Lan Grace didn't speak, but Mi Milo couldn't hold it in. After discovering the theft, her calm had made him angry. Food was such a precious thing here—how could she lose so much and barely react? It was as if, in her eyes, those ingredients hardly counted.
But Mi Milo didn't understand: she truly didn't care much about those particular supplies. Even if she no longer worried about food and drink, those were basic ingredients of middling quality, lacking seasonings of all kinds. Compared to the standards of her old life, they fell far short. What the natives of Waste Star found enviable still didn't meet her former baseline.
More importantly, her goal was to leave Waste Star. No matter how much she stored now, she wouldn't be able to take it all with her.
"Captain Kate, our natural food was all stolen," Mi Milo said hotly.
The answer shocked Kate. This wasn't just Lan Grace's loss; it affected the energy he had been getting through her dishes. His face cooled. He swept his gaze over the faces around them. His voice dropped, heavy.
"Investigate. Immediately. I want to see who had the guts to do something this low in my jurisdiction."
In the past, for petty theft, he might have let it go with one eye open and one eye closed. Not now. Now, he would not only find the thief; he would make an example.
He wanted to see whether anyone would dare to snatch food from his mouth again.
Lan Grace didn't want to make a fuss, but Kate's decision wasn't hers to sway. Mi Milo's blunt declaration had taken her by surprise; she had assumed that if she treated the theft lightly, he would follow her lead and do the same. She didn't realize how precious natural food was in the present world—not like the city streets and supermarket aisles of her old world, where you could toss a few seeds into a pot and grow some greens by the window. Here, the high price of natural food wasn't arbitrary. The resources required for every unit of growth were beyond imagination.
To Mi Milo, the natural food in Lan Grace's room was her only real property on Waste Star. Someone had stolen her "assets." How could he not be angry for her?
Kate's order went out at once. It wouldn't take long to drag the thieves into the light. On Lan Grace's side, Kate immediately placed an order for another batch of natural ingredients to be delivered to her, to keep his supply from drying up. But the items wouldn't arrive until the next day. Today, Kate would have to eat insects.
He could have gotten by on a mid‑grade nutrient ampule, but after a month of regular meals, he couldn't go back to sucking down gel. The thought made him pause. Two months from now, his term would end, and he would rotate off Waste Star. After that, he wouldn't be able to eat Miss Lan's cooking anymore.
He found himself at a crossroads—and an idea came to him.
"Miss Lan, would you like to leave this planet and develop yourself on Alliance Star?"
Lan Grace: "???"
It was as if she had summoned it by fretting—suddenly, through Captain Kate, a path appeared. From him she learned of a way off Waste Star. Every Waste Star governed by the Alliance had a single admission quota each year for the Alliance Second Military Academy.
The requirements were simple: under eighteen years old; physique and mental power at C‑level or above; and a basic educational foundation.
To win the one slot for Waste Star 101 out of its thirty sectors used to be difficult—now it was easier, because the quota had gone unused for nearly ten years. A decade ago, the last person to use it was a girl who entered the Second Military Academy representing Waste Star 101. A year later she returned, mind shattered—mad.
It was said she had been bullied relentlessly at school because she was from a Waste Star, discriminated against in all the little and large ways. Under the constant psychological pressure, she made a fatal mistake and was expelled, sent back. Not long after she returned, her family killed her with their own hands. On Waste Star, useless burdens had no place. If you could not support yourself, there was only one end—death.
Since then, the natives of Waste Star had lost whatever desire they had to leave. The natives were weak to begin with; reaching C‑level was rare. Even if someone reached it, they would have to spend massive time learning basic knowledge. And even if they finally left Waste Star, the outcome could be bad. It wasn't worth it. No one was willing to try.
The quota had sat empty year after year.
Kate said that although, officially, the quota was for the natives of Waste Star—an exercise in the Alliance's proclaimed democracy more for show than substance—Lan Grace's skin was now dark enough to pass for a native. She could apply under a native's identity and take the slot. A little administrative "handling," and it wouldn't be hard.
Lan Grace's feelings were complicated. She knew she was dark—but being told to her face that she was dark enough to be considered a native stung a little.
She wanted to agree, but at the critical moment she hesitated. If she left Waste Star—what about Mi Milo? Without her, he probably wouldn't live long here. Over three months, she and Mi Milo had formed a bond. Even when you raised a pet, you didn't just toss it away. She wasn't the sort of irresponsible "mistress."
"Think it over," Kate said, not pressing her. He picked up his insects and left.
The choice was hers. If she truly decided not to leave, he could only regret that someone of her talent would be buried here.
Back in her room, quiet, Lan Grace tangled herself into knots. She had been the one who wanted to go; now that she could, she was the one wavering. Why was life so hard?
Mi Milo stood at her door and watched her frown. He understood her concern. He knew how much she wanted to leave Waste Star, and he knew she was hesitating because of him.