The embers of the celebration had not yet completely cooled, but the festive atmosphere within the Alliance Headquarters, the Crown of Stars, had already been swiftly replaced by a cold, rusty-smelling power reshuffle.
Before the glittering celebration decorations could even be taken down, a series of post-war reconstruction and resource allocation resolutions, stamped with the Alliance High Council's seal and meticulously worded yet subtly sharp, descended like invisible nooses, precisely tightening around Mark and his followers' necks.
"Lieutenant Allen."
A council envoy, dressed in a crisp uniform and expressionless, stood at the entrance of what was once the core command center of Mark's Faction, flanked by two fully armed military police whose armbands bore the insignia of Trigg's personal guard.
"According to Resolution No. 1 of the Alliance Post-War Resource Coordination Committee, your exceptional strategic talent is crucial for the newly established Deep Space Frontier Expansion and Historical Relic Protection Office."
"You have been appointed as the first Director of this office, effective immediately. Your new office is located in Sector E, 73rd floor, of the Crown of Stars Annex."
"Here is your letter of appointment and office access credentials."
The envoy handed over a thin electronic tablet.
Allen's gaze swept across the screen. Below the lengthy, flowery letter of appointment was a glaringly clear description of his scope of authority.
Responsible for evaluating the historical and cultural value of the Alliance's new frontiers and planning their non-militarized protection.
His previous command of the Alliance's Third Rapid Response Fleet, his authority over the frontline intelligence network, and his crucial oversight seat had all been cleanly stripped away.
Eve's situation was no different.
Her extraordinary perceptive abilities were highly praised, and she was then transferred from her core position, which involved direct contact with frontline intelligence and anomalous events, and placed in the newly established Mental Health and Post-War Psychological Reconstruction Center as Chief Consultant.
She was tasked with providing psychological counseling to war-traumatized soldiers and civilians.
Her actual authority was confined to her office; any requests requiring the use of psionic detection equipment or access to sensitive files would be indefinitely postponed, citing resource optimization or procedural review.
Rudy, the hot-tempered but skilled engineer, was directly exiled.
He was given the honorary title of Alliance Chief Starship Archaeologist, but his mission was to lead a scientific expedition to a distant, heavily contaminated, and strategically worthless fringe star system to salvage and study ancient war wreckage.
This was euphemistically called finding inspiration for the Alliance's technological revival.
His laboratory, his precise engineering team, and the critical ongoing projects for remote maintenance and upgrades of the Alliance, were all taken over.
Similar scenarios constantly played out for the core members of Mark's Faction.
One by one, prominent but hollow titles, and appointments far outside the core power circle, even dangerous ones, like cold shackles, bound and exiled Mark's lieutenants.
The PRCC, a new institution single-handedly promoted by Trigg and enthusiastically endorsed by Chairman Warren and the elders, quickly became the sole valve for Alliance resource allocation.
Its operation was a textbook example of legal plunder.
The remaining small escort fleets of Mark's Faction, not directly disbanded, were reallocated to the fleet structures of Trigg's direct generals or elders' close allies, under the guise of increasing efficiency and unified command.
The priority of their fuel, ammunition, and repair parts supply was reduced to the lowest, almost to the point of cutoff.
All research projects associated with Mark's Faction, whether civilian or military, had their funding drastically cut or directly frozen.
Key researchers were transferred to laboratories controlled by Trigg or research institutes supported by the elders' consortiums, under the pretext of talent exchange by the PRCC.
Mark's Faction's technological advantage was rapidly drained.
And the several wealthy liberated planets that once supported Mark's Faction were brought under the PRCC's jurisdiction as key reconstruction zones, with their taxes, mineral output, and trade routes centrally managed and scheduled by the committee.
The actual flow, however, was towards the elders' family businesses and Trigg's secretly conducted forbidden research related to the Old Day fragments.
Mark's Faction's supply lines were on the verge of collapse.
The internal information network of the Alliance was even more tightly monitored.
Any statements attempting to speak for Mark's Faction or question the PRCC would be swiftly labeled as undermining post-war unity and questioning Alliance decisions, and then suppressed.
Mainstream media began to extensively report on the efficient operation of the PRCC and the "glorious achievements" of Trigg's Faction in new areas of development, while the contributions of Mark and his followers were deliberately downplayed or even distorted.
Because of this.
Mark's Faction, which had once made the Old Day's minions tremble on the battlefield and possessed immense prestige and influence within the Alliance, collapsed in a short period, like a building hollowed out by termites.
Core members were exiled or sidelined, middle-level cadres were either bought off or suppressed, and grassroots personnel were lost in large numbers due to resource scarcity and dim prospects.
Finally, when the dust settled, fewer than a hundred members remained steadfast in their original headquarters, a now empty and desolate small office located in a secluded corner of the Crown of Stars.
Most of them were veterans who had followed Mark, technical backbone personnel with absolute loyalty to core leaders like Allen, and a few idealists who had seen through the Alliance's corrupt nature.
Their eyes were weary, but deep within, an unyielding flame burned. They guarded almost paralyzed communication terminals, empty supply warehouses, and a pile of old archives deemed worthless by the PRCC.
Resources were so scarce that even maintaining basic office operations was a struggle.
They were completely marginalized, kicked off the Alliance's power table, becoming historical relics forgotten in a corner.
Crisis of survival!
This was no longer an exaggeration but a cold reality. Without resources, without a voice, without allies, even their legitimacy could be erased at any moment by a PRCC resolution.
They were trapped on the edge of a cliff, with the abyss of oblivion beneath their feet.
...
Under dim light, Allen sat at a peeling old office desk, piled with rejected appeal documents from the PRCC, resource request lists, and lengthy petitions he had personally written, attempting to expose the PRCC's injustice and Trigg's ambitions.
His face was more gaunt than ever, eyes sunken, but his gaze remained as sharp as an eagle's.
He was writing furiously, the tip of his pen scratching across the tough synthetic paper, making a distinct rustling sound that was particularly clear in the silent office.
Every stroke condensed anger, worry, and unyielding defiance.
Eve sat opposite him, her brows tightly furrowed, her fingertips unconsciously tracing a data pad recording anomalous energy readings.
Rudy paced restlessly in the small space, muttering curses at the PRCC and those bloated elder parasites.
Other remaining members were also busy, either trying to repair old communication equipment or organizing the last of their data. The atmosphere was oppressive and heavy.
As Allen reached a critical point in his writing, his strokes became more forceful, the words carved like knives.
"...The PRCC's so-called resource coordination is, in fact, naked power-rent seeking and interest transfer at the cost of the Alliance's long-term interests and basic fairness!
Its core purpose is to serve Regent Trigg's unspeakable ambitions and satisfy the insatiable greed of the elder class. If this continues, the Alliance will not only fail to truly revive under the shadow of the Old Day but will accelerate its slide into the abyss of self-destruction. We strongly demand..."
Just as the word "abyss" was about to be completed.
Snap!
A crisp, heart-stopping sound of breakage echoed!
The sturdy alloy pen tip in Allen's hand suddenly snapped in half without warning. The front half, with wet ink, splattered out, drawing an ugly ink stain on the petition, like a grotesque wound.
The back half remained between his fingers, its cross section gleaming with a cold metallic luster.
Allen's movements froze abruptly.
He looked down at the broken pen tip and the glaring ink stain on the paper, his brows tightly furrowed.
The office instantly fell into a dead silence.
Rudy stopped pacing, Eve abruptly looked up, and everyone who had been busy paused their actions, their gazes uniformly fixed on the broken pen in Allen's hand and the stained document.
The snapping sound reverberated in the silence, as if striking each person's heart.
This was not merely the breaking of a writing tool.
At this extremely oppressive, perilous moment, at the very instant Allen poured his heart into writing a manifesto of defiance, this pen, symbolizing will and communication, broke in such an abrupt, such a complete manner...
It was more like an ominous premonition, a malicious mockery from the depths of the cold universe.
Eve's face instantly turned pale. She instinctively clutched her chest. An indescribable, bone-chilling tremor pierced her psionic perception without warning, making her almost gasp for breath.
That feeling... was like some important thread, sustaining hope, being violently torn apart in the endless void!
Rudy's fist slammed heavily against the metal wall, producing a dull thud. He growled,
"Damn it! This cursed omen..."
Allen slowly raised his head. His gaze did not meet anyone's eyes but pierced through the cold walls, directed towards the deep, unknown, and dangerous star sea.
An unprecedented, heavy worry, like a cold lead weight, sank into his heart.
"Mark..."
Allen's voice was low and hoarse, breaking the dead silence.
"How long has it been since he sent any news?"
This question, like a giant stone thrown into calm water, stirred up a storm in everyone's hearts.
Yes... Their leader, who shone like a star and supported their faith, the man who ventured into danger to find a way to fight the Old Day...
It had been a while, not days, nor weeks...
That period of lost contact, under silent erosion and immense pressure, had blurred its boundaries. Now, recalling it, they were startled to realize how long it had been.
Long enough to break a sturdy pen tip, long enough to cast a heavy shadow over the most steadfast heart.
The broken pen tip seemed to sound an alarm.
It portended, perhaps, not only the fragility of their faction under political strangulation but also... Mark Grayson, far away in the depths of the universe, his fate unknown!
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