Interstellar: Return of the Villain
Chapter 198: Friendly Discussion

Chapter 198: Friendly Discussion

Forcibly ripping out a Soul Spike? Yeah, that kind of damage wasn’t something you could just walk off.

It was permanent, but Lyra had managed to finesse her way through the medical check by using her healing abilities to slap a temporary band-aid on the problem. Just enough to trick the system into giving her a pass.

Technically, the rules only blocked recruits with heavy genetic issues, radiation exposure, or contagious diseases, so she figured she was in the clear. Turns out, someone didn’t think so and used her condition to try and trip her up.

The review officer seemed a little too eager to throw her back into testing, but after taking a good look at Lyra’s calm, unbothered expression, he must’ve figured the results would hold.

"Alright, I’ll push your enlistment through," he finally grumbled.

How the others reacted to her making the cut was anybody’s guess, but one thing was for sure: her enemies weren’t waving any white flags. They were still gunning for her.

Kritt, meanwhile, had his own plans. He wanted her on his team, thinking that with him around, she’d be safe from most of the political landmines.

Even when he’d eventually be transferred, he was confident he could pull her along with him. With his backing, Lyra would have smooth sailing—or so he thought.

But when the final assignments dropped, the script flipped.

Lyra wasn’t heading to his unit. Nope, she got tossed into the infamous Reserve Corps.

This group was known as a dumping ground for spoiled elites—rich kids with no drive, using military service as nothing more than a resume booster. They stayed far from any real danger, happy to lounge around in cushy, low-stakes roles.

Kritt was fuming when he found out. He spent the rest of the day with a storm cloud over his head, apologizing profusely to Lyra afterward.

But she didn’t seem fazed. "Uncle Kritt, I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you. I should thank you for this."

Even a bad spot in the military was still part of the game.

Besides, it was becoming more obvious by the day that the nobles’ grip on the system was slipping.

...

The next morning, Lyra suited up in her fresh, pressed uniform and made her way to the Reserve Corps.

To her surprise, the place was buzzing with energy.

Right outside the captain’s office, a group of young guys in pristine white uniforms had gathered, shooting the breeze like a flock of hyperactive pigeons.

Their excitement dialed up the second they noticed Lyra.

"Yo, check it out, she’s here!"

"I remember her from the Mecha Tournament! She was a cute little thing back then, and now—damn, she’s all grown up into a real boss lady!"

"Man, she’s even hotter in person than in those online pics."

"Alright, bets are on. Who’s gonna charm her first?"

"Bro, take a look at her rank—none of us are in her league."

They practically fell over each other gawking at her. One bold dude even waved enthusiastically, yelling, "Hey Miss Shedd, how about grabbing a coffee after work?"

Lyra barely gave him a glance, replying flatly, "Not happening."

Her cool rejection just made them laugh even harder. They reminded her of the childish boys back in school who used to snap girls’ bra straps for fun, only now their antics were a bit more obvious—and annoying.

Worse, they were blocking her way to the office.

Lyra stopped at the bottom of the steps and raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me. Move."

Instead of stepping aside, they saw it as an invitation to keep messing with her.

"Did you hear that? She asked us to move!"

"Whoa, her face is going all ice-cold! Come on, throw us a smile!"

Of course, not everyone was acting like an idiot. Some hung back, watching the show from a distance, either too bored or too indifferent to join in.

Lyra reminded herself of the military’s code of conduct. No point in starting trouble on day one.

With a quick, fluid motion, she slipped through the cluster of men blocking the stairs like it was nothing, leaving them blinking in confusion.

When they tried to follow, she slammed the door shut in their faces before they could even react.

Standing straight, she announced with clear authority, "Ensign Lyra, reporting for duty."

The man was taking a nap with his hat tipped over his face. He jolted awake, scrambling just in time to grab it before it hit the floor. He blinked blearily at Lyra, clearly not all there.

His scruffy face and the faint whiff of alcohol gave away the fact that he probably hadn’t fully recovered from last night’s indulgences.

Yawning, he muttered, "Oh, you’re here. Just log your info into the system."

Lyra didn’t waste time, heading over to the opticomputer and typing away like a pro.

Meanwhile, the squad leader, Norman, leaned back in his chair, lighting up a cigarette and giving her a long, appraising look.

She didn’t belong here—that much was obvious. Too sharp, too driven, and way too beautiful. But her looks weren’t the issue.

No, the real problem was that the higher-ups had dumped her here with zero guidance. And frankly, what was she supposed to do? This unit wasn’t known for action or discipline. It was filled with noble slackers.

Norman himself had some noble blood and, much like the others, preferred to stay clear of all the political drama that came with military service.

The rowdy group outside was no help either. Norman could hear the soldiers goofing off, dodging their duties like they always did. There were no missions for them to run anyway.

Despite his rank, he knew better than to try to wrangle these guys into shape. They were mostly from big families—sometimes literally related by marriage—and nobody was about to take orders seriously.

The unit had their performance docked so many times that their scores were in the negatives, but no one was stressing over it.

By the time Norman snapped out of his cynical thoughts, Lyra was already finished at the computer and had turned to him.

"Excuse me, what should I be doing?" she asked, sounding eager.

Norman raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by her energy. Most people in this unit coasted along without asking for more.

But with a shrug, he said, "You know how it goes around here. We mostly wait for commands from up top or help with the occasional patrol or police operation."

The truth was, it was the kind of post that would smother any ambition under layers of boredom.

"I see," she replied, her voice calm but focused.

Glancing at the rank insignia on her uniform—just two notches below his own—Norman’s head started to pound from the noise of the slackers outside.

Then, a mischievous idea popped into his head.

With a sly grin, he added, "But you’re different. With your rank, you could take on extra responsibilities. How about whipping those guys into shape?"

It was mostly an excuse to dump some work on her, but to his surprise, Lyra didn’t flinch. Her eyes practically sparkled.

"Could I be assigned as a temporary squad leader or maybe even an acting instructor? That way, I’d have the proper authority to handle the training," she suggested, her tone hopeful but professional.

Honestly, with her rank, she could step into any unit and command at least a hundred soldiers. Since Norman was just looking to hand off some of his duties, he figured why not make it official?

Waving his hand lazily, he said, "Sure, why not. I’ll make you the squad leader of a special action team. Just go back to the system and update your title. After that, you can pick your team."

Of course, the unit’s organizational structure was a joke. There weren’t even proper teams in place—everything was chaotic.

After she logged the changes and finished up, Lyra excused herself, a noticeable spring in her step as she left the office.

Norman leaned back again, eyes drooping as he started to drift back into his post-drinking stupor. But just as he was about to nod off, a horrifying thought jolted him awake. ’Wait... that woman’s a Master Peculiar!’

Panic seized him as he jumped to his feet, rushing outside, his mind racing with worry about what she could’ve done to his men. Bursting into the courtyard, he froze at the sight before him.

His soldiers, normally lounging around with zero care, were now standing perfectly still like white marble columns. Frozen in upright positions, their faces stiff with shock.

The usual rowdy bunch, who spent more time chasing drinks and women than anything else, now had serious, almost solemn expressions—some even looked like they were on the verge of tears.

"Ma’am, what’s happening?" one of them stammered, his voice shaky with fear.

In the middle of it all, Lyra stood calmly, her gaze resting on Norman. "Oh, these are my team members. Thirty-one in total. I’ll be submitting the roster to you shortly."

"Team... team members?" Norman sputtered, his mind reeling.

He stood there, completely frozen, his mind spinning with disbelief.

These guys were the most problematic soldiers in the entire unit—the kind who skated by thanks to their high-status family ties, immune to discipline. And now they were supposed to be part of Lyra’s special action team?

"Yes," Lyra said, her voice steady and serene, "after some friendly discussions, they were more than happy to join my squad."

Norman couldn’t help but wince at the phrase "more than happy."