Chương 355: 153.My Granddaughter Is Not Your Sacrifice 2

If we could borrow a pirate's Helium-Hydrogen Power Plant and still make it home alive, then whatever the Federation planned to write into their report from here on, I had no intention of being particularly polite about it. Neither was it the media's greedy, blood-scenting surge forward. It was something else entirely — the kind of stillness where no one had consciously registered what was happening yet, but bodies were already stepping aside on instinct. I looked up. And saw an old man.

Not the kind in a high-end formal suit, shoulder boards gleaming, trailing a row of secretaries and bodyguards behind him. He dressed the old way. Genuinely old-fashioned — a dark, long coat, the fabric stiff but never showy. And the cane in his hand wasn't the decorative sort of civilized little stick. It was the kind built to actually crack someone's skull open — and the person on the receiving end would still straighten up afterward and say, my apologies, Chairman.

His hair had gone mostly white, but his back hadn't bent. The lines on his face were exactly enough to say two things at once: this man is old, and this man could still flatten three department heads with one hand. And the most absurd part — Aki and Maki spoke at the exact same instant.

"Grandfather!" The two voices landed on top of each other, and for a second I genuinely thought something was wrong with my ears. Not because of what they said. It was that these two — one who'd just cried herself out and gone straight to body-blocking the military, the other who normally talks like she's performing surgery on you — were the last people I'd expect to show this much visible feeling, in unison, at the same moment. And yet there they were, both calling out Grandfather.

My only thought was: —We're done. Someone even scarier just walked in. The old man didn't even look at them first. His opening line to the room was already an attack.

"Are you all quite finished?" The entire venue went still. Not because he was loud. It was because his tone wasn't a question — it was the tone of someone addressing an entire room full of people who were very used to sitting in high seats, treating every one of them, collectively, like a bunch of useless disappointments.

"You bureaucrats," the old man said, leaning on his cane, sweeping his gaze across the rows of military, Academy, Council, and Kempei officials, his voice cold as a blade being washed in winter well water.

"All you ever think about is keeping that hat on your head. Is there anything else any of you are actually good for?" You are so cool, Grandpa. I love you. I almost shouted it out loud, right there. Jess's shoulder jerked violently beside me — clearly just as blindsided by the opening. And the best part was that nobody in the room dared to talk back.

The same crowd who, a minute ago, had been so skilled at asking questions, slicing up procedure, and packing liability into every sentence — every single one of them had gone quiet. Quiet like they'd just discovered their ability to speak was only ever on loan, and the lease had expired. He wasn't finished. He swung his cane, the muzzle landing squarely on the Kempeitai.

"And you." The Kempei captain who'd been so insistent on logging his objection over the Helium-Hydrogen Power Plant suddenly had a face very much worth watching.

"Spending your whole day looking for someone to trip up, someone to use as a cushion," the old man said, not bothering to hide the contempt in his eyes.

"And now you want to take a knife to my granddaughter too?" Oh. Oh oh. I see. Not just any grandfather. The kind of grandfather who finds out his granddaughters just crawled back off a death list, walks in, sees a room full of people preparing to nail them back to the wall with procedure — and decides to tear the whole wall down first. Someone on the Kempei side finally couldn't hold it and blurted:"Chairman—" The old man's eyelid lifted.

"So you do remember I'm the Chairman of Kushima Heavy Industries?" In that instant, I understood exactly what the room just changed hands meant. A minute ago, this room belonged to the Federation — the military's, the Academy's, the Council's, the Kempeis'. Everyone biting at each other with their own titles, their own regulations, their own clearances. The second this old man walked in, all those titles suddenly felt very flimsy. Because some people don't eat off their rank.

Some people don't live off their office. And when that kind of person walks into a room, the truly frightening thing isn't whether they can yell at you. It's that after they yell at you, they actually have the power to end your career. Aki, who'd been holding the front line of procedure this whole time, actually stepped forward like a proper junior for once.

"Grandfather, how did you—""How did I get here?" The old man snorted.

"If I hadn't come, were you two planning to just stand there and let this pack of empty suits turn the fact that you're alive into material for saving their own hats?" Too accurate. I couldn't help glancing at Maki. For once, she didn't seem to care whether I was looking. She just pressed her lips together, the tips of her ears carrying a faint, barely-visible tension. Not nerves. More like — oh no, Grandfather's here, and he's already in combat mode. Honestly, that detail was kind of endearing.

I didn't get to enjoy it for long, because the next second, his gaze swept over toward us. Not just Aki or Maki. The whole line of us. Everyone who'd come down off the Yukikaze and was still upright — leaning, limping, mouthy, sour-faced, and me, the one who'd just been about to update the Federation's meeting etiquette with two flashbangs. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. He looked around the eleven of us. One full sweep.

The look wasn't particularly gentle, but it wasn't the careless glance of someone in power, either. More like an old man who'd genuinely lived through real storms, confirming: right — everyone's here, nobody's missing, still standing. Good. Then he smiled. Not the cold smile from before he started yelling. A real one. Carrying a trace of actual approval.

"You all did very well." Just that. The thing in my chest — the one I'd been propping up this whole time with sarcasm and sheer refusal to fold — got touched, very lightly. But it was real. Because this sentence wasn't the Superintendent's proves our educational outcomes. Wasn't the military's restore the facts. Wasn't the Institute's this data carries significant value. The meaning of this sentence was very simple. You came back alive. And you didn't do anything wrong.

Sometimes, when you're tired past a certain point, that really is the only sentence you need. The old man's tone shifted, clean as setting down a tile.

"Now go home." I almost thought I'd misheard. Go home? Now? The Federation crowd hadn't even finished carving us into thirty-six depositions, twelve supplementary statements, and eight versions of liability yet. And of course, someone couldn't let it go. The Kempei captain actually tried to push.

"Chairman, this matter involves command authority over the vessel, requisition of hostile equipment, undisclosed records—" The old man simply raised his cane and struck the ground once.

"Sit down." Two words. The Kempei captain actually sat. And threw in silence as a bonus. I swear, if I hadn't still vaguely remembered I was standing somewhere the whole Federation could see, I would have applauded. Might have whistled, even. What level of dominance was this. What kind of old man was this. What kind of — Federal-executive-tier shut your mouth. But he wasn't finished. He looked over the assembled crowd, his voice dropping lower.

"I am convening the Council of Ten Families tomorrow." The moment that landed, at least a third of the faces in the room changed color. Not a mild change. The kind where you're still standing upright, but your soul has already lost its footing. Because this wasn't I'm writing you up territory anymore. This was by tomorrow, heads are going to roll territory. The old man swept a cold look over the adults who'd been so skilled at asking questions a moment ago.

"Some of you have been sitting in your chairs so comfortably, you've forgotten your own names." Silence. Absolute silence. Quieter than any round of questioning that came before. Because that line cut too deep. Even the Superintendent — who'd just been trying to paste the Yukikaze's combat record onto his own administrative achievements — suddenly seemed to remember he might still want a peaceful retirement, and went as quiet as a potted plant that had just been doused in ice water. I stole a glance at Ash.

He was still standing perfectly steady. A normal person watching a scene like this — even keeping their face composed — should show at least some flicker in the eyes. Ash just lowered his gaze slightly, as if recalculating: right, now that the Kushima Chairman has entered the field, how does the Yukikaze's exit route and follow-up statement sequence need to be rearranged. This man really wasn't built for ordinary living. He was built to be a case study titled Command Stability Under Sustained High Pressure.

Beside me, Jess had gone straight past delighted. She kept her voice low, but her whole face was lit up like she was watching the finale of her favorite competition show.

"Shimo."

"What."

"You can put those flashbangs away now." I patted the inside of my jacket, and felt a genuine flicker of regret.

"Shame."

"You're actually disappointed about that?"

"You don't get it," I said, completely sincere.

"There's a difference between blowing something up yourself and watching someone with real authority do it for you. The satisfaction isn't the same." Jess nearly folded in half. Maki finally reached her limit. She raised a hand and flicked the back of mine, precisely.

"Don't say things like that right now."

"I'm already being very restrained."

"You were thirty seconds from throwing a flashbang at a memorial service. That's not restraint."... Why does this woman always manage to make a person sound clinically unwell in a single sentence. Though, to be fair, she wasn't wrong. Grandfather Kushima — fine, by now my brain had fully switched to calling him that — turned to Aki and Maki.

"You two. Have you cried enough?" A very Kushima question. The tips of Aki's ears went a little pink, but she straightened immediately.

"Enough, Grandfather." Maki pressed her lips together and answered, low:"... Enough." It was probably the first time he'd seen both granddaughters at once — one who'd been crying, one who'd nearly been used as a scapegoat. The fire in his expression hadn't fully faded, but his voice dropped a notch.

"If you're done, take your people and go." He tapped his cane against the ground.

"This isn't a place for people who came back alive to keep standing trial." That you are so cool, Grandpa, I love you feeling surfaced again in my chest — louder, this time. Aida watched the whole exchange, something close to admiration flickering across her eyes. She was probably one of the few people here who immediately grasped the full weight of that sentence. Because this wasn't just private favoritism.

Someone had just declared, in public: anyone who touches these eleven people from the Yukikaze today had better be ready to explain themselves at the Council of Ten Families tomorrow. That kind of protection isn't just protection. It's using tomorrow's political battlefield as today's shield. And it works beautifully. Admiral Vander finally spoke.

"Per the Chairman's recommendation, the Yukikaze's temporary command group and surviving cadets will be transferred to protective stand-down." His tone stayed military-brief, but he'd taken the offered exit.

"Formal questioning is deferred." Good. That's what it means to know how to read a room. The military gets to save face. Chairman Kushima gets to protect his granddaughters and the Yukikaze. We get to survive. When someone builds you a staircase, you take it. Otherwise, what falls next isn't a step. It's a position. The Kempei captain clearly still had things to say, but his superior had already clamped a hand over him. The Academy's people were already rephrasing at speed.

The Council's people, needless to say, pivoted faster than anyone — already sliding toward protective stand-down, deferred statements, unified archival procedure. Watching the same people who'd wanted to take us apart piece by piece an hour ago scramble to reset their footing was deeply satisfying. Not because we'd won. Because someone had finally shown up who was better at making them look bad than we ever were. Chairman Kushima looked back at us.

"Eleven. Not one missing?" Ash answered first.

"Yes."

"Good." The old man nodded once.

"Then stop standing here like exhibits for people to gawk at." God, that line was good. Because he'd said exactly what I'd been wanting to say this whole time — we weren't trophies, weren't teaching material, weren't samples for dividing up blame, and we sure as hell weren't bonus dramatic content for a memorial service. We were living people. And we were exhausted. Exhausted enough that if someone handed me a bed right now, I wouldn't even ask if the sheets were clean. Jess bumped my shoulder lightly.

"Let's go, Exhibit A."

"You're the exhibit."

"At least I'm limited edition."

"You're a factory defect." She hissed, grinning in a way that was thoroughly unbecoming. Maki glanced back at the two of us, like she was trying to determine exactly when we'd learn to talk less trash in front of important people. In the end, she just let out a small breath and said nothing. Watching her — wanting to manage us, too tired to bother, quietly reeling the rhythm back in anyway — something in my chest went soft. Just a little. Any more than that, and I'm not admitting it. We started moving.

Not under escort. Not being taken for questioning. Not sorted out for priority processing by whichever department wanted first crack at us. Just — after one old man who could flip over every official hat in the room to see what was underneath said go home — finally allowed to walk out of this absurd, ridiculous memorial. Passing Aki, her eyes were still a little red, but she'd fully switched back into President mode. Only this time, the way she looked at me was different. Softer. More real.

"Hoshino."

"Mm?" She held my gaze, voice quiet.

"Thank you." I froze for a beat. Then shoved the awkward stutter that absolutely did not suit my image back down.

"Don't mention it," I said.

"I do what I say I'm going to do." Her lips moved like she wanted to add something. In the end, she just nodded. Maki stood beside her, saying nothing. But her eyes rested on me, quiet, for one second — then slid away. Damn. That one second wasn't fair.

I turned my head fast, pretending I was suddenly very interested in our exit route, and not at all interested in a certain woman whose speech is consistently unpleasant, whose posture is consistently infuriating, and who had, this entire time, never actually strayed far from my side. Jess, of course, didn't let it go.

"Your ears are a little red."

"Your eyes need checking."

"I see just fine."

"One more word and I'm pulling those flashbangs out for real."

"Wow, is that a bashful threat?"

"That's self-defense." D passed behind us and let out a low laugh. Even Lan tilted her head, very slightly. Evelyn limped past, dropping one cold line:"If you're really going to detonate something, remember to warn me first so I can sit down." Great. Now even our own people are settling in to watch the show. But somehow, I wasn't wound as tight as before. Maybe it was because Grandfather Kushima was just that terrifying.

Maybe it was because the accountability round that had almost turned us into sacrificial material was now about to become someone else's nightmare. Maybe it was because— I finally didn't have to actually throw the flashbangs. Honestly, a little bit of a waste. But acceptable. Because you don't always have to light the fuse yourself. Sometimes watching someone higher-ranked, more qualified, and better at picking their moment suck all the oxygen out of a room for you is just as satisfying.

As I walked out of the memorial's central zone, I couldn't help glancing back. The crowd who'd been so articulate a moment ago were now, one after another, very quiet. Someone wiping sweat. Someone muttering, reordering tomorrow's talking points. Someone already working out how to prove, at tomorrow's Council of Ten meeting, that they hadn't actually been that stupid. And a few of them, I'd bet, were going home to a sleepless night. Good. Nobody had to be sacrificed.

But a few officials were absolutely about to have a bad time. And I had zero objection to any of it.