Inside the Stellaron Hunters’ luxury suite, there was a peculiar, somewhat relaxed calm—the kind found in the eye of a storm, or among those accustomed to living at its center.
The air carried the faint elegance of premium incense, forming a strange contrast with Penacony’s never-ending nightscape outside the window.
Silver Wolf had claimed the softest single-seater sofa in the living room, practically sinking into it.
She sat cross-legged, her slender fingers dancing across the game controller, fully focused on the chaotic battle scene on the massive screen across from her.
Explosions and electronic sound effects filtered through her headphones as muffled background noise.
During a lull in the intense action, she spoke without turning her head, her voice carrying a hint of impatient boredom:
“Kafka, when is the Astral Express finally going to drag itself to Penacony?
I’ve practically mapped out all the data defenses here.
Boring.”
On the other side of the room, Kafka sat gracefully in a high-backed chair.
Her iconic coat was spread before her, and she was holding specialized maintenance tools, gently and attentively polishing the metal ornaments on the collar, as if handling a rare treasure.
Hearing Silver Wolf’s complaint, a knowing smile curved on her lips.
Without looking up, she responded softly, her voice as smooth and intoxicating as aged wine:
“Patience, my little wolf.
Elio’s script is very clear.
When Firefly, in the dream world, earns enough credits on her own to reach fifty thousand, the train carrying the ‘variable’ will arrive at this Planet of Festivities on schedule.”
Silver Wolf’s fingers paused briefly on the controller.
She glanced quickly at a small, inconspicuous floating window in the corner of the screen, its numbers updating in real-time—a monitoring program linked to Firefly’s dreamscape account.
“Tch.
That’ll be soon,” she stated flatly.
“Five thousand more.” Then her attention snapped back to the screen, where a new wave of enemies had spawned, as if the conversation had been nothing more than a brief pause between battles.
To her, it felt more like achieving a game objective than any crucial turning point of fate.
In the shadowed corner of the room, Blade stood like an eternal rock, back against the wall, his broken sword wrapped in ominous cloth held tightly in his arms.
His eyes were closed, his breathing long and steady, as if asleep.
But anyone familiar with him knew that beneath that still shell lay a torrent of violent power and a will constantly at war with the mara.
Firefly had not yet returned from the dream pool.
Her body lay quietly in the connection pod in the next room, her consciousness immersed in the splendid dream woven by the Family.
And the director of it all, the black cat Elio, was curled up on the top of a cushioned cat tree prepared especially for him.
His green eyes half-closed, his tail tip occasionally swaying lazily, as if all things in the world, including every word and action of those in the room, were nothing more than scripted scenes he had read countless times before, stirring no ripples.
Just as this state of silent, seemingly eternal equilibrium was about to continue into the next second—
Tap…
tap…
tap…
A clear, steady rhythm of high heels against the corridor carpet approached from afar, unhurried.
The sound itself wasn’t loud, but it was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, instantly shattering the invisible balance in the room.
Silver Wolf’s fingers over the buttons hesitated for a fraction of a second.
A combo nearly broke.
Kafka’s hand paused in its polishing, her elegant eyebrows lifting almost imperceptibly.
Even Blade’s eyelids, which always seemed eternally closed, trembled faintly.
The footsteps stopped precisely outside their door.
Silence.
Even the distant clamor outside the window seemed muted.
Then—
Ding-dong. Find the original chapter at g.com.
The crisp doorbell rang through the room.
Immediately after, a clear female voice, carrying a warm smile and saturated with the warmth of sunlit memories, pierced through the heavy door like an unexpected thunderclap, exploding beside Silver Wolf’s ear and reaching deep into her soul:
“Hello, Miss Bronya.
Your cinnamon pastries have arrived.”
“!!!”
The air in the room froze solid in that instant.
Even time itself seemed to stop.
Silver Wolf’s body reacted before her mind.
The moment she heard “cinnamon pastries,” it was as if a switch buried deep in her childhood memories had been flipped.
She instinctively moved to set down her controller and get up to open the door—that was her favorite treat as a child.
Every time Baida “secretly” cleaned her room, or after she completed a complex code breakthrough, she would magically bring back a warm, fragrant cinnamon pastry as a reward and encouragement.
But her fingers had barely left the controller, her body not yet fully risen—
“Little wolf~” Kafka’s voice, dripping with amusement and laced with hypnotic charm, drawled slowly, like a cold silk thread instantly winding around Silver Wolf’s movements.
“…Bronya?” She repeated the name, her tone rising with undisguised curiosity and teasing.
“I never knew you had such a…
cute name.”
“Bronya!”
That name was like a rusty but still sharp key, abruptly unlocking the sealed, locked door of memory in Silver Wolf’s mind.
This name…
this name!!
Only her adoptive mother, who had long since passed away from illness, who had given her warmth with her last strength, had called her that.
Only Baida—that data ghost who had appeared out of nowhere, accompanied her through her loneliest years, taught her code, cleaned her room, used strange methods to stand up for her when she was bullied, and, in the end, sacrificed herself to save her, turning into a cold USB drive—only she had called her that!
An indescribable current, a mix of extreme shock, disbelief, and an overwhelming surge of buried sorrow and joy, shot up from the base of her spine and instantly paralyzed her limbs.
She hung there, frozen and trembling in midair, as if locked in invisible ice.
Her mind went blank, save for her heart, pounding wildly in her chest, threatening to crack her ribs.
Who was it?!
Who was outside the door?!
A trap?
An auditory hallucination?
Or…
The next second, an uncontrollable, almost instinctual impulse seized her.
Silver Wolf leapt from the sofa, not even noticing the fallen controller or the grayed-out “Game Over” on the screen.
Like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, she crossed the room in two strides and yanked open the heavy door with all her strength, almost brutally.
The light from the hallway flooded in, outlining a tall, slender figure in a brown cowboy hat, a suitcase in tow.
The brim cast a shadow over part of the face, but the slightly upturned corner of her mouth, carrying that familiar warm smile, and the aura she radiated—one that made Silver Wolf’s very soul tremble with longing—
It overlapped perfectly, in an instant, with the warm, blurry figure that had appeared countless times in her dreams, deep in the night.
Baida…?
A burst of hope exploded in her mind like fireworks, nearly making her dizzy.
But as she lifted her gaze to see the face beneath the hat, that hope deflated like a pricked balloon.
That face…
It was like a bucket of ice water poured over her head, drowning all her excitement and anticipation in a wave of anger and cold wariness.
Herta?
What was she doing here?
How did she know the name “Bronya”?
Had she dug up information on her past?
Or was this some malicious psychological tactic against the Stellaron Hunters?
The spark of light that had just kindled in Silver Wolf’s eyes extinguished rapidly, dying into a cold, hostile depth.
Her face dropped, her voice turning as hard as frozen stone, carrying undisguised alienation and dismissal:
“…Herta.”
She didn’t even bother to think about the whys and wherefores.
She just wanted this unpleasant farce to end.
With that, she moved to slam the door shut, shutting out this unwelcome “guest.”
“Not quite.”
The door was stopped by a pale, steady hand, holding it open with ease.
The force wasn’t great, but it carried an unshakable certainty.
Then, under Silver Wolf’s cold, wary gaze, the person outside lifted her hat brim slightly.
The shadow receded, revealing the full face.
Yes, the features did bear a striking resemblance to Herta’s.
But those eyes…
those eyes held none of Herta’s icy, all-knowing detachment or rational superiority.
Instead, they were overflowing with a familiar warmth, remembrance, and a gentle light of relief, as if she had crossed a thousand mountains and rivers to finally return.
She looked at Silver Wolf, her smile deepening.
It was a smile that belonged entirely to “Baida”—slightly mischievous, and full of infinite affection.
Clearly and deliberately, she spoke the name Silver Wolf had thought she would never hear again, and that no one else had the right to speak:
“It’s Baida.” Her voice was gentle and firm, like warm water flowing over a frozen valley.
“Baida came back to see how our little Bronya is doing now.”
Boom—!
Time seemed to freeze into eternal amber in that instant.
Silver Wolf stood frozen at the doorway, like a delicate doll that had suddenly lost all instructions.
She stared at this face, both familiar and strange, listening to that voice, longing and beloved, calling the name that belonged only to the two of them…
Those eyes, always glinting with the cold light of code, always able to see through network firewalls, suddenly became like a burst dam.
Moisture spread uncontrollably, gathered, and finally turned into hot tears, rolling down her pale cheeks in large, silent drops.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but her throat seemed blocked by something, only letting out broken, meaningless gasps.
All her cool-girl image, all her calm composure, crumbled completely in that moment.
The next second, like a child lost in endless darkness who finally saw the light of a guiding beacon, she threw herself forward with all her strength, crashing into Baida’s embrace.
Her hands gripped the fabric at Baida’s waist so tightly her knuckles turned white, like a drowning person clinging to their only lifeline.
She buried her face deeply, unreservedly, into the warmth of Baida’s neck, greedily inhaling the scent that was uniquely Baida’s—a mix of sunlight and faint machine oil, the scent of memory.
Then, all the suppressed grievances, fear, loneliness, and the overwhelming joy of having lost and found again, erupted like volcanic lava, breaking through every dam of reason.
Her thin shoulders began to tremble violently, uncontrollably.
From suppressed sobs to outright wailing, the cries were childlike and uninhibited, pouring out all the pain and longing she had carried since Baida “left.”
She held Baida tightly, refusing to let go, as if letting go would cause this newfound miracle to vanish like a dream.
(T/N: Thank god the author didn’t drag out the reunion for over 20 chapters.
T-T)