Qianlong made his way to the end of the corridor and activated the lift, heading toward the passenger section. He had been hiding in the lower maintenance decks, but staying there indefinitely wasn't an option—no food, no water. He needed to blend in with the other survivors before suspicion arose.
The lift shuddered to a stop, its metal doors sliding open.
The moment he stepped out, noise assaulted him—shouts, curses, and muffled sobs.
Around the corner, a mass of refugees huddled together, their eyes wide with fear. They had escaped Belloq, but survival came with its own torment.
Then the ship's intercom crackled to life.
"Attention all passengers. This is General Jiawei. This vessel is now under my command. Those who disobey will be spaced. Due to severe overcrowding, food will be rationed. I've already jettisoned the excess. You'd do well to remember that."
Qianlong exhaled through his nose. Might makes right.
He didn't believe for a second that the rations would be fair. In deep space, food was life. If supplies ran dry before reaching Borosi—or if Borosi itself had fallen—they were all dead.
Eight hours passed. No soldiers came with food.
Children whimpered, their parents shushing them desperately, trying not to draw the guards' attention.
Finally, after three more hours, a squad of soldiers pushed in a cart.
The starving crowd surged forward.
"Order!" the squad leader barked, drawing his pistol. The mob froze.
Rations were distributed—a palm-sized biscuit and one water pouch per person. "One day's worth," they said.
The journey to Borosi would take a month. The ship could carry enough supplies, but what if Borosi was gone? What if they were forced off-course?
Jiawei wasn't keeping these people out of mercy. They were assets. With their homeworld gone, wealth meant nothing—only Universal Alliance Star Credits held value now. The nobles aboard might have some, but not enough.
And assets only needed to be kept barely alive.
Qianlong took his meager share and retreated to a corner. He had no illusions—against 500 armed soldiers, resistance was suicide. Even with Phantom, the best he could manage was a mutual kill.
Days passed in tense silence.
Then, a whimper cut through the quiet.
"Mama… I'm hungry."
A girl, no older than eight, trembled in her mother's arms. Her parents murmured comforts, stroking her hair.
"Just a little longer."
Qianlong wordlessly placed half his biscuit in front of them.
The parents hesitated, then nodded in gratitude. The girl took it with shaky hands.
He didn't mind. His pack still held scraps. The soldiers hadn't bothered confiscating personal belongings—yet.
But patience was wearing thin.
Then, boots echoed.
A squad marched in, scanning the crowd. Their leader pointed at a young woman.
"Her."
She recoiled. "No—please!"
Her boyfriend lunged up. "What are you—"
A rifle butt to the gut dropped him.
The soldiers dragged the woman away as her lover clutched at their boots, begging.
The squad leader shot him in the chest without blinking.
Screams erupted. A mother covered her child's eyes.
Qianlong clenched his jaw, forcing stillness. Not yet.
"Shut up!" the leader snarled. The wails died into whimpers.
To the guards, he said: "Clean this up."
The ship flew on.
Then—BOOM.
Alarms shrieked. The hull shuddered violently.
A new voice blared over the comms—rough, laughing.
"That got your attention, eh? Listen up, sheep! Surrender now, or we board and slaughter you all!"