"Escort that man to the shuttle and bring the rest of the ground personnel back to base," ordered a Stromstrooper wearing a major's uniform to one of his subordinates.
"Yes, sir!"
Under the watchful eyes of five fully armed Stromstroopers, Mark was led to a T-5A shuttle. The engines roared to life as the aircraft slowly lifted off, breaking through the atmosphere.
Meanwhile, the remaining hunters stood frozen, stunned by the scene before them. According to all the education and training they had received in the past, there shouldn't be any survivors on the surface after such devastation. Yet not only were there survivors—but their equipment seemed far more advanced than anything the Lighthouse had ever seen.
"All personnel, report your name and position within your team immediately!" came a sharp command from the local commander as he began reassessing his forces.
Elsewhere, Mo Cheng leaned closer to Jeff, whispering urgently:
"Hey, we could use this chance to take one of the soldiers hostage—then escape later!"
Jeff gave him a blank look and sighed.
"Do you think this is some kind of action movie?" he muttered, rolling his eyes. To him, if he so much as moved wrong, he'd likely be strangled or shot instantly by one of the patrolling scout drones.
"Take him to the battleship. And make sure he doesn't escape," another Stromstrooper instructed a group of junior officers who came to take custody of Mark.
"Understood!" they replied in unison.
A naval officer approached, attaching a small tracking device and explosive charge to Mark's back before shoving him into the shuttle.
"Who are you, really?
Mark stared in disbelief at the neatly dressed military personnel around him, especially at the weapons in their hands. A sense of unease crept into his chest—these people looked like they could level the entire Lighthouse if they wanted to.
"Sir, please come inside. The Emperor is waiting for you," said one of the naval officers in an impeccably pressed Imperial Navy uniform.
"The Emperor?"
Mark was stunned. The title felt completely foreign to him—something out of a feudal dynasty. Yet this nation, one powerful enough to command interstellar battleships, actually referred to its leader as Emperor?
Still filled with hesitation, Mark stepped inside the room. What greeted him was a space that was bright, spacious, and immaculately clean—completely opposite of his own dusty hunter's uniform.
At the center of the room sat a man in gleaming golden armor. His long black hair fell gracefully down his back, and his face was strikingly handsome, carved with an aura of unshakable authority.
"Sir, may I ask… what do you want from me?" Mark finally broke the silence, staring at the man in front of him.
"Are you from the Lighthouse?"
The man's cold voice cut through the air like a blade. Just one sentence, and Mark felt like he'd plunged into a frozen cavern—shadows of strange, terrifying beings seemed to whisper behind his back, begging for mercy.
He knows about the Lighthouse?!
Mark screamed inwardly. This man clearly knew of their existence… yet hadn't attacked. That could only mean two things: either he wasn't hostile—or he had much bigger plans.
"Here is my message," the Emperor said calmly. "Tell your soldiers to disarm immediately. Lay down all weapons and equipment. Surrender. We will then evacuate you from this planet. The price: submission to the Imperium Caelestis. Of course, you can choose to resist… but how many of you will survive, I don't know. And frankly—I don't care."
Mark locked eyes with the Emperor. It was clear—this was an ultimatum: surrender to the so-called Imperium Caelestis… or die.