muttered: “Why did it appear in the cockpit… our luck is so terrible… at least no casualties—”

He suddenly opened his eyes wide, looking where the snowman appeared!

At this moment, Yu Feichen looked too. The original instrument showed a smooth cut surface. He remembered that was where the snowman initially appeared, when the shadow passed through it.

Everything beyond the cut surface had vanished. Other instruments it passed also showed the same—wherever the white figure overlapped, every instrument or object disappeared without trace. Even the floor had long, deep fractures—the snowman didn’t walk on the floor itself; its footprints fell on a plane beneath the cockpit.

Regardless of what the eerie “snowman” was, the cockpit now had equipment damage. Whether aircraft or starship, instruments were precise and temperamental, always having cascading failures. This accident would definitely affect navigation—at minimum violent turbulence, at maximum explosion.

Frenzied alarms suddenly blared in the cockpit!

“Alert: Anomaly during transition.”

“Alert: Failed reaching designated coordinates. Coordinate retrieval failure.”

“Alert: Isabella…”

Absolute darkness beyond the viewport. The massive fortress ship violently shook, metal-joined floorboards twisted and creaked harshly.

“We’re finished,” Father Hope trembled, pressing against the console, speaking in obscure language. After translation sphere conversion, Yu Feichen barely understood—they’d departed the original transition point but hadn’t reached destination when the voyage became chaotic. The entire ship was now trapped in transition’s mid-state—essentially trapped in a complicated wormhole.

Moreover, other operational modules malfunctioned. The ship couldn’t even maintain stable flight.

Outside was chaos. After brief panic, Father Hope returned to position, frantically hitting operation buttons. The ship’s shaking only intensified, showing no improvement.

The secretary had somehow crawled to Yu Feichen’s side, clinging to his leg trembling: “The snowman, my god, the snowman, how did we encounter it? Duke, can’t we go to the sanatorium now? Are we going to crash?”

General Ashley quickly stepped to Hope’s side: “Father, is there any way?”

“Difficult to navigate, I can’t control…” Despair appeared in Hope’s eyes.

Yu Feichen stared at the instruments, wanting to say perhaps I could try, but this system was completely foreign.

Suddenly, Hope, as if remembering something, gripped Ashley’s sleeve sharply, trembling: “Tan Per! Is Tan Per still alive! Quickly bring him! He might—”

“This…” Ashley deeply furrowed his brows, seemingly hesitating. Yu Feichen, seeing this, decisively said: “Yes, General.”

Without waiting for Ashley’s reaction, he kicked the secretary away and turned to leave, heading toward the interrogation room.

The ship shook wildly, creaking sounds everywhere. Yu Feichen saw from afar the warden and his followers stumbling chaotically from the interrogation room direction. He passed directly by them, kicked open the half-closed interrogation room door, and reached Tan Per’s electric chair in three long strides.

Tan Per remained tightly bound to the chair with struggle marks visible. Yu Feichen first tore off the silencing restraint, then ripped apart limb bindings, removing electrodes. He heard the person finally catch a relieved breath: “What happened?”

“Equipment broke. We’re stuck in a wormhole,” Yu Feichen briefly explained. “Hope collapsed and is calling for you to pilot the ship.”

After removing all restraints, Yu Feichen helped Tan Per up, but the person didn’t stand—collapsed against him instead.

“Can you walk?” Yu Feichen tilted up his face to check, seeing pupils half-dilated, completely shocked and mentally scattered, five fingers gripping his upper arm tightly, clinging to a lifeline.

Yu Feichen: “What are you shaking about?”

In the chaos-filled corridor, Tan Per was supported forward by him, stumbling along, whispering: “You didn’t turn off the electricity.”

Yu Feichen: “…”

He thought—he indeed hadn’t turned off the chair.

But he wasn’t careless. His mind was clear when adjusting—that voltage was merely playing around, certainly wouldn’t cause this.

Yet Tan Per trembled weakly against him, appearing more collapsed than Hope.

Yu Feichen recalled the voltage values. Though confident of his innocence, the value definitely wasn’t zero. He felt somewhat guilty.

The ship jumped again. Tan Per gasped: “Hurry…”

Yu Feichen assessed the person’s state. Left with no choice, he directly swept them up in his arms and rushed toward the cockpit.