TBG Ch 1

The apocalyptic fervor had been rampant since the start of the year.

However, in a world like this, no one paid any attention to talk of the end times. For humanity, which had already endured two great apocalypses and settled on a third planet, the notion of an apocalypse was, frankly, insignificant. People muttered, “What’s the big deal about the end?” as they smoked cigarettes or drank liquor. This was especially true in the bars of District 3, a wasteland where the socially obsolete and useless eked out their existence.

“Oh, is that so?”

The sky-blue-haired bartender of a rundown bar without a sign had already repeated the same response for the twelfth time. A drunkard clung to the bartender, shouting in a hoarse, slurred voice.

“This time, it’s definitely going to happen! I clearly heard the voice of God!”

“Oh, is that so?”

The bartender, Kay, gave the same answer for the thirteenth time. For the past two hours, he had been stuck listening to this drunkard’s ramblings. Still, Kay managed a smile and listened to the rants with a certain degree of kindness.

In a place like this, the stories told by drunks, plastered from midday, were usually nothing but rumors, propaganda, and vulgar gossip. Having worked as a bartender for seven years, Kay felt that listening to these fools’ drunken tales was practically a second job. The conspiracy theories the drunk was spouting now were the kind of tired stories that anyone living in Charon had heard at least ten times before.

Kay was about to slip away when a new topic from the drunkard’s mouth made him pause, pretending to wipe a glass with a rag.

“You know that pretty boy boss of Colony, right? I heard some nasty rumors about him.”

Kay looked at the drunk with his characteristic gentle smile. The clock on the wall behind him showed 3 p.m. It was about time for the boss, who had gone out for some business at lunch, to return.

“You know what? The reason that guy ran from the military is pretty shady.”

“Hmm?”

Kay nodded ambiguously, neither confirming nor denying. The drunk, excited that someone wasn’t outright dismissing his story, slammed his glass on the table repeatedly.

“I heard he was the Commander’s… you know.”

The drunk wiggled his pinky finger, grinning with a flushed, booze-soaked face.

“That one-eyed pretty boy, with a face like that, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Probably whined about a split lip from sucking the Commander’s dick and ran off.”

At that moment, someone opened the dim bar’s door and stepped inside. The sound of unfamiliar footsteps silenced everyone except the thoroughly intoxicated drunk.

District 3 was home to all sorts of people—criminals, con artists, unidentified individuals, petty thieves—but no one was crazy enough to walk around wearing a military-issued coat. No one, that is, except for one person.

A striking figure in a glossy black long coat strode confidently through the chaotic bar. Curiously, there was no rank insignia on his chest. The coat bore clear marks where medals and badges had been forcibly removed. Some said he was originally a nobody soldier who killed an officer and stole the coat. Others claimed he deliberately erased any identifiable markers and deserted. Arguments over who was right had even led to fights.

In short, Laila was a rather famous deserter. He didn’t exactly hide his status as a deserter either. He had come to District 3 because one more criminal like him wasn’t out of place in a place like this.

In District 3, where everyone had something to hide, a new deserter drawing this much attention was unprecedented in the last three years. The man certainly had the looks to warrant such scrutiny.

His tight-fitting shirt, crisp uniform pants, and high-necked military boots fit his lean frame as if tailor-made. Despite covering his left eye with a black eyepatch, his pale ice-blue eye stood out strikingly.

The figure walked with a cold expression, his military boots clacking sharply. Kay glanced across from the drunk and offered a smile in lieu of a greeting. Just then, the drunk opened his mouth again, still prattling on about how Kay’s boss was the Commander’s lover.

“What was his name again? So damn delicate, just like his face. Oh, Lai—”

The figure reached out impassively toward the back of the blabbering drunk’s head. Kay, still wearing his gentle smile, silently watched the drunk. Without a flicker of emotion, the figure shoved the drunk’s head down, slamming it onto the table.

A loud crash, like a skull shattering, rang out as the rickety table shuddered, kicking up a cloud of dust. The figure released the now-unconscious drunk, whose head remained planted on the table, and plopped down onto a nearby chair.

“Beer. One.”

His voice was as cold as the color of his eye.

“Boss, you’re going to break the table like that,” Kay remarked.

Laila didn’t respond. With his black hair disheveled, he glanced up briefly.

“You gonna take my order or not?”

“Yes, yes.”

Kay gave up on nagging Laila and filled a glass to the brim with beer. In truth, it was less beer and more a bland beverage with a faint beer-like taste, but the people of District 3 stubbornly called it liquor.

Laila took the glass from Kay and downed half of it in one go. Kay tilted his head, noticing the pallor on the beautiful face.

“Something wrong?”

“Threw up everything I ate as soon as I woke up.”

Laila indirectly explained his foul mood. Kay raised an eyebrow at his words.

“I told you to cut back on the drinking.”

“What am I supposed to do when those brats keep challenging me?”

Laila, who had spent the night until dawn guzzling cheap vodka, pressed his fingers against his forehead, paying the price. The call he’d received at lunch had been half-drunk and accompanied by nagging. He recalled the affectionate voice tickling his ear and the stern face pretending to be strict.

Lost in thought for a while, Laila scratched the eyepatch over his injured eye a few times, as if it itched.

“Hey, One-Eyed Major. You busy?”

Beggar, who had been lounging in the bar playing cards, stood up and approached Laila. Laila propped himself up unsteadily and replied.

“What?”

“If you’re not busy, lend me a few guys for the border the day after tomorrow.”

The cold, pale blue eye turned toward the gambler. Beggar, though guilty of nothing, shrank under the gaze, feeling as if he were being interrogated. Laila stared at him for a moment before answering belatedly.

“Not the day after tomorrow. A week from now works.”

“Then a week from now.”

Laila nodded, and Beggar thanked him, leaving a nearly empty oil lighter on the table before walking away. Laila pulled a cigarette from his uniform coat, violently striking the lighter’s flint to light it. As soon as the white cigarette caught fire, he carelessly tossed the lighter aside.

“Whoa!”

Kay caught the lighter as it arced through the air. Laila watched the scene, slowly inhaling the smoke. With his boots propped on the table and the drunk he’d knocked out beside him, he smoked arrogantly, yet no one dared to call him out.

Of course, part of it was because his face was so coldly beautiful that it was hard to approach, but the real reason was that he was the owner of this bar.

Laila, the boss of Colony, an illegal group of unregistered ability users, was known in District 3 as the One-Eyed Major. His subordinates called him Captain or Boss. This cold beauty despised his own name. After a few fearless souls paid a terrible price for calling him by it, no one dared to use his name anymore.

But Kay secretly thought the name “Laila” suited that face perfectly. Of course, it was a thought he kept to himself.

“We got a job,” Laila said after smoking half his cigarette.

Kay, who had been arranging glasses on a shelf, glanced up with a raised eyebrow. He finally understood why the boss, despite his hangover, had dragged himself out for an important call.

“What’s the job?”

“A Typhon sighting near a sealed research lab by the border. We need to take care of it.”

“Rank?”

“Class A. Reports say over ten of them were spotted, possibly breeding nearby.”

A mutant monster capable of single-handedly destroying an entire unit armed with cannons and tanks—and more than ten of them, no less. Astonishingly, Kay’s face lit up at the news.

“If that’s true, we might catch a break.”

Laila nodded at Kay’s response. Colony seemed to treat him like a walking wallet or an emergency loan account, but Laila, true to how he was raised, dutifully took responsibility for the mouths he had to feed. His youthful face, still bearing traces of boyishness despite being an adult, muttered softly.

“Gotta eat, don’t we?”

It had been three years since Laila deserted the military and came to District 3. He scratched above his left eye again. Even with one eye covered, the stunning beauty drew attention with every simple movement.

Laila leaned back in his chair, puffing on his cigarette. His finely sculpted face looked utterly bored. Kay, observing the boss who seemed to have forgotten all the disciplined habits of his military days and now lounged lazily, tilted his head.

“Boss, just to be sure,” Kay began.

“What?”

“That rumor about you deserting because the Commander touched you—is it true?”

Even the mature Kay was, after all, a member of Colony. Laila looked at Kay, who couldn’t resist his curiosity, and smirked with an odd expression. Then, sipping his bland beer, he replied.

“Nope.”

As with most things drunks spouted, it was mostly exaggerated lies. Stories from those who couldn’t speak without rumors, propaganda, fabrications, insults, or slander were rarely true. Or they were just flyers deliberately spread by the government.

“Figured as much,” Kay said.

But sometimes, unexpected truths slipped through. Laila blew cigarette smoke playfully at Kay’s sky-blue hair as Kay smiled in relief.

“I touched him.”

Thud. The dry rag slipped from Kay’s hand.

“What…?”

Laila, watching Kay freeze with his mouth agape, finished his cigarette. His pale cheeks, unlike when he first arrived in District 3, were now fuller and glowing with vitality.

“The Commander’s a beauty, you know.”

Unfazed by Kay’s shock, Laila added lightly. His cold, sky-blue eye was half-hidden by the curve of his smiling eyes.

He wasn’t wrong.

The great war hero worshipped by humanity, a living god. Supreme Commander Owen Krote was the most famous beauty in Charon.

Because Owen Krote’s face and name were so well-known in Charon, the reason Laila lost one eye became equally infamous within the military. It was tied to the Commander.

In crude terms, Laila had walked an elite path. Graduating from the Imperial Military Academy at twenty and commissioned as a second lieutenant, Laila, at twenty-three, saved the Supreme Commander from an assassination attempt at the cost of one eye. For this, he was exceptionally promoted to major.

The rescue wasn’t the only reason for his promotion. Laila was inherently talented. He was quick-witted, adept at reading Supreme Commander Owen Krote’s moods, and possessed exceptional military skills. His ability was personally endorsed by the Commander, which was the biggest factor in his rapid rise to major at such a young age. The Commander openly favored Laila, to the point where even his inner circle criticized the excessive favoritism.

However, in a world where human lifespans and youth had been unnaturally extended, Laila, who became a major and the Commander’s direct aide at such a young age, attracted jealous glares. As a result, unsavory rumors openly circulated within the military. Separately, cadets who hadn’t yet graduated would get scolded for idolizing Laila and aspiring to be like him.

With more enemies than allies, Laila ultimately betrayed Owen Krote and deserted after four years. Even now, in Districts 1 and 2, where the military and government agencies were located, flyers seeking the deserter Laila likely still circulated.

Though he faced immediate execution if caught, Laila wasn’t particularly afraid. The government’s people wouldn’t bother setting foot in the filthy District 3, and the residents of District 3, even knowing he was a deserter, had no intention of turning him in. It was a forsaken land without even basic law enforcement. To those living closest to the border, a deserter or a serial killer was just another pair of hands.

“Boss, get me some water!”

Hilda’s pained voice came from an inner room. Without a word, Laila filled a lightweight plastic cup with cold water. When he kicked open the door, he saw Hilda, dressed in a revealing slip, sprawled half on the bed.

Laila clicked his tongue and handed her the cup. She gulped down the water, then let out a long sigh and dropped her head. Her long auburn hair spilled forward, barely covering her voluptuous chest.

“My head’s killing me. My stomach’s a mess…”

“Why’d you have to challenge me, then?”

Laila clicked his tongue again, recalling Hilda and Dominic from the previous night, who had challenged him to a drinking contest. They had already lost spectacularly to Laila in a drinking bet at their first meeting, yet they kept trying to pick fights whenever they got the chance.

This had happened over ten times by now. You’d think they’d give up, but Hilda and Dominic kept challenging Laila to rematches. The night before, even the usually reserved Ten had gotten dragged into drinking because of them. The adults, drunk and careless, were to blame. Laila, remembering Ten collapsing with a flushed face after a single sip, took the cup back from Hilda.

“I really thought we could win this time…”

Hilda’s sad voice was cut off as someone suddenly burst out of their room, slamming the door and rushing somewhere in a panic. Soon, the loud sound of retching echoed through the house. Hearing it, Hilda made a face like she was about to throw up too.

Laila adjusted the slipped strap of Hilda’s dress and opened the door to the room’s attached bathroom. Hilda bolted inside without hesitation, clutching the toilet and vomiting everything she’d eaten the day before.

“Like brother, like sister,” Laila muttered, glancing at Hilda’s back as she repeated the same antics as her younger brother Dominic, then left the room.

“Is Hilda unnie feeling really bad too?”

Ten, holding a towel, poked his head out from the communal bathroom outside. The kid couldn’t even play and was stuck looking after hungover idiots. Laila twisted an empty cigarette pack and tossed it into the trash, answering Ten.

“Don’t learn from them.”

“I won’t. I’m not even old enough to drink.”

“That’s what you said, but you drank last night.”

“You were drinking so eagerly, Boss.”

“…Fine, it’s all my fault.”

Ten smiled sweetly, his soft olive-green hair swaying. Laila beckoned with his fingers, and Ten put down the towel, trotting over to him. Though twelve, his delayed growth made him much smaller than his peers, and he naturally wrapped his arms around Laila’s waist.

Laila patted Ten’s head and asked, “Why were you in the bathroom? If you need to wash, your room has one.”

“Dominic looked like he was struggling.”

“Let him suffer. Don’t go into the communal bathroom for no reason.”

Laila had deliberately given the women rooms with attached bathrooms and crammed the guys into a cramped communal one, so why would Ten go out of his way to pat Dominic’s back in that filthy place? Shaking his head at Ten’s overly mature behavior, Laila continued.

“When they both manage to walk out of the bathrooms on their own two feet, give them some medicine and tell them to get ready. We’ve got a job.”

“What kind?”

“Found a pack of mutant Typhons near an abandoned research lab. We’re going to take them out.”

“Mutants…”

Ten’s face instantly turned gloomy. Laila deliberately looked away from him and answered.

“We need to wipe them out before they learn. Get your condition in check by tomorrow and pass the word.”

“Got it. What about Kay?”

“I told him first.”

Ten nodded, his face relaxing. Laila opened the kitchen fridge door, then calmly closed it again. Ten watched him closely. Laila turned and rummaged through the pantry, cabinets, and even the emergency safe behind the sofa. Closing the empty safe, which looked like rats had gnawed it clean, he turned to Ten.

“…When did we run out of rations?”

“You mean food? About four days ago.”

Ten answered, casually snuggling into Laila’s arms, who still hadn’t shaken his military jargon. Laila sighed, lightly lifting Ten.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I’m fine! I ate some orzo with tomato sauce earlier.”

“Who made it?”

“Dominic.”

Ten said with a bright smile. Guess he’s worth patting on the back, Laila thought to himself, setting Ten back down.

“Tell Dominic to make something tasty again.”

“Where are you going, Boss?”

“Gonna borrow some money.”

With that, Laila grabbed the uniform coat he’d tossed onto the sofa. The silver buttons gleamed on the black coat. Ten nodded, thinking Laila looked dashing in his uniform.

“Keep everyone from doing anything stupid until the job. I’ll be back by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Safe travels!”

Ten waved, and Laila waved back, opening the stiff shutters and stepping onto the windowsill. With his thick, sturdy military boots firmly planted, Laila nimbly twisted his body and climbed onto the roof.

Forcing his gaze away from the ground, Laila tilted his head back. Under an orange sky, a harsh sandstorm blew, stinging his senses.

There was a reason apocalyptic talk was so fervent every year. The central government and military brushed it off as usual chatter, but this year’s heatwave was truly record-breaking. As soon as the long, tedious cold season ended, temperatures soared to nearly 70°C, as if waiting for the chance. Or perhaps this was why the central authorities didn’t take it seriously.

The world seemed to be counting down to its demise, breaking temperature records every year. Few things could withstand the relentless, soaring heat. This was the result just 138 years after the massive interplanetary migration.

The asphalt laid during settlement had completely melted into a sticky black river. Instead of cursing the government for paving it, people busied themselves cursing the ancient humans who polluted the environment. They fumed that if the first humans had been a bit wiser, humanity wouldn’t have had to undertake such a desperate migration.

Not that complaining changed anything, but life was so hard that everyone needed something to curse.

With his hands in his coat pockets, Laila leapt effortlessly between buildings, leaving District 3 behind with an indifferent expression.

From District 2 onward, the streets were relatively clean and well-maintained. This was where humanity could truly call home. It was also where 80% of the current population resided.

Most people from here dreamed of earning honor and reaching District 1. Unlike District 3, where humans born from scrap, non-degradable waste, and discarded materials were dumped, District 2 held hope and dreams.

Laila, dressed in clean clothes, nimbly leapt across the rooftops of District 2’s buildings, where children played in parks below. He nearly fell after the mistake of looking down mid-jump but managed to reach District 1 alive.

From District 1, no one could pass the high-tech fortified walls without a clearance pass. Laila casually pulled out a pass—something even District 2 citizens couldn’t easily obtain unless they were a new war hero—and scanned it.

[Welcome back, proud citizen of the Empire.]

With the cold robotic announcement, the iron fortress gate, guarded by high-voltage currents, laser guns, and intruder-detection AI sensors, opened.

Laila lightly lifted the eyepatch covering one eye. While entry to District 1 was possible, he was a wanted deserter. There was no need to draw attention with his distinctive appearance. He stuffed the eyepatch into his pocket and quickly slipped into an alley.

Luckily, the guards were switching shifts, making his escape easier. Or, to be honest, he’d timed his entry for the shift change, using the official route. If guards were present, Laila would’ve had to take a more tedious and troublesome path.

Feeling fortunate, Laila climbed onto a building with his hands in his pockets.

District 1, home to about 10% of the population, was designed in the shape of a circular peace symbol (☮). At its center stood two white buildings, rising like twins.

The building on the right, adorned with carvings of white dove wings and olive trees laden with fruit, housed the Central Assembly, led by the Chancellor and twelve elders.

On the opposite side, surrounded by laurel crowns and engraved with a falcon and an infinity symbol, the left building gleamed in the sunlight. This was the Central Military Headquarters, where the great war hero Owen Krote reigned.

Humanity had survived two apocalypses, left the original Earth, and successfully settled on Charon, chosen as the third Earth, but not everything was perfect.

Charon, lacking much compared to Earth, broke down quickly. The environment was easily polluted, and winters and summers claimed countless lives each year. People suffered in agony. Then, one day, at Charon’s forefront—now called the Shattered Lands—the first mutant monster, “Typhon,” was discovered.

Just 81 years after humanity settled on Charon, war broke out. Bullets and blades were useless against mutants that tore through armor with their bare hands, and their numbers grew endlessly. The war was long. Humanity spent Charon’s 100th anniversary in conflict. The empire withered from famine during the 20-year war. Pushed back by Typhon, humanity lost its foothold and retreated to what is now District 1.

In the war’s final days, Shirun Aless, then a member of the Elder Council, pushed through an unethical experiment in genetic manipulation.

Amid fierce debate and a civil war, Shirun Aless forced the legislation through extreme measures. Genetic awakening agents were administered to all combat-capable young humans, and after “minor errors,” awakened individuals with various superhuman abilities emerged.

Shirun Aless’s choice was correct. For the first time, humanity succeeded in defending its territory against the mutants.

Owen Krote was one of the awakened born from that research. At just twenty, he fought alone on the front lines with a single sword.

Within three years, he returned District 2 to humanity.

The citizens were ecstatic. Giant billboards proclaimed humanity’s victory daily. Another year passed, and Owen Krote succeeded in annihilating most Typhons and recapturing what is now District 3.

The military fervently supported the twenty-four-year-old Supreme Commander.

And now, still youthful after over thirty years, the Commander was revered as the military’s absolute authority.

No citizen was unaware of this story. Even the snot-nosed kids of District 3 grew up learning Owen Krote’s heroic tales. Recalling the Commander’s great achievements, Laila carelessly left a black footprint on the laurel-carved white wall and opened a top-floor window.

Hanging precariously on the dizzyingly high building without equipment, Laila’s expression remained icy. His ice-blue eye nearly glanced downward but stopped just in time.

“Phew.”

Exhaling in relief, Laila gripped the sweat-soaked window frame tightly. He tapped the locked window a few times, then pulled a thin wire from his pocket and began picking the lock.

Unlike District 1’s high-tech entry gates, the security at the Commander’s residence and Central Military Headquarters was laughably lax. But considering the resident was Owen Krote, it wasn’t surprising.

Soon, Laila, like a back-alley thug, unlocked the window and slipped inside.

The top-floor office of the Central Military Headquarters, more commonly called Monad, was surprisingly plain. Aside from a desk piled with documents and a wall lined with medals and trophies, the interior was unremarkable.

“Not here?”

The face that should’ve been at the desk was absent. Laila muttered softly, moving with near-silent steps.

Reaching a blind spot opposite the office door, Laila stopped.

…There.

A man, face hidden behind an open hardcover book, was asleep on a sofa. His face was unfortunately obscured, but his soft, radiant golden hair stood out.

The sleeping man was large enough to take up most of the sofa. Unlike the flabby council members or those pretending to be great soldiers with honorary medals, his physique was in a league of its own. His rolled-up shirt sleeves revealed toned, muscular arms. Dressed in near-civilian attire, he wore a long sword at his waist instead of a gun.

His medal- and rank-laden jacket lay crumpled on the floor beneath the sofa. Rip Troy’s gonna cry again, Laila thought, picking up the jacket and reaching for the man.

“Wake up…”

As he moved to lift the book covering the man’s face, the man suddenly sat up. Laila instinctively tried to dodge, but he couldn’t match the man’s speed. The man, shirt disheveled, grabbed Laila’s wrist tightly and smiled lightly.

His eyes, as dazzling as his golden hair, were a perfect blend of gold and green, and his face was flawless, as if it permitted no imperfections. The chillingly beautiful man never lost his masculine demeanor.

Even after decades, Laila never tired of him; every encounter was breathtaking.

“Hey.”

A simple greeting came from the man.

Since his first public appearance, the man who had never relinquished his title as the empire’s most beautiful smiled softly, releasing Laila’s wrist after confirming his identity.

“Here to surrender?”

“…As if. And don’t toss expensive books around like that.”

The hardcover book, dislodged when Owen Krote sat up, had a crumpled corner. Owen glanced at his dress uniform, now dragged across the floor as Laila picked up the book, but said nothing.

“Finished the job I gave you already?”

“No way.”

Laila grumbled, dusting off the book. He now held Owen’s heavy, cumbersome uniform slung over his elbow. Owen, watching his uniform get increasingly wrinkled, lay back down on the sofa.

“Then why are you here? Want a court-martial?”

A jab at Laila’s deserter status. Laila lowered his cold gaze. Owen grinned, crinkling his golden-green eyes, as if daring Laila to object. Instead of a trial, Laila brought up another purpose.

“I’m out of money.”

“…Hmm.”

“And food.”

Owen, still lying on the sofa, relaxed his tense shoulders. Unbelievable… He clicked his tongue inwardly. He hadn’t expected the old saying about suffering after running away from home to still hold true.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Give me an advance.”

Laila spoke boldly but bit his lip awkwardly. Owen, who had shifted his gaze to Laila’s reddened lips, finally sat up again.

“Convince me why I should trust you with an advance.”

“You’re gonna give it to me anyway.”

Laila muttered openly, but Owen pretended not to hear.

“…I mean, I can go a few days without eating, no problem.”

The one in need was the first to back down. Laila put on his most pitiful expression. The icy eyes of the cold beauty melted instantly into something sweet, but only Owen Krote could witness such a luxurious sight.

“Ten, the youngest kid, he’s only twelve. I can’t let him starve, right? He said he ate from a can of tomato sauce today. The fridge, pantry, emergency storage—everything’s empty. The cold season just ended, so…”

Winters were long. In District 3, the cold season was a battle against hunger. Everyone stockpiled emergency food and rationed it to survive the long winter, but supplies inevitably ran out. Government welfare didn’t reach District 3. It was, after all, a city of the forsaken.

It wasn’t for nothing that everyone turned into drunks. High-proof liquor didn’t spoil in the extreme temperature swings of summer and winter. When hungry, people drank cheap booze to warm their bodies and sleep—it was only natural.

Seeing Laila’s clouded expression, Owen sighed. Laila, who made every excuse to stick to video calls when summoned, had come all this way not for his own hunger but to feed a starving kid. Owen’s urge to lecture faded.

“You.”

“…”

“Have you eaten?”

“I’m fine.”

Laila answered quickly, but Owen openly showed his displeasure.

“Have dinner here.”

The order was short and firm. Laila considered defying Owen Krote’s command but stopped himself. Having disobeyed the Commander’s orders some three hundred times already, he didn’t want to antagonize him over something trivial.

“Eating at the residence again today?”

“Yeah.”

Owen Krote was a man of many inconveniences. Finding it bothersome to commute between his private and official residences, he rarely went home, spending most of his time here. Tonight’s dinner would likely be delivered to the dining room attached to the office. Laila, with the jacket slung over his shoulder, followed Owen, who returned to his desk, still holding the ornate hardcover book. Glancing at the cover, Laila asked.

“No title. What’s the book?”

“Dinaud Skare’s publishing an autobiography. It’s set for release next month, but I got a copy early to check it out.”

“Autobiography?”

Laila scoffed, picturing the weasel-like elder with a pinched face.

“Did Skare live a life colorful enough to warrant an autobiography?”

“He seems to think so. I skimmed it—nothing but trash in a world already short on resources.”

“Bravo,” Owen muttered sharply, snatching the book from Laila’s hand. Laila shook his hands as if they’d touched something filthy, then pushed aside a pile of documents to perch on the edge of the desk.

Owen, looking at Laila—who, despite deserting, still wore a military uniform stripped of all insignia—finally let out the lecture he’d been holding back.