It wasn’t exactly complete loneliness.
With Cyril personally guiding him, one could imagine how much Ji Tianjin was gaining from it.
In the training grounds, the white tiger had been released and was currently locked in solo combat with a beast. Both were spirit forms, but compared to Su Cha’s languid lotus magnolia, the tiger fully embodied what it meant to be a king.
Even Cyril acknowledged the tiger’s combat capabilities. Even before fully awakening, this spirit was already close to peak-level performance.
Ji Tianjin’s mechanical gloves had been damaged during training the previous day, and had just now been delivered. As he fastened them onto his arm, Cyril suddenly asked, “Why did you come?”
Securing the final clasp, Ji Tianjin repeated the same answer he had once given to Xie Rongjue.
Whether he was lying, Cyril could see at a glance. So when Ji Tianjin, without any disguise, earnestly said that Su Cha was delicate and needed care, Cyril showed the same subtle surprise that Xie Rongjue had once shown.
Double standards or not, the people of Fog Star had very clear heads. With the simulation footage sent from the desolate star, Cyril had a fairly accurate sense of Su Cha’s combat strength—“delicate” had nothing to do with it.
Fog Star citizens saw Su Cha as delicate partly due to traditional values, but more out of elder care toward the younger generation. But for someone from the Empire to call him delicate… Cyril quietly wondered if this kid’s eyesight might be a little off.
“Su Cha approaches the world with caution. His spirit is also somewhat lazy, and he’s lacking in mechanics, so he needs a reliable teammate to complement him. I can feel that, compared to fighting, he prefers growing flowers and plants.”
Su Cha essentially had a heart that sought to enjoy life. In the desert, he could trade watermelons for beast corpses—he was never going to be the type to fight to the death.
He had personality, wasn’t a burden, and had ideas. That was enough.
Cyril glanced at Ji Tianjin. Not bad—at least his logic was consistent.
Before more outrageous statements could follow, Cyril twitched his fingers, using telekinetic threads to correct the finer errors in Ji Tianjin’s combat form.
…
Day after day passed. Fog Star didn’t have many truly peaceful moments; beast tides struck now and then. Ji Tianjin returned briefly to the Galan Empire a few times, but always came back with the next exchange delegation.
Some beast tides lasted only days, others months. In battle, time seemed to vanish.
Year after year went by. From this perspective, Su Cha’s dream bloomed in an unconventional way—for example, while Ji Tianjin was being worked to death every day, Su Cha remained fast asleep in the same place.
The room where the cryo pod was kept had restricted access.
As someone from a different empire, Ji Tianjin could still visit—but only under the butler’s escort.
Today, he brought a fresh bouquet to replace the withered flowers in the room.
More than four years had passed. The boy’s features had become more defined, with a hint of sharpness in the corners of his eyes. Ji Tianjin had once looked gentle by nature, but now, with the air of pride surrounding him, he seemed born of nobility. He’d just finished a battle, and his hair was slightly disheveled.
The cryo pod was as quiet as always.
Ji Tianjin put down the flowers and sat with a soft laugh. “You really are taking a long nap. When I went back to the Empire, Rong Shao and the others gave me a hard time—said this is what I get for hogging all the benefits at Fog Star.”
Rong Shao’s “hogging” referred to Cyril’s personal mentorship—but the butler by the door still thought the phrasing sounded a little off.
Habit was a scary thing.
At first, Ji Tianjin had only come occasionally to share recent news. Over time, it became a habit. He wasn’t very sociable and didn’t attend any schools on Fog Star. In combat, he had Cyril’s guidance; for other subjects, he was taught by top scholars brought into the palace.
Ji Tianjin had a mechanical lesson that afternoon and didn’t stay long. Only the lingering scent of flowers proved he had been there.
After seeing him to the door, the butler went to prepare Cyril’s afternoon tea.
Time hadn’t left a single trace on Cyril’s face. The butler handed him the tea and casually mentioned that Ji Tianjin had just visited the young prince.
“There are two new exchange students on the latest delegation list.”
The wormhole conflict in the interstellar warzone still hadn’t been resolved. Over the past few years, diplomatic progress had been relatively smooth, and both sides had increased the number of exchange participants.
“Has their schooling been arranged?”
The butler nodded. “They seem a bit disappointed.”
That slight sense of imbalance was understandable—after all, they were also exchange students, while Ji Tianjin was being personally taught by the King.
But this treatment had everything to do with Ji Tianjin’s decision to be the first to come, and with Su Cha’s entrusted wish. There wouldn’t be another person granted the same.
The butler couldn’t help asking, “When will the young prince wake up?”
At first, they had expected the sleep to last only a year or two. But now, four years had passed, and he still hadn’t woken up. In the past, the longest any royal had ever slept was just over ten years.
“Soon,” Cyril’s gaze softened. “No more than half a year.”
Comas before adulthood rarely lasted more than five years.
Originally, he was planning to go check on Su Cha, but just then, a royal guard came to report: “Your Majesty, the Marshal has returned.”
Cyril set down his teacup. “Have him wait for me in the Council Hall.”
Land had been summoned back early by Cyril. Otherwise, by the original schedule, he would not have returned until the end of the year.
In the vast Council Hall, there were only the two of them.
Cyril sat on the throne, his tone neither heavy nor light: “Still no results?”
After saluting, Land replied, “There hasn’t been any real large-scale firepower exchange yet. The wormhole hasn’t existed for long, and all parties are still focused on exploration.”
Before this, no one could be sure whether this war was even worth fighting. Some wormholes could span billions of light-years, but were extremely unstable. Even if one gained control, it might not be worth the cost.
So for the past few years, the battles had only been small-scale skirmishes. It hadn’t reached a life-or-death phase yet.
“There’s another important reason. According to intel from our scouts, this wormhole won’t last very long—it might disappear in a hundred years.”
This was the true reason for the current stalemate. A hundred years wasn’t exactly long, nor was it short. Waging an interstellar war for that amount of time seemed too costly, yet no one was willing to give it up without a fight.
Cyril’s lips suddenly curled faintly. “The Federation loves playing peacemaker. Just wait—they’ll probably call for some pointless summit soon.”
Sure enough, three days after Cyril made that prediction, the Federation sent letters to all parties, advocating for a peaceful resolution and suggesting a meeting.
Naturally, the meeting location wasn’t set on any one nation’s territory. The Federation proposed Jibei Star.
Jibei Star was a waste star, located close to the interstellar battlefield. Because of the wormhole dispute, all sides had stationed troops there. This way, no one had to worry about being ambushed on someone else’s turf.
They had expected to wait a while for responses, but surprisingly, Fog Star was the first to agree. As a result of their alliance, the Galan Empire also soon announced their willingness to negotiate.
Since the wormhole had a limited lifespan, dragging things out was meaningless. Even the Zerg eventually agreed, and the other factions followed suit.
This was considered major news at the time—yet the public cared more about another matter: Why hadn’t the young prince woken up yet?
Even the butler couldn’t help overstepping with that question earlier, let alone the uninformed masses. The official royal response was vague: the prince might awaken soon, and an online meet-and-greet would be arranged.
That answer didn’t reassure anyone much—until Cyril visited Su Cha again and confirmed the timeline: by the end of June.
Lately, vases near the cryo chamber had been inexplicably shattering, and Su Cha’s spiritual energy had been leaking more and more frequently from the pod—signs he was about to awaken.
Midnight.
Tonight’s moon was particularly round.
Only a soft, semi-transparent curtain hung over the floor-to-ceiling windows. Moonlight slipped through easily, spilling gently toward the cryo pod.
A soft rustling sound broke the silence.
After four and a half years, the cryo pod finally opened again. A slender pair of hands reached out, gripping the edge of the chamber, and a fragile figure slowly sat up.
“Hoo—”
Su Cha took a few deep breaths before regaining a normal rhythm. After a moment, he pushed himself to stand. Barefoot, he stepped onto the carpet—but accidentally trod on a wing-shaped ornament on the ground, stumbling back down. Luckily, the chamber’s edge was just the right height, and he landed seated.
Next to him was a set of neatly folded clothes and a new pair of shoes. What he was wearing had long since become tattered rags. In a dazed state, Su Cha mechanically changed his clothes.
The butler had prepared them in advance. In recent days, the castle had people standing guard around the clock outside the chamber—just to ensure they’d be the first to know when the young prince awoke.
But right now, all movement was still sealed off.
The first to sense Su Cha’s awakening was the mechanical doll. It had been squatting around for days—finally catching its moment.
When the cryo pod opened, it had been sitting on the windowsill watching the moon. Knowing Su Cha needed to change, it had only just turned around.
Their eyes met. Su Cha was still groggy and stunned. After a long pause, he finally caught up with the moment and reacted: “System?”
Even the mechanical doll fell silent for a second. The host now looked almost exactly as he had when they first met. Members of the flower demon clan were naturally born with a kind of softness and charm in their appearance—traits that only became prominent after maturing. The flower mark on Su Cha’s forehead had reappeared, adding an enchanting touch to his pale skin.
Perhaps it was the hardships he had endured, but now that Su Cha’s features had fully matured, his presence carried a deeply broken aura—especially those eyes, filled with grievance and silent blame, as if he had suffered immense injustice.
First glance: heartstruck. Second glance: heartbroken.
Looking like this, how was he supposed to face the world?
System: “You’re on your own now.”
Anyone from Fog Star seeing a face this heartbreakingly beautiful probably wouldn’t dare to look at him ever again.
Su Cha looked completely baffled.
The system’s policy for hosts had always been: “As long as you’re alive, it’s fine.” Once it confirmed that he had awakened safely, it left without hesitation. Before leaving, it used its umbrella handle to knock over a vase on the windowsill. The shattering sound immediately drew the attention of the on-duty guards.
The door flew open in a rush—both the butler and guards were nearby, so they arrived almost instantly.
Su Cha was leaning weakly against the cryo pod. His hair had grown wildly over the years, now trailing all the way down to his slender ankles. Seeing people arrive, he instinctively lifted the corners of his lips, offering a faint, weary smile.
The butler and guards all froze in place.
While they were still stunned, clutching their chests, Cyril and Ji Tianjin had already arrived as well.
Su Cha gave a soft laugh. “Long time no see.”
“……”
