TitoVillar
patreon
SCL Chapter 81: Weapons or Watchers?
🕑 Added 2025-05-24 03:19:16 +0000 UTCFor nearly ten minutes, Augustus had been relentlessly swinging and blocking with his training sword—until a knock at the training hall doors broke the rhythm.
The one who entered was Connor Ward, carrying a Gauss rifle slung across his back. A black skull emblem was inked onto his exposed forearm.
“Augustus, the Umojan ambassador, Ailin Pasteur, is here to see you.”
“He should be back in Umoja, spending time with his family.” Augustus gave a courteous bow to his instructor and returned the training sword to the rack. “Why didn’t you invite him in?”
“There’s an Umojan soldier with him,” Ward replied. “That guy gives me a strange feeling.”
“If Ailin brought him, there’s no need to worry.”
Soon enough, Ailin Pasteur entered, still dressed in his usual dark suit. Behind him followed a young man in a form-fitting, pale blue combat suit. Threads of circuitry, sewn seamlessly into the suit like pant seams, glowed with a silvery light.
“Augustus, here’s the warrior you asked for,” Ailin said proudly. “A powerful psionic. A super soldier.”
“Excellent... but why only one?” Augustus turned his gaze toward the so-called psionic and noticed the man had long, curly golden hair, deeply set eyes, a prominent nose, and light blue irises tinged with melancholy. He looked weary, almost lifeless.
“We don’t have many psionic warriors,” Ailin explained, “and most of them are tasked with mentoring new trainees. But don’t worry—three elite Shadow Guards will be arriving on Korhal IV over the course of January next year.”
“In Umoja, psionics are not seen as freaks. We call these brave soldiers ‘Shadow Guardians’—because they are the unseen shields that protect our elected parliament and our people.”
“It’s good to meet you. I’m—” Augustus showed none of the typical Terran fear or disdain toward psionics. Instead, he strode forward confidently and extended his hand.
Though Augustus had hoped for a psionic loyal solely to him, the reality was that all trained Terran psionics were under the Federation’s control. For now, he had to settle—at least until the imminent Ghost operative assassination plot was resolved.
“Augustus Mengsk. Freedom fighter. The Wolf of Mengsk. Revolutionary military commander.”
The Shadow Guard spoke. “I can see the light and greatness within your heart.”
“No, I’m just an ordinary man.” Augustus was just about to ask for his name when the man spoke again.
“We have only one name—Shadow Guard.” He then smiled. “But you may call me Marcus. That was my name back on Tarsonis.”
“Marcus, thank you for traveling so far to be here, to protect me and my family.” Augustus paused, and before he could voice his inner doubts, Marcus continued— “You’re wondering about my psionic rating, since the Federation’s assassins could very well be top-tier—Level 10.”
“According to the Federation’s PSI assessment scale, I rank at Level 8,” Marcus said. “But I’ve brought equipment specifically designed for counter-psionic operations—a psionic shielding field generator, and anti-cloaking laser devices.”
“Forgive me,” Augustus said with a smile. “I feel like you should have let me actually say what was on my mind first—otherwise it just sounds like you’re talking to yourself.”
“I have one more question. I’ve heard psionics are mind readers. So I’m curious—just how much of another person’s thoughts can you perceive?”
“Generally, we can only sense surface-level emotional fluctuations—like what you’re about to say or do,” Marcus replied. “Delving deeper into the core of someone’s thoughts is possible, but it takes time. Humans are complicated. You can never truly grasp the entirety of someone’s mind.”
“You don’t need to worry about me prying into your thoughts. The psionic shielding gear we brought nullifies telepathy—that includes mind reading.”
Then, suddenly, he smiled.
“You were thinking about interrogating corrupt officials. About uncovering traitors and dissidents within the revolutionary army.”
“Not assassinations or slaughter. That’s a good sign.”
...
“There are 214 servants and about 150 security personnel in the White Castle. Shadow Guard—I need you to identify which of them are truly loyal to the Mengsk family.”
It was 19:00 on Christmas Eve. Augustus had changed into formal wear and was walking with Shadow Guard Marcus and Umojan ambassador Ailin Pasteur toward the banquet hall of the family villa.
They strolled along a domed corridor lined with carved railings. Below them, in the center of the hall, stood a towering Christmas tree adorned with gifts. This type of giant fir was native to the fringe world of Braxis.
“That won’t be easy,” said Ailin. “Some might just be here for a meal—not exactly loyal.”
“Anyone who isn’t loyal is untrustworthy and must be removed immediately,” Augustus replied. “Spies will be interrogated. The rest will be replaced. Only those with unwavering loyalty to the Mengsk family will be allowed to remain.”
“And what do you intend to do with the traitors?” Ailin asked.
“Interrogate them—then toss them into the sea,” said Augustus.
“You’re merciful,” Marcus, the usually reticent Shadow Guard, remarked dryly. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his words cut straight to the point.
“You’re beginning the purge tonight?” Ailin asked.
“The sooner, the better.” Augustus descended a staircase made of peachwood and asked the Shadow Guard, “How long will it take? Should I gather everyone in one place?”
“No need for that hassle.” The Shadow Guard, clad only in his combat suit, vanished into the environment after a ripple of distortion. “I’ll give you a list later. I’ll also run a test on the defensive integrity of this place.”
“I won’t disturb the merrymakers,” his voice echoed faintly. “It’s a beautiful night. I can see the souls of those who are laughing.”
“Marcus is always so gentle… and poetic,” Ailin commented to Augustus. “In the old days, we’d have called him a Umojan bard.”
“I should get him a Christmas present,” Augustus shrugged. “Although I’m curious—Marcus doesn’t wear a helmet, so how does his head stay invisible?”
“The Umojan refractive stealth suits generate an invisibility field that covers the entire body—including the head,” Ailin explained. “Our psionic warriors rely more on technology than on raw psionics or physical strength. At the same time, we need specific equipment to suppress their psionic output, minimizing the risk of them losing control.”
“Many people assume psionics are born super-soldiers. A level eight or higher psionic can effortlessly liquefy a regular person’s brain tissue from dozens of meters away… or crush the grenades hanging from an enemy soldier’s belt with a mere thought,” he said.
“But the stronger the psionic, the heavier the psychological burden. It’s a pressure we non-psionics can’t begin to understand. It’s said that every time a psionic kills someone, a part of that person’s memories and thoughts is etched into the killer’s mind. Unless those memories are periodically wiped, the psionic will eventually break.”
“They shouldn’t have to be killers,” Augustus murmured.
“Psionics are born different,” said Ailin. “They either become test subjects for scientists, or gods and saints on backward worlds. They never get to choose who they want to be.”
“Psionic power is innate—whether it’s a blessing or a curse of fate is hard to say.”
“Psionics should be protected by the government,” Augustus declared. “They’re meant to be guardians of order, not tools of assassination to eliminate dissent.”
“Be careful, young Mengsk,” Ailin warned. “If left unchecked, psionics will inevitably form a new ruling class in the distant future. Their power is granted by birth, but it has nothing to do with wisdom, morality, or virtue.”
“A powerful psionic can even control the minds of others. And those with ulterior motives often exploit this to form cults and mold themselves into dark gods. Rulers both fear the rise of such individuals and covet their terrifying power,” he said.
“That’s one of the reasons the Terran Federation trains psionics as Ghost operatives—to control them, to shape them into weapons, rather than risk letting them become unpredictable threats.”
“Our top agents working in Tarsonis in the early days investigated their Ghost Academy. The first batch of psionics admitted there were treated like lab specimens—locked in electrified cages like wild animals. Most went insane. The survivors became the Federation’s first Ghost operatives.”
“But the fate of Umojan psionics was completely different. Psionics aren’t gods or superheroes. They have their own emotions, their own aspirations. In other words, even the coldest Federal Ghost might have once dreamed of saving others.”
“Do you think we could turn some of the Federation’s Ghost operatives to our side?” Augustus asked as he descended the final steps into the grand hall, where the giant Christmas tree towered above the crowd.
“Not unless we launch a raid on the Ghost Academy in Tarsonis. And you know that would be suicide,” Ailin replied with a sardonic chuckle that failed to amuse. “We can’t even get close to them.”
“You seem convinced that a Ghost will be sent to assassinate Angus. But why would they do that? Killing him would only enrage the people of Korhal even more.”
“Because the Federation Senate and the old families behind them have always ruled with cold indifference. The nobles perched on high believe that if they kill the leaders of the rebellion, they can crush the rebellion itself. A mob without its leader is nothing but scattered dust.” Augustus walked past a laughing maid and made his way toward his family.
“How arrogant,” Ailin chuckled.
