While the digital avenues of the galactic net were practically buzzing with the dual hype of Percival's record-breaking album and the punishingly addictive depths of Hades, the official Accord news networks were busy painting a picture of absolute, serene prosperity.
According to the polished anchors on the Core World broadcasts, this was yet another flawlessly peaceful year. The intergalactic economy was growing by a steady margin, several new planetary systems were petitioning to join the Stellar Accord, and overall, it was simply a great time to be alive.
To highlight this era of peace, the major networks had shifted their prime-time focus away from politics and toward a breathtaking celestial event, a sight that graced the galaxy only once every hundred standard years.
The Yustea system.
At the heart of the system was Yustea Prime, a lush, fiercely protected nature-preserve planet. Once a century, the planet's orbit dragged it directly through a massive, dormant asteroid belt. As the clusters of space debris collided with Yustea Prime's unique, heavily ionized atmosphere, they didn't just burn up. They ignited into a spectacular, world-spanning chemical reaction, painting the sky with every conceivable spectrum of color.
On a grassy, wind-swept highland overlooking a massive valley, a live broadcast was currently underway.
A striking reporter in a pristine, tailored suit stood before the camera, her hair perfectly styled despite the mountain breeze. Behind her, the valley stretched out, dotted with ancient, stone-carved ruins.
"And that is why the Crescent Ridge is the premier spot to reserve for tonight's viewing," the reporter beamed, her voice a practiced, melodic cadence. "If you haven't booked your anti-grav pavilion yet, you must hurry! Space is incredibly limited, and the time of the shower is drawing near."
She paused, her expression shifting into one of deep, respectful solemnity.
"A quick reminder for all Accord citizens visiting Yustea Prime this week," she continued, looking earnestly into the lens. "Please be wary and respectful of the native Yusteans. They are currently observing their sacred 'Silent Vows' in preparation for the celestial event. Do not attempt to speak with them or disrupt their meditations."
A small group of native Yusteans, dressed in simple, woven robes and carrying long wooden staffs, walked silently in the background along a dirt path. The reporter turned slightly, offering them a bright, culturally sensitive wave, which they entirely ignored.
She turned back to the camera, her perfect smile unwavering. "It truly is a marvel. Accord scientists still do not fully understand how such a... primitive civilization can predict the exact date and hour of the showers so flawlessly. But it must be said, their ancestral calendars are the most accurate metric we have! So keep your eyes peeled, viewers. When the natives begin to move en masse toward the peaks, it means the centennial shower is about to begin! For LNN, I'm Vulpy."
The audio feed switched over. "Thanks, Vulpy, for that wonderful insight," the polished voice of the studio host echoed from the comms. "Up next..."
Beside Vulpy, a burly Kalamoran cameraman tapped the side of his heavy recording rig. "And that's it. We are clear. Cut."
The instant the recording light blinked off, the bright, respectful smile on Vulpy's face vanished, instantly replaced by a deep, vicious scowl.
"Ugh, it fucking stinks out here," Vulpy gagged, immediately pulling a silk handkerchief from her pocket and pressing it hard against her nose. She glared at the retreating backs of the native monks. "Can we go back to the resort now? I can't stand these people."
The Kalamoran cameraman rolled his eyes, his arms efficiently collapsing the heavy tripod and packing away the audio gear. "I'm sure we can head back soon. But we still need to do one more live report tomorrow morning from the valley floor."
"Whatever," Vulpy complained, her voice muffled through the silk handkerchief. "Can we just do it by the resort tomorrow? I don't even get why we have to stand out here and praise their 'ancient predictions' on live air. Our orbital tracking satellites are infinitely more accurate anyway. It's just debris hitting gas."
The cameraman hoisted the heavy equipment case onto his broad shoulder with a grunt. "Just stick to the scripts, Vulpy. You want to get out of here, and so do I. But playing up the 'mystical native' angle is what the higher-ups want for the ratings."
As the news crew turned and began trudging back up the trail toward the luxurious, enclosed Accord resort hovering a few miles away, two figures walked past them, heading in the opposite direction.
Jess, wearing slightly oversized, patched clothing. She walked with a quiet, almost unnatural lightness. Beside her was Gale.
Gale moved with a rigid, undeniable discipline. Every step felt calculated. As a highly trained soldier who had gone completely rogue, abandoning his oath, his platoon, and his entire life to save Jess from a brutal planetary cleansing operation his unit had been ordered to carry out. Ever since then, they had been on the run, hiding in the fringes and blending in with the crowds.
Jess stopped for a moment, openly staring at the complaining reporter with her silk handkerchief.
Gale gently nudged the girl's shoulder, his eyes constantly scanning the perimeter for Accord security. "Jess. It's not good to stare. Come on. Keep your head down."
Jess blinked, tearing her eyes away from the wealthy off-worlders, and hurried after him. They walked past the designated media zones, heading further up the highland trail until they reached the very edge of the ridge, overlooking the vast, sweeping view of the valley where the shower would be most visible.
Jess looked out over the sheer drop, the wind whipping through her hair. "Is this the place?"
Gale stepped up beside her. He didn't look at the beautiful horizon; his Solar-trained eyes were assessing the terrain. He looked at the pathways where the wealthy tourists would inevitably funnel through, identifying the perfect choke point.
"Yes," Gale said, a sly, opportunistic grin spreading across his face. "The tourist numbers are going to grow exponentially by tonight. They'll be packed in here."
He knelt down, unzipping a heavy duffel bag he had hauled all the way up the mountain. Inside were hundreds of smooth, completely ordinary river stones that he had hastily painted with glowing, cheap luminescent dye.
"We can get a lot more money by selling some of this odd stuff to them," Gale explained, pulling out one of the glowing rocks. "We'll call them... 'Fallen Star Fragments'. Make it a sacred souvenir."
Jess looked at the bag of painted rocks, then up at Gale with a highly skeptical expression. "Will they actually buy it?"
Gale chuckled, tossing the glowing rock in his hand. He thought of the reporter complaining about the dirt while reading a script about mysticism, and how desperate the Core World elite were to buy a piece of 'authentic' culture.
"Oh, they will, alright."
…
Down in the valley, far away from the polished anti-grav pavilions and hovering camera drones, the native Yustean camp sat in quiet defiance.
It was a simple settlement of woven tents and carved stone hearths, deeply connected to the pulse of the planet. But from the perspective of the elders sitting by the fire, the horizon was a tragedy.
Massive fortresses of Accord steel, rebar, and glittering glass cut through their ancestral lands, dividing the valley like a jagged scar. The sacred journey to the Crescent Circle, a pilgrimage that used to take their ancestors a mere days of walking, now took months of grueling detours around private resorts and restricted Accord airspace.
A young Yustean teenager sprinted through the camp, his bare feet kicking up dust as he approached the largest tent.
"Chieftain!" the boy called out in their native tongue.
An older man with deep, weathered lines on his face and a heavy shawl of woven reeds stepped out of the tent. He sighed, leaning on his staff. "What is it?"
"There are Sky Dwellers at the perimeter. They are asking to see you."
The Chieftain waved a dismissive hand, turning back toward his tent. "Just do not speak to them. Keep your heads down. We cannot understand each other anyway, and they will leave once they take their moving paintings."
"But Chieftain," the teen insisted, his eyes wide. "He is different. He speaks our language."
The Chieftain stopped. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. His mind immediately went to the Accord military, the people with the heavy plasma guns and the terrifyingly fast Solar soldiers. Only a select few of the Accord's occupation forces had ever bothered to learn their tongue, usually to issue commands or draft treaties.
'What is it this time?' the Chieftain thought bitterly. 'Are they coming to tell us they will take more of the highland?'
He gripped his staff and followed the boy to the edge of the camp.
Standing just beyond the boundary stones were Gale and Jess. Gale stood tall and respectful, his hands clasped behind his back, while Jess looked curiously at the woven tents, her eyes reflecting a quiet understanding.
The Chieftain approached, his face a mask of polite indifference. He offered the standard, hollow greeting they gave to the tourists. "Blessing of the sky and sun upon you."
Gale didn't blink. He bowed his head slightly and replied in Yustean, "May all of it collapse and rise again."
The Chieftain froze. The younger Yusteans standing nearby gasped softly. That was not a tourist greeting. That was the official, deeply sacred response used only during their highest rituals, an acknowledgment of the planet's cycle of destruction and rebirth.
The Chieftain scrutinized the young man, his initial hostility wavering. "Are you Yustean, young man? Your skin is pale, but your tongue is true."
"No, sir. I am not," Gale said, his voice respectful. "But one of your people saved my life many years ago, back when I was stationed here as a young soldier."
The mention of him being a former soldier made the Chieftain's shoulders tense with visible disappointment, but he could see the raw, undeniable sincerity in Gale's sharp eyes. He was here to pay a debt.
"I am here to see if Gr'Salgo sor has already arrived at the camp," Gale explained, using the honorific for an elder.
The Chieftain's eyes widened. Then, the surprise melted into a heavy, profound sadness. He lowered his gaze to the dirt.
Gale's rigid posture faltered. He saw the underlying message immediately. "Oh..." Gale's voice cracked slightly, the hardened Solar dropping his guard. "I am sorry. I didn't know."
The Chieftain nodded slowly. "The earth reclaimed him five winters ago."
Gale reached up and quickly brushed a single, stray tear from his eye. "He saved my life. We were stranded together, I learned a lot from him. He taught me how to see the world."
The Chieftain offered a warm, empathetic smile, stepping closer. "He was a good man. How about you come inside? You can meet his son, the sor's legacy. He would be honored to hear stories of his father from a Sky Dweller."
Gale took a step back, shaking his head gently. "I cannot impose, Chieftain. And I have already broken your sacred 'Silent Vow' by speaking to you today."
The Chieftain stared at him for a second. Then, a bitter, humorless smile touched his lips. He leaned heavily on his staff, looking up at the glittering Accord resorts hovering above their valley.
"The Silent Vow?" the Chieftain murmured, his voice laced with generations of quiet indignity. "Oh, child. That is not real."
Gale blinked, completely caught off guard. "It isn't?"
"Your people made it up," the Chieftain explained, his eyes hardening. "They spread that rumor to their tourists. They tell them we are deep in sacred meditation so the Sky Dwellers do not try to speak to us."
Gale's jaw tightened as the reality of it set in.
"If we cannot talk," the Chieftain continued softly, "We are stripped of our voices so their tourists can look at us without guilt."
"I thought so," Gale muttered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register. "Gr'Salgo never mentioned a vow of silence to me."
The Chieftain reached out and gently patted Gale's arm. "Come inside, young man. Let us speak freely."
…
High above the valley, on the paved precipice of the Accord viewing platform, Vulpy stood waiting for the transport speeder.
She still had the silk handkerchief pressed firmly over her nose, her eyes scanning the sprawling, 'primitive' landscape below with thinly veiled disgust. But then, her gaze snagged on a strange sight at the edge of the native camp.
She squinted.
There, past the boundary stones, an outsider was interacting with the Yustean. It wasn't just a brief exchange; the Yustean was actually gesturing for the tall, sharp-featured young man and the little girl to enter the outer circle of the ancestral camp.
"Who is that?" Vulpy muttered, lowering her handkerchief. Her reporter instincts, usually buried under a layer of corporate vanity, suddenly flared to life. The natives never let outsiders past the boundary stones, let alone speak to them during the centennial shower preparations.
Beside her, the Kalamoran cameraman shrugged his four shoulders, not even bothering to look. "Who cares? Oh, look, here comes the ride."
The sleek transport speeder descended, its thrusters kicking up a furious whine that drowned out the mountain wind. The cameraman began throwing the heavy equipment cases into the back, shouting angrily at the driver about the delay.
"VULPY! Come on!" the Kalamoran roared over the engine noise.
But Vulpy didn't move. Her eyes remained locked on the figure down in the valley. A rogue off-worlder, seamlessly accepted into a closed indigenous society that the Accord had spent decades trying to sanitize and silence.
It reeked of a story. A real story.
"Vulpy!" the cameraman shouted again.
"I'm coming," she finally snapped, taking one last calculating look at Gale and Jess before turning and stepping onto the transport.
…
Far, far away from the highlands of Yustea Prime, the sun was shining brightly over the opulent, sprawling estates of Sela.
Inside the grand, sunlit mansion of Gil Nothos, a polite handshake was exchanged.
"Mira, Independent Press," the woman said, offering a professional, albeit slightly nervous, smile. "How are you doing today, Maestro?"
Gil Nothos released her hand and immediately turned his back, walking toward an ornate, high-backed chair facing his meticulously manicured private garden. "I am not here to talk about myself, Miss Mira."
Mira swallowed hard, quickly taking her seat opposite him. "Of course, Maestro. Composer Percival only."
Her mind was swirling. She was sitting in the private residence of Maestro Gil Nothos, a living legend, an architect of modern classical music. Securing an interview with him was the holy grail for any music journalist. Granted, he had only agreed to this sit-down to paint a clearer picture of Composer Percival, but she was still vibrating with nervous excitement.
Gil settled into his chair and lifted a delicate porcelain cup to his lips. He took a slow, deeply appreciative sip of a fragrant, dark amber liquid.
Mira pulled out her recording orb. "That smells wonderful, Maestro. Is that a local Selanian blend?"
Gil lowered his cup, looking at her with an entirely unamused expression. "It is high-quality Teebu. And no, before you ask, you will be drinking something else. This Teebu is a precious gift. For me only."
Mira laughed awkwardly, the sound catching in her throat as she realized he was entirely serious. "Oh! Water is perfectly fine, thank you."
A small, polished Compadre unit hovered silently into the room, depositing a simple glass of iced water on the table next to Mira before whirring away.
Mira took a sip of the plain water, mentally bracing herself. 'This is going to be a very long interview,' she thought.
One hour later, they were reaching the tail end of the allotted time.
To Mira's immense surprise, the interview hadn't been grueling at all. Once they had firmly established that the topic was Percival, Gil's famously sharp, unyielding demeanor had completely melted away.
Sitting across from her wasn't the terrifying Maestro who had made prodigies weep in conservatories; it was a man who spoke with the warm, glowing pride of a grandfather talking about his favorite grandson.
"So, for my last question, Maestro," Mira said, checking her datapad. "Since his debut, and especially with the release of The Sun-Drenched Soul, the galaxy has unanimously labeled Composer Percival as a 'once-in-a-century genius.' What are your thoughts on this statement?"
Gil fell silent. He picked up his porcelain cup and took another slow sip of the Teebu.
As the fragrant liquid warmed his throat, Gil couldn't help but look at the bottom of the cup. The tin Dorian had given him months ago was dangerously close to running out. 'That rascal,' Gil grumbled in his mind. 'He didn't even bother to send me another batch of this excellent Teebu to go with his album release. I'll have to yell at him later.'
Gil set the cup down, his expression turning thoughtful. He looked out at the vibrant Selanian garden.
"There is an old saying, Miss Mira," Gil began, his voice taking on a resonant, philosophical weight. "They say a genius cannot beat someone who works hard."
Mira nodded.
"For me," Gil continued, "someone who works hard cannot beat someone who simply enjoys what they do."
Mira raised her brows, her journalistic instincts flaring. Was the Maestro implying that Percival wasn't actually a genius of the century? Was he saying the boy merely worked hard and had a passion for the craft, thereby dethroning the 'prodigy' myth?
But before she could formulate a follow-up, Gil turned his piercing gaze back to her. A small, immensely proud smile played on the corners of his lips.
"But," Gil said softly, "what happens when you find a genius who works hard and enjoys it?"
Mira's eyes widened. A chill ran down her spine as the weight of the statement settled over the room.
He wasn't detracting from Percival's genius at all. It was the exact opposite. Gil Nothos, the harshest critic in the Accord, was openly admitting that Percival was an unstoppable force of nature, a perfect storm of innate talent, relentless work ethic, and pure, unadulterated passion. It clicked in Mira's mind completely.
This was why Gil had come out of retirement just to go back to being retired again. He hadn't just stepped down; he had found a successor so monumental that he was comfortable letting go of his entire empire and passing the torch.
"That is... a profound statement, Maestro," Mira said breathlessly, turning off her recording orb. "Thank you so much for your time."
Just as Gil nodded, the heavy glass doors leading to the garden suddenly slid open with a sharp whoosh.
A woman with an aura of absolute, uncompromising authority strode into the room. Rita Bralare stopped, placing a hand on her hip as she looked at the journalist.
"Oh. A new face," Rita stated, her sharp eyes scanning Mira up and down. "Who is this?"
Mira immediately stood up, offering a deep, respectful bow. "Mira, ma'am. Independent Press. It is an honor to meet you, Maestro Bralare."
"Nice to meet you," Rita said dismissively, before turning her full, fiery attention to Gil. "You're doing an interview?"
"It is not about me," Gil sighed, already massaging his temples. "It is about Percival."
Rita's eyes instantly lit up. She looked around the room as if expecting someone to jump out from behind the curtains. "Is that brat here?!"
"No, Rita, he is not," Gil groaned.
Rita scowled, crossing her arms indignantly. She glared at Mira, then at Gil. "Well, why is she only interviewing you? I am his teacher."
Gil slammed his teacup down on the saucer with a sharp clink. "Don't even start, you old hag! He is my student."
"Shut up, old man!" Rita shot back immediately, stepping closer and jabbing a finger in Gil's direction. "He is my student! Who do you think taught him how to handle Briane Taleini's vocal runs? You?!"
"I taught him the emotional weight of an orchestra, you pop-peddling banshee!"
Mira stood frozen by the couch, entirely perplexed. She held her datapad to her chest, her jaw slightly unhinged. She was currently watching the two most terrifying, powerful, and respected musical figures in the entire galaxy bicker in a sunlit garden.
They weren't acting like industry titans. They were acting exactly like two fiercely competitive grandparents fighting over who their brilliant grandson loved more.
…
The plush, sound-dampening carpet of the hotel hallway absorbed their footsteps as Dorian walked side-by-side with Ratik. He was fully dressed in his Percival persona; the sleek, tailored jacket and the signature mask securely covering his face.
"So," Dorian asked quietly, adjusting his cuffs. "Who is she again?"
"Mira," Ratik replied, her eyes focused straight ahead. "An Independent Press. She is the one who pushed the news narrative to our side during the drama with Goldclick Records a few months ago. When Nico held that disastrous press conference, she was the reporter who delivered the final, undeniable blow with her live questions."
Dorian nodded thoughtfully behind the mask. "I remember. So, this interview is me paying her back for the assist?"
"Not really," Ratik said, her tone purely pragmatic. "In this industry, favors only go so far. We are doing this because she is the only high-profile reporter in the Accord who will not litter her interview with hidden traps and corporate-sponsored bait."
"Oh," Dorian said, glancing sideways at his manager. "Do you know her personally?"
Ratik came to a halt in front of heavy double doors. She looked at the brass plaque reading Suite 51, and a rare, subtle smile touched her lips. "We had our own story before I ever knew you."
Without elaborating further, Ratik pushed open the door to the suite.
The room inside was a portrait of Selanian luxury, filled with natural light and expensive modern furniture. Sitting at the glass coffee table was a sharp-looking woman with framed glasses, a simple, unassuming recording orb, and a datapad resting in front of her.
As they walked in, Mira immediately stood up.
"Composer Percival," Mira said, extending her hand with a professional, steady demeanor. "Nice to meet you."
Dorian stepped forward and shook her hand firmly. "Likewise."
Mira looked at the sleek design of his mask, noting how securely it covered his features. She offered an apologetic smile. "A mask. I was about to offer you some snacks and a drink, but I see that might be complicated."
"I'm alright, thank you," Percival replied smoothly.
They both took their seats, the glass table separating the reporter from the musical phenomenon. Mira immediately tapped her datapad, bringing up a dense wall of text, and slid it across the table to Ratik.
"This is our agreement and contract," Mira stated, all business. "All the terms and conditions you laid out regarding approved topics and final editorial approval are there. You can check if there is anything missing."
Ratik took the datapad, her eyes instantly darting across the legal jargon with predatory focus.
While Ratik read, Mira sat there, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked at the masked teenager sitting across from her. Despite his youth, he carried a quiet, undeniable gravity.
"How are you doing, Composer?" Mira asked, her tone conversational.
Percival tilted his head slightly. "Is this the first question of the interview?"
Mira let out a small, genuine laugh. "It's not. We are just waiting for your manager to give us the go sign."
Percival leaned back into the plush sofa, crossing one leg over the other. "I'm alright. It's good weather here in Sela."
"Indeed it is," Mira agreed, though she was mentally noting how calm and grounded he sounded for someone who had just released a record-shattering album and hijacked a stadium tour the night before.
A moment later, Ratik lowered the datapad. "All good. The stipulations are intact. We can start."
She handed the datapad back to Mira and took a seat beside Dorian, crossing her arms and slipping effortlessly into her role as the silent, watchful guardian.
"Alright," Mira smiled, feeling a surge of adrenaline. She reached forward and placed the small, metallic recording orb precisely in the middle of the glass table.
Before she could activate it, Percival raised a single finger. "No video recording."
"Yes, Composer," Mira nodded instantly, completely respecting the boundary. "Sound only."
She tapped the top of the orb, and a ring of soft, blue light illuminated its equator, indicating audio-only mode. She turned it slightly so Percival could clearly see the settings. He gave a single, satisfied nod.
Mira cleared her throat, her demeanor shifting into sharp, journalistic focus. She leaned slightly toward the orb.
"Interview with Composer Percival," Mira stated, her voice clear and measured for the audio log. "Time is 1:32 p.m. Location, Hotel Hoshilura, Suite Room 51."
**A/N**
~Read Advance Chapter and Support me on [email protected]/SmilinKujo~
~🧣KujoW
**A/N**