“…When you meet my mother, tell her that you are a Beta with physical traits very close to an Omega, that it was love at first sight for me, that we were evenly matched, that we established a temporary mark through a chance occasion, and that our feelings grew over time.”
“Are you listening, Senior?”
“Senior?”
Ning Qing felt as though he had been soaked in warm water for far too long. His steps were light and floaty, and his body temperature was higher than usual. Fortunately, his face retained its cold, porcelain like white hue, with only his lips appearing slightly swollen and flushed.
To an outsider, his bright, dripping color looked precisely as though he had been intensely kissed.
In reality, the truth was merely that Ning Qing had been forced to sip a few swallows of red wine while conversing with several high-ranking officials.
Is my alcohol tolerance truly this terrible? Ning Qing thought hazily.
As the alcohol took effect, he seemed to forget things. Amidst the round about official jargon, distant borderlands, the old Emperor’s illness, the planned new round of war, the Imperial Prince’s scheduled wedding, the upcoming ten percent tax increase for war preparations, and suppressed riots in other star sectors all tangled together.
The universe was in such turmoil, with major events happening every single moment, yet it all served as mere dinner conversation for the nobility. Just like ten years ago when his hometown was destroyed, people laughed, cursed, and then everything was swept away.
Ning Qing pressed his bent index finger against his lip until his hand was caught and drawn away.
A few strands of gelled, tufted golden hair zoomed in before his eyes. Ning Qing finally snapped out of his contemplation, waking up as if from a dream.
Cyril’s attitude was completely baffling. “I’ve called you three times now. What are you daydreaming about, Senior? Did you spot an Alpha handsomer than me and couldn’t tear your eyes away?”
“…Have you gotten drunk too, Cyril?” Ning Qing frowned, unconsciously revealing the fact that he was not fully sober.
Cyril grew increasingly worked up. “Oh, is it that Secretary of State from the House of Lords who praised you? But he’s fully two generations older than me! His son must be in middle school by now.”
In the interstellar era, rapid developments in biotechnology and gene modification had raised the average lifespan to 120 years. As long as one did not die early on the battlefield and maintained themselves properly, a sixty-year-old noble could easily look as handsome as a young man in his twenties.
However, Ning Qing simply possessed no physical desires toward anyone. He had no sexual interest in anyone. Alpha, Omega, or Beta alike.
Cyril is taking this act way too far.
How am I supposed to deliver lines for an unscripted scene like this?
Ning Qing took a deep breath and quickly pressed two soft kisses against Cyril’s cheek. “Enough, none of them compare to you. Let’s head inside.”
He was half a head shorter than Cyril. Looking up at him, his eyes were brimming with Cyril’s reflection, glistening like rippling water, resembling a docile, newlywed bride greeting her husband.
At precisely seven o’clock in the evening, the ball portion of the banquet officially began.
Outer space is an endless expanse of darkness, and humans are merely drifting ants within it. As fragile creatures surging from a tiny planet into the vast universe, what humanity had to endure was not just physiological mutation, but also mental distortion, emptiness, confusion, and even madness.
Thus, stable psychological anchors were required: the royal family, poetry, oil paintings, symphonies, and traditional family life.
To preserve a cultural identity tied to Earth’s civilization, the Galactic Empire had replicated many court customs from its inception, including noble social balls.
Ning Qing was led into the banquet hall arm in arm by Cyril. Twenty crystal chandeliers hung in a row, their candlelight swaying gently overhead and casting flickers of light and shadow across the vaulted ceiling’s frescoes.
As Cyril’s dance partner, Ning Qing danced the woman’s steps in the waltz. His footsteps advanced and retreated in rhythm, the light gauze at his hem fluttering with the movement.
“You learn so fast, Senior. I thought I was going to get my feet stepped on.”
Of course, learning social dancing was not even one hundredth as difficult as mech synchronization training.
Amidst the briskly flowing flute music, Ning Qing should have been held by the shoulder for a spin, but Cyril’s hand slid downward until it firmly clasped Ning Qing’s waist.
Beneath the silk, as delicate as moonlight, was a supple, slender waist that could be encompassed in a single palm.
“Cyril?”
Ever since Ning Qing voluntarily kissed his cheek, Cyril seemed surrounded by pink bubbles. Ning Qing couldn’t help but reflect, what on earth had happened to the gentle, proper, and helpful junior in his memory?
Why was he so joyful?
Why so lively?
Why… so excited?
The hand gripping his waist like iron pincers caused Ning Qing’s muscles to tense nervously. Instinct urged him to punch the offender immediately, but his sense of etiquette led him to honor their agreement, sparing Cyril the public embarrassment.
To distract himself, Ning Qing tilted his head back, his Adam’s apple trembling slightly.
“The fresco depicts Julius Caesar and the Six Founding Sages constructing the capital in the final sanctuary. Your ancestor is among them, isn’t he, Cyril?”
“And what do you think of the Lanchesters, Senior?”
Cyril seemed to calm down somewhat.
They remained in the center of the dance floor, whispering almost directly into each other’s ears.
Ning Qing squeezed out a soft breath through his teeth to avoid being overheard. “If your ancestor hadn’t compromised back then, humanity might not have taken the path of an empire. But six hundred years later, can this balance still be maintained?”
A distinct line of logic connected those scattered pieces of information.
The Emperor was over 150 years old, hovering on the edge of death. Ning Qing recalled seeing news broadcasts about the old sovereign’s severe illness and recuperation for as long as he could remember.
This fifth Emperor of the Galactic Empire was not as stern and iron willed as his predecessors; he was merciful yet mediocre. Under his gentle indulgence, noble factions had expanded unprecedentedly.
“Everyone is scrambling for territory. A new war against the Zerg will make a particularly convenient excuse.”
Money, resources, population, everyone wanted a piece of the pie. But where did he and Cyril fit into all of this?
The Lanchester family was still keeping too low a profile.
Cyril’s smile deepened, revealing a neat row of white teeth. “You’re so smart, Senior. So, may I invite you to a second dance?”
In noble etiquette, inviting someone for a second dance carried an implicit meaning, a declaration of love and a marriage proposal.
Ning Qing was completely oblivious to this.
He merely gave a light, subtle nod. The emerald gem embedded on his hat ribbon shimmered in rhythm with his movement.
After the event concluded, Ning Qing finally met Cyril’s parents, the current Grand Marshal and his wife, late into the night.
Why say “finally”? Because during both the cocktail party and the ball, the couple had remained seated behind a heavy curtain. They neither introduced Cyril to the guests nor hosted the event, leaving the announcements to the servants.
Cyril’s father was tall and imposing, while his mother was elegant and noble, the absolute picture of a classical noble couple.
The only jarring detail was that, as parents, they appeared entirely unfamiliar with their own son.
After receiving a message, the Grand Marshal departed first. The Marshal’s wife sat on the other side of the tea table. Without so much as a glance at Cyril, she smiled warmly at Ning Qing and said. “Good child, I understand your situation basicly. But what is your compatibility score with him? If it’s below 70%, it would be best to break things off early. It would be for both of your goods.”
Compatibility score?
Ning Qing, a studious commoner from a rural town, had never heard of such a term.
Cyril silently mouthed an explanation to him from across the room. It means our physical compatibility.
“Around… 85%?” Ning Qing offered, still half-ignorant.
The Marshal’s wife continued in an utterly emotionless yet polite tone. “It would be best to have a child within a year of the wedding. With current genetic editing technology, we can guarantee an S-rank Alpha.”
“Though, with your attributes, having an Omega child would be fine too. At least they would be very beautiful, wouldn’t they?”
Ning Qing desperately wanted to stand up and walk out. No wonder Cyril had hired him to play the fake boyfriend; what precious child from a prominent family would be willing to endure this kind of treatment?
However, Cyril shook his head slightly, mouthing. It will be over soon, hang in there a bit longer.
“I believe you can do it, sweet child. After all, you are such an outstanding Omega.”
The Marshal’s wife raised her cup toward him and drank her tea in one gulp.
Ning Qing locked Cyril outside the bedroom door.
Since he was playing the fake boyfriend, they naturally had to make the act convincing by sharing a room.
Unfortunately, Ning Qing was in no mood for it now. He dragged a chair over, wedged it securely beneath the wooden door handle, and sat on it himself to guard the entrance.
Through solid conduction, a dull vibration rattled through the chair. Cyril was knocking on the door.
“Senior, let me explain! My mother probably just misheard. I never meant to imply you were an Omega.”
Ning Qing remained silent.
Partly because even the gentlest person has their limits, and having fulfilled his side of the contract so diligently, he felt entitled to pout in private.
Partly because, along with the continuous knocking vibrations, a subtle dampness unexpectedly welled up from deep within him.
During this recent stretch, his symptoms of feverish soreness and heightened desire had clearly vanished.
Why was it flaring up again so suddenly at a moment like this?
Just then, an intensely spicy, pungent, and suffocating scent of strong alcohol wrapped around Ning Qing’s nose.
To call it a mere “scent” felt inaccurate. Even the foul odor of tens of thousands of insect carcasses decomposing under intense heat lacked such a tangible, aggressive presence. Facing rotting corpses made him want to vomit, caused stomach aches, and left his mind blank, but it never felt like this.
What… what do I want?
Ning Qing felt like a pitiful little snake tossed into a vat of hard liquor, every single bone melting limp amidst the overpowering reek of alcohol.
“Cyril, do you smell a strange odor?”