Top-Tier Omega: Chasing Alpha to the Crematorium – Chapter 89

Eternal Sleep in the Starry River

Two days later, the situation underwent a dramatic reversal.

Qin Mian suddenly publicly accused Zhan Li of framing the former President all those years ago, releasing a cache of evidence. At the same time, the Third Fleet, commanded by Ming Yu, joined forces with Qin Mian’s troops to surround Zhan Nansheng’s remnant forces.

            

On the Abandoned Mining Satellite, the battle-scarred Hanya was backed into a corner.

Zhan Nansheng sat in the cockpit, looking at the dense swarm of enemy ships surrounding her. Her expression was exceptionally calm.

Wu Lan’s spaceship slowly approached the star region illuminated by artillery fire.

            

Looking out from the viewport, Zhan Nansheng’s Hanya mech was like a wounded black hawk, circling in lonely orbit above a desolate satellite. Its right wing was already destroyed, and its armor was scarred with burn marks from ion cannons, yet it stubbornly maintained its combat posture. Surrounding it were the dense ranks of warships from Qin Mian’s fleet, their gun barrels gleaming with a cold, blue light.

“Let me go alone,” Wu Lan said to Ming Yu on the other end of the communicator, her voice so hoarse it didn’t sound like her own. “Close all channels. This is a private call.”

Without waiting for a response, she cut the communication.

            

The spaceship’s engines let out a low hum, sounding like the heavy thudding of her heart in her chest.

When the distance between the two vessels narrowed to visual range, Wu Lan opened a one-way communication channel.

“Nansheng,” she called out, her voice so soft, as if she were afraid of disturbing something. “Surrender.”

            

There was nothing but electrical static from the communicator.

Wu Lan’s fingers hovered over the console, trembling slightly. “An investigation has already been launched against your father. You don’t need to…”

“Heh.” Zhan Nansheng’s voice suddenly erupted from the communicator, carrying a bone-chilling coldness. “Since when does Director Wu care about whether her enemies live or die?”

            

An image of Zhan Nansheng appeared on the holographic screen. She sat in Hanya’s cockpit, her military jacket draped casually over the back of her seat. There was blood on her face, but a mocking smile played on her lips.

“I’m not here as a lobbyist,” Wu Lan took a deep breath. “I just… don’t want to watch you die.”

Zhan Nansheng’s brows arched slightly, a flicker of emotion passing through her eyes that Wu Lan couldn’t decipher. She looked down to inspect her control panel, her fingers gliding rapidly over the weapon systems as if preparing for her last stand.

            

“Nansheng…” Wu Lan wanted to say something, but she found all her words were pale and powerless.

“Shut up.” Zhan Nansheng suddenly snapped her head up, her gaze as sharp as a blade. “You’ve lied to me so many times. At least this time, don’t be so hypocritical.”

Her fingers inputted a string of code on the control panel. Hanya’s engines suddenly roared abnormally, and the energy readings spiked frantically—

            

She was overloading the propulsion system!

“What are you doing?” Wu Lan leaned forward abruptly, her pupils contracting. “Nansheng! Don’t do anything stupid!”

A maniacal smile curved the corners of Zhan Nansheng’s lips. “Wu Lan, you said it yourself. A warrior’s best resting place is to die on the battlefield¹.”

            

The transmission suddenly cut out.

The next second, Hanya charged toward the nearest enemy warship like a bolt of black lightning!

Its movements were unbelievably swift, completely unlike those of a heavily damaged mech.

            

Wu Lan watched helplessly as it precisely dodged the dense artillery fire, its ion cannons firing three consecutive bursts, directly hitting the engine room of a cruiser.

The fire of the explosion illuminated the entire star region.

“Nansheng!” Wu Lan slammed the console, her spaceship immediately entering combat mode. “All units, attention! Do not fire! Repeat, do not fire!”

            

But it was already too late.

Qin Mian’s fleet was enraged, and dozens of artillery beams locked onto Hanya simultaneously.

Zhan Nansheng’s mech threaded through the hail of gunfire, every evasive maneuver so precise it was heart-stopping.

            

On the monitoring screen, Hanya suddenly made a sharp turn, using its damaged right wing to block an incoming missile. The shockwave of the explosion shook the mech violently, and a shrill alarm blared inside the cockpit.

Zhan Nansheng’s face flickered between light and shadow in the firelight.

There was a wound on her forehead, and blood ran down her cheek, but her eyes remained clear as her fingers steadily controlled the swaying mech.

            

Wu Lan suddenly understood that Zhan Nansheng wasn’t trying to break out.

She was… seeking death.

For the father she couldn’t face, for the love and hate she couldn’t let go, and for the pride she’d carried all her life, now ultimately shattered to pieces.

            

Hanya accelerated once more, this time charging straight toward the densest area of the fleet.

Three warships opened fire simultaneously, their ion beams like the scythe of the death god, precisely striking the core of the mech.

In the last second before the explosion, the surveillance footage captured Zhan Nansheng’s profile.

            

Her lips moved slightly, as if she were saying something, but no sound came out.

Then, Hanya turned into a gorgeous fireball, its fragments scattering like shooting stars, carving countless brilliant streaks across the pitch-black space.

Wu Lan stood frozen in the cockpit, her ears filled with nothing but the deafening beat of her own heart.

            

She suddenly remembered a night long ago when Zhan Nansheng pillowed on her arm, asking in a half-awake state, “If I die, will you shed tears for me?”

How had she answered back then?

She seemed to have smiled, kissed her forehead, and said, “How could the Eldest Miss die?”

            

Now, she could never give the real answer.

The firelight on the monitoring screen gradually dissipated, leaving only countless metal fragments floating quietly. One of the larger pieces of wreckage spun slowly, and the Zhan family crest—a black eagle spreading its wings—was still faintly visible on it.

Wu Lan reached out to touch the cold screen as tears finally fell silently.

            

In the depths of her heart, where no one would ever know, Zhan Nansheng’s final monologue dissolved into stardust along with the mech:

“Wu Lan, did you ever love me?”

“No… hate is easier to survive on than love…”

            

“Then if I die, will you cry for me?”

---

On Basement Level 3 of the Special Prison, Wu Lan’s military boots stepped on the metal floor, making dull echoes.

Zhan Li’s cell was at the very end, surrounded by special glass on all four sides. The outside could see inside clearly, but the inside couldn’t see outside. This was a prison system Wu Lan had designed herself; ironically, it was originally meant to imprison Zhan Li’s political opponents.

            

She entered her authorization passcode, and the glass wall turned transparent.

Zhan Li sat on the metal chair in the center of the cell, still wearing his signature dark gray suit, only without his tie.

Hearing the sound of the door, he slowly raised his head, his eyes as sharp as ever.

            

“Wu Lan,” his voice was hoarse yet still powerful. “Or should I say, traitor?”

Wu Lan walked over and sat opposite him, with only a cold metal table between them.

“I’m here to notify you that the special court has rejected your appeal,” Wu Lan said in a businesslike manner. “You’re dead.”

            

Zhan Li suddenly laughed, his laughter echoing in the narrow cell. “That hypocrite Qin Mian doesn’t even have the courage to let me be tried publicly?”

Wu Lan didn’t reply.

The lights of the cell fell from above, casting deep shadows on her face.

            

“When Nansheng was a child, she was most afraid of the dark. Every thunderstorm, she’d hold her pillow and come find me.”

“I should’ve trained her to be the most outstanding warrior,” Zhan Li’s gaze grew vacant. “But after she met you, she became more and more… weak.”

“That wasn’t weakness,” Wu Lan finally spoke, her voice low. “That was humanity.”

            

Zhan Li slammed the table, the handcuffs biting deeply into his wrists. “And you stripped her of it! Then you took her life!”

The cell fell into a dead silence.

The surveillance camera turned silently, recording this confrontation.

            

“What promise did Qin Mian give you?” Zhan Li asked suddenly, his tone turning sarcastic. “Restoring your original post? Or a higher position?”

Wu Lan was expressionless. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Ha!” Zhan Li threw his head back and laughed. “Do you think Qin Mian is some good person? The blood on his hands is no less than mine!” He lowered his voice. “Just wait, Wu Lan. One day, you’ll stand in my position, watching another ‘Wu Lan’ announce your death sentence.”

            

Wu Lan stood up, her uniform so neat there wasn’t a single crease. “If you’re finished speaking, goodbye, Your Excellency Former President.”

She turned and pressed the door control button.

Behind her came Zhan Li’s final whisper: “No, Wu Lan, it’s farewell.”

            

The moment the door closed, a dull thud came from inside the cell.

Wu Lan didn’t turn around. She was too familiar with this sound; it was the dull sound of a skull crashing into metal. Zhan Li had chosen to leave this world in the same resolute way as his daughter.

The guards in the monitoring room rushed in in a panic, then came out with pale faces. “Officer, he… he…”

            

“Handle it according to procedure,” Wu Lan’s voice was terrifyingly calm. “Notify President Qin.”

---

In the Winter of Federation Year 218, Qin Mian was officially sworn in as President.

At his inauguration, he announced a series of reform measures: dissolving the special military tribunals of the Zhan Li era, reorganizing the parliament, and restoring freedom of the press.

            

Wu Lan stood in the front row of the viewing stand, her uniform crisp. When Qin Mian announced her reinstatement as Director of the Federal Security Bureau, the entire venue erupted in warm applause. Only she noticed the calculation flashing in Qin Mian’s eyes. They had a tacit understanding that this was a transaction.

After the ceremony, Song Qingpei found Wu Lan on the terrace of the Parliament Building.

The early winter sunlight fell on the shoulders of the newly appointed director, but it couldn’t warm her cold gaze.

            

“I thought you’d be happy,” Song Qingpei said, handing her a cup of hot coffee. “Zhan Li is dead, the truth is out, and your position is restored.”

Wu Lan took the coffee, the steam forming a white mist in front of her. “Qin Mian isn’t our friend.”

“I know.” Song Qingpei leaned against the railing, looking at the Federation flag flying in the distance. “But at least he agreed to support our research on the affordable inhibitor.”

            

Wu Lan turned to look at her. “Do you really believe we can change this world?”

“How will we know if we don’t try?” Song Qingpei smiled, the sunlight dancing in her eyes. “My mother’s research shouldn’t only serve the powerful and wealthy. Everyone in their differentiation phase has the right to choose their own life.”

The terrace door opened again, and Ming Yu strode out, clad in a brand-new Marshal’s uniform. “So you’re here! President Qin is looking for you. It’s about the reorganization of the Black Kite forces…”

            

The three of them walked side by side toward the venue.

The sunlight stretched their shadows very long, intertwining them, yet each extended in a different direction.

Undercurrents of conspiracy still swirled, and they still needed to accumulate more strength.

            

Dawn will eventually come.

---