Reincarnated as a Mushroom?-Chapter 74 - 73: The Scent of Command, the Stink of Politics

Chapter 74: Chapter 73: The Scent of Command, the Stink of Politics

Chapter 73: The Scent of Command, the Stink of Politics

I walked toward the Centurion with the kind of authority that only comes from either a deep familiarity with chaos or a profound disregard for consequences. In my case, it was both. Each step against the asteroid’s alloy floor rang with intent — not aggressive, not deferential, just... inevitable.

The woman waiting at the heart of this ceremonial farce was six feet tall in heels, yet she carried herself like she owned gravity itself. It wasn’t the kind of confidence earned by skill — it was deeper, more dangerous. A well-honed predator’s posture wrapped in regality. Her armor was custom-forged, gleaming in deep reds and sharp golds, every curve adorned with engraved filigree that radiated legacy and unspoken threat.

It wasn’t military standard. This was personal. Political. A message etched in alloy: I am important, and I can afford to make you disappear.

As I reached speaking distance, I let myself take her in — analytically, not lustfully. She was built like a classical sculpture, carved in defiance of modesty and dipped in status. Early twenties in appearance, but age was cosmetic out here in space. For all I knew, she’d been born before Earth stopped broadcasting reality TV.

Auburn hair cascaded to one side in controlled chaos, framing a face honed for dominion. Her eyes were iron-grey — not dull, not warm, but polished and sharp, like someone had cut stormclouds into glass. Her lips were blood-red, full, untouched by augmentation. Her eyebrows arched upward like the devil’s personal punctuation marks. Every feature screamed ’manufactured dominance,’ and yet somehow, it wasn’t artificial.

If Kimchi was violence dressed as sex, this woman was power in lipstick. And she knew I wasn’t gawking. That mattered to her. She read my gaze like a poem, and saw I’d stopped at admiration, not possession.

That was her green light.

"A thousand victories to you, space-farer of the VIP caste," she said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. "We apologize for the interruption of your journey to the core sectors. You understand, I’m sure — civilian ships must submit to checkpoint protocol."

Her tone was diplomatic but probing, like a scalpel asking for permission to cut.

I nodded, keeping my smile political. "No apology necessary. Your people are simply doing their jobs. We’ll remain out of the way."

That made her pause. Something about my nonchalance didn’t compute. Her eyebrow twitched — a subtle tell that she was shifting gears.

"You’re not from the core worlds, are you?" she asked, letting her hand drift to her hip — a casual stance for someone trained to make it look unplanned.

I could already feel the lie detector behind her gaze warming up. So I took the middle route — not honest, not false. Just strategic.

"Correct. My... traveling companion and I grew up well beyond the rim. Our home planet’s gone. But we recently learned we have family deeper in. We’re visiting."

The story was thin enough to crack under scrutiny, but thick enough to pass in a hurry.

She found the cracks. Of course she did. But rather than press them, she veered.

"Your crewman forgot to give your name earlier. Would you care to offer it now?"

"Irvine," I said, cool and clipped.

"Irvine," she repeated. "Like one of the Founders. A dignified name. Old-fashioned. Are you and your ’sister’ here solely for family... or are there other ambitions tucked inside this little voyage?"

Both hands rested on her hips now. Statuesque. Bold. And yes, annoyingly hot.

She didn’t believe me. Not really. I could taste the suspicion bleeding off her like perfume — expensive and synthetic.

So I fed her what she wanted.

"We’ve both undergone extensive psionic metamorphosis," I replied smoothly. "Our intent is to enroll at the Spartari College of Psionics next cycle. To serve the Empire."

Her poise cracked.

"You’re enrolling in the College?" she repeated. "But you’re... massive. How old are you?"

"Eighteen," I answered, voice calm as a dead star.

She blinked, flustered — superiority dented. Then she spun on her heel, fiddling with a device strapped to her vambrace. A cover movement, clearly. No data was actually input.

"One final question, Arcon Irvine," she said, turning back. "VIP status isn’t granted lightly — especially not to rim-world refugees. Your family must hold considerable influence within the Ecumenopolis. Are you... noble?"

And there it was.

The political trap. Polite. Casual. Dipped in honey and baited with legacy.

A frown etched itself across my brow. Ronnie had explained this game to me. Each planet had a ruling minor king, answerable only to the civil tyrant Dickon and the warlord monarch Sigismund. Technically, Irvine-minor — the slag heap formerly known as my planet — had been mine.

And technically, my partner was the apex of an alien dynasty with enough raw force to wipe a star system off the map using nothing but aggressive snuggles and biomechanical war hymns.

So yes. I was royalty. In the most fucked, post-human way possible.

"My inheritance was a dead planet," I replied flatly. "But had it survived, yes. I would’ve worn a crown."

She turned again, cheeks tinged faintly red, though she had done precisely nothing during the spin. "That is classified," she mumbled. Then louder: "Lieutenant?"

A female Phalanx stepped into view behind me. "Ship is clean, Centurion. Bit more meat onboard than usual, but that’s not illegal."

Centurion straightened. "Then we are concluded."

She turned back to me and bowed her head — barely. "I wish you a safe journey back to your family, Arcon Irvine. I’m sorry for your loss. One last — informal — question. Which enemy species was responsible for your planet’s extinction?"

I wanted to punch her in the teeth.

She meant no harm — but the word she used, enemy, was jagged.

Crystal wasn’t my enemy.

She was my mother. My protector. My world.

But I couldn’t say that. Not here. Not with these fucking uniforms watching.

"It was the Swarm," I said coldly.

She interpreted my iciness as hatred. Sympathy bloomed across her face like mold. She reached up — couldn’t quite make my shoulder, so patted my arm instead. An awkward gesture of camaraderie.

"Thank you, Arcon Irvine," she said, clearing her throat. "Humanity’s heart beats strongest in tragedy. The College will be honored to have you. It’s been a pleasure."

"The pleasure was all mine... Miss...?"

"Hailey," she said.

"Miss Hailey," I echoed. I reached for her hand — she tensed — and brought it to my lips. A formality. An old gesture. I watched her men twitch, trigger fingers itching. She held them off with one backward-angled palm behind her back.

With one final nod, I turned and walked back to the ship.

Kimchi stood beside the ladder, expression carved from frozen murder.

A rung had dented beneath her hand. Noted.

"What’s wrong, love bug?" I asked, half-smirking.

"Kimchi detested the scent that prey-woman excreted in your presence."

"Probably just perfume," I said, waving it off. "Humans use it to mask the scent of their mediocrity. Up the ladder. Now."

She did not look reassured, but she obeyed.

The ship’s hatch sealed behind us. Ronnie received clearance within seconds and launched us skyward. The checkpoint fell away beneath us, just another blip of steel and protocol in an uncaring void.

Only one day of warp remained between us and our destination.

Behind us, Centurion Hailey watched our ship disappear through the sky. Her spine stiffened like a pole shoved through ice. The guards around her adjusted their posture instinctively, standing taller without realizing why.

She marched back into the base. Silent. Unflinching. Radiating chill.

Every soldier in her wake felt it — a pressure, a hush, a drop in ambient warmth. By the time she reached her quarters, she’d trampled three conversations and seven ambitions without a word.

Once inside, she shut the door and dismissed her guards with a clipped nod. No words. Just finality.

She approached her desk and removed a crystalline rhombus from the bottom drawer, pressing it into a triangular holobase. Light pulsed white-hot from its facets, and a projection flared into the air.

"My Princess!" a man’s voice barked from the holo — older, ragged, but strong. "Is that you?!"

"Don’t make me regret calling you, Father," Hailey said coldly.

The joy in his expression faltered. Then returned. He knew her. She wasn’t calling for love.

He steepled his fingers. "What do you need?"

Hailey’s face was marble.

"In six months," she said, "when my term here concludes, I want a placement. Teaching position. At the College of Psionics."

Her father didn’t flinch. He just nodded.

So the game had begun.

---

Author’s Note: A Heartfelt Message from Me to You

Hey lovely reader,

Before you scroll away or dive into another story, I just want to take a moment to speak straight from my heart. If you made it this far into my story, then you are truly something special. Your time, your emotions, your thoughts and those few minutes you gave me mean more than I could ever explain. Writing is not just words on a page for me. It is a heartbeat. It is a dream. And seeing you here means I am not dreaming alone.

If you smiled, cried, gasped, or even got mad while reading, then I have done my job. And if you felt something — even the tiniest bit — I would love to ask you for a tiny favor that would mean the absolute world to me. Would you please vote for this story?

I know it might sound like a small thing. Just a little click. But to a writer like me, that click is louder than thunder. That click says, I believe in you. That click pushes me to write better, love harder, and keep building the world you are falling into.

Your vote is not just a number. It is a hug. It is a cheer. It is the light at the end of my most frustrating writing nights. Sometimes I stare at the screen and wonder if anyone out there truly cares. But then I see a vote, a kind comment, or a little heart and suddenly everything feels possible again.

So please, if you enjoyed even a single Chapter or if you want to see where this story leads, drop a vote. I am not too proud to beg. I am literally down on my knees — in my imagination of course — holding out my hands like a character in a romantic drama and whispering with puppy eyes, Please vote.

Thank you so much for reading. For caring. For being part of this journey. Every vote is like a tiny wish, and together we can make magic. freewebnσvel.cøm

With love and a whole lot of hope,

Your ever-grateful author

The source of this c𝐨ntent is fre𝒆w(e)bn(o)vel