Chapter Text
1.
The Emperor of the Galatic Empire was dead.
That was a fact no one could deny anymore.
That extraordinary young man had passed away after seizing control of nearly the entire universe in just a few short years, leaving behind an infant child, a young wife, and a universe that - though not yet plunged into chaos - was nonetheless filled with unease because of his death.
Tears were shed. Eulogies were delivered. And somewhere, in dark corners, those who had never liked Reinhard von Lohengramm rule raised their glasses, whispering secret congratulations over the death of whom they called a tyrant.
Amid all that turmoil of emotions and the chaos that always accompanied a shift in power, people forgot the existence of the man who could arguably be called the second most important figure in the Empire…
A man now lying unconscious in a hospital bed.
Paul von Oberstein.
He had been gravely wounded in a terrorist attack. One that was, in truth, came from a strategy of his own design, meant to draw out and eradicate the remnants of fanatical Terraists who had planned to disrupt the Empire's rule multipe times. Part of his abdomen had been blown away, and Oberstein - remarkably calm - had told his panicking attendants that there was no need to waste effort calling a medical team, as there was no hope for his survival. All they needed to do was take care of his dog, to feed give that wretched old creature a lot of chicken and give it a peaceful end.
He said that, and then the artificial eyes lost their light.
And though there were many in the room who had always feared or distrusted this cold Minister of Military Affairs, his words made most of their hearts ache. The man whose power had perhaps been second only to His Majesty himself had no one to think of before dying. No one except an old dog that likely did not have long to live. It was a truly sorrowful ending. Though as he closed his eyes with a faint smile on his lips, Oberstein himself likely did not think so.
That should have been the end. No one truly believed a person could survive such injuries, and there was something deeply wrong about disturbing someone who had chosen death with such composure.
But at that moment, Bittenfeld interverned.
Still fiery as ever, the orange-haired admiral glanced around and bellowed, “Have you all lost your minds?! Why are you just standing there? Call an ambulance, now! You! And you! Lift his legs! Make sure the blood flows back to his heart!”
“But the Minister said…” someone beside Bittenfeld stammered. It was an employee of the Ministry of Military Affairs. And like most people there, to him Oberstein was no different from a god, and the Minister’s orders were like divine order… even if that god was bleeding out on the floor.
“So what? Is he a doctor now?! What the hell does he know?” Bittenfeld roared, rolling up his sleeves and pushing through the crowd to kneel beside Oberstein. “Do you want your boss to live or not? Then start following MY orders!”
It was a strange thing to hear from an admiral who, not long ago, had nearly strangled that same Minister to death. But the words were like a bucket of cold water splashed over everyone present. They hurriedly nodded and rushed out, some to call for emergency aid, others to fetch bandages and medicine, following Bittenfeld’s shouted commands.
And that was why Minister Paul von Oberstein did not die, and why he now lay unconscious in a hospital.
Something that was, perhaps, beyond Oberstein’s own calculations.
***
Oberstein remained unconscious for many days.
He was unconscious through the moment Reinhard died. Through the grand funeral that followed, when everyone was thrown into confusion over logistic matters that Oberstein would normally have handled himself. Through the coronation of the young emperor, with Hilda and Mittermeyer at his side as Regent. Through the subsequent ceremonies granting ranks to the admirals according to the late Emperor’s dying wishes.
During that time, Oberstein did not awaken. The work of the Ministry of Military Affairs was temporarily handled by his former aide, Anton Ferner. Some people quietly discussed the possibility that Oberstein might die, or never wake again, and the necessity of appointing a new Minister. But with so much to deal with during the transfer of power, neither Hilda nor Mittermeyer brought it up. It seemed that the two were still wary of the man who was now little more than a corpse, uncertain whether he might still have some unexpected move left, and so no one wanted to disrupt the current state of affairs while there were stilll so many things to handle.
That situation dragged on for two whole months.
And then, just as things began to settle into a rhythm, as people grew accustomed to the new order, and word spread that Hilda had begun interviewing candidates for the position of Minister - Paul von Oberstein suddenly woke up in his hospital bed.
***
The room was thick with the smell of disinfectant and ionized metal, an eerily sterile cleanliness. The soft hum of machinery murmured around him. Paul von Oberstein lay motionless on the bed, his back propped against pillows. Though awake, he was still pale as a corpse,
as though he truly were one, arranged for burial before someone had changed their mind at the last moment.
His eye sockets were pitch black.
They had once held a pair of cold blue mechanical eyes, eyes that sometimes gleamed red, mercilessly inhuman. Eyes that unsettled anyone Oberstein looked at directly, as if they could peel away, penetrate, and analyze every piece of data about a person.
Now, they were nothing more than cloudy, lightless glass fragments, removed by doctors immediately upon his admission to prevent blood infection. Standing before him, the head doctor of the hospital explained with careful, fearful tones that they were afraid it would be impossible to attach functioning prosthetic eyes for him again. The doctor repeated explanations about neural damage, immune rejection, and the lack of any safe method that would not risk complete brain death. He spoke as though afraid Oberstein might object, afraid of punishment.
But Oberstein did not say anything.
He listened in silence, offering no comment. There was no anger, no grief at having returned to blindness once more. He did not blame the doctors, did not demand they reexamine the diagnosis or search for alternatives. When the conclusion was finally delivered that he would have to live the rest of his life in permanent darkness, Oberstein simply replied, “I understand.”
“Minister, please don’t worry. Medical science has advanced quickly after the old regime were out… perhaps in a few years we would…”
The doctor tried to comfort him. But there was no response.
A soldier awkwardly reported to Oberstein what had happened after he lost consciousness: that he had survived because of Bittenfeld’s orders. That Bittenfeld had roared, overturned every procedure, cursed anyone who hesitated. And that Bittenfeld still occasionally came by, growling at the slightest sign that someone was not doing their utmost to care for Oberstein.
There was one thing the soldier did not say: that Bittenfeld was also partly the reason the doctors seemed so nervous.
But Oberstein showed no reaction.
Finally, someone said it, softly, almost apologetically.
“His Majesty… The Kaiser… has passed away.”
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Oberstein’s expression did not change.
There was no flicker at the corners of his eyes, no movement at his lips. His breathing did not hitch. His fingers lay still atop the blanket. If pain, unease, or any emotion arose, it left no trace on the surface of his being.
The doctor swallowed. “We… will inform the Ministry of Military Affairs and the Imperial Palace that you have awakened.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Oberstein said.
His voice still sounded flat, as it had always been. The difference was that it now lacked its usual sharp edge, like a blade dulled not by use, but by erosion.
“I am no longer useful to the Ministry,” Oberstein added. “Nor to the Empire.”
The doctor, the soldiers, and the nurses exchanged glances and left.
***
Bittenfeld did not understand why he had come to the hospital.
Of course, he had been informed that Oberstein had awakened. But standing outside the hospital entrance, Bittenfeld frowned and thought: So what? Whether Oberstein was alive but comatose, dead, or awake - what did it matter to him? Why had the hospital notified him, and why had he come?
Perhaps because Fritz Joseph Bittenfeld, strangely enough, was the reason Oberstein had survived? But even so, what of it? Their relationship had never been good. Bittenfeld hated Oberstein. Everyone knew it, Oberstein included, because Bittenfeld had never hidden it. That was how his family raised their children: speak loudly when you praise someone, and even louder when you criticize someone.
And yet, he had saved Oberstein. That was strange, and many in the military found it hard to understand. Bittenfeld himself brushed it off as only natural. Even if someone was an enemy, Bittenfeld did not want to leave a person to die like that. And Oberstein… was not truly an enemy after all. An irritating colleague, an unpleasant co-worker, someone Bittenfeld had wished dead countless times. But in the end, they were on the same side, serving the same man who had left this world like a short but brilliant shooting star.
And to be honest, Bittenfeld’s heart had skipped a beat when he saw that smile… and heard Oberstein’s final wish.
Take good care of my dog.
Nothing else.
A chill had seized him then. It felt as though that was the first time he had truly seen Oberstein, and he wondered what kind of life had this man lived, to be so utterly lonely?
Perhaps it was because of that impulsive feeling, that fleeting surge of emotion, that Bittenfeld had saved Oberstein.
That should have been enough.
So why was he here now? Why was he pacing outside the ward like a caged beast, his heavy boots slamming against the polished floor? Every instinct told Bittenfeld this was wrong, that there was no reason for him to visit this man, to care whether he lived or died. Oberstein was Reinhard’s shadow, the whisperer of ruthless necessities, the one who always chose the coldest, most pragmatic answer.
Bittenfeld had hated him with an honesty bordering on moral conviction.
And yet, he had broken orders to save him.
That contradiction was lodged in Bittenfeld’s chest like shrapnel that had never been removed.
When he finally entered, Bittenfeld felt as though he were storming a fortress, shoulders squared, back straight, ready for an argument… that never came.
Oberstein lay still, his head tilted slightly toward the sound of the door opening.
“Admiral Bittenfeld,” he said.
Bittenfeld froze. The dark hollows where Oberstein’s eyes had been made him halt. It was an unsettling sight for anyone. Oberstein had always been thin; now he looked even more gaunt, deathly pale. And eyeless. No sharp, emotionless gaze. Just two dark voids that seemed to swallow all the light in the room.
“...They haven’t… uhm… fitted your eyes back yet?” Against his intention, Bittenfeld stammered.
“The doctors say it’s impossible,” Oberstein replied evenly, as though becoming permanently blind were nothing worth discussing.
“I see… I see?” Bittenfeld stammered again. Though he had braced himself, he still didn’t know how to react to this shock. Clicking his tongue, he turned away, grasping for a distraction. “Then how did you recognize me?”
“Your footsteps are distinctive,” Oberstein said quietly. “Though I don’t understand why you’ve been pacing back and forth outside this room for so long.”
Bittenfeld frowned, then realized no one could see it. That realization unsettled him more than Oberstein’s former gaze ever had.
Bittenfeld cleared his throat. “They told me you’d woken up.”
A nod.
Silence stretched on, heavy and awkward. Bittenfeld shifted his weight, crossed his arms, then let them fall.
“They told you too, didn’t they?” he finally said. “About… His Majesty.”
Another nod.
That was all.
Bittenfeld felt increasingly suffocated.
“...That’s it? You’re not going to say anything about His Majesty’s death? Not even the slightest reaction?” he raised his voice. “What a waste of His Majesty’s trust in you. Though I don’t understand why he trusted you so much in the first place.”
Bittenfeld knew his tone was inappropriate for speaking to someone who had just recovered from illness. But damn it, he was on the verge of losing his mind. Talking to Oberstein always made him lose control.
“What kind of reaction would satisfy you?” Oberstein asked calmly.
Bittenfeld opened his mouth, then closed it again. No, he hadn’t come here to argue with a sick man. In fact, he didn’t even know why he’d come.
Yet Oberstein’s reply filled him with contradiction. He wanted to fly into a rage and strangle this man, and no one would stop him now. And at the same time, he felt utterly hollow…
Just like when he had heard Oberstein’s final words about the dog.
“...Do you really feel nothing at all?”
Oberstein was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was unchanged, but something beneath it had shifted, like a foundation cracked too deeply to be seen.
“My emotions,” Oberstein said, “have never been a metric of efficiency. I learned long ago not to prioritize them.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.”
Bittenfeld clenched his fist. “I should’ve left you to die in that pool of blood.”
Oberstein turned his head.
He could see nothing, of course. It was likely just habit.
“Yes,” Oberstein replied evenly. “That would have been more consistent… with your usual character.”
Those words struck harder than any insult.
“Damn you, Paul von Oberstein!”
Bittenfeld shouted in fury. Footsteps sounded behind him, and several nurses appeared at the door, peering in with frightened uncertainty, unsure whether to intervene.
“Don’t expect me to come here again. Rot to death like the machine you are!”
Bittenfeld turned away, growling as he strode out. He was furious, though he didn’t know why. Because he had gone out of his way to save Oberstein? Because Oberstein showed no reaction to the Emperor’s death? Or because… even after being saved, this man was like a machine with its power cut, showing not the slightest trace of gratitude.
Bittenfeld stopped, his hand on the door handle. “In any case… His Majesty asked about you before his death. He trusted you. To the very end. Don’t forget that.”
Oberstein’s face remained motionless.
But after Bittenfeld left, after the machines resumed their lonely murmuring, a single weary sigh escaped Oberstein’s chest.
And no one heard it… or knew the thought that accompanied it.