The Eve of the Crisis

One day ago, the Imperial Chancellor held peace talks with the rebel leader.

It was a false peace, a true assassination.

A trap set specifically for the traitors.

The little fool had no power and lacked intellect, yet she won out with the calm of one who knows nothing. Her task was recording, capturing the Chancellor on film.

In the lens, he was brimming with confidence and vigor.

He used to watch recordings only once, already weary of his own demeanor before the camera.

But this time, he developed all the film.

For the first time, he felt there was some benefit to the technological regression after the Great Cataclysm. The slow, deliberate rhythm of developing the film made him feel incredibly at ease. In the old days, sophisticated instruments could directly display the most realistic three-dimensional images, but they also placed high demands on the operator. He had never touched them, and that little fool certainly had no chance to learn.

These simple things, having passed through her hands and now being processed by him personally, inevitably carried a different meaning. He scrutinized the black-and-white images carefully, trying to find some detail to prove she wasn't as unflappable as she seemed.

Ah, found it.

A slight play of light and shadow, one or two shots from a slightly different angle. He cut these out and kept them.

As he looked, a smile he himself hadn't noticed surfaced on his face.

Most people's feelings, including his own, were a bit hard to understand.

Three hours later, deep in the night, all was silent.

A secret document was delivered to his desk, containing evidence of the little fool's collusion with the enemy.

Her betrayal had allowed the rebel leaders to escape unscathed, rendering two months of meticulous planning by the Imperial Capital Task Force utterly wasted.

The Chancellor flew into a rage and ordered her capture, but to no avail.

She had fled in advance.

A fool capable of joining the Task Force and participating in the highest-level meetings—was she truly a fool? Speculation ran rampant.

The Chancellor had given the order: what they were to capture was a traitor.

According to precedent, traitors were to be executed without mercy; the young tyrant had always been decisive in meting out death.

Yet another order followed: within half an hour, all intelligence personnel and strategists were to assemble to search for evidence of her betrayal and traces of her movements.

Capture her alive.

Why go to such great lengths?

Why this extra step?

No one dared to ask.

For the first time, the Chancellor stayed up all night, personally sifting through archives and documents with them.

All surveillance around the building indicated no trace of her.

She hadn't escaped yet. She was hiding in the cracks.

The brutal leader issued another order that shocked everyone: in two hours, high-energy cannons would level the entire building. To the outside world, it would be declared the Meteorite Crisis, with everyone evacuating in an orderly manner.

High-ranking officials ran until they lost their shoes, busy transporting gold bars, antiques, and safes. A few others, a very few, were organizing and preserving crucial documents. If the building were ever rebuilt, there would at least be records to follow.

The Chancellor and the think tank searched together through all preserved documents from the past ten years to the present.

No trace to be found.

She was ordinary and perfect.

Methodical, obeying orders.

She showed no signs, evidence, or motives for betrayal.

A little fool kindly taken in by the Chancellor.

Foolish just enough to handle the most inconspicuous tasks without the cunning to leak secrets.

The Chancellor felt despair. The strategists also began an orderly evacuation, moving away from the blast's epicenter.

He was deeply puzzled by her flawless record, unsettled by her unwavering consistency, and tormented with jealous agony over his own myriad suspicions.

Why did she chat with the rebel leader?

Her expression was normal, her smile gentle.

That photograph was irrefutable evidence. In the recording of their conversation, her voice was its eternally unflappable self, clearly and logically outlining all the Meteorite Crisis's ambushes, all their methods, all their weapons.

But why?

Those rebels would never give her more.

Power, status, wealth—he had offered them with both hands, but the fool wanted none of it.

She was content with the most peripheral work, standing in the shadows. What could possibly move her?

What the rebels possessed was ethereal idealism, stirring hot-blooded passion, stirring hearts. A fool like her might just be drawn to that.

Would her heart be swayed by those impassioned slogans and youthful faces?

And to what extent would she betray him?

Everyone said the fool couldn't stir up any trouble; only the Chancellor knew the truth.

This was a fool who couldn't think, only record—so she remembered everything clearly.

She had spent two years by the Chancellor's side, five in the Task Force, and three in the Meteorite Crisis building, privy to countless secrets, truths, and archives. She remembered it all clearly.

Her value was immeasurable; her betrayal was unforgivable.

Her heartlessness was heartbreaking.

As the Empire's most precise strategist, the Chancellor himself, of course, remembered every document he had just reviewed clearly.

No flaws. He began to analyze her every word and action.

He found no slip-ups from her, only analyzed her heartlessness. How could he expect a fool to have likes and dislikes?

His own foolishness was no less. He found those few black-and-white film strips. Threw them away. Then picked one up again, placed it in his left breast pocket, and went downstairs.

Notes and files were scattered across the desk, left unattended.

The final half-hour before detonation.

He blended into the crowd, donning sunglasses and a mask, scrutinizing carefully, not missing a single person, trying to find any trace of her.

The Chancellor possessed the sharpest eyes in the entire Empire, yet he still couldn't find that cunning fool.

A telecommunication signal sounded: "Five minutes remaining. All personnel evacuate immediately."

A trusted aide reported, "All precious documents have been fully backed up. Chancellor, proceed with the detonation?"

There was still one person, one who had never been found—and she was originally the assassination target, the ant meant to be crushed by the high-energy cannon disguised as a meteorite.

The Chancellor said, "Cancel the detonation."

Empire-wide broadcasts reported: The meteorite changed course upon entering the atmosphere. The crisis was averted; the Meteorite Crisis building was preserved.

Moments later, cheers erupted from the crowd.

The Chancellor did not smile. The evacuated high officials exchanged bewildered glances, unsure if the traitor had been caught.

But the security alert had not been lifted.

He alone entered to search the entire building.

Lost and bewildered.

Until the lights came on.