Ch. 196..200: Interstellar_ Return of the Villain Chapter 196-200

Chapter 196: Isadora

"Waaah! You hit me again!" Isadora shrieked, her dramatic wails echoing through the castle as the maids helped her to her feet.

Her cries were loud enough to reach every corner of the estate, stirring up the usual commotion.

In the garden, Benedict was peacefully sipping his afternoon tea when the piercing sound reached his ears. Startled, he choked on his drink, coughing violently.

"My Lord!" Albert rushed to his side, dabbing at Benedict’s face with a handkerchief, concern etched on his face. "Are you alright?"

Benedict waved him off with a weak hand, glancing up toward the third floor where the source of the ruckus undoubtedly was.

With a weary smile, he shook his head. "Those two... every time they’re together, chaos is sure to follow."

Albert chuckled, nodding in agreement. "Miss Isadora always stirs things up, but she never seems to win against Miss Lyra. Yet she keeps trying."

Just then, Genevieve Calvin, Isadora’s mother, stormed into the garden. Her perfectly styled blonde hair was pinned back, and a delicate rose nestled beside it, though her expression was anything but delicate.

Lifting her gown slightly, she approached Benedict with frustration written all over her face. "Dad, why did you bring HER back? Isadora’s upset again, and this time you’ve really made her suffer."

Benedict looked at her with a soft, almost amused smile. "Genevieve, Isadora’s twenty-nine. She doesn’t need you running to her rescue every time something goes wrong."

Genevieve pursed her lips, clearly not thrilled with the remark, but she managed a curt nod. "I understand," she said reluctantly, giving a stiff curtsy before turning to leave.

Meanwhile, upstairs, the drama was still in full swing.

"Oh my, you’re an absolute brute in a woman’s body!" Isadora fumed as one of the maids attempted to smooth out her disheveled dress. "You’re terrifying! How can a lady be so violent? You haven’t changed at all!"

She was still rattled, the memories of their childhood clashes flooding back. She thought of the first time she met Lyra—who had sat on the couch like a quiet, mysterious little doll. Excited, Isadora had gone to shake her hand, only for her own to nearly be crushed, swelling up like a balloon.

"You’ve been plotting to steal Grandpa’s favor since the day we met! You can’t fool me!" Isadora’s voice rose with indignation.

Lyra remembered that incident all too well. "I told you it wasn’t intentional."

Back then, she had been so naturally strong that even her father had caught the occasional accidental injury. For someone as delicate as Isadora, well... there had never been a chance.

"You’re lying!" Isadora spat, flouncing around the room with a dramatic flick of her skirt. "Just wait. I’ll make sure you and your filthy little soul fall beneath my feet!"

With that final declaration, she stormed out, her heels clattering as loudly as her entrance.

Lyra barely batted an eye as she watched her cousin go, thinking privately that Isadora had missed her true calling—she would have made an excellent opera star with all that drama.

As the afternoon gave way to dusk, a sleek Lev glided smoothly through the estate’s iron gates. Kritt Calvin, Lyra’s cousin and military officer, had returned.

The maids scurried to greet him, taking his cloak and cap with respectful bows. Albert approached, his smile warm. "Lyra has arrived," he informed Kritt, who was as tall and stoic as ever.

Kritt simply nodded, his face unreadable. "I’ll change first," he said in his usual no-nonsense tone before heading upstairs.

Later, at the maids’ prompting, Lyra made her way to the dining room.

When she entered, her uncle stood there, looking exactly as she remembered him—sharp, composed, and distant. Rising from her seat, Lyra lifted her skirt and offered a formal greeting. "Uncle Kritt."

The brown-haired man, dressed in a perfectly tailored silk shirt and adorned with jeweled cufflinks, glanced at her with a complex expression.

Lyra’s resemblance to his late sister was undeniable, and it stirred a mess of emotions in him. He gave a curt nod in response. "Hmm."

That was the extent of his acknowledgment. The tension in the air was thick—Kritt had been the most vocal opponent of his sister’s marriage to Lyra’s father, Tyro Shedd, and time had proven him right.

The news of his sister’s tragic death had shaken the family, and now, facing Lyra, he didn’t know quite what to say.

Benedict, ever the peacekeeper, smiled gently at the younger generation around the table. The flickering candlelight danced in his eyes as he raised his hand. "Let’s eat," he said softly.

For a while, the only sounds were the delicate clink of silverware against fine china as the family dined. But the uneasy calm was abruptly broken by the sharp screech of metal scraping against porcelain.

Isadora, her face twisted in frustration, shoved her plate away violently. "I’ve lost my appetite," she announced loudly, breaking the silence.

Genevieve set her utensils down, dabbing her mouth with a napkin before speaking, her tone sharp but controlled. "Isadora, we have guests. Show some decorum."

Her words, though directed at her daughter, carried an unmistakable undercurrent of displeasure aimed at Lyra. It was clear who she believed was responsible for Isadora’s sour mood.

"Just seeing her ruins my appetite," Isadora complained, her voice dripping with indignation. "She attacked ME, the host, on her first day! How am I the rude one here?"

Lyra remained unfazed, steadily cutting into her steak with a calm, almost dismissive precision.

Her silence only made Isadora’s anger flare. It drove her mad that Lyra always acted like she wasn’t even worth acknowledging.

"Grandpa, are you just going to—"

"Isadora," Kritt’s voice cut in, stern and sharp. "The maids told me you were the one who provoked Lyra first. We’re family, and family doesn’t settle things by crying foul when they lose. Your behavior is disgraceful, and you’re embarrassing yourself."

Isadora’s face flushed red with humiliation, her eyes glistening as she fought back tears.

Genevieve glared at her husband, clearly irritated that he wasn’t siding with their daughter, but Kritt remained unmoved.

Suddenly, Isadora slammed her hands down on the table, standing abruptly. "I challenge you!" she declared, her voice trembling with fury.

The room froze for a moment, stunned by the sudden outburst.

Genevieve’s face paled in disbelief. "Isadora, don’t be ridiculous! You need to learn grace, not throw around childish challenges—"

"Genevieve, let them be," Benedict said gently, his tone calm yet firm. "It’s natural for the young to settle their differences through a spar. Don’t interfere."

Genevieve opened her mouth to protest but, seeing the quiet resolve in Benedict’s eyes, she reluctantly fell silent. She glanced toward her husband for support, but Kritt merely sipped his wine, turning his gaze to Lyra. "What’s your answer?"

Lyra didn’t even blink. "Challenge accepted."

She calmly placed her spoons down, and a maid hurried over to clear her plate, bringing out a fruit tart for dessert.

Lyra raised a hand, stopping her. "Just a glass of warm water, please."

Her health had improved dramatically since she’d gotten rid of the Soul Spikes, and she no longer needed the excessive calories.

Besides, she had developed a distaste for sweets.

The maid scurried away just as Albert entered the room with a bright grin. "Master Robin has returned."

Benedict’s face lit up. "That’s wonderful! Tell him to join us for dinner."

Genevieve’s expression darkened even further at the mention of her son’s return, while Isadora, still fuming, let out a cold snort.

"You’ll see," she muttered under her breath, flashing a challenging smile at her father and grandfather. "You both can watch me knock her down later."

A few moments later, Robin entered the dining room, his timing impeccable. He caught the tail end of his sister’s boast but didn’t comment, offering a polite greeting to everyone. His short black hair gleamed under the candlelight as he took his seat, his demeanor calm and respectful.

"Robin," Benedict said, beaming at his grandson. "You’ll be working with Lyra from now on. Make sure to look after her."

Robin nodded, his face serious. "Of course."

Benedict chuckled softly, throwing Lyra a playful wink. "You know, Lyra, Robin’s as dull as his father. I bet you’ve found him boring, haven’t you?"

Lyra set her glass down, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Not at all. Robin’s strong and interesting. I’ve learned a lot from him."

Robin’s eyes flickered with a brief hint of acknowledgment, though he remained quiet, focused on his plate. The banter between them felt easy and familiar, warming the atmosphere at the table.

But Genevieve’s grip on her fork tightened, her knuckles white with suppressed frustration. She could hardly stand the sight of it—the bastard of her husband, and her own daughter being overshadowed in her own home.

As the meal came to a close, Isadora eagerly pressed for her challenge. She was practically buzzing with anticipation as she led the group to the Calvin family’s training room.

The space, while designed for sparring, held the same refined elegance as the rest of the mansion. The walls were lined with subtle wallpaper in soft shades of brown, and plush sofas were arranged in one corner for spectators to watch in comfort.

Isadora had changed into a fitted riding outfit, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail as she stared Lyra down with fierce determination. "I’m going to make you regret accepting this!"

Genevieve had chosen not to attend, unable to bear the sight of her daughter engaging in such an unsightly display. That left Benedict, Kritt, Robin, and Albert standing off to the side as the small audience.

Lyra, as usual, was calm and composed, barely reacting to Isadora’s fiery taunts. She knew this fight was already decided.

Isadora, on the other hand, radiated confidence as she prepared to make the first move.

Her eyes gleamed with the certainty of victory, but beneath it all, a flicker of doubt lingered—a seed of fear, knowing that she had never truly bested Lyra.

Today, she was determined to change that, but the question remained: could she?

As the room fell silent, the stage was set, and the two cousins stood poised for battle.

 

Chapter 197: Isadora’s Challenge

"So, what do you guys think?" Benedict asked, grinning like he’d just witnessed two kids squabbling over a toy.

Kritt gave the scene a quick look, his tone as level as ever. "Too soon to tell."

"Isadora’s gonna lose," Robin chimed in without skipping a beat.

Benedict raised a brow, clearly amused. "That sure of yourself?" He paused for effect before adding with a sly grin, "Or are you just salty because you’ve fought Lyra and lost every time?"

Kritt, not one to miss an opportunity, threw in his two cents. "Pretty sure you lost to Isadora in sparring too."

Robin didn’t bother to deny it, but he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction of a reply either.

Just a few feet away, Isadora caught the tail end of their conversation. She spun on her heels, glaring daggers at Robin. "Oh, Robin! Clearly, I haven’t whooped you enough if you think I’ll lose this!"

Predictably, Robin stayed quiet, earning an eye roll and a muttered, "Sore loser," from Isadora.

Lyra, watching from the sidelines, was caught off guard. ’Wait, Robin lost to Isadora?’

"I’m coming for you, Lyra!" Isadora’s voice cut through the air, followed by a pulse of sound that made Lyra’s head buzz.

Before she could even process what was happening, Isadora’s fiery red figure was already in motion, charging straight at her.

Lyra instinctively threw a punch, but Isadora caught her wrist with ease. In a heartbeat, Lyra found herself airborne, flung across the room.

"That’s for the attitude you gave me this afternoon!"

But Lyra wasn’t about to be outdone. Mid-flight, she twisted her body, landing gracefully back on her feet, a mix of surprise and admiration flashing across her face. "You were holding back earlier, weren’t you?"

There was no way someone with Isadora’s skills should’ve been handled so easily earlier.

Isadora just tilted her chin with a smug grin. "Not everyone fights like a savage. A lady knows when to show restraint."

With a casual flick of her fingers, she summoned a sphere of water, which quickly thinned out until it stretched across the entire training room like a shimmering web.

Lyra was impressed. Isadora wasn’t just flashy—she was a dual-ability Peculiar, and a level seven one at that.

"Admiring the view?" Isadora teased, eyes gleaming as she caught Lyra’s startled reaction. The water tendrils trembled, becoming sharp, needle-like spikes.

With a single thought, Isadora sent them flying straight at her opponent.

A thousand water needles rushed at Lyra in a deadly wave.

The room’s temperature dropped sharply. Benedict, watching from a distance, blinked in mild surprise as his tea instantly froze solid.

Lyra had transformed the water spikes into delicate ice crystals, which then shattered into a fine mist with a brilliant flash of green light.

Isadora leaped backward, her feet vibrating with the sound waves she was controlling. But the green light didn’t slow—it surged forward with even more intensity.

In a panic, Isadora desperately tried to summon more power, but Lyra’s onslaught was too fast, too precise. Before she could react, the light closed in, stopping just shy of her throat.

"That’s enough," Benedict said calmly, stepping in to end the skirmish. A smile tugged at his lips. "Both of you come have some cake. It’s fresh out of the oven."

Without a word, they pulled back their powers and joined the others at the table.

Isadora sat down with a pout, her face flushed, and her eyes a little too red for her pride.

"Come on, Isadora. You just need to train harder," Benedict said kindly, sliding a slice of cake toward her.

She accepted it but didn’t take a bite. "Thanks, Grandpa, but I’m not eating that. Late-night sweets make you fat." She shot a glare at Lyra, who was enjoying her own slice without a care in the world.

Isadora couldn’t wrap her head around it. When they were younger, she’d chalked up her losses to the age gap. But now? Lyra had basically been a walking corpse for seven years, and somehow she was STILL this strong?

"Witch," Isadora muttered under her breath, standing abruptly. "I’m off to do my nighttime facial routine. Good night."

And just like that, she stormed out, leaving the room as quickly as she’d entered it.

"That girl..." Benedict chuckled, shaking his head fondly before turning to Lyra. "You know how Isadora can be."

"I’ll have a talk with her," Kritt added, obviously wanting to smooth things over.

But Lyra wasn’t fazed. "It’s all good," she said, her voice cool and composed, not a trace of irritation in her tone.

Benedict let out a deep sigh of relief, his expression softening as the tension faded from the room. "I see it now, Lyra," he said, shifting the conversation back to the earlier fight. "You’ve been through a lot over these past few years. Your freezing ability—it’s gotten much stronger."

While most people only saw the raw power she wielded, Benedict, ever observant, recognized the blood, sweat, and sacrifice behind her abilities. He knew the cost of such strength.

Lyra met her grandfather’s eyes for a brief moment, then stood up. "Grandpa, Uncle Kritt... I’m heading to bed."

Without waiting for a response, she left the room. As her figure disappeared down the hall, the silence stretched between the three men.

Robin was the first to break it, setting down his teacup. "I’m calling it a night too."

...

Lyra only stayed at the Calvin residence for a couple of days.

By the morning of the third day, she, Robin, and Kritt were en route to the direct force district.

As they walked, Lyra’s gaze drifted toward Robin, who was busily filling out his enlistment papers. But it wasn’t just him—Caleb and Grains, his usual sidekicks, were there too, following his lead.

What really surprised her, though, was the unexpected presence of Prince Aurelius.

His being here sent a clear message: the new military corps had made it known they were rejecting recruits of noble birth. Yet the aristocracy wasn’t ready to give up the fight. They clung to their direct forces like their last line of defense.

Lyra’s shock didn’t linger long, though. She quietly filled out her own enlistment forms.

"When you’re done with that, follow the usual process," Kritt instructed them, his voice commanding as always. "Medical exam, superpower assessment, and then just wait for your assignment."

Kritt, being a Rear Admiral, wasn’t just a typical officer overseeing the usual divisions. His job was to lead a permanent military force, stationed in key strategic locations.

Every few years, he’d be moved to a different hotspot, depending on the needs of the Alliance.

Lyra thought the whole process would be straightforward, but things took a turn when her medical exam results came back. Her enlistment papers were flagged and put on hold.

When Kritt heard about it, he immediately stormed into the office of the officer in charge of application reviews.

"Vice Admiral Calvin," the officer greeted, pulling out a copy of Lyra’s medical report, "I believe the issue is clear. Lyra has a serious respiratory condition, which is listed as disqualifying."

The Alliance had strict health standards for military service, and respiratory issues were on the list of non-negotiables.

Military academies might be more lenient for cadets training in specialized roles, but for the frontline units, the rules were ironclad. If Lyra were to have an episode in the middle of combat, it wouldn’t just put her at risk—it could jeopardize the whole team.

While the official position was based on protocol, the officer also knew that higher-ups were leaning hard on him to follow the rules to the letter. There was no wiggle room.

Kritt hadn’t expected bureaucratic red tape to rear its head this aggressively, even here.

Frustration simmered beneath the surface as he stepped out of the room to make a call. Meanwhile, Lyra stood by the doorway, calm and composed, while the office staff kept casting glances her way.

A few minutes later, Kritt returned, his face tight with concern.

Seeing that not even her uncle could cut through the red tape, Lyra decided to speak up. "I’m filing an objection."

The review officer blinked in surprise, his brow furrowing as he sized her up.

"The medical report is inaccurate," she stated firmly, her voice steady.

"Our medical professionals are some of the best. There’s no way they could—" the officer began, but Kritt quickly interrupted him.

"Then reexamine her. That’s within the regulations, isn’t it?"

Military protocol allowed for one re-examination if the applicant contested their results. The officer, now caught in a corner by their insistence, begrudgingly agreed. After all, what could change in a few hours?

When the new results came back, the officer stared at the paper in disbelief. "This... this can’t be right!"

The report now stated, clear as day: Subject’s health is in optimal condition.

Frantic, the officer shuffled through Lyra’s previous records, which still flagged her respiratory defect as a disqualifying factor. "You must have cheated!" he accused, his voice rising in frustration.

Lyra met his wild accusation with a steady gaze. "My illness was cured, just now," she said calmly, her tone leaving no room for doubt.

 

Chapter 198: Friendly Discussion

Forcibly ripping out a Soul Spike? Yeah, that kind of damage wasn’t something you could just walk off.

It was permanent, but Lyra had managed to finesse her way through the medical check by using her healing abilities to slap a temporary band-aid on the problem. Just enough to trick the system into giving her a pass.

Technically, the rules only blocked recruits with heavy genetic issues, radiation exposure, or contagious diseases, so she figured she was in the clear. Turns out, someone didn’t think so and used her condition to try and trip her up.

The review officer seemed a little too eager to throw her back into testing, but after taking a good look at Lyra’s calm, unbothered expression, he must’ve figured the results would hold.

"Alright, I’ll push your enlistment through," he finally grumbled.

How the others reacted to her making the cut was anybody’s guess, but one thing was for sure: her enemies weren’t waving any white flags. They were still gunning for her.

Kritt, meanwhile, had his own plans. He wanted her on his team, thinking that with him around, she’d be safe from most of the political landmines.

Even when he’d eventually be transferred, he was confident he could pull her along with him. With his backing, Lyra would have smooth sailing—or so he thought.

But when the final assignments dropped, the script flipped.

Lyra wasn’t heading to his unit. Nope, she got tossed into the infamous Reserve Corps.

This group was known as a dumping ground for spoiled elites—rich kids with no drive, using military service as nothing more than a resume booster. They stayed far from any real danger, happy to lounge around in cushy, low-stakes roles.

Kritt was fuming when he found out. He spent the rest of the day with a storm cloud over his head, apologizing profusely to Lyra afterward.

But she didn’t seem fazed. "Uncle Kritt, I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you. I should thank you for this."

Even a bad spot in the military was still part of the game.

Besides, it was becoming more obvious by the day that the nobles’ grip on the system was slipping.

...

The next morning, Lyra suited up in her fresh, pressed uniform and made her way to the Reserve Corps.

To her surprise, the place was buzzing with energy.

Right outside the captain’s office, a group of young guys in pristine white uniforms had gathered, shooting the breeze like a flock of hyperactive pigeons.

Their excitement dialed up the second they noticed Lyra.

"Yo, check it out, she’s here!"

"I remember her from the Mecha Tournament! She was a cute little thing back then, and now—damn, she’s all grown up into a real boss lady!"

"Man, she’s even hotter in person than in those online pics."

"Alright, bets are on. Who’s gonna charm her first?"

"Bro, take a look at her rank—none of us are in her league."

They practically fell over each other gawking at her. One bold dude even waved enthusiastically, yelling, "Hey Miss Shedd, how about grabbing a coffee after work?"

Lyra barely gave him a glance, replying flatly, "Not happening."

Her cool rejection just made them laugh even harder. They reminded her of the childish boys back in school who used to snap girls’ bra straps for fun, only now their antics were a bit more obvious—and annoying.

Worse, they were blocking her way to the office.

Lyra stopped at the bottom of the steps and raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me. Move."

Instead of stepping aside, they saw it as an invitation to keep messing with her.

"Did you hear that? She asked us to move!"

"Whoa, her face is going all ice-cold! Come on, throw us a smile!"

Of course, not everyone was acting like an idiot. Some hung back, watching the show from a distance, either too bored or too indifferent to join in.

Lyra reminded herself of the military’s code of conduct. No point in starting trouble on day one.

With a quick, fluid motion, she slipped through the cluster of men blocking the stairs like it was nothing, leaving them blinking in confusion.

When they tried to follow, she slammed the door shut in their faces before they could even react.

Standing straight, she announced with clear authority, "Ensign Lyra, reporting for duty."

The man was taking a nap with his hat tipped over his face. He jolted awake, scrambling just in time to grab it before it hit the floor. He blinked blearily at Lyra, clearly not all there.

His scruffy face and the faint whiff of alcohol gave away the fact that he probably hadn’t fully recovered from last night’s indulgences.

Yawning, he muttered, "Oh, you’re here. Just log your info into the system."

Lyra didn’t waste time, heading over to the opticomputer and typing away like a pro.

Meanwhile, the squad leader, Norman, leaned back in his chair, lighting up a cigarette and giving her a long, appraising look.

She didn’t belong here—that much was obvious. Too sharp, too driven, and way too beautiful. But her looks weren’t the issue.

No, the real problem was that the higher-ups had dumped her here with zero guidance. And frankly, what was she supposed to do? This unit wasn’t known for action or discipline. It was filled with noble slackers.

Norman himself had some noble blood and, much like the others, preferred to stay clear of all the political drama that came with military service.

The rowdy group outside was no help either. Norman could hear the soldiers goofing off, dodging their duties like they always did. There were no missions for them to run anyway.

Despite his rank, he knew better than to try to wrangle these guys into shape. They were mostly from big families—sometimes literally related by marriage—and nobody was about to take orders seriously.

The unit had their performance docked so many times that their scores were in the negatives, but no one was stressing over it.

By the time Norman snapped out of his cynical thoughts, Lyra was already finished at the computer and had turned to him.

"Excuse me, what should I be doing?" she asked, sounding eager.

Norman raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by her energy. Most people in this unit coasted along without asking for more.

But with a shrug, he said, "You know how it goes around here. We mostly wait for commands from up top or help with the occasional patrol or police operation."

The truth was, it was the kind of post that would smother any ambition under layers of boredom.

"I see," she replied, her voice calm but focused.

Glancing at the rank insignia on her uniform—just two notches below his own—Norman’s head started to pound from the noise of the slackers outside.

Then, a mischievous idea popped into his head.

With a sly grin, he added, "But you’re different. With your rank, you could take on extra responsibilities. How about whipping those guys into shape?"

It was mostly an excuse to dump some work on her, but to his surprise, Lyra didn’t flinch. Her eyes practically sparkled.

"Could I be assigned as a temporary squad leader or maybe even an acting instructor? That way, I’d have the proper authority to handle the training," she suggested, her tone hopeful but professional.

Honestly, with her rank, she could step into any unit and command at least a hundred soldiers. Since Norman was just looking to hand off some of his duties, he figured why not make it official?

Waving his hand lazily, he said, "Sure, why not. I’ll make you the squad leader of a special action team. Just go back to the system and update your title. After that, you can pick your team."

Of course, the unit’s organizational structure was a joke. There weren’t even proper teams in place—everything was chaotic.

After she logged the changes and finished up, Lyra excused herself, a noticeable spring in her step as she left the office.

Norman leaned back again, eyes drooping as he started to drift back into his post-drinking stupor. But just as he was about to nod off, a horrifying thought jolted him awake. ’Wait... that woman’s a Master Peculiar!’

Panic seized him as he jumped to his feet, rushing outside, his mind racing with worry about what she could’ve done to his men. Bursting into the courtyard, he froze at the sight before him.

His soldiers, normally lounging around with zero care, were now standing perfectly still like white marble columns. Frozen in upright positions, their faces stiff with shock.

The usual rowdy bunch, who spent more time chasing drinks and women than anything else, now had serious, almost solemn expressions—some even looked like they were on the verge of tears.

"Ma’am, what’s happening?" one of them stammered, his voice shaky with fear.

In the middle of it all, Lyra stood calmly, her gaze resting on Norman. "Oh, these are my team members. Thirty-one in total. I’ll be submitting the roster to you shortly."

"Team... team members?" Norman sputtered, his mind reeling.

He stood there, completely frozen, his mind spinning with disbelief.

These guys were the most problematic soldiers in the entire unit—the kind who skated by thanks to their high-status family ties, immune to discipline. And now they were supposed to be part of Lyra’s special action team?

"Yes," Lyra said, her voice steady and serene, "after some friendly discussions, they were more than happy to join my squad."

Norman couldn’t help but wince at the phrase "more than happy."

 

Chapter 199: Dealing with the Rabble

"Sir, if everything’s good to go, I’ll take them out for patrol duty now," Lyra said, exuding confidence.

As she spoke, Norman noticed the desperate, almost pitiful looks from the young troublemakers. He fidgeted nervously, rubbing his hands together. "W-Wait, you’re putting them to work already? Shouldn’t you get a little time to adjust first?"

"No need," Lyra replied, her gaze sharp as a blade. "I’ve got it under control."

Her eyes said what her lips didn’t: ’I’ll bring every last one of them back... even if they don’t want to.’

Norman caught the underlying threat and quickly waved his hand. "Alright, then, off you go."

He had Lyra here for precisely this reason—to put these entitled brats in their place. As long as things didn’t go too far, he wasn’t losing any sleep over it.

Yawning, he strolled back to his office, leaving Lyra to handle the rest.

The second the door closed behind him, Lyra dropped her formal salute and faced the lined-up recruits, who stood frozen like pale statues.

"Move out," she ordered.

Instantly, the ice crystals that had formed around their feet and throats dissolved, setting them free. The group of young men collapsed to the floor in a messy heap.

A blond guy, clearly the ringleader, sneered as he pointed a finger at Lyra. "You’re Lyra, huh? Go tell Benedict to apologize to me right now, or I’ll make you regret it!"

Before he could finish, a glowing whip of energy lashed out from Lyra’s hand, striking his face with a sharp crack. The air around her grew thick with tension, her powers putting everyone on high alert.

Without sparing a glance at the others, Lyra grabbed the boy by his collar, easily lifting his 90-kilogram body off the ground with a single hand like he was nothing more than a rag doll.

"Rubens Laberry," she said coolly. "And just how do you plan to make me regret? Gonna run home and cry to mommy and daddy?"

His face flushed with anger and humiliation as she tossed him aside like trash. "Go on, give it a shot, you spineless waste of space."

The insult landed harder than any punch, leaving Rubens’ face an embarrassing mix of pale and blush. Everyone knew the truth: if they had any real talent, they wouldn’t be stuck here, wasting time in this second-rate squad. But hearing her call them out for being whiny children—that stung more than anything.

Lyra adjusted her hat, the black braid running down her back swinging like a scorpion’s tail. Unlike the standard half-skirt uniform, she wore long trousers tucked into sleek, straight-cut boots, highlighting her tall, lean frame.

"Move. Now."

When no one budged, Lyra’s eyes narrowed. Behind her, dozens of glowing tendrils began to unfurl, twisting ominously like serpents ready to strike. "Or do I have to drag you out myself?"

Faces twisted in frustration. They wanted to resist, to fight back, but the memory of Rubens being manhandled so easily kept them in check.

Still sitting on the floor, Rubens decided to switch tactics. "We’re all injured! That freezing trick you pulled? Gave us frostbite. I need to go home and rest."

Just as the words left his mouth, a warm glow surrounded the group. Lyra’s healing abilities kicked in, erasing every bruise, scrape, and ache—even tiny paper cuts vanished in an instant. There was no room left for excuses.

But Rubens wasn’t ready to give up. He crossed his arms and leaned back like he was the victim. "Fine, but I’ve been traumatized—psychologically. I’m too messed up to move."

Lyra’s fingers twitched, and one of the glowing tendrils shot forward, wrapping around him like a constricting snake. "A nice long walk should do wonders for that," she quipped dryly.

The sight of Rubens bound and helpless finally shattered the last bit of defiance in the others. Without a word, they exchanged glances and stood up all at once, pale but resolute.

They knew there was no point in resisting. Fighting back would only end in humiliation, and complaining? That’d just dig them into a deeper hole. The sooner they followed along with Lyra’s plan, the sooner they could salvage whatever scraps of dignity they had left on Elden Prime.

With that, Lyra reached out to the patrol division, informing them that her squad was ready to join the city patrols.

She requested a route map, and, hearing the surprise in the officer’s voice on the other end of the line, she led her thirty-one recruits out the door and into the streets, ready for their first patrol.

Norman stood just behind his office curtains, peeking out with a smirk on his face.

Clicking his tongue in amusement, he muttered to himself, "Well, this is about to get interesting."

The gap between the nobility and the commoners had always been a favorite topic for the media, a juicy bit of drama waiting to be exploited.

And now, with the Reserved Corps—famously the army’s dumping ground for rich kids and misfits—suddenly thrust into the public eye, the situation was anything but ordinary.

Throw in Lyra, a rising star fresh out of the academy, and you had a recipe for headlines. Everyone would be buzzing about this.

As Lyra’s squad marched through the bustling streets of Central City, commuters heading to work or school couldn’t help but stop and stare.

A squad in full uniform was rare enough, but spotting HER? The crowd was buzzing in seconds.

"Yo, is that... Lyra?"

"Wait, no way... Oh, damn, it really IS her! What’s she doing here in Central City?"

"Hold up, aren’t those guys behind her from the Reserved Corps?"

Phones were out in a flash, and people started recording the scene. It didn’t take long for word to spread, and soon enough, the city’s ever-eager reporters came rushing in, looking to catch the next big story.

"Miss Shedd! Can you tell us why you’re working with the Reserved Corps?" one shouted, shoving a camera toward her.

Lyra stopped, her expression as serious as ever. She pushed the camera aside gently but firmly. "I’m on duty right now," she said, her tone leaving no room for debate. "No private interviews, please."

The whispers spread like wildfire: "She’s in the Reserved Corps?"

"Wait, weren’t you an Ensign when you graduated? Why’d they put you in the Reserved Corps? Is this some kind of punishment?" another reporter pressed, trying to bait her into a response.

Lyra kept it professional. "I can’t answer that. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re on patrol. Please step aside," she said, her voice steady.

But the reporters weren’t backing down. ’There’s definitely something juicy here,’ they thought. Lyra was headline gold, and they knew it.

When they couldn’t get any answers from her, the cameras and microphones quickly turned to the squad members—those spoiled noble kids who usually spent more time dodging responsibilities than embracing them.

"Why is Miss Shedd working with you?"

"What made the Reserved Corps start taking missions all of a sudden?"

Rubens was the most notorious of the bunch. He was known more for his escapades with actresses than for anything remotely military, and he became the main target.

He’d barely been freed from the glowing tendrils binding him when the cameras started closing in. Sensing the spotlight on him, he tried to stand tall, though it seemed more like Lyra had allowed him this mercy.

Annoyed, he rolled his eyes. "You think we WANTED this? It’s all because—" He trailed off when he caught Lyra’s gaze. Her eyes locked onto his, and with just a subtle tilt of her head, she sent a clear message: ’Watch yourself.’

Ruben’s arm still ached from where she had restrained him, and he wasn’t eager for a repeat. Grinding his teeth, he forced himself to speak. "It’s because Lyra is our new special ops squad leader," he mumbled reluctantly.

In that moment, it clicked for Rubens: Lyra wasn’t just managing them—she was using them. She was building her own reputation, and they were just the stepping stones.

Suddenly, the attention was back on her. Reporters swarmed with renewed energy, sensing a story bigger than Rubens’ gripes.

"Ensign Shedd, are you planning to reform the Reserved Corps? How do you plan to accomplish that?"

"How’s the dynamic between you and the squad so far?"

"With most of your team being from noble families, are you trying to change how the public views the Reserved Corps?"

Realizing they’d found a loophole—Lyra wasn’t taking personal questions, but work-related ones? Fair game—they piled on.

Lyra didn’t miss a beat. She gave a calm, collected smile. "Whether it’s the active military or the Reserved Corps, we’re all paid by the taxes of Alliance citizens. It’s our duty, no matter which unit we serve in, to protect and contribute to the well-being of the people."

Her voice was steady, clear, and full of purpose. "The Reserved Corps may not have the best reputation right now, but starting today, we’ll be working to change that. Our goal is to protect the citizens of the Alliance, and I encourage you all to hold us accountable."

Her words hit hard, her sincerity shining through. Within minutes, clips of her speech were all over social media, sparking debates and conversations throughout the city.

"That’s my girl! She can do no wrong!"

"Pfft, are you kidding? The Reserved Corps is just a bunch of spoiled brats in uniform. No way they’re going to change anything."

"Yeah, yeah, but I’ll be keeping an eye on this one. Let’s see if she can back it up."

Not all nobles were as useless as the members of the Reserved Corps. Yet, because of this particular group of slackers, all the nobles had become a symbol of incompetence in the eyes of the public.

In contrast, the military had long been seen as the embodiment of sacrifice and dedication, thanks to its efforts in expanding territories and surviving fierce battles.

This growing divide was one of the reasons why the nobility, once dominant, was increasingly marginalized and pushed into a shrinking space of influence.

For an entire day, Lyra led her squad around the city, doing nothing more than simple patrols.

They handled small tasks like maintaining traffic order, retrieving malfunctioning cleaning robots, and settling minor disputes between citizens.

These were hardly the heroic feats expected of a military unit, but every moment was caught on camera by the reporters trailing behind them, turning even these mundane actions into newsworthy stories.

 

Chapter 200: Falling Out

By the time the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting its fading glow, Lyra had already led her squad of thirty-one back to their original formation.

She checked the time, then turned to face the disgruntled faces staring her down.

The group was clearly over it—frustration practically radiated off of them.

"Alright, you’re free to go. Don’t forget to show up on time tomorrow," Lyra said coolly, though there was a playful bite to her words.

The group collectively rolled their eyes, mentally drafting excuses to get out of it. As expected, Rubens was the first to pop off. He let out an exaggerated scoff, stomping forward with all the grace of a toddler mid-tantrum.

"The hell I’m showing up again tomorrow!" he barked, voice dripping with irritation. Then, with a dramatic huff, he stormed off, seething.

Lyra’s eyes followed their retreating backs, her lips curling into a slight, satisfied smirk. The way these guys puffed themselves up amused her. They thought they could intimidate her, but Lyra was no fool. She’d already gotten in their heads.

A beep from her opticomputer broke Lyra’s focus. She answered the call, Morrison’s voice buzzing through the speaker. "Boss, media’s eating it up. Just like you said—it’s trending."

"Perfect. Keep the ball rolling," Lyra replied, saving the data to her files with a quick tap.

The last rays of sunlight filtered through the Aegis Shield’s protective field, casting a faint blue glow over the city.

Lyra’s eyes gleamed with ambition. Her desire to succeed burned so fiercely that it rivaled the fading light. Anyone who thought they could stop her now? Yeah, they’d need her permission first.

Her phone rang again, this time with Kritt’s name flashing across the screen. He was checking in, as usual. "So, how’s life in the Reserved Corps?"

Lyra’s response was breezy, casual. "I think I’m doing just fine."

Kritt, sitting in his own quarters, scrolled through the latest headlines on his tablet. Her short answer didn’t fool him for a second. There was something else simmering underneath that casual tone.

"As long as you’re doing fine," he said, pausing before tossing out his next question. "What’s next on your agenda?"

Kritt wasn’t buying into the idea that Lyra was stirring up all this media attention for kicks. The sudden spike in online debates about noble privilege, public opinion, and the effectiveness of the Special Operations Squad? All signs pointed back to her.

"Oh, nothing major," Lyra replied, playing it cool. "Just tagging along with the patrols."

But there was an unmistakable spark in her voice, a glimmer that hinted she was holding her cards close, waiting for the right moment to play.

...

The following morning, Lyra arrived early—earlier than usual. To her surprise, Norman, the laziest in the bunch, was already there, waiting.

"Good morning, Ensign. Can I have a word in my office?" he called out as soon as she stepped into view.

Inside, Norman sat behind his desk with a tray of egg tarts and a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. His expression was a mix of contemplation and discomfort, as though he was wrestling with something unspoken.

Just the day before, his father—who rarely had a good word to say—had actually praised him. "Getting Lyra to wrangle those undisciplined brats was your best move yet," he’d said.

After years of trying to impress his father, Norman knew why this sudden approval had surfaced. Thanks to Lyra, public opinion of the nobles had ticked upward, even if only slightly.

"Is something wrong, Squad Leader?" Lyra asked, breaking the silence.

Norman broke into a grin. "No, no. Everything’s good. I just wanted to say you did great yesterday."

He gestured to the food in front of him. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

"I’ve already eaten, but thank you, sir," Lyra replied, offering him a polite salute before heading for the door.

As soon as she left, Norman exhaled in relief, dragging his hands over his face. Good grief. How was anyone supposed to relax with someone as intense as her around?

Just as Lyra exited the office, she nearly collided with Rubens—the very same guy who’d proudly declared the day before that "the hell I’m going to show up again."

The look on his face? Absolutely priceless. The awkwardness radiated off him in waves, and the other team members, who had also been wary of facing Lyra, found a bit of comfort in seeing Rubens’ humiliation.

Despite all their big talk yesterday, they were all here. Any applications for leave they’d carefully prepared had been unceremoniously ripped apart by their families. Their fathers and grandfathers had ensured they reported for duty.

And why? Simple. They needed those military titles and honors to spruce up their family names, to keep their noble status intact.

Without them, the power these families held would slip through their fingers, their privileges snatched away, and their influence slowly but surely erased from the military ranks.

Lyra’s actions the previous day may have flown under the radar of the general public, but the nobles saw through it with crystal clarity.

Her strategy was obvious—she was aligning herself with the noble class, stirring up attention to make her next move against the senior officers in the military who had been gunning for her.

For the nobles, this was a turning point, a clear signal that it was time for them to step in.

Rubens, of course, had thrown a fit, vowing to do anything to avoid being stuck in her squad. But his father had shut that down with an iron resolve, saying, "Even if you’re nothing but a corpse, you’ll be placed in her unit!" Now, face-to-face with Lyra, Rubens saw the gleam in her eyes—a look that seemed to say, ’Good boy.’

And it wasn’t just Rubens. Even the ones who had been passed over the day before started coming forward, nervously shuffling their feet. "Ensign, can we join the Special Operations Squad?" they asked, voices shaky but determined.

Lyra’s gaze was as cold as ever, but her response was brief and to the point. "Of course." The more, the better—it only made things more interesting for her.

Once the patrol routes were secured, Lyra didn’t waste any time. This wasn’t going to be another day of wandering around aimlessly.

She hopped into the driver’s seat of a prison transport van and made a direct beeline to one of Central City’s upscale establishments.

Reporters were already lurking nearby, and Lyra spotted one giving her a subtle signal. She nodded back, then turned to her squad, who looked thoroughly confused by this detour.

"Guard the area. No one gets in or out until I’m back," she ordered.

With her mission recorder activated, Lyra marched into the building, fully aware of what was waiting inside.

Upstairs, a shady deal was going down, but the moment they saw her, panic set in.

They fought back, guns blazing and superpowers flying, but Lyra’s energy shield deflected every attack effortlessly.

As the leaders of both sides scrambled to escape, she unleashed her own abilities, binding them in place with ease.

In just five minutes, the entire operation was dismantled.

Down below, the reporters filmed the entire bust, their fingers already typing out flashy headlines.

Before the dust had even settled, news blasted across the media: "Breaking: Lyra leads Special Ops in bust of Broken Blades’ smuggling ring—arrests reveal shocking identities!"

Rubens and the rest of the squad watched in stunned silence as Lyra dragged out high-profile criminals, one after another. They were speechless. ’Can we ever pull off something like that?’

But Lyra wasn’t done. After tossing the criminals into the van like yesterday’s trash, she turned to her team, who still hadn’t recovered from the shock. "Let’s go. We have another target."

Another one?

The squad followed her to an inconspicuous building, which at first glance seemed unremarkable.

But upon entering, they discovered a dark secret—it was a brothel, filled with women who had been forced into prostitution, many of them trafficked.

Without missing a beat, Lyra apprehended the manager, quickly digging out the identity of the operation’s mastermind and taking him down, too.

By midday, Lyra had taken down not one, but TWO major criminal operations. Her team, who had expected a routine day of patrol, were left reeling.

The van was packed with criminals and victims, and the sheer scale of what had just unfolded was almost too much to process.

When they finally returned to the patrol headquarters, the Director looked as if he might pass out from the stress. His eyes widened as he stared at the number of arrests. ’Did she seriously just bring in all these people?’

"Do you even know who these people are?!" he cried, his voice shaking with disbelief.

Lyra, completely unfazed by his panic, responded calmly. "Given their special status, I’ll need you to detain them for now. I’ll submit the evidence to the court this afternoon."

The Director, clearly unsettled by the dark glares the prisoners were giving him, swallowed nervously. "Technically, we’re supposed to handle this type of case..."

"No need." Lyra’s smile was thin but knowing. "I’m afraid your familiarity with these individuals might complicate things."

True to her word, Lyra didn’t waste time. By that afternoon, she had submitted all the evidence to the military court, dropping a political bombshell on the upper brass.

When the chief justice reviewed the details of the case, even he—a man who had seen more than his fair share of scandals—felt a shiver run down his spine.

Among the criminals were none other than the relative of Admiral Dale, who had been caught selling stolen military weapons to space pirates, and Admiral Vince’ nephew, deeply involved in human trafficking, illegal detainment, and the abuse of young women.

These were the very admirals who had publicly declared that Lyra didn’t belong in the military, who had tried to squash her career at every turn.

Now, with their own family members implicated in serious crimes, the tables were turning.

Their reckoning had arrived, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.