The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] novel Chapter 292

Chapter 292: Try Me

But not everyone could be as lucky as someone who could now skip cow therapy.

Especially not one Killian Nox who needed to extend his leave.

See, the Chief of Staff had been through enough today to last him the next five years.

He’s had to commute to a nearby planet only to be hijacked on the way. Then, he had to be led around by his younger brother’s gremlin.

But worse was how he’s been trying to avoid hearing and seeing more things to at least claim ignorance in all this.

But now what?

Now, he had stumbled on a scene that was, perhaps, the most damaging of all for a cannon fodder like him.

He had only come to check the corridor.

Just check.

His boots were quiet, his steps purposeful, and his internal monologue was already halfway through a debate about opting to be an only child.

And then he saw it.

Xavier—Imperial Crown Prince, perennial iceberg, supposed figurehead of the next century—gently leaning toward a bright-eyed, flustered cadet who was clutching a milk bottle like a lifeline.

Now, had he been threatening, Killian wouldn’t have thought anything odd about it.

But he was smiling as he murmured.

Yes, murmured and not murdered.

Killian backed up two steps and slammed into the corner of the wall, just out of view, eyes wide in horror.

Surely, he could ignore this as part of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, right?

And there would definitely be no need to relay anything to the concerned Empress.

He was still gaslighting himself when his younger brother and initial culprit passed by, apparently trying to slink off.

"Where do you think you’re going?" Killian’s voice was low—lethal.

It slithered down the corridor like a cold current, sharp and precise.

Kyle froze mid-step. His body went rigid, like prey that had just heard the click of a predator’s jaw.

He didn’t turn around right away. Of course not. He knew that voice too well.

Killian.

Who else?

Of all the places, of all the times, it had to be now and in this spacecraft.

Kyle turned slowly, like a robot who hadn’t been oiled properly. His expression was carefully schooled into something neutral—borderline sheepish, but not too sheepish. "Oh. Hey, big brother."

"Oh, wow."

"What do you know? The dead could speak?!" Killian’s voice was calm—too calm, in the way that promised impending psychological damage.

"Here we all thought you’d succumb to sudden death or loss of all limbs to the point where you couldn’t even hit answer on your terminal!"

Killian’s boots sounded unnervingly casual as he approached. "Let me guess—you were just going to disappear again, only to reemerge next year with a set of twins or something?!"

Kyle started slowly. "I was going to check the remaining pirates. You know, work."

"Right," Killian deadpanned.

"Because one worker who had dropped off the grid is claiming to work right now, of all times."

Kyle opened his mouth. Closed it.

"I had three interplanetary search queries open," Killian continued.

"Two trackers tracing your last social ping and one resignation letter drafted in case your corpse turned up somewhere unflattering and our parents decide to bury me alive with you."

"You little shit!"

"I didn’t mean to drop comms," Kyle muttered.

Okay, he did. But not because he was trying to skip work. In fact, he’d done it because he was trying to keep his post.

Fair point. Thought the younger brother, who had contingency plans for sweeping it all under the rug.

"You didn’t even say hi-bye."

Kyle winced. "Okay, that one’s on me."

For there are far worse ways to go.