Chapter 97#
Distant Star Reflection 05#
Unlike Anphiel, whom he could lift casually, Tan Per was already an adult with slender build. Fortunately, though Losh Landon’s mind was hopelessly broken, his body was in peak alpha condition, and combined with Yu Feichen’s inherent physical enhancement, carrying him was effortless.
Reaching the cockpit by navigating the chaotic corridors, though the starship teetered precariously, it hadn’t completely lost control. Yet Father Hope and subordinates had hands off the operations panel, their bodies trembling like autumn leaves in wind, as if descended into hell itself.
With them present, Tan Per’s terrible state drew less attention.
The cockpit’s chaos exceeded outside conditions—instruments sparked wildly. Father Hope, spotting Tan Per’s figure, hurried over, grabbing a lifeline, shouting: “Bishop Tan Per! Here!”
Yu Feichen blocked Hope’s hand, hurrying to the main control position with his cargo. Complex symbols and instructions scrolled across the massive screen. Tan Per gripped the metal console edge, looking up at the display. Tangled golden hair fell forward, several strands blocking his vision. Yu Feichen reached over, tucking them behind his ear.
When he lowered his right hand after this action, his wrist was immediately gripped again by Tan Per.
Tan Per’s palm had dampened with nervous sweat, cooling against the metal surface, his cold fingers death-gripping Yu Feichen’s hand as if this person provided more stability than the metal console.
Yu Feichen noticed the action, gently patting the back of Tan Per’s hand in reassurance.
After reviewing the screen information, Tan Per began quietly issuing orders to the clergy in the cathedral’s characteristic obscure language—so obscure even the translation sphere couldn’t fully convert it. This was extraordinarily rare, as the sphere operated on humanity’s language’s deepest principles, decoding any effective expression. A language remaining untranslatable had one explanation—it wasn’t invented for communication. It was obfuscation.
Finishing, Tan Per told Yu Feichen in common language: “You take over.”
Yu Feichen nodded, settling confidently into the primary control position he’d long coveted. No one surpassed him in piloting. His earlier uncertainty stemmed from language—insufficient system understanding. With Tan Per assisting, everything simplified. He test-flew while Tan Per advised and explained. After brief exchanges, Yu Feichen quickly grasped the mechanism and began operating.
Wormholes were subspace non-existent in reality. The greatest navigation challenge was internal, labyrinthine resistance fields. Uncontrolled ships resembled small boats in vortexes, struggling to maintain balance—Hope’s panic’s source.
Yet panic stemmed from insufficient skill. Yu Feichen believed himself and Tan Per clearly didn’t qualify.
Under their control, the starship quickly stabilized, beginning smooth flight. The frantic priest regulated breathing, watching Yu Feichen with Ashley as if meeting him the first day. Another batch of clergy flooded in for equipment emergency repairs.
Half an hour later, the repair-leading priest determined the transition positioning device failed and couldn’t be restored.
This device’s failure meant they couldn’t exit from the planned destination. Fortunately, it only partially broke—they could find the nearest transition point to escape the wormhole. Uncertainty remained about where they’d transition, possibly anywhere in the empire’s transition network.
Hearing this, Yu Feichen felt reasonably well. He’d actually prepared for the worst—self-navigating the wormhole for exit, which meant learning not just piloting knowledge but physics too, since each world had different physical compositions.
After confirming navigation completely stabilized, he looked toward Tan Per.
Tan Per’s breathing was urgent, muscles occasionally twitching with neurotic spasms, yet movements and tone were eerily alert—commands orderly, ice-green eyes burning intensely like a candle burning too hard in wind.
This person forced themselves to maintain clarity, yet this behavior amounted to self-harm at this point.
Yet heartbeat, breathing, and ice-cold, rigid fingertips all signaled Yu Feichen he’d reached his limit, unable to continue.
He decisively turned toward Father Hope.
Father Hope no longer wore his initial arrogance, his gaze carrying amazement mixed with admiration, even faint relief.
Yu Feichen said: “You take over.”
“I…this…you…” Hope spoke nonsensical excuses, while other clergy fervently thanked the duke and bishop for saving them. Yu Feichen directly left his position, abruptly pulling Tan Per, telling General Ashley: “He just came off the electric chair with aftereffects. I’m taking him to rest.”
For safety, he added: “The starship could fail anytime. If parameters go wrong, call us immediately.”
“Wait!” the general said. “When did you learn to operate starships?”
“Starships and antique shuttles,” Yu Feichen said straightforwardly, as if genuinely true, “operate roughly the same.”
Tan Per’s forced clarity let him leave the cockpit, but past that door, he could only be pulled by Yu Feichen.
This time Yu Feichen didn’t carry him, gripping Tan Per’s shoulder half-embracing as they proceeded, thinking this didn’t resemble electrical injury. More than not resembling electricity, it didn’t resemble an alpha’s normal state.
Just then, the secretary turned back, saying something. The moment he opened his mouth, Yu Feichen felt Tan Per’s breathing pause.
“Don’t enter, don’t knock, don’t let others approach here unless the ship’s exploding,” he told the secretary before closing the door.
Outside, many sounds receded, but Tan Per’s condition showed no improvement.
Fear of darkness?
Yu Feichen turned on the light.
Light flared instantly. Tan Per shuddered physiologically, leaning harder against him.
Yu Feichen thought this backfired. Finally he turned off the main light, opening only a dim small lamp, finally feeling the person’s body relax slightly.
—Yet still clinging without release.
Yu Feichen sighed internally, carrying him to bed, treating him like a suddenly frightened cat or rabbit in unfamiliar surroundings, wrapping him completely with blankets.
Tan Per clutched the blanket corner, scattered gaze gradually gathering.
Yu Feichen quietly watched, then said: “This too because I didn’t turn off the electricity?”
Tan Per’s eyelashes slowly closed. His lips moved faintly. Yu Feichen initially couldn’t hear, leaning closer to catch his words.
“Give me,” Tan Per said, “inhibitor.”
Yu Feichen didn’t move, saying flatly: “Alphas also experience triggered states? First time I’ve seen it.”
Tan Per looked at him, as if blaming something. Yet the person’s pupils remained half-unfocused, eyes glistening with moisture, even blame lacking force.
Yu Feichen wasn’t genuinely questioning. He smiled, retrieving his own inhibitor from the bedside case.
This world had only one inhibitor type—universal, suppressing all biological reactions from special physiology, including alpha mania, omega triggered states, and mutual heat cycles.
Yet it wasn’t benign—massive side effects. Next reaction afterward intensified severalfold. Moreover, accumulated usage meant when turning twenty-five’s deadline arrived, madness and triggered states became all the more complete.
Yu Feichen turned on the light, drawing liquid into the syringe, pulling back the blanket, having Tan Per’s head rest against his chest, finding the neck’s rear static vein beneath the collar.
Facing Tan Per, he now strongly desired conversation—perhaps another mania precursor.
“Tell me,” while locating the vein, “if you’d mentioned being omega early, wouldn’t I have cared for you?”
Through several dungeons, multiple one-sided reconciliations, he clearly saw himself. He wasn’t a changeable person, just decidedly bipolar. Completely different attitudes toward alphas and omegas.
At least, electricity would definitely be turned off, plus he’d find ways to permanently extract him from the interrogation room.
Yet consequences wouldn’t change, as the ship’s crisis was unexpected. Fragile omegas, frightened by slightly louder sounds. First strict torture triggering triggered symptoms, then the ship nearly decomposing, filled with shaking and noise—imaginable triggered disease severity.
Though he didn’t understand why this person appeared as alpha to others’ eyes.
Tan Per’s voice turned slightly hoarse: “Had no opportunity to tell you.”
Yu Feichen: “That’s not your excuse to slander me.”
—He’d genuinely believed the unswitched voltage caused problems, feeling authentically guilty for a moment.
Just then, he found the vein. The pale blue vessel silently hid beneath white posterior neck skin. He aimed the fine, sharp silver needle point there.
Tan Per: “Electric current is also a triggering factor.”
Yu Feichen thought this person could already argue—apparent recovery. But looking up at Tan Per’s face again brought hesitation.
Tan Per was mentally clear, true, but willfully calm and cold. Yet physiological mechanisms completely collapsed—pupils constricted sharply against light, cold sweat beading forehead, completely losing all fighting ability.
Willed clarity and complete physical triggered state intertwined, his body emanating death’s quiet.
Yu Feichen no longer hesitated, slowly pushing the full inhibitor dose into the vein.
Tan Per: “Three vials.”
Yu Feichen added two more vials accordingly. Tan Per barely managed lowering his head, voice weakening from exhaustion: “Initial onset reaction becomes very intense.”
Yu Feichen read the medication instructions—this inhibitor’s principle rapidly depleted the information-causing symptoms in a set time, so the first effect phase had triggered reactions more intense than the condition itself, then gradually calmed.
He didn’t know how to soothe omegas. Thinking, he only said: “I’m here.”
As soon as he finished, the person’s shoulders began trembling. Breathing accelerated. Tan Per gazed blankly forward, eyes filling panic’s emptiness, as though witnessing the world’s most horrific scene.
What did he see or recall during triggered states? Or was it just pure fright?
For the eternal day’s supreme deity, what possibly could become his binding nightmare?
Yu Feichen rose, turning off the main light to reduce stimulus. He left at most ten seconds, yet returning to bed found Tan Per ten times worse. His gaze anxiously searched the room for something, yet pupils completely unfocused—clearly seeing nothing. Only when Yu Feichen approached did the frantic searching stop.
Yet Tan Per still couldn’t see where he was, furrowing his brow, groping blindly in empty air.
Yu Feichen had lost count of sighs today. He first embraced Tan Per, who desperately buried himself against him. Yu Feichen adjusted positions, cradling him instead, yet inexplicable panic persisted. Yu Feichen uncertain whether his presence also triggered omega responses, yet Tan Per held so tight, grasping the world’s only grabable thing. Finally, he pressed Tan Per against the bed using his body weight, leaving no space.
The embraced person, bed behind, another person in front, seeing nothing, ears hearing nothing, limbs pinned, world claustrophobic and immobile, yet this maddening confinement felt safe—better than boundless emptiness.
After indeterminate time, Tan Per’s breathing finally gradually regularized, embrace intensity slowly loosening. Yu Feichen felt pressing him worked, but omegas lacked alphas’ durability—worrying about asphyxiation. He released the person, turning to watch the ceiling, occasionally sideways glancing at Tan Per, wondering if he dreamed, what he saw, differing from triggered visions.
Occasional glimpses, until finally Tan Per lay with eyes open, calmly watching the ceiling.
—Finally over.
Yu Feichen’s first question: “How long until you turn twenty-five?”
Tan Per: “Six days.”
Yu Feichen: “…”
Every comforting word seemed hollow. He considered extensively, finally selecting: “I have five years. Rest assured.”