Interstellar: Return of the Villain
Chapter 276: Beating That Pig

Chapter 276: Beating That Pig

Lyra wasn’t the kind of person to take a hit lying down. Sure, she might stumble for a moment, but you could bet she’d get back up swinging—and always aiming to hit harder.

After cooling off, Cohen reminded himself why he was truly angry. It wasn’t just the injustice Lyra had faced; it was the filth he’d uncovered within Legion Glory. That corruption burned him to his core.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly.

Being the son of an admiral wasn’t worth much in moments like these. Orson held a higher rank, more power, and enough leverage to make even Cohen’s father tread carefully. The harsh truth only sharpened Cohen’s determination.

Lyra didn’t blame him, nor did she mock him. Instead, she simply said, "Good luck, Captain Whyte. Build a clean, new Alliance."

"I will," Cohen replied, his voice steady.

His eyes burned with a fiery resolve that startled her for a moment. Lyra gave him a faint, almost teasing smile and waved him off. "I’m leaving."

"Lyra." His voice stopped her mid-step.

She turned slightly, her expression casual, almost aloof. "Hmm?"

"I..." Cohen took a deep breath, gathering courage. "Don’t do anything reckless. When I’m promoted to Rear Admiral, my division will always have a place for you."

It was a sincere offer, but Lyra didn’t flinch. She understood Cohen’s limits better than he did. Legion Glory wasn’t a place where Special Forces tactics or clean morals could thrive.

She smirked faintly, shaking her head under his earnest gaze. "Thanks."

And just like that, she turned sharply on her heel, leaving him behind with a silhouette so cold it felt like she’d never been there at all.

Aurelius, brushing off imaginary dust from his pants, chuckled as he watched her go. "She’s not the type to play second fiddle, sir. If anything, she might end up running Legion Glory herself one day."

Cohen pressed his lips together, saying nothing.

Aurelius snorted. "Not that it’d be the worst thing," he muttered, hurrying to catch up with Lyra. He didn’t believe all Cohen’s talk about ideals and aspirations anyway.

The next day, Lyra and Aurelius reported to their new assignment with transfer orders in hand.

Their destination? The F34 Regiment, an elite vanguard unit commanded personally by Orson. It wasn’t just another posting—it was walking straight into the lion’s den.

In Orson’s office, the man set down his pen and circled them like a predator sizing up its prey. His lecherous gaze crawled over their uniforms, making Aurelius shift uncomfortably.

But this time, Orson’s attention lingered on Lyra.

"To be honest," Orson drawled with a smirk, "I’ve always preferred men—more of a challenge to conquer. But you... you’re making me reconsider. Maybe women have their perks after all."

Lyra didn’t flinch, didn’t react. Her face remained a perfect mask of calm. Her long black braid, tied like a scorpion’s tail, hung down her back.

Loose strands framed her sharp, cold features, and her cat-like eyes gleamed with a frosty detachment that dared anyone to get too close.

But it was precisely that icy air that made her dangerous—and irresistible.

Orson’s gaze roamed shamelessly. He leaned closer and reached out to toy with the end of her braid.

That’s when the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"Vice Admiral Whyte," Lyra said coldly, her head tilting just enough to let the light catch her piercing eyes, "let me remind you—even if I kill you, I can escape Wyrmtrace without a scratch."

The venom in her voice froze Orson mid-motion, his hand still hovering near her braid. He stared at her, wide-eyed, unsure whether she’d just made a threat or a promise.

Realizing he was out of his depth, Orson let out a frustrated huff and stormed back to his chair. "Lieutenant Commander Shedd, you’re as arrogant as I was told," he barked, his voice tinged with forced bravado. "But let me warn you—this is my unit. Here, when I say strip, you strip!"

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "And don’t forget, your rank is in my hands."

It wasn’t the first time he’d used that line. Plenty of soldiers had folded under his threats, trading their dignity for ranks they couldn’t afford to lose.

But Lyra wasn’t like the others.

Before Orson could even process what was happening, the space behind her seemed to pulse with a dark, serpentine glow.

When it came to dealing with scum like Orson, Lyra didn’t waste words.

Minutes later, Orson was curled up on the floor, clutching his ribs and wheezing in pain. His once-imposing presence had been reduced to nothing but a pathetic, squirming heap.

Orson spat blood through gritted teeth, his eyes blazing with fury. "You... striked a superior officer? Do you have any idea—wait, what are you doing?"

Before he could finish, Lyra grabbed him by the collar and flung him back into his chair. His eyes widened in terror as he hit the seat with a heavy thud.

She slammed her appointment papers onto his desk with a sharp, resounding thud.

"Sign it."

Lyra leaned in, her body taut with icy determination. Her one hand pressed firmly against the document, while the other rested on her hip, radiating defiance. Her piercing gaze bore down on Orson, colder than the vacuum of space.

"Sign it!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a whip.

Orson’s glare faltered as a shiver ran down his spine. He glanced at the document in front of him, hesitating just long enough for another glowing ribbon to unfurl behind Lyra.

It snaked through the air with eerie precision, plucking the pen from his pocket and dangling it before him.

"Sign it," Lyra said again, her tone dropping into a menacing calm. "Because once I’m done here, the high council will be begging me to come back on their knees."

Her confidence was unshakable, her dominance absolute. Orson sat frozen in place, caught between anger and fear.

He hated it, but she was right. Lyra wasn’t just any officer; she was indispensable. The Stellar Devourer was a threat only she could manage, and even if Lyra walked away, the council would move heaven and earth to bring her back.

Frustration burned in Orson’s chest, twisting like a knife. He had her here in his unit, but she wasn’t his to control.

Worse, she’d humiliated him, left him crawling on the floor, and shattered whatever authority he thought he had over her.

"Lyra," he snarled, his voice low and venomous. "You’d better think this through. Even if I don’t strip you of your rank, there are plenty of ways to deal with someone like you."

He straightened, trying to salvage what was left of his dignity. "Get out. Aurelius stays," he barked, desperate to reclaim some shred of power.

But Lyra didn’t move an inch. Her steady defiance only made his crumbling authority look even more pathetic.

"You—"

Before Orson could finish, the door slammed open with a loud bang.

A young man stumbled in, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. His wide eyes darted to Orson, and his face twisted in exaggerated shock.

"Uncle Orson! What happened to your face?" Thierry exclaimed, pointing at Orson’s swollen and bruised features.

Thierry scratched his head with mock confusion. "I heard from Cohen that you’re pushing ninety. Maybe it’s time to take it easy, huh?"

The casual insult landed like a slap.

"I..." Orson opened his mouth, then quickly shut it. He couldn’t possibly admit that one of his subordinates had beaten him senseless.

"What are you doing here?" he barked, hoping to redirect the conversation.

"Oh, right!" Thierry straightened and saluted smartly, his big grin infuriatingly cheerful. "I’m Lieutenant Commander Shedd’s new adjutant. Fleet Admiral Frederick assigned me to assist and, uh, supervise her."

Orson’s face turned an even darker shade of red.

This wasn’t about supervising Lyra at all—it was about keeping him in check.

Thierry, Frederick’s nephew, was the perfect watchdog. With him around, Orson wouldn’t dare lay a finger on Lyra or Aurelius. Targeting all three of them—including Frederick’s relative—was a death wish.

After a long, tense silence, Orson finally growled, "I don’t think you’re a good fit for my unit. It’s too dangerous here."

Thierry’s grin didn’t waver. "That’s for my superior officer to decide, sir. Uncle Frederick said to let you take it up with him if you disagreed."

Orson’s hand curled into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. There was no way he’d stoop to arguing with Admiral Frederick over this. Reluctantly, he snatched the pen and scrawled his signature on the papers.

With a crisp salute, Thierry handed the documents back to Lyra.

The three left the office without another word, Orson’s impotent rage simmering in their wake.

Out in the corridor, Thierry let out a relieved sigh. "Looks like I made it just in time. Any later, and Lyra might’ve ended up a fugitive for murdering a vice admiral."

Aurelius shot him a dark look. "You should’ve stayed out of it."

"It would’ve been better if she’d killed that pig," Aurelius added flatly.

Thierry’s grin turned sharp. "Next time, I’ll make sure to look the other way."

Aurelius shook his head, then glanced at Lyra. "You know, if he hadn’t barged in, you’d probably be court-martialed by now."

Lyra’s expression remained frosty and unreadable.

The three of them—Lyra, Aurelius, and Thierry—formed an odd, mismatched trio. And now, as they turned a corner, Mandy, their clerk, jogged up to join them.

Together, they made for a peculiar team, one that seemed destined to disrupt everything Orson had built.