The moment Aslan's order was delivered, the butler contacted the main palace. Its warning system was silent, but the urgency was absolute. The alert went straight to the Grand Chirurgeon of the Aetheria Palace Infirmary.
As Aslan burst through the doors, his white wings retracting in a shimmer of light, he entered a frenzy of focused motion, not chaos.
Inside the Infirmary, the medical team worked in perfect silence. The Grand Chirurgeon, a tall, stern figure in pristine white armor, met Aslan instantly. Lev, shivering and still clutching the tiny body, hesitated to let go. But, recognizing the quiet, organized urgency and knowing the child's life was fading, he finally released his hold, carefully passing the bloody, limp bundle to the lead nurse.
Once the little girl was stabilized in the white, glowing Biostasis Pod, the Omni-Scanner went to work. It bathed her body in light, instantly mapping every severe, life-threatening injury.
The scan showed horrific damage. Deep, brutal cuts crisscrossed her skin, and internal damage was severe, with vital blood vessels ruptured. Most critically, the scan highlighted three dense, foreign ancient objects, "bullets," lodged deep within her body.
"Activate the molecular field. Chirurgeon-Bots, isolate and retrieve the projectiles," the Grand Chirurgeon commanded.
Small, glowing robotic arms descended. They didn't cut. They used energy fields to push tissue aside. With horrifying slowness, the machines reached in and drew back. One by one, they deposited three tiny, battered bullets onto a sterile tray. The silence in the room became heavy with the brutal shock of violence.
"Repair teams, commence immediate sealing," the Chirurgeon barked. The medical process instantly shifted to repair. Handheld Molecular Re-Welders began to glow, using focused energy beams to bond torn vessels and skin, instantly zipping up the wounds. Simultaneously, millions of Nano-Bots were injected, sent to repair internal damage and fight infection.
The sophisticated chaos and the deployment of the Grand Chirurgeon and the best equipment would have been a massive overreaction for any other patient. The empire's people are strong shifters with powerful healing abilities; even the Marquess and Marchioness would not demand this level of attention if wounded. Every resource was used only because the patient was a child, a sight unseen on Balthazar for thousands of years.
The child's fate was a silent race against time. Aslan tried to guide Lev to a different room, to spare him the overwhelming grief, but Lev refused. He remained fixed on the light screen, his hands gripping each other until his knuckles were white.
Aslan stood rigid, his fury a cold, dangerous wall. He knew the sharp pain tearing his lover apart. They had longed for a child for trimillennium, a life every member of their empire craved, yet here was a child whose unknown existence was discarded, left to die like trash.
After what felt like an age, the treatment ended. A nurse carefully removed the little girl's ragged, blood-soaked clothing. The Grand Chirurgeon finally exited the central Chamber of Restoration, his white armor gleaming, and came face-to-face with the two agitated lords.
"How is she?" Lev demanded instantly, his voice thin with anxiety.
The Chirurgeon paused, offering a quick, serious bow, a gesture he realized he'd forgotten in his shock at the sight of the bloody child.
"You don't need to worry, Marquise, Marchioness. The child is stabilized and out of immediate danger." He paused, and their relief shattered.
"It's just that..."
"What?" Lev and Aslan roared in unison, their worries catching in their throats.
"It would be best if you saw this," the Grand Chirurgeon replied, handing them a smooth, metallic terminal.
They both snatched the device, its light-blue screen immediately displaying a single file. They checked the long list of test results, scanning each line, searching for an error.
The data presented a profound, impossible truth that defied the very laws of their galactic society.
"No Gene Repair, no Gene Modification, No Cell Augmentation," Lev whispered, his hand shaking, dropping the terminal.
"No... no identification chip."
The long string of "0" digital marks made both lords gape. Aslan's jaw hardened as the data confirmed the unthinkable.
"This child is untouched," the Grand Chirurgeon stated, his voice a low, heavy sound.
"She is pure baseline human."
Aslan exploded, his voice shaking the chamber.
"This is impossible! The child has never even received the basic gene repair for life? This is not just a crime, it is a hideous abomination!"
He immediately turned, his command sharp and absolute.
"Butler, call the Captain Guard! Dispatch forces immediately across the entire galaxy! Find this family and trace their line back ten generations, then exile every last one to the garbage planet!"
His voice dropped to a dangerous snarl.
"As for the immediate family, bring them to me. I will personally deliver their punishment."
Aslan was consumed by a fury he had not felt in a very long time. For beings whose life spanned bordered on immortality, anger was a wasted luxury, something they rarely indulged in. But this outrage, the abuse of a child, the rarest of miracles, defied all reason. This was something they could not forgive.
Immediately after issuing the terrifying command, Aslan opened his personal communicator and broadcast the order to the entire Aetheria galaxy, alerting every resident on every planet. He made no effort to keep the order secret, knowing that the entire jurisdiction had already been placed under lockdown the moment he saw his lover clutching the child.
Meanwhile, Lev stood motionless. His initial shock was rapidly giving way to a white-hot rage. His powerful energy was barely contained, manifesting physically. It ripped through the air around him, creating several deep cracks along the sturdy wall of the advanced Infirmary.
Their fury stemmed from a deep, shared trauma. A curse that haunted their entire race. The vast Royal Fenrir Empire commanded countless galaxies, but it was an empty, barren dominion. Its child population was a tragic whisper. The last official count showed only around 200 children across the entire empire. They could count the children born every few hundred years on their fingers.
This plague of infertility struck hardest at the very top. The royal bloodline itself had been reduced to a single line of inheritance for seven agonizing generations. Now, only the current Emperor remained, the last of his line. It was the universe's cruelest joke. Their people had conquered space and achieved near-immortality, but they had lost the simple, desperate ability to reproduce.
They often asked themselves, had the gift of gene elixirs been a curse from the gods, cutting off their means of having offspring?