The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] novel Chapter 280

Chapter 280: Commute

If there were wayward children who at least showed up or expressed a hint of survival, then there were those who were great at disappearing acts.

And no amount of loving and even threatening messages would work.

So, what do you do when messages can no longer get you anywhere?

You pay a visit.

There were no messages, reports, or respectful updates—just silence—the kind of silence that made bureaucrats twitch and elder siblings fume.

And that was how one overworked Chief of Staff was on his way to Planet Nova on a luxury commuter craft after several days of radio fucking silence.

Yes, a commuter craft.

It should’ve been a smooth and short trip.

Should’ve.

But ever since that Daycare facility opened and overhauled the schedules of many nobles, private spacecraft travel has become a logistical nightmare.

Especially if you were travelling with a battleship or were prepared to camp out in the docking queue for at least 14 hours, you were better off booking a luxury commuter craft.

Which was exactly what Killian did—discreet, efficient, and first-class.

That was...until things got weird.

They were minutes from the jump point bound for Planet Nova’s orbit when the navigation system gave a bizarre ripple.

Then another.

The navigator went pale. Inside the control room, people started to get alarmed.

"Captain, there’s a spatial anomaly forming...it’s not listed—"

Before the statement could even finish, a wormhole tore open like the universe had suddenly remembered it could do such a thing.

"...That’s impossible," someone whispered.

Well, it should be. Or at the least, it should be almost impossible and could only be considered as a freak accident—Unless it was man-made.

Jump routes were heavily monitored, calibrated, and constantly filtered for anomalies. Something like this shouldn’t even exist within range, let alone right at a designated jump point.

The Captain was already snapping orders. "Send out an emergency beacon. Divert course. Lock down the navigation—"

But before the crew could do much more, metallic tendrils—sleek, biomechanical, and far too long—shot out from inside the supposed wormhole.

They latched onto the commuter craft with terrifying precision.

Then began pulling them in.

The ship’s emergency alarms blared to life with enough power to wake the dead—and the deeply asleep.

Which included Ollie, snoring peacefully in a recliner seat in the First-Class Lounge.

He wasn’t supposed to be there, really.

The First-Class lounge wasn’t meant for full naps, but the son of House Mylor had long since mastered the art of sleeping wherever he landed.

And without a looming demon that threatened to haunt him, it was possible for him to enjoy the ride.

Up until the Alarms of Doom blasted through his skull.

"AAAHH—HUH?!" Ollie bolted upright, disoriented, hair sticking up in eight different directions.

His eyes darted around. The mood lighting had been replaced by pulsing red indicators, the kind that only ever meant three things: explosion, invasion, or obliteration.

Ollie immediately chose panic.

He scrambled to sit up, pulling out his communicator. I—I should send a message—Brother will know what to—

But he never got to finish his thought.

Because in that exact moment, a large hand clamped over his mouth, and his body was yanked backward against a very firm chest.

A teenager? Wait. No—a cadet?

Seriously?

Not the kind you hear on a clean ship. No—these were wrong. Thudding, clanking, dragging their weight across the corridor.