When Yan Qing regained consciousness, the first thing he saw was a dim, oppressive light.

  Pain—

  The moment he tried to move his right leg, a shock of agony tore through him. Yan Qing looked down and saw his lower leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Through a rip in his pants, he could see the mangled, bloody wound—bone broken and exposed.

  Right—Chen!

  The fog in his mind snapped clear at the thought of him. Yan Qing whipped his head around, searching wildly—

  And then his gaze locked.

  Not far away, half a body lay behind a rock.

  That familiar figure lay alone, motionless. Only a spill of long golden hair was visible.

  No… no, don’t—!!!

  Ignoring the searing pain in his leg, Yan Qing clawed his way toward him. His shaking breaths were painfully loud in the dead silence.

  “Chen…” His scraped, battered hands latched onto the still body the instant he reached it. Yan Qing collapsed over him, wrapping both arms around him in a protective hold—like he could block death itself through sheer stubbornness.

  “Chen, wake up.” Yan Qing’s voice was soft, like coaxing a sleeping child out of a dream—unreserved tenderness, absolute care.

  Under his palm, Chen’s face was paper-white, eerily calm. Thick golden lashes covered eyes of the same color. He looked like a doll—perfect, and utterly lifeless.

  Yan Qing trembled as he brushed aside the messy hair covering Chen’s left eye.

  “No…” The tears he’d been holding back finally spilled over.

  “…Don’t…”

  Then—

  A sigh-like groan came from the body beneath him.

  To Yan Qing, it sounded like heaven.

  Joy slammed into his despair so hard it made his voice crack.

  “You bastard—how many times have I told you? Stop scaring me like this, okay?!”

  Chen’s intact right eye opened a fraction. He looked up at Yan Qing weakly.

  “You… leave…”

  “What are you talking about? How could I leave you here? Come on—let’s go. As long as we get out, Shi can heal you!” Yan Qing started to haul him up.

  Chen refused. A faint shake of his head.

  “Leave… me. Radiation… fluid… dangerous… to you…”

  Chen’s blood—normally gold—had turned an ominous gray. A sign of radioactive fluid poisoning: blood-cell decay.

  Not only blood. Every cell in his body would weaken under the radiation. No regeneration. No self-repair.

  And with the fatal damage to his left eye…

  The odds of survival were slim.

  “Shut up!” Yan Qing snapped, panic and fury tangling together. “All you need to think about is staying alive. Don’t worry about me!”

  He refused to think any further.

  Yes. He just had to get Chen out.

  Then everything—everything—would be fine.

  Chen wanted to point out Yan Qing was running from reality.

  But he couldn’t. Even the smallest movement sent pain knifing through him.

  “I don’t… regret it.” Chen murmured near Yan Qing’s ear, forcing one hand up to touch Yan Qing’s wet cheek, as if trying to wipe away the grief.

  If you look sad—

  it hurts.

  His mouth curved slightly, and he stared at Yan Qing as if seeing him for the first time, memorizing every detail, refusing to miss a single one.

  Yan Qing clenched Chen’s hand against his face, sobbing so hard he could barely breathe.

  “You’re an alien—how can you die this easily…?”

  Chen’s vision blurred. He knew what was coming.

  “I… wanted… to protect…”

  His last breath echoed inside his chest, and he spent it turning it into a whisper—only to convey what he felt.

  That glow in his eyes dimmed, fading into something glassy and inorganic.

  “…You. Yan Qing.”

  He could only stare helplessly as Chen’s faint smile froze, and the last warmth slid out of Yan Qing’s fingers.

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  Nothing he could do.

  Nothing he could save.

  “AH—!”

  Yan Qing jolted upright from the couch as if electrocuted, clutching his head and screaming like he meant to shred his throat raw.

  Chen stormed in from the next room, grabbing his shoulders to steady him.

  “Yan Qing—what’s wrong?!”

  Yan Qing stopped tearing at his hair and lifted his head.

  He stared at Chen.

  His black eyes were empty, unfocused—like a blind man’s gaze.

  He was breathing too fast, drenched in cold sweat, as if he’d seen something unimaginably terrifying.

  “Chen…” His trembling lips shaped the name with cautious disbelief, as if testing whether it was real.

  Seeing him unstable, Chen assumed Fenreiga’s neurotoxin was acting up again. He immediately pulled a scanner from his subspace bag, ready to run a full diagnostic.

  Yan Qing suddenly lunged forward and wrapped himself around Chen, clinging so tightly it was almost painful—like a man freezing to death grabbing the last source of heat. His arms locked around Chen’s shoulders, his cheek pressed against the warm, living skin of Chen’s neck.

  “Thank god… it was a dream. God, it was a dream…” Yan Qing muttered brokenly, his voice muffled by Chen’s collar.

  Being handled like that by the person he loved, Chen’s body reacted instinctively—a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, a tightening of his own embrace, the heat of Yan Qing’s body seeping through his skin.

  And then his reason slammed the feeling down. Chen swallowed, the taste of adrenaline sharp in his mouth, and returned the embrace—careful, steady, his hands moving in slow, grounding circles along Yan Qing’s back.

  “Are you… okay?” Chen’s voice was low, the words vibrating softly against Yan Qing’s hair.

  Yan Qing didn’t answer. He just held on, his grip tightening with every shaky breath. The world outside the embrace felt distant, muffled by the pounding of his heart and the echo of the nightmare still clinging to his mind.

  The dream kept replaying like a curse—images flickering behind his eyelids, the phantom ache of loss still raw in his chest.

  “Don’t—!” Chen’s voice caught, and he paused, stopping himself from reaching out with his mind to probe Yan Qing’s thoughts. The urge to comfort warred with the need to respect the fragile boundary between them.

  “Yan Qing?” he asked, voice softer now, almost a whisper.

  “It was a nightmare,” Yan Qing said hoarsely, his throat raw. “Just a nightmare. There’s no need.” His breath shuddered, the words barely more than a rasp.

  He knew what Chen was trying to do. But he didn’t want Chen to see it. He wasn’t superstitious—yet the dream had been too real. He didn’t want Chen to know. Because if Chen didn’t know, then maybe it was only fantasy. Maybe it would never happen.

  Yan Qing loosened his grip, sniffed hard, and forced himself to step back. The sudden absence of Chen’s warmth made the air feel colder, the room too large and empty. He wiped at his damp face with the back of his hand, the skin clammy and chilled.

  “I’m going to wash my face,” he muttered, voice unsteady.

  He stood and went into the bathroom, the soft pad of his bare feet on the cool floor echoing in the quiet. Chen lifted a brow, confusion flickering across his face as he watched Yan Qing retreat.

  Cold water hit Yan Qing’s face in a shock, droplets running down his cheeks and dripping from his chin. He inhaled sharply, the chill biting into his skin, and looked up at the mirror. His reflection stared back—eyes wide, pupils blown, skin pale and clammy, hair sticking to his forehead in damp strands. He looked haunted, as if the nightmare still clung to him like a shadow.

  Chen… He won’t die. That’s impossible. He’s too strong. How could—

  Yet the more Yan Qing tried to convince himself, the harder his hands shook on the edge of the sink, knuckles white against the porcelain. The bathroom was filled with the faint scent of soap and the metallic tang of water, the hum of the vent fan a low, constant drone.

  Then his gaze snagged on something. What is that?

  On the exposed skin of his neck above his collar—there was a mark.

  He pulled the collar down, fingertips brushing the strange pattern. The skin there felt oddly cool, the lines raised and unfamiliar beneath his touch.

  A strange pattern had appeared on his throat, trailing down toward his chest. Under the harsh bathroom light, the lines reflected an inorganic, metallic sheen, glinting faintly blue and silver.

  “…What…” Yan Qing frowned, fingertips tracing the design. It looked like a tattoo embedded into the skin—but it wasn’t like any tattoo he knew.

  Yan Qing breathed deeply, the air sharp and cold in his lungs, forcing himself to calm down.

  “Yan Qing! The President wants to see you!” someone shouted from outside, the voice muffled by the closed door but urgent enough to cut through the haze.

  “Coming!” Yan Qing called back, his voice steadier than he felt.

  He shoved the nightmare to the back of his mind, pulled his collar up to hide the mark, and hurried out. The hallway outside was brighter, the air tinged with the scent of disinfectant and the faint static of electronics. A young aide waited, eyes flicking once to Chen before she forced them away.

  “Let’s go,” she said, her voice brisk, as Yan Qing stepped into the corridor, the chill of the bathroom still clinging to his skin.

  The President’s summons arrived with no explanation—just a discreet message and a time. Yan Qing, clutching his latest report on the power engine, made his way through the labyrinthine corridors of government. His footsteps echoed on the polished marble, the sound swallowed by the cavernous hush of the building. The congressional hall was nearly empty, but the emptiness only made the space feel more oppressive. The few who were present—those who truly held power—sat far back, high in the upper balcony, their faces shadowed and unreadable in the dim, indirect light. The screens cast a cold blue glow across the ornate plasterwork and gilded moldings, making the room feel both grand and strangely sterile.

  Yan Qing entered in silence, his nerves taut. The soles of his shoes squeaked faintly on the floor as he crossed the vast, echoing chamber. He scanned the “special guests,” noting the way they sat—rigid, wary, as if bracing for war.

  But it wasn’t just the officials. As he and his companions stepped fully into the chamber, he realized there was another presence: a cluster of special operations soldiers, standing near the entrance, previously hidden by the viewing angle.

  They were fully armed.

  The new-generation “Swiss Dagger” submachine guns gleamed in their hands, sidearms at their hips, grenades clipped to their belts. The dull gleam of gunmetal caught the light, and the faint scent of gun oil and leather drifted from their gear. They looked less like security and more like an occupying force.

  Yan Qing’s confusion barely had time to settle before the soldiers moved as one, boots thudding on the marble, weapons snapping up in a synchronized, chilling motion. Red laser dots bloomed across the room, not on him—but on the person behind him.

  There was only one.

  Chen.

  Under a dozen red points, the golden-haired Teleopean stood perfectly still, his expression unreadable, surveying the gunmen as if they were nothing more than an inconvenience. The overhead lights caught in his hair, turning it to a halo of molten gold against the cold, blue-lit gloom.

  “What are you doing?!” Yan Qing’s voice cracked, heart seizing in his chest. The sound bounced off the high ceiling, swallowed by the vastness.

  “Professor, please don’t panic.” The President’s voice, steady and controlled, cut through the tension. He wasn’t in the balcony, but at the central podium, hands folded, gaze cool. The microphone in front of him gave his words a faint metallic echo.

  “This is a security measure,” the President said. “Many important individuals are present. I apologize for the arrangement.” The words were meant to reassure, but the effect was the opposite. The air seemed to grow colder, the silence heavier.

  Yan Qing’s palms slicked with sweat. He could feel the chill of the air conditioning on his skin, the roughness of the report folder in his grip. “Mr. President, I can guarantee with my integrity—Chen will not harm anyone here.”

  The President’s eyes narrowed. “If you had watched the footage from the Fifth Technology Division’s underground laboratory, you wouldn’t say that. Your ‘friend’ killed over fifty soldiers with his bare hands. This is not excessive.”

  Yan Qing’s breath caught. That lab? So the government had been involved in the attempt to capture Chen all along. A sick, sharp sense of betrayal twisted in his gut.

  Chen’s mouth tugged faintly—he said nothing. He’d always known humans distrusted outsiders. Even among themselves, the smallest difference could ignite conflict.

  Yan Qing’s voice dropped, the protest in it hardening. “With this setup, you’re asking me not to panic—while threatening Chen. I’m not sure I can remember the shutdown method for the power engine under these conditions.”

  “If you cannot,” the President replied, voice weary, “then neither can I help what comes next.” He signaled the soldiers. “We will detain your ‘friend.’ Perhaps that will help you recall.”

  “Mr. President!” Yan Qing shouted, but the soldiers were already moving. One raised a strange-looking gun—Yan Qing recognized it instantly: a portable liquid nitrogen projector. The soldier leveled it at Chen, finger poised on the trigger.

  Minus 210°C—enough to freeze almost anything instantly.

  The message was clear. The government didn’t trust Chen. Worse, they saw his very existence as a threat.

  “We didn’t do this earlier so you could focus on your research,” the President said.

  “This is unethical!” Yan Qing snapped. “Chen is helping us. He doesn’t have to—yet he chose to. Fenreiga is the enemy. Your weapons should be pointed at them!”

  “This is the position of other nations,” the President replied, sounding genuinely constrained. “Fenreiga has threatened us already. We must be careful.”

  Yan Qing understood the real translation: Other governments were terrified of a second alien species on Earth. And curious—curious enough to want Chen in a lab. Unlike Fenreiga, an alien who looked so human would drive governments mad with obsession. They were ignoring the one background detail they absolutely shouldn’t ignore: Chen’s background.

  Chen’s voice, when it came, was mild, almost gentle. “Such a welcome party. I haven’t been treated like this in quite some time.” His gaze swept the VIPs, his smile warm enough to seem friendly—until it wasn’t.

  “But let me offer you advice in your own words: before you strike first, know your enemy—and know yourself.”

  As he finished, Yan Qing saw Chen’s golden eyes turn pitch-black.

  Every gun in the room twisted as if seized by an invisible hand—then detonated. The sharp crack of exploding metal echoed off the marble, followed by shouts and chaos. Soldiers dropped their weapons, some clutching burned hands, others simply stunned. The acrid scent of gunpowder and scorched plastic filled the air, stinging Yan Qing’s nose.

  “Chen!” Yan Qing shouted, terrified—thinking the soldiers had fired first.

  “That was me,” Chen said calmly, reassuring him. “It’s OK.”

  The soldiers writhed on the floor, groaning. No one was dead, but the message was unmistakable.

  The VIPs—those lofty, untouchable faces—went pale with fear. Some stood abruptly, chairs scraping harshly on the stone floor, ready to flee.

  Chen’s smile widened, but his eyes were cold. “For Yan Qing’s sake, I have no desire to dominate Earth. I truly want to help this beautiful planet. But if necessary, I will protect myself.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “If anyone believes distance offers protection, I suggest revisiting that assumption.”

  That last line wasn’t a warning. It was a threat.

  He lifted his chin, eyes flicking just slightly. “Xiao,” he said, as if addressing a household assistant, “would you demonstrate our margin for error?”

  The word “demonstrate” hadn’t fully registered before two of the video screens flickered. One showed a high-ranking official from Eastern Europe mid-sentence—mouth open, hand lifted. The other, a senior defense minister from South America, leaning forward in his chair. Both froze. Then—without warning—their bodies went slack. Chairs clattered. Papers scattered. Aides shouted as the two officials collapsed bonelessly to the floor, utterly unconscious. The feeds cut to chaos. Gasps rippled through the hall.

  The VIPs sucked in air like drowning men. They hadn’t realized Chen’s species possessed weapons even beyond Fenreiga.

  The President, meanwhile, smiled faintly to himself. Exactly. He couldn’t convince the other nations with words. So he’d let them see. Let them feel it in their bones.

  “Your Majesty,” the President said first, bowing his head in apology. “We were disrespectful.”

  Chen didn’t miss the earlier trace of amusement in the man’s face. He understood: this human had engineered the moment, forcing Chen to speak harshly in front of everyone else.

  “Humans are wary of outsiders,” Chen said smoothly, taking the offered exit. “You acted for your species. That is understandable. There is no need to pursue it.”

  Politics was the same everywhere.

  Chen’s smile stayed in place, but Yan Qing, watching, felt shame burn through him. He looked at Chen with guilt in his eyes. His species couldn’t even tell friend from enemy—only suspicion, only paranoia.

  The silence that followed was thick and uneasy. Yan Qing’s heart hammered in his chest as the soldiers were carried out, the echo of Chen’s threat still hanging in the air. The scent of burnt metal lingered, mingling with the cold, recycled air. He risked a glance at Chen, searching for reassurance, but found only the same inscrutable calm.

  Finally, Chen broke the silence, his voice gentle. “Yan Qing. Let’s set aside the unpleasantness and return to the matter at hand.”

  But they were going to hurt you, Yan Qing thought, confused and furious on Chen’s behalf.

  Then Chen gave him a warm smile—so soft it dissolved the lingering menace. For a moment, Yan Qing felt the pressure of Chen’s thoughts, a wordless reassurance: Because you love your planet, Yan Qing.

  Yan Qing’s eyes widened.

  Chen… You didn’t have to go this far.

  He drew a steadying breath, the cool air sharp in his lungs, and walked to the center of the hall. The marble was cold beneath his feet, the silence pressing in from all sides. He looked up at the shaken people above, their faces pale in the blue glow of the screens.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, voice calm by force, “let’s begin with Einstein’s famous equation: E equals mc squared.”