The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]

Chapter 222: Chapter 222 - Conflict of orders

Rhea stood quietly in the shadows of the control room, the blue light of the holographic panels flickering across his dark features. His fingers, long and elegant, hovered just above the console as he watched the data streams trickle in. The encrypted message had been successfully dispatched to the First Prince’s battalion. There was no confirmation yet of receipt, but Rhea knew Cealus. He would trace it. He had to.

The room around him buzzed faintly with soft murmurs and tapping keys, yet a subtle tension lingered like static in the air. Everyone was working, but not with their usual precision. Their eyes would flick toward the sealed door every now and then—the one Bian had stormed through earlier. The one that seemed to pulse with danger.

Rhea exhaled slowly.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

A voice cut through the uneasy quiet.

”Sir...”

Rhea looked up. One of the junior officers—barely more than a boy—stood from his station. His uniform was crisp, his boots polished, and his face bore the open, uncertain expression of someone raised on orders. He had the look of someone who’d never been taught what to do when those orders began to contradict.

The boy swallowed. ”How long are we going to go against the Second Prince’s command?” he asked, voice low but trembling with tension. ”I know you said to keep the humans safe, but... isn’t this against policy?”

More heads turned.

Rhea’s dark eyes swept the room. Faces were tight with unease. Farians were, by design, loyal. Genetically loyal, in some cases. Orders were not questioned—they were executed. But now, which orders were the ones to follow?

Rhea stepped away from his panel and folded his arms behind his back.

”You’ve all seen what’s happening,” he said quietly. ”Our general—General Xing Yu—left us with direct commands before we entered the void. Do any of you remember him issuing an order to hurt the humans?”

A few shook their heads. Others avoided eye contact.

”The last order from General Xing,” Rhea continued, ”was to protect those two humans. At all costs. And to inform no one—not even the Second Prince—about their true location.”

He let that hang for a moment.

”Some of you may not understand why,” he added, his voice gentler now, ”but that’s not our place. Our place is to follow what we were entrusted with. The humans are not prisoners. They’re under protection. That’s not a contradiction. That’s duty.”

There was a pause.

Then a lower-ranking pilot, older than the boy who spoke earlier, frowned. ”What if the consort finds them? With how aggressively he’s searching—beating soldiers, ripping through the decks—what happens if he does?”

Rhea’s jaw tightened.

The consort.

That boy.

His presence on this ship had already caused chaos. His relationship with the Second Prince... had twisted something in the prince’s head. Dican was no longer the calculating, methodical leader Rhea had once admired. He moved like a shadow now, following orders from that pale human boy like a love-drunk marionette.

And the crew noticed. They all noticed.

Rhea met the pilot’s gaze and spoke firmly.

”Then we stall.”

”Stall?” another officer echoed.

Rhea nodded. ”Delay. Redirect. Disorient. There are hidden sectors in this ship even Bian doesn’t know about—some installed by General Xing personally. We keep moving the humans between those spaces. Rotate guards with clearances only I authorize. No one else.”

”But what if—”

”If he finds them,” Rhea interrupted, ”we report to the general that we did everything we could. But until then, we protect them. That is our law.”

The room fell quiet again.

A sudden shrill alarm tore through the quiet tension of the control room.

BWHREEEEEEEP.

The red emergency lights stuttered to life, bathing the room in a pulsating crimson glow. All chatter ceased instantly as every crew member snapped to attention, fingers flying over panels and comms.

”Hull integrity dropping!” someone shouted. ”Damage localized to the lower ventral layer—section 3C and 3E!”

”Seam rupture detected!” another voice added. ”Estimated loss of pressure in under forty minutes if left unfixed!”

Rhea’s eyes shot to the main diagnostic projection, his chest tightening. The lines representing the ship’s core framework blinked in orange and red. Microfractures were spreading—quickly.

”Stabilize the field dampeners!” he barked. ”Transfer all available energy from non-essential systems to structural reinforcement!”

”We’re doing that already, sir—it’s not enough!” one of the engineers called back, panic leaking into her tone. ”This ship wasn’t meant to sustain post-black-hole drift and long-range evasion without a drydock!”

Rhea clenched his jaw. This wasn’t just damage. This was degradation. The kind that spiraled fast if left unchecked. If they didn’t repair it soon, the ship would begin to lose cabin pressure across decks. Entire sections might have to be sealed off permanently.

They couldn’t afford that. Not with the consort running wild. Not with the humans still hidden.

”I’ll inform the prince,” Rhea muttered, already spinning on his heel.

The emergency lights continued to bathe the corridor in an eerie red hue as he sprinted toward the royal quarters, boots hitting the floor with sharp metallic thuds. The hallway trembled slightly with the strain of the ship’s atmosphere regulators trying to keep pressure stabilized.

Tap. Tap. Tap. His steps slowed as he reached the door.

It was slightly open—ajar, just enough to catch the faintest sliver of movement.

Rhea’s breath caught.

Peering through the crack, he saw the Second Prince’s room lit dimly. There was no sign of Dican in sight. But there—near the side alcove—was the second prince’s mate.

Bian.

His back was turned, bent slightly forward toward a corner drawer.

Rhea narrowed his eyes.

Bian’s movements were sharp, furtive. He seemed unaware of being watched. His hands rummaged swiftly through the drawer—until he pulled something free and held it up to the light.

A small ceramic pot. Round. Glossy. A golden Farian symbol etched on the lid.

The second princes mate lifted the pot and without a moment’s hesitation slipped it into his pocket—then quickly shut the drawer again and stood up as though nothing had happened.

He pulled back silently from the doorframe.

Rhea pulled back quickly from the door, chest rising and falling with tightly held composure. He straightened his back, wiped all trace of what he’d just witnessed from his expression, and lifted his hand.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He rapped sharply on the metal doorframe, his voice clear and urgent.

”Your Highness!”

There was a pause. Then soft footsteps.

The door slid open with a gentle hiss.

Dican appeared in the frame, his grey eyes blinking slowly at the bright red emergency lights washing the hallway. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, and his silver hair tousled like he’d just been pulled from sleep—or something more troubling. He looked dazed... but not quite the glassy, vacant stare Rhea had feared.

Still, his lips—

Rhea’s gaze flicked there and froze for the briefest second.

Dican’s mouth was swollen at the corners, lips parted as if recovering from a harsh kiss. And right at the edge—smudged faintly over a tiny wound—was a glint of something unmistakably purple.

His breath caught.

That liquid... it was familiar.

But now wasn’t the time. There were more pressing matters than confronting the consort. Not while the ship threatened to break apart beneath them.

He cleared his throat and forced his voice into an even tone.

”Your Highness, our ship’s condition is deteriorating rapidly. The lower hull is fracturing faster than we can reinforce it. We can’t make the jump to Gia in this state. We’ll need to stop. Make repairs. Somewhere nearby.”

Dican blinked slowly, then straightened, dragging a hand down his face. The fog in his eyes flickered briefly, like a curtain shifting in wind, but he nodded.

”...All right,” he said, voice hoarse. ”We can’t risk atmospheric collapse mid-jump.”

He stepped past Rhea and into the hallway, already shifting into his commanding tone. ”Gather the senior crew. Begin scanning for a Class-4 or higher terrestrial body. Oxygenated, low-threat profile, minimal native life. We land, we fix, we move.”

”Understood, Your Highness.”

As Dican strode toward the control deck, Rhea remained behind for a moment, casting a final glance into the dark room.

No sign of Bian.

But the scent of something herbal—rich, thick, cloyingly familiar—still lingered faintly in the air. And the prince’s lips...

The control deck lit up as Dican stepped in, his presence snapping several distracted crewmen to alertness. The emergency lights still pulsed red in the corners, casting a grim pallor across every face. The ship trembled gently beneath them—a quiet reminder of how fragile their vessel had become after the encounter with the Grayling behemoth.

”Status?” Dican asked, voice sharper now, more grounded.

The nav officer, a short woman with cropped hair and an oil-smudged uniform, stood and bowed quickly. ”Multiple fractures detected along the ventral substructure. The shielding plates over Engine Core 2 are unstable and rattling loose. If we attempt another jump, the core may detach entirely.”

Dican’s jaw tightened. ”Options?”

”Planet 9C-Aleph,” Rhea answered, stepping forward calmly. ”Uninhabited. Oxygen-rich. No signs of sentient life. Barely any atmosphere interference. It’s close enough to reach without jump drive, and stable enough to dock and repair.”

Dican nodded slowly, then glanced toward the command interface. ”Prepare for descent.”

”Yes, Your Highness,” the crew echoed.