Ch. 206..210: Interstellar_ Return of the Villain Chapter 206-210

Chapter 206: Gossip? Lyra?

As the surveillance footage concluded, King Edmund gave Lyra a meaningful look before turning to the Admirals. "It seems the facts are quite clear now," he said calmly.

Frederick nodded, his face cold and unreadable. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he replied.

His gaze shifted to Eddie. The guy’s once arrogant expression now filled with shame.

"According to military law, report for punishment tomorrow," said Frederick.

As an admiral, and a fleet admiral at that, Frederick had the authority to bypass lower-ranking commanders and directly impose disciplinary measures, much to the dismay of Admiral Dale and Admiral Vince.

Their faces paled, but they couldn’t challenge Frederick’s authority, especially not in front of so many witnesses.

The whole situation had turned into a public humiliation, not only for them but for Eddie and his group, who had come looking for trouble only to be thoroughly defeated.

They were sure to become the laughingstock of the military and even the entire Alliance for some time.

With the incident seemingly resolved, the soft melodies of string instruments began to fill the air from the banquet hall, signaling the end of the drama.

The guests, following King Edmund, returned to the hall, eager to continue the evening.

Benedict approached Lyra, his eyes scanning her for injuries. Only when he saw she was unharmed did he breathe a sigh of relief.

"It’s outrageous! The military is full of lunatics!" he exclaimed, shaking his head at the audacity of causing a scene at the King’s banquet.

Noticing Lyra’s calm demeanor, he sighed. "Next time something like this happens, at least notify me. I may be old, but I can still have your back."

"I will," Lyra replied, though she wasn’t entirely confident in relying on Benedict as a solid protector. The nobility, after all, was losing its grip on power.

Just then, Aurelius, the prince, approached. With a graceful bow, he extended his hand. "Miss Shedd, may I have the honor of a dance?"

All eyes turned toward them. Lyra’s lips curved into a delicate smile, like a blooming rose. "Of course," she said, taking his hand.

As she placed her hand on his shoulder, her elegant facade momentarily gave way to a hint of coldness.

"You’re quite persistent, aren’t you?" she remarked, her tone icy beneath the politeness.

"I’m simply following orders," Aurelius responded coolly, his eyes briefly scanning the room. "Do you realize how many people have their eyes on you? They all want something."

Lyra, with her striking beauty, unmatched talent, and powerful superpowers, was a rare prize—one many coveted.

Beneath the ballroom’s golden lights, the ice-blue gemstone on her necklace shimmered, casting a faint glow against her pale skin.

She looked ethereal, like a star reflecting off freshly fallen snow. Yet, the cold glint in her eyes and the untouchable air around her made it clear that even those who desired her couldn’t get too close. To reach for her would be to risk getting burned—or rather, frozen.

Valeria, sipping her red wine in satisfaction, watched the young woman move effortlessly through the sea of admirers.

Turning to Frederick, she remarked with a chuckle, "I took a stroll around the garden just now. Aside from those poor fools who got beaten up, not a single flower petal or leaf was harmed. This girl’s control is something else."

The level of precision it took to manage such power without collateral damage spoke to the immense psychokinetic abilities Lyra possessed.

"Not surprising," Frederick said, his tone measured. He had clearly anticipated this level of skill.

Cohen noticed their conversation. His eyes were flickered with curiosity, as if there was something he wasn’t being told.

Valeria, always mischievous, turned to Cohen with a sly smile. "Cohen, since she’s your friend, why not ask her for a dance?"

Cohen nearly choked on his drink. ’Dance with her?’ He glanced over at Lyra, who had just finished her dance with Aurelius and was now being whisked away by Caspian for another round. He understood the underlying meaning of Valeria’s suggestion.

"No, thank you," he said quickly, standing up to pour drinks for his father and Valeria across from him. "She’s not someone who can be swayed by emotions or outside influences. She only deals in interests."

Cohen had spent enough time with Lyra to understand her well. She wasn’t someone easily moved by charm or affection.

"At the moment, she appears to be aligning with the nobles, but that’s only because she has no other choice. If you really want to win her over, it’s better to bring her into the military ranks. That’s been her goal all along. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have asked me for that NMA recommendation letter years ago."

Frederick nodded subtly. Lyra’s ambition was clear—she wasn’t content to be a mere pawn in the games of nobles and soldiers. She had her own plans, and joining the military was a key step in achieving them.

Valeria raised an eyebrow at Cohen’s self-assured tone. "You sure seem to know her well," she remarked with a teasing glint in her eye. "I always thought you, like your father, were a stone that’d never crack for anything."

Cohen chuckled, shaking his head. "Ma’am, what are you even talking about?" He threw a glance at Lyra as she gracefully left the dance floor, leaving a trail of admirers and envious stares in her wake.

People like her, he thought, always left others looking at her distant backs, forever out of reach.

Frederick, watching his son’s brief distraction, said nothing but observed in his typical quiet, discerning manner.

As the evening progressed and the moon reached its zenith, the banquet finally came to an official close.

King Edmund made a few concluding remarks before formally ending the night.

Lyra, who had arrived in a royal convoy, was naturally escorted out the same way. This time, though, Aurelius personally opened the car door for her, a move that caught the attention of everyone present, making the exit all the more dramatic.

Outside, the waiting journalists went wild, cameras flashing like a starry night as they captured the moment. Their minds were already racing to draft tomorrow’s front-page headlines.

Settling into the back seat, Lyra glanced up as Aurelius leaned in, his voice low and serious. "If I were you, I wouldn’t get too wrapped up with the nobility right now."

The meaning was clear—the noble class was sinking, and anyone too close would eventually go down with them.

Reclining comfortably, Lyra responded without a care. "Ever heard the saying? Even when a tree’s about to fall, it still casts a long shadow."

Just before the car door shut, her eyes caught Admiral Dale’s from across the garden.

She offered him a faint smile—a gesture that only darkened the old man’s already stormy expression. The rage simmering behind his eyes was palpable, but Lyra wasn’t the least bit fazed.

Unless Dale was prepared to attack a royal convoy in front of so many journalists’ lenses, there was little he could do to her.

Admiral Dale clenched his fists but restrained himself. He wasn’t that reckless. As the convoy sped off, he spat bitterly, "Arrogant little..."

Vince, standing beside him, chuckled, attempting to soothe the old man’s anger. "Why are you so worked up? She’s just a nuisance. Nothing more."

Despite the tension, the two Admirals exchanged knowing glances. The ballroom may have been filled with nobles and military elites, but the divide between them had never been more obvious.

Vince’s smirk grew. "Let them enjoy their little victories. The Alliance Assembly is just around the corner. We’ll see how long their smugness lasts."

With that, the two Admirals headed to their respective Lev vehicles, the undercurrents of their plotting hanging in the air.

Aurelius, overhearing their whispered exchange, let out a quiet scoff. Whether the noble faction sank or swam was of no consequence to him. Even if their ship were unsinkable, it wouldn’t be enough to change his fate.

...

The next morning, the royal banquet dominated the news and social media, with endless chatter about who wore what and how much their outfits had cost.

But all the gossip paled in comparison to the headline that skyrocketed to the top of the trending list: "Prince Aurelius and Lyra Shedd: A Royal Romance?"

Accompanying the article were photos of Aurelius and Lyra dancing together, as well as the now-iconic shot of him personally escorting her to the royal Lev.

The comment section exploded with fans "shipping" the pair, calling them a perfect match, with some even pleading for a royal wedding.

It was clear the narrative was being tightly controlled—any dissenting comments were quickly buried under waves of praise.

Meanwhile, Lyra, sitting in her office, couldn’t help smirking at the absurdity of it all. The gossip was almost too ridiculous.

"Boss, should we do something about this?" Morrison asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

The thought of his no-nonsense boss being caught up in some romantic scandal seemed so absurd, it was almost laughable.

The idea of his boss being involved in a romantic scandal felt more like seeing pigs fly than anything real.

"The royal family making a move on YOU? The nerve of them..." he muttered.

Lyra waved it off, completely unbothered. "No need. Let them play their games. It’s out of my hands anyway."

She leaned back in her chair, her smile widening. "Let’s sit back and watch them tear each other apart."

The fuse had been lit, and now Lyra had positioned herself perfectly, watching as the fires of rivalry between the military, nobility, and the royal family grew hotter. She knew exactly how to fan the flames when the time came.

...

Soon enough, the highly anticipated Alliance Assembly kicked off, drawing representatives from every faction in Alliance. The atmosphere was tense, the weight of ambition and power hovering over the proceedings.

But the first shockwave hit early in the session when the military delegation proposed a bombshell reform: the revocation of the nobility’s right to private land ownership.

Chapter 207: The Battle Begins

Nobles had always enjoyed a cushy spot in society, mainly because they could flex their rights over their lands and the people living there.

But ever since the interstellar era kicked off, the Alliance took over the direct management of the population. The only real perk nobles had left was controlling their land—and even that was a huge deal. It was what kept them afloat and somewhat relevant.

These land rights were their secret weapon, allowing them to keep production costs low, which helped them compete with their well-funded commercial rivals, especially those bankrolled by the military.

If they ever lost this advantage, it’d be game over. With no cutting-edge tech and no land rights, they’d be crushed by the high costs of leasing property.

They’d be completely shut out of the business game, and that would be the final nail in the coffin for the noble class.

The worst part? History had proven that once nobles lost control over land, it was the beginning of their downfall.

As the military pushed into new star systems, the Alliance kept expanding like wildfire. In these new territories, nobles found themselves on the sidelines because the government owned the land.

After all, who’s gonna pay sky-high rent when the state’s giving land away for free? The farther out you went from Elden Prime, the more powerless the nobility became. In distant areas like Snowfall and Planet Nagano, nobles were basically invisible.

Now, Admiral Dale and his crew decided to hit the nobility right where it hurt. The second he made his move, every noble in the council locked eyes on him, their gazes sharp as knives. But the guy was cool as a cucumber, unbothered as he went on with his speech.

"Today, the Alliance’s need for more resources is growing fast. Yet, the nobility is sitting on a ridiculous amount of land, and it’s holding us back. So, I suggest we do away with private land ownership."

And with that bombshell, he stepped down.

The assembly president took over and his voice boomed across the chamber. "Any objections?"

There were nearly a thousand representatives in the room, and while their reasons for being there varied, their interests often crossed paths.

Some had ties to the military and held land-based titles from the royal family. Others were nobles who had wiggled their way into the government or military ranks.

It was a tangled web of priorities.

But, these were just the small fish. The real power was with those whose interests were locked in with the military and government.

Admiral Dale knew this and sat with a cocky grin, fully expecting the outcome. Even if every noble voted "no," it wouldn’t be enough to shift the tide.

The tension in the room was thick. The king, admiral, and president sat stone-faced, unable to vote but still brimming with anxiety.

No one was more invested in the outcome than they were.

Every second of the proceedings was broadcast live, and even the viewers could feel the high-stakes tension. But despite the weight of it all, no one—noble or otherwise—voiced any objections.

Finally, the assembly president gave the command. "Let the voting begin."

On the massive screen, two columns appeared—one for "yes" votes and one for "no." The "yes" votes shot up fast, like a rocket.

Clearly, many had made up their minds before the meeting even started.

Admiral Dale exchanged a smug look with Vince. Everything was going according to plan.

Then, things took a wild turn.

Their smirks faltered as the "no" votes started to climb. And they didn’t just climb—they surged. In no time at all, the "no" votes blew past the "yes" votes.

"Wait... what the hell’s happening?" Admiral Dale leaned forward, staring at the screen in disbelief. His eyes went wide—he hadn’t imagined it.

The opposition was way more powerful than he ever anticipated.

...

Seeing the livestream, Lyra couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

"If that old geezer had targeted any of the nobles’ smaller perks—like the bonus points they get to enter the military academy or land cushy government jobs—he might’ve pulled it off," she said with a smirk. "But nope, he went straight for land rights, the one thing that props up their whole power structure."

As expected, another representative quickly stepped up with a fresh proposal, this time targeting the nobles’ special treatment when joining the military.

"We all know," the representative started, "that soldiers are ranked based on their combat skills and strength. Lowering the bar to let in unqualified people just increases casualties and wastes resources. So, I suggest we get rid of the nobles’ special privilege for military entry and make everyone meet the same standards."

The meaning was crystal clear: nobles should be risking their necks on the frontlines like everyone else.

But let’s be real—most noble-born recruits were tucked away safely in the Direct Force, far from actual danger. This proposal aimed straight at the Reserved Corps, where these nobles hid out.

The military was all for it, the government cheered, and once again, the nobles found themselves taking hits.

No shocker here—the proposal passed.

But the nobles saw it coming and were already planning their next move. One noble representative stood up, a slick grin on his face.

"Recently, there’s been some buzz about Admiral Dale’s involvement in a military equipment smuggling scandal, exposing the corruption rampant in our forces. I propose that all military equipment be standardized and controlled by the government, replacing the current system of grants with direct government purchasing. This will stop local units from buying supplies on their own."

Now, military equipment was the biggest expense, hands down. The proposal didn’t cut the military’s funding, but it did take away a big avenue for corruption. No more shady deals with local businesses handpicked by officers. This change would hit both the crooked officers and the merchants getting fat off inflated prices.

At first glance, the government seemed like the big winner, slashing costs by cracking down on corruption. But the nobles, many of whom had business ties in those industries, saw a golden opportunity. If they played it right, they could still secure fat profits by brokering deals with the government.

The vote came in, and it was official—the proposal passed.

The nobles, despite being a smaller faction, had enough sway to turn the tide.

In this political three-way tug-of-war, two sides were always stronger than one, and today the nobles played their cards right.

As the session wrapped up for the morning, Admiral Dale stormed out of the chamber, his face twisted with rage.

His grand plan had blown up in his face, and it was obvious that it wasn’t just the nobles who had voted against him.

Even though the voting was anonymous, Dale had a gut feeling that some of his supposed military and government allies had stabbed him in the back.

Fuming, he made a beeline for Valeria. "You old witch, did you vote against me?!"

Valeria barely glanced his way, giving him a bored look. "Aside from you and that other fossil, everyone else in the military stayed out of it."

Dale’s jaw dropped. "Then it was the government! What are they thinking?!"

It didn’t make sense to him. "Aren’t they all supposed to be in this together, trying to take down the nobles?"

Valeria let out a dry laugh. "You really don’t get it, do you? All brawn and no brains." She pulled out a cigarette, flicked her fingers, and with a crackle of static, it lit up.

She took a slow drag, blowing the smoke out as she eyed him with a mix of pity and amusement.

Before Admiral Dale could even get another word out, Valeria raised an eyebrow, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you even have a clue how much cash the nobles rake in every year from the businesses operating on their land? And the tax they pay? We military folks are always crying for bigger pensions, more funding—but where do you think that money actually comes from, you idiot?"

Even the younger officers like Cohen understood the never-ending struggle of securing military budgets. But these old veterans had gotten way too cozy and were now bold enough to bite the hand that fed them.

If the nobles decided to pull back from the tax system, that would cause endless chaos for the Alliance’s economy. It wouldn’t just be a hit—it’d be a full-on catastrophe.

Looking at how smoothly the government had approved the new military procurement plan, it was clear as day. The moment there was talk about cutting costs, they’d greenlight just about anything.

Admiral Dale was left speechless, his face contorting in frustration. All he could do was grumble under his breath, "These foxes!"

Valeria, exhaling another lazy cloud of smoke, eyed him coolly. "Foxes? Sure. But at least they know how to keep the Alliance’s wheels turning."

Dale puffed out his chest, his pride wounded. "Without the military standing guard out there, where would they get the guts to run anything at all?"

His tone was heavy with self-righteous anger, so much so that Valeria nearly choked on her cigarette.

Coughing and clearly done with the conversation, she turned her back on him without another word. These old fools—they were beyond help at this point.

For the next three days, the Alliance Assembly was a battlefield of heated debates and convoluted power plays.

Every faction was trying to protect their own interests, and by the end of it, no one came out unscathed. Each side had to swallow a mix of wins and losses.

But as the assembly finally wrapped up, a new Chapter was opening—one that would take an unexpected twist for Lyra and her path with the military.

 

Chapter 208: Joining the Special Force

Ever since Dale and Vince touched down on Elden Prime, Lyra had barely set foot outside the Calvin family, except for the royal dinner.

She kept herself on lockdown, like a turtle hiding in its shell, avoiding any unnecessary drama.

The royal bodyguards tailing her every move, so for now, there was nothing Dale and Vince could do to her.

"Hmph! If she wants to join the military, let her. We’ll see how long she can hack it!" Admiral Dale grumbled, setting his plans against Lyra in motion. He stormed back to his post, still fuming with resentment.

Not long after the Alliance Assembly wrapped up, a whole wave of new regulations hit the military.

Lyra hadn’t even settled back into the Reserved Corps when news broke that her issue had been dissolved.

The military brass wasted no time reassigning its members based on their powers and combat skills, scattering them into other divisions.

And for those who’d been skating by without pulling their weight— They were kicked to the curb faster than you could blink, the military sending a very public message to the noble houses.

But that was just the way things rolled now. The noble families had to suck it up and figure out how to regain their influence within the reformed system.

During the restructuring, Kritt, once again, tried to snag Lyra for his division but came up short. Instead, she was shipped off straight to the Special Force.

The moment she got that assignment notification, Lyra almost laughed out.

Admiral Dale’s heavy-handed schemes were painfully obvious. He was either trying to box her out entirely or send her straight into the lion’s den, expecting her to fail.

His attempts were so transparent, they were almost charming in their stupidity.

The Special Force wasn’t just any unit—it was the top-tier group that handled all the dirty work no one else could manage.

Whether it was a rogue bioweapon, a new viral outbreak, or some shady mission involving espionage, the Special Force was thrown into the thick of it.

Simply put, they were the military’s ultimate problem solvers, but with the most dangerous jobs came the highest stakes.

Promotions were there for the taking, but only if you lived long enough to climb the ladder.

The mortality rate in this unit was a jaw-dropping fifty-six percent, and in the past ten years, the Special Force had seen three full wipeouts on missions.

It had earned them a dark nickname: "The Expendables."

Admiral Dale thought he was sending her to her doom, but he had no idea that this was exactly where Lyra wanted to be.

When Lyra finally showed up to report for duty at the Special Force, she was met with stares and whispers, much like when she first joined the Reserved Corps.

"No way! She’s fresh off the ship? And she’s that young? And a woman too?"

"I heard she caused so much drama in the Reserved Corps that they actually disbanded it."

"Seriously? She must be a handful."

"Isn’t she straight outta the NMA? I remember hearing about her from the AMAT competitions."

"Yeah, she’s got some kind of crazy healing superpower or something."

But unlike the Reserved Corps, which was full of entitled nobles, the Special Force was a whole different beast.

These soldiers weren’t just tough—they were built like brick walls, all muscle and experience. Even the women looked like they could bench press a small car.

The real giveaway was in their eyes. These weren’t the eyes of average soldiers. No, these people had seen things—ugly, brutal things. Their gazes were cold, sharp, always calculating the best way to take down a threat. It was the kind of hardened look even the most seasoned grand army vets struggled to achieve.

As Lyra stood there, the squad eyed her like she was a newborn lamb dropped into a den of wolves.

There was a mix of scorn for her lack of experience and curiosity to see if she’d survive her first mission.

"Ensign Lyra Shedd, Reporting for duty," she announced, knocking firmly on the office door of Unit T9’s administrative officer.

Unlike the loosely organized mess that was the Reserved Corps, the Special Force ran like a well-oiled machine. Everyone knew their role, and the chain of command was clear.

"Come in," came a woman’s voice from behind the door.

Hazel, the officer in charge, seemed to be in her mid-forties, with a sharp efficiency that matched her no-nonsense attitude.

She barely gave Lyra a glance as she began entering her records into the system.

Even though Lyra’s resume looked pretty good for someone her age, in the Special Force, those kinds of credentials didn’t hold much weight.

In this unit, only the most high-stakes missions counted for anything.

"Unit T9 has 200 members. You’ll be filling the spot of the Seventh Squad leader—the last one was KIA," Hazel said, her tone flat as if this was just another Tuesday.

Lyra raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting such a big role on her first day. Even with her reputation, she was still a newbie, and in a group packed with seasoned elites, getting assigned as a squad leader seemed... unusual.

Catching Lyra’s puzzled look, Hazel stamped her assignment papers with a heavy thud, offering a slight smirk. "In the Special Force, it’s all about power. If you weren’t so young and green, you’d be the vice-commander of the Force, easily, based on your combat strength alone."

The hierarchy in this unit wasn’t just for show. The Special Force commanders were serious heavy-hitters—level eight Peculiars ranked as Captains, while their deputies hovered around level seven.

Even the lower-ranking soldiers were nothing to sneeze at, most being level four or higher. It was clear this division didn’t mess around; it was filled with the best of the best.

Lyra felt a spark of excitement in this cutthroat environment. Strength and survival were the only currencies here. The stronger you were, the further you went. No politics, no games—just raw ability.

"Understood," Lyra replied, saluting before grabbing the unit’s rulebook and heading off to meet T9’s leader, Wolf. He was a giant of a man, dark-skinned, with curly brown hair and hands that could easily be mistaken for frying pans.

When she found him, he gave her a once-over and chuckled. "Holy hell, you’re even smaller in person than you looked in the vid. And prettier too. Good luck keeping those animals in Squad No. 7 in check, Ensign."

Lyra kept her expression neutral, but internally she was a bit surprised. She hadn’t encountered the pushback she was expecting from such an elite unit.

"I’ll try my best, sir," she said, already wondering when the real challenge would start. So far, no one had tried to put her through the wringer—yet.

Wolf’s teasing grin slowly faded as his tone shifted. "Don’t say ’try,’ kid. Around here, every day’s a fight for survival. You don’t just try—you do. Trust me, out of the batch I came up with five years ago, I’m the only one still breathing."

He made a lazy motion to slap her behind, but Lyra was quicker. She caught his wrist mid-swing, locking eyes with him, her voice cold. "I don’t do close."

Wolf pulled his hand back, a thin smile on his face, but his eyes told a different story. They had lost their warmth. "Alright, sweetheart. Go meet your squad. They’re training right now."

As Lyra made her way to the training grounds, she mentally ran through the profiles of her new squad members—names, ranks, their powers, and notable combat experiences.

Squad No. 7 had seventeen members: five women, twelve men, and none of them seemed the least bit welcoming.

When she arrived at the training field, she paused by the fence, observing.

The soldiers were decked out in standard military gear—white tank tops, green pants, and scuffed black boots.

The first five squads were off on a mission, leaving only squads six through ten behind.

Lyra immediately spotted the vice of T9 lounging under a parasol like he was at the beach. He had sunglasses on and a beer in hand, clearly unconcerned about what his squad was up to.

The rest of the leaders were equally relaxed, going through the motions of training, but their attitude screamed experience—these soldiers had walked the line between life and death so often that today’s drills were almost a joke to them.

No one was really watching their men too closely.

Lyra stood quietly, waiting. It didn’t take long before the soldiers began to notice her. Heads turned, eyes lingered, and soon enough, the other squads started shooting her curious glances, some even amused by the fresh face.

But her squad—the Seventh—they weren’t curious or amused. Their eyes were hard, their expressions almost hostile.

Clearly, they weren’t thrilled about their new leader.

Disdain rolled off of them in waves, and it was obvious they thought very little of her.

The real challenge had officially arrived.

Chapter 209: The Real Challenge

Lyra stepped forward with crisp precision, saluting in the classic military fashion.

Ryan, T9’s vice, downed his beer in one loud gulp, crushed the can in his hand like it was nothing, and tossed it to a nearby cleaning bot.

He then barked, "Everyone, fall in!"

The soldiers responded quickly, forming up in two neat rows. Squad No. 7, however, was sluggish, dragging their feet and barely managing to line up.

All eyes zeroed in on Lyra, who stood beside Ryan. Their gazes carried a blend of curiosity, doubt, and straight-up mockery.

To them, she looked too young, too soft. As if the moment needed an extra dose of awkwardness, Lyra coughed a bit from the dust kicked up by the training grounds, not exactly helping her first impression.

"Is she seriously a Level-Seven Peculiar?" someone muttered under their breath.

"I saw her in the AMAT vids, but she still looks too weak for this," another voice chimed in.

The whispers grew louder, rippling through the rows of soldiers.

Ryan caught the looks being thrown her way and, with a shrug, motioned toward the disorganized ranks of Squad No. 7. "Go meet your team," he said.

Lyra gave a nod and walked toward her squad, stopping in front of the ragtag group of misfits. Her expression stayed calm, her voice controlled as she introduced herself. "I’m Lyra Shedd, your new squad leader. Look forward to working with you."

Her words were steady, but they lacked the booming authority that these soldiers were used to.

It was as if she were making small talk at a casual meet-and-greet, not addressing a unit of elite soldiers.

The reaction was immediate: the other squads broke into laughter.

"Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding! She’s a kid!" someone snickered from one of the other groups.

"Did she really just say ’look forward to working with you?’ What does she think this is, a book club?" another laughed.

Ryan coughed loudly, trying to bring things back under control. "Alright, back to training," he said, giving Lyra a nod that felt more like a good-luck-you’ll-need-it gesture than a real show of support. "You’ve got three days to figure your squad out and get things running smooth."

The look on his face said it all: Don’t expect a miracle, kid.

At Ryan’s signal, the other squad leaders waved their teams off with a casual "Dismissed," and the soldiers scattered.

Squad No. 7, though, lingered, almost reluctant to follow orders.

At the front of the pack, a man and woman started to turn away, clearly ready to bolt, when Lyra’s voice cut through the air.

"I don’t believe I’ve dismissed you yet."

The entire training ground went dead silent. Soldiers from other squads, sensing this was about to get interesting, stuck around, eager to watch the drama unfold.

Squad No. 7 froze in place.

Standing at the front was a cocky red-haired man with a smug grin plastered on his face. He was built like a tank, arms crossed, and clearly thought very little of his new leader.

This was Marty, the squad’s strongest soldier—a Level-Six Therianthrope who could transform into a beast. He’d been with the squad longer than anyone, and had assumed he’d be leading it until Lyra showed up.

"And now what, MA’AM?" Marty asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Lyra met his gaze without flinching. "We’re going to get to know each other," she replied evenly, her tone still calm. She looked over the squad. "I can either call you out one by one, or you can step up on your own."

A collective groan rippled through the other squads.

"This girl really didn’t know how to handle this, did she?"

"How could she hope to control a bunch of soldiers if she was acting this soft?"

Squad No. 7 burst into laughter, with Marty leading the charge. He tilted his chin up, his grin widening as if he’d already won. "Why don’t you go ahead and call us out, LEADER?"

It was obvious that he didn’t consider her in charge. He figured he ran this show, and everyone else seemed to agree.

"Alright then," Lyra said, not fazed by the mockery. She calmly pulled out her opticomputer, scanning through the list of names. "Let’s start with you, Marty Zanis."

Marty rolled his eyes so hard it looked like they might stay that way. "Yeah, I’m here," he drawled lazily, standing right where he was without moving an inch.

"Step forward," Lyra said, her gaze locked onto him.

Marty took a half-hearted step, barely shifting his weight. It was the ultimate act of disrespect, a challenge to her authority right out of the gate.

His grin widened as he stared her down, silently daring her to do something about it.

The soldiers still watching were on the edge of their seats, waiting to see how she would handle this blatant insubordination. They weren’t expecting much.

Lyra let out a soft sigh, barely audible but somehow heavy with intent.

Before Marty even had a chance to react, a flash of green light shot out from Lyra, wrapping around his neck like a noose made of lightning.

In an instant, he was slammed hard into the ground, eating sand in a humiliating defeat.

His face contorted in rage as his body morphed into its beast form, covered in thick scales with a unicorn-like horn jutting from his forehead.

He thrashed wildly, sending up clouds of sand that turned the air into a dusty, choking haze. But no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t lift his head from the ground.

"Ugh, what a pain," Lyra muttered, sounding more annoyed than impressed.

With a dismissive wave of her hand, she pressed her foot onto Marty’s back, her power effortlessly disrupting the energy particles that fueled his transformation.

Within seconds, his beastly form was gone, and he lay there, back in his human skin, panting and defeated.

The entire training ground went still, jaws dropping as everyone tried to process what they had just seen.

Even Ryan, who had expected something to go down, was taken aback.

The murmurs about Lyra being too soft quickly died out. What they had just witnessed was a raw, overwhelming display of psychokinetic power.

Lyra hadn’t been soft—she had simply been polite. And now, everyone could see she wasn’t someone to be messed with.

Unbothered by the crowd’s shifting mood, Lyra looked down at Marty, who was still struggling to catch his breath.

"Since you seem to have trouble walking and standing properly," she said, her voice calm but biting, "you might as well stay down."

With Marty pinned beneath her, Lyra resumed calling out the names of the rest of her squad.

This time, there were no jokes or mocking laughter. One by one, the soldiers stepped forward when their names were called, each more respectful than the last.

Once she finished, Lyra closed her opticomputer and addressed the group.

"You’re free to resume your activities."

Squad No. 7 exchanged uncertain glances. ’That’s it? No further punishment, no grand speech?’

Most of them had expected her to hammer home her authority with some dramatic display, but Lyra seemed content to keep things simple.

Confused but not willing to test her again, the squad began to disperse.

Lyra finally lifted her foot off Marty’s back, releasing him from his humiliating position.

As she turned to leave, she tossed a final comment his way. "I’ve heard that Special Force soldiers take pride in surviving the toughest conditions. But showing arrogance when you’re clearly outmatched? That’s just dumb."

Marty’s face flushed red with anger and embarrassment. Deep down, he knew she was right. Going up against a Level-Seven Peculiar when he was still stuck at Level Six had been a pride-fueled mistake. And now, everyone knew it.

Lyra’s parting words weren’t just for Marty—they were a lesson for the entire squad, and it hit home.

With her authority established, Lyra made her way toward the other squad leaders, who had been watching the scene unfold with growing interest. "Nice to meet you all. I’m Lyra," she said, introducing herself with a nod.

The earlier display had earned her some respect, and no one doubted her strength now. If anything, they were intrigued.

She didn’t waste time with small talk and got straight to the point. "I’d like to know how you all manage your squads. Anything specific I should be aware of here in the Special Force?"

The squad leaders exchanged glances before the only female leader let out a chuckle. "Manage? With our death rate, recruits are always cycling in and out. There’s not much to ’manage.’"

Another leader chimed in, leaning against a post. "Yeah, you saw it yourself. These soldiers don’t expect to live long, so most treat training like a formality."

"All we do is make sure they don’t break any major rules," added a third leader. "We keep them on task, report for missions and roll calls. Screw that up, and it’s OUR heads on the line."

"In short," the last squad leader said with a shrug, "just keep them alive during missions. That’s all anyone expects."

It became clear to Lyra that the Special Force operated with a unique blend of chaos and structure.

Discipline here was looser than in most military units, but that was a product of the high-risk, high-death-rate environment they worked in. There was no time for micromanaging; survival was the only real rule.

Later that evening, after spending time observing how the other squad leaders handled their teams, Lyra felt like she had a solid grasp of how things worked.

The Special Force wasn’t just a unit—it was a closed-off world. They lived, trained, and fought within the confines of their military zone. When there were no missions, they were given a rare two days off each month, but otherwise, it was nonstop.

As they were winding down for the night, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the barracks.

A soldier rushed in with an update: the squads that had been out on a mission were returning.

The vibe shifted. A group of Special Force soldiers slowly staggered in, their uniforms torn and bloodied, their faces pale from exhaustion.

Some of them were missing limbs, and their skin was marred with radiation burns. Though they had been through medical treatment, many still bore fresh scars.

The sight was met with calm indifference by the soldiers still in the barracks. They had seen this all before. It was just another reminder of the brutal reality of the unit.

Lyra watched from her seat by the window, silently observing the worn soldiers as they trudged past.

Across from her, Hazel spoke quietly, her voice almost lost in the heavy air. "A forty percent death rate? Not bad this time, huh?"

Chapter 210: First Day

The grim reality of the shockingly high death rate became crystal clear. Yet, Lyra remained calm and composed, her face never betraying any emotion, as if she’d already accepted the brutal stakes of being part of the Special Force.

Across the table from her, Hazel sliced into her juicy steak with delicate precision. "Aren’t you afraid, Ensign?" Hazel asked, her tone casual, but there was a probing edge to her words.

Lyra barely blinked, her response as composed as ever. "Not really."

Hazel smiled faintly at the vagueness of her answer. "You’re well-suited for the Special Force," she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "We don’t go on many missions, but next time it’ll be Squad No. 5 through 10’s turn. We’ve got to replace the losses from the earlier groups."

Lyra nodded, acknowledging the grim rotation. She finished her meal without another word, her focus inward.

The next day brought a new wave of recruits, eager to take the places of the fallen.

Despite the daunting mortality rate, there were always those hungry for glory, willing to throw themselves into the grinder of the Special Force.

After evaluations, the survivors of the morning tests lined up, ready to fill any open spots when the next round of casualties inevitably struck.

That morning, Lyra waited on the training grounds, eyes scanning for her squad members.

As expected, some were late.

Marty, leading his usual clique of five soldiers, strolled in like he owned the place, smirks plastered across their faces as they casually approached with their hands stuffed in their pockets.

Ryan had just finished roll call. He shot a glance at Lyra. "You’ve got three days to get them in line. If you can’t handle them by then, brace yourself for the consequences."

"Understood," Lyra replied, her voice cool and emotionless. She didn’t flinch, even though some of the other soldiers nearby couldn’t help but feel a little sympathy for her. They knew what kind of trouble Marty and his group were.

Marty sauntered over, his usual cocky swagger on full display. "Sorry," he drawled lazily, barely trying to hide his smirk, "overslept this morning."

Lyra didn’t blink. "Points have already been deducted according to the rules," she said flatly.

Marty’s smirk deepened. He wasn’t worried in the slightest.

Lyra didn’t have the power to dock pay or bonuses; that was reserved for higher-ups.

And while repeated disobedience could lead to expulsion from the unit, Marty knew that under the Special Force’s collective punishment system, if his team got kicked out, Lyra would suffer too. To him, losing a few points was no big deal—just an annoyance at best.

Seeing her lack of anger only amused him more.

Ryan, sensing the brewing tension, gave a small shrug. "Alright, let’s get started."

The soldiers broke off into their usual training routines.

Some squads jogged laps, others paired up for sparring or tactical drills. Meanwhile, Squad No. 7 took their sweet time, barely going through the motions as they half-heartedly joined the others.

They clearly weren’t taking anything seriously, and it was obvious they were testing Lyra’s patience.

But Lyra didn’t seem to care. Arms folded across her chest, she stood back and watched with an air of detachment, as if she were merely an observer rather than their leader.

She didn’t look concerned by the growing tension between her and her squad.

After a while, one of the female members of Squad No. 7, Rowena, approached her.

Rowena, strong and self-assured, met Lyra’s gaze without hesitation. "Ensign," she said with a smirk, "how about a little sparring? No superpowers."

The challenge didn’t go unnoticed. Conversations dropped, and soldiers started paying attention.

Even Ryan pushed his sunglasses down to get a better look at what was about to go down.

Rowena was no pushover—one of Squad No. 7’s two Level-Six fighters, on par with Marty. She had been in line for squad leader before Lyra’s unexpected arrival had thrown a wrench in things.

Unlike Marty’s reckless show of force the previous day, Rowena’s challenge was strategic. By proposing a hand-to-hand fight with no superpowers involved, she leveled the playing field. It was a clever move.

From across the field, Marty scoffed. "Smart," he muttered under his breath.

Rowena was built like a bear, with strength that could put most men to shame.

Standing next to her, Lyra’s slim frame made her look almost fragile. The size difference alone seemed to promise a lopsided fight.

But Lyra didn’t hesitate. "Alright," she agreed, her voice as calm as ever.

The two women moved to the center of the training ground, and instinctively, the rest of the soldiers formed a circle around them.

Rowena and Lyra stood face to face.

Lyra was taller now, just over 175 cm, only slightly shorter than Rowena, but the contrast in their physiques was undeniable.

Rowena’s muscular frame was solid and powerful, while Lyra’s lean build made her look delicate by comparison.

To many, it seemed like a mismatch—Rowena’s thick arms alone looked like they could snap Lyra in half.

The morning sun bathed the sand in a soft glow. Suddenly, Rowena vanished, moving so fast that her form blurred.

In the blink of an eye, her fist was aimed directly at Lyra’s face, cutting through the air with deadly speed.

But Lyra was ready. She raised her arm at the last second, deflecting Rowena’s punch and seizing her wrist with a grip like iron.

Without hesitation, Lyra pushed off the ground, driving her knee upward toward Rowena’s midsection.

Rowena managed to block with her other hand, but the impact sent a shockwave of pain through her arm, her eyes widening in disbelief.

She had managed to deflect some of the force, but not enough.

A second later, Lyra’s knee connected with her abdomen, sending a surge of pain through her body that left her gasping for breath.

’How can someone this small hit so hard?’ Rowena thought, gritting her teeth as she pulled back to regain her balance.

Lyra’s strength was far beyond anything she’d expected.

Shaking off the pain, Rowena reset her stance and launched a rapid barrage of attacks—hook punches, palm strikes, and sweeping kicks.

Her speed was impressive, too fast for most to follow. But Lyra anticipated every move, effortlessly dodging and parrying each strike with precision.

Every time Rowena’s fist was met with a deflection, Lyra responded with a sharp counterstrike. One well-placed punch to Rowena’s knee nearly sent her to the ground, her leg going numb.

Rowena took a couple of steps back, her mind racing to figure out a new approach, but before she could even think, Lyra was already on her.

Moving with the speed and grace of a cheetah, Lyra drove her fist into Rowena’s stomach. The force lifted her off her feet.

Before anyone could react, Lyra grabbed her by the arm and effortlessly flipped her over her shoulder, slamming her into the sand.

The crowd watching was stunned. But Lyra wasn’t done.

In one fluid motion, she raised her fist high above Rowena, preparing to deliver a finishing blow with terrifying power. The speed and ferocity of the move left everyone holding their breath.

"I surrender!" Rowena cried out, her voice shaking.

Lyra’s fist came down, but instead of landing on Rowena’s head, it stopped just inches away, burying itself into the sand.

The ground trembled slightly from the impact, and Rowena’s heart pounded in her chest as she realized how close she had come to serious injury—or worse.

The sunlight, still creeping across the training ground, caught Lyra’s dark eyes, and something in her gaze extinguished any lingering defiance in Rowena. The energy of control and power that radiated from her was undeniable.

For a long moment, no one moved. The silence was thick, filled with the disbelief of what they had just witnessed.

Even Ryan, who had watched countless sparring matches, slowly pushed his sunglasses back up, realizing that Lyra was in a completely different league. He replayed the fight in his mind and couldn’t help thinking, ’Can I even last ten minutes against her?’

Lyra calmly pulled her fist out of the sand and shook off the dust. "Continue with training," she said, her voice calm but commanding.

The soldiers, still in a daze, quickly obeyed. Something in them told them to follow her orders instinctively.

A leader with this kind of strength didn’t need years of experience to command respect—her raw power was more than enough.

Over in the corner, Marty and his group were no longer lounging with their usual cocky expressions. One of his lackeys leaned in and whispered nervously, "Maybe we shouldn’t mess with her..."

Marty’s face darkened, but he didn’t say a word. He shot the guy a sharp glare. "If you want to follow her, go ahead," he muttered under his breath, clearly displeased with the shift in power.

The rest of his group fell silent, the tension among them thick and uncomfortable.

Lyra, who had noticed the exchange, turned her attention back to Rowena, who now stood beside her with a newfound respect in her eyes.

Rowena seemed eager to offer some insight. "Want to know why they follow Marty?" she asked, hoping to prove her loyalty.

Lyra unscrewed her water bottle, taking a casual sip. "Go on."

"Bruce and the others—they’re loyal to Marty because he saved their lives when they first joined the squad. They’ve been following him ever since," Rowena explained, her voice lowered.

Lyra raised an eyebrow as she screwed the cap back on her bottle, letting out a small chuckle. "That’s it? They follow him because of a single life debt?" She shook her head, an amused smile playing on her lips. "How stupid."

Rowena blinked, surprised. ’Stupid? Isn’t loyalty based on a life-saving act something honorable? Something most soldiers would value?’

"Whatever," Lyra said, tucking her bottle away and leaning against the wire fence. "As long as they don’t get in my way, I couldn’t care less."

Rowena was even more confused now. Surely Marty’s constant defiance would become a problem, especially if he continued testing the limits. Yet Lyra didn’t seem concerned in the slightest.

For the next two mornings, Marty and his crew continued to arrive late, swaggering in as if nothing could touch them.

Even though Ryan had warned that Lyra would face consequences if her squad didn’t shape up, she showed no signs of stress or urgency.

She remained calm, almost indifferent to their antics.

Then, on the fourth day, something completely unexpected happened.

When the first soldiers arrived at the training ground, they were greeted by an unusual sight: Marty and his crew, bound tightly by glowing green bands, writhing on the ground like helpless insects.

Their clothes were soaked with morning dew, and it was clear that they had been there, ALL NIGHT.