Interstellar: Return of the Villain
Chapter 274: He’s My Adjutant

Chapter 274: He’s My Adjutant

When Lyra returned to the military base, her life settled into a mix of tension and monotony.

Every day, the looming threat of an attack from the Empire kept everyone on edge. Yet, the routine of drills and constant preparations left little time for anything else, making the days blur together.

Two nights after her return, Lyra wrapped up an exhausting training session.

The hour was late, and the base was quiet as she trudged back to her quarters. On the way, she crossed paths with Cohen, who was just finishing his own exercises.

"Perfect timing," he said, falling into step with her. "I need to talk to you about something."

They walked together toward the dormitory, the cool night air clinging to their fatigues.

"With your performance in this campaign, you’re guaranteed a promotion once your merits are processed," Cohen began matter-of-factly. "You’ll be jumping at least three ranks, which means you’ll command a full regiment. You’ll need to appoint an adjutant and a clerk. Do you have anyone in mind?"

Lyra’s battlefield success was impossible to ignore. She’d earned more than a dozen first-class and special commendations, even with efforts to downplay her achievements. Her promotion to Lieutenant Commander was a mere formality at this point.

The weight of her new responsibilities wasn’t lost on her. A regiment meant command over three battalions—nearly two thousand soldiers. It was a serious role, one she’d take head-on.

"I just need people who are ready to put their lives on the line," she said, her tone sharp with conviction.

Cohen smirked knowingly. "I figured you’d say that. I’ll assign you the vanguard regiment: one mech battalion and two fighter jet battalions. They’ll suit your style."

"Perfect."

As for selecting her adjutant and clerk, Lyra had the choice to hand-pick her team or accept pre-approved candidates. She shrugged off the decision for now. "I’ll figure it out."

By the time they reached the dormitory, the base had slipped into a deep hush. Energy-saving lights cast faint halos down dim corridors, leaving long stretches of shadow.

It was in one of these pockets of darkness that their sharp senses picked up a low, ugly exchange.

"You’re really playing hard to get? Just let me check that body of yours!" The man’s voice oozed malice.

"Let go of me!" came the trembling reply, fury barely restrained in the younger soldier’s voice.

The older man sneered. "Don’t make me lose my patience. If you keep resisting, I’ll strip you of your rank. Do you really think I won’t?"

The struggle became more audible. The younger man’s defiance was clear as faint flickers of blue energy lit up around him, only to be crushed under the older man’s gravity superpower. Forced to the ground, the younger soldier gasped for air, his glare unwavering.

The older man leered over him, his voice full of twisted satisfaction. "You’ve been cast out by the royal family. You’re nothing here but a stray dog. Stay with me, and I’ll make sure you’re rewarded."

He began fumbling with his belt, the sound of the buckle slicing through the tension in the hallway. But before he could move further, a sharp, sardonic voice cut through the air.

"Well, this is a first," Lyra drawled, arms crossed, her gaze like a blade. "A live male-on-male scene in the hallway. And to think I’m stuck watching this with Cohen."

The older man—Orson Whyte—froze mid-motion. The younger soldier’s tense body loosened slightly, and a flicker of dark amusement played across his face.

"Lyra," Orson growled, his voice a low warning. "This is none of your business. Walk away now, and I won’t hold it against you."

Lyra raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening. "Wow, territorial much? I didn’t realize you were this possessive about your dirty work."

A cold tension filled the air as another guy stepped out of the shadows. Cohen’s calm, commanding presence sent a chill down the corridor. His sharp gaze swept over the scene, taking in every damning detail.

Orson stiffened, letting go of the younger man as if burned. In his rush, his pants snapped back into place with an awkward noise that echoed in the stillness.

"Uncle Orson," Cohen said, his tone cutting and icy. "Report to my father immediately. Take whatever punishment he deems fit. Now."

Orson hesitated for only a brief moment before slipping back into his polished, aloof demeanor. He adjusted his sleeves with deliberate care, the Vice Admiral insignia on his shoulder catching what little light the corridor offered.

"Cohen, don’t blow this out of proportion," he said, his tone casual and faintly condescending. "Things like this are common in the military. No need to take it so seriously."

Cohen’s expression didn’t waver. If anything, his icy gaze sharpened. His voice was cutting as he replied, "Disciplines are disciplines. Please adhere to it."

Were it anyone else, Cohen would just drag him straight to the command center for formal disciplinary action.

Even this restrained rebuke made Orson bristle with discomfort. His lips twitched in irritation before he masked it with a tight smile. After a moment, he adjusted his sleeves again, feigning indifference.

"Very well. I will comply," Orson said flatly. He cast a brief glance at Lyra before turning on his heel and walking off into the shadows.

The tension in the corridor eased slightly as Orson disappeared, though the weight of the moment lingered.

Slowly, Aurelius pushed himself to his feet. His movements were deliberate, his hands brushing dust from his uniform with a precision. He was trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice barely audible.

Aurelius tried to sound indifferent, but the slight tremor in his hands and the tightly pressed line of his lips betrayed the storm of humiliation roiling inside him.

Aurelius had endured endless mockery and scorn before being cast out of the royal family.

Now, as a soldier, he found himself humiliated further—this time by a superior officer. And to make matters worse, the whole sordid scene had unfolded before Lyra and Cohen, two of the most respected figures in the military.

Feeling ashamed, Aurelius wished the ground would swallow him whole.

Cohen stood stiffly, at a loss for words. Despite his commanding presence, he struggled to offer comfort in a situation like this. He had no idea what he could say that wouldn’t sound hollow?

Lyra’s gaze shifted to Aurelius, her eyes sharp and appraising. He froze under her scrutiny, his fists clenching at his sides as if bracing for a cutting remark.

Lyra’s words were brisk and unexpected.

"Captain Whyte," she said, addressing Cohen without looking away from Aurelius, "if you’re helping him, finish the job. Assign him to me as my adjutant."

Her tone left no room for argument; it wasn’t a request.

Cohen blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before nodding. "Very well," he said simply.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Aurelius felt a flicker of something he had nearly forgotten: hope.

The next day, Cohen dug into Legion Glory’s official incident reports, scanning for any mention of Orson’s misconduct.

As expected, there was nothing.

No surprise there—Orson’s casual dismissal of the matter had already suggested an attempt to bury it. With confirmation in hand, Cohen headed straight for Frederick’s office.

Standing at the door, Cohen’s posture was sharp and unyielding.

Chuck, lounging nearby with his usual easy demeanor, waved him forward. "Relax, kid. We’re family. No need to be so stiff."

Cohen didn’t budge, his disciplined stance unwavering.

Chuck shrugged, muttering, "This one’s always so serious."

Frederick, seated behind his desk, looked up briefly. "Come in," he said curtly.

Cohen stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he saluted. "Last night, I witnessed Vice Admiral Orson Whyte assaulting a subordinate," he said, his voice steady and precise. "The evidence is irrefutable, and I’m here to formally report the incident."

Chuck choked, coughing violently at the blunt delivery, but neither Cohen nor Frederick acknowledged him. Their eyes remained locked, a battle of will in silence.

Frederick responded after a moment, his tone cool and measured. "This matter was addressed last night. Vice Admiral Whyte accepted his punishment and received appropriate disciplinary action."

Cohen’s jaw tightened. "Then why wasn’t it formally documented?"

His gaze was sharp, unwavering in its pursuit of justice. But Frederick’s expression hardened ever so slightly.

"This matter does not require further discussion," Frederick said firmly, lowering his gaze back to the reports on his desk.

Cohen stared, disbelief washing over him. His father was the man he had idolized all his life. Cohen couldn’t believe that Frederick just dismissed such a grave offense so lightly?

Before Cohen could press further, Chuck stepped in, gripping his shoulder and dragging him out into the hallway.

"I don’t get it," Cohen said, his voice low but strained. He gripped the window frame tightly, staring out at the base. "Is it really so difficult to handle this properly? Publicly?"

"It’s not difficult," Chuck replied, leaning casually against the wall, his hands tucked into his pockets. "But if Orson goes down publicly, so will a dozen others. And when that chain reaction starts, how do you think the rank-and-file will view us? The ones supposed to lead them?"

Chuck smirked bitterly, his gaze steady as Cohen’s resolve flickered. "Don’t tell me you think Orson’s the only one," he added mockingly.