Chapter 46: Forty-Sixth Day of Lying Flat Like a Salted Fish

“Since you’ve finished choosing your names.”

Lu Yuan wanted to resolve this major task regarding the band as quickly as possible, so he didn’t leave much time for the children to feel moved, reflect, or harbor ambitious thoughts.

He quickly broke the silent atmosphere, saying, “I will register an anonymous band for you on StarNet. You can record the songs you compose and give them to me. I’ll help you upload them.”

To be honest, this matter was a bit troublesome.

Previously, when Lu Yuan wandered aimlessly on StarNet, he could guarantee that he wouldn’t leave a single trace. But that was mainly because he never posted any content. Traces of browsing and downloading were very easy to clear.

However, if he wanted to upload music, no matter which platform he used, it would definitely leave a trail.

The uploaded music itself would be an indelible record of usage.

Lu Yuan could certainly wipe his login records, and he could even hack directly into a platform without registering, but…

Directly stuffing a band’s information and a song into a platform’s database would be a bit strange.

If it were discovered, someone would surely trace it back to the source.

Lu Yuan didn’t want to do anything so conspicuous.

So, he was currently facing a problem similar to the one Siming and the others had.

Under normal circumstances, within the Galactic Empire or even the entire Interstellar Alliance, StarNet accounts were things that could not be registered multiple times. From birth to death, a person had only one account, directly bound to their personal DNA sequence.

As unregistered citizens, Siming and the others had no StarNet accounts, and neither did Lu Yuan, who was officially dead.

Without a StarNet account, they couldn’t just browse StarNet legitimately; it was also difficult to buy things, stay in hotels, or take public transport. It could be said that except for special places like the Desolate Planet and the Grey Triangle, an unregistered citizen in “civilized” areas would find it impossible to move a single step.

But since he had promised to help the kids in the band, Lu Yuan couldn’t back out now.

He had to find a way.

Driven by necessity, he came up with a slightly unscrupulous method-

Register an account using someone else’s identity.

The largest music platform in the Galactic Empire today was called “Gehui,” and the account Lu Yuan intended to register was for this platform.

The threshold for entering the platform was very low; one just needed to log in using a StarNet account. Once logged in, users could publish music directly and even choose to do so anonymously.

Essentially, as long as one had a StarNet account, they could navigate this website without hindrance.

However, whose StarNet account to use for registration remained a problem.

Obviously, with so many people in the Empire, it was impossible for everyone to have registered on this website. But Lu Yuan couldn’t just grab any unregistered account and use it.

What if that person suddenly wanted to listen to music one day and tried to register? What if they had a whim to see which websites they were registered on? Or what if they suddenly died and the account was cancelled? These were all troublesome scenarios. If he wasn’t careful, Lu Yuan might even be exposed.

What kind of StarNet account would be relatively safe?

An idle “alt account.”

As mentioned before, under normal circumstances, everyone had only one StarNet account. But there were exceptions. For instance, if one had a sufficiently realistic fake identity, they could possess an alt account independent of their original one.

Lu Yuan didn’t have such a fake identity himself. From the moment he led the Star Pirate Syndicate back to the military, he had been leading troops on the front lines and had no opportunity to arrange such things.

But his subordinates did. When someone needed to go undercover to gather intelligence, he would personally sign off on it and open an alt account for them to facilitate their operations.

The only problem was that these alt accounts were usually discarded after use. Once a mission ended, the account was immediately cancelled and not left behind.

Fortunately, however, in Lu Yuan’s memory, there really was one such idle alt account that had not yet been cancelled.

–

It was a day just after the Galactic Empire had concluded a major battle.

The Zerg had launched a sudden charge, but because Lu Yuan had anticipated it and set up defensive lines in advance, the Imperial army achieved a rare and great victory after a bitter struggle, completely annihilating this wave of Zerg.

After the battle, the logistics units were clearing the battlefield, and the medical units were urgently treating the wounded. Lu Yuan’s personal guard had all withdrawn into the Command Ship to report the battlefield situation to him.

Lu Yuan’s personal guard shouldn’t really have been called a “personal guard.” As the name implied, such a unit existed to protect the commander. But Lu Yuan’s use of his personal guard had always been unusual. His guard was more like an upgraded version of the Mecha Maneuver Team.

In a campaign, the role of the Mecha Maneuver Team was mainly reflected in “maneuverability.” They didn’t accept various assignments; their sole task was to “check for leaks and fill gaps.”

They were the superglue of the battlefield. Once a loophole or a vacancy appeared, whether it was a problem with a commander or a certain Starship, the members of the Mecha Maneuver Team had to detect it immediately. While notifying the commander-in-chief, they had to step into that position themselves or find a suitable candidate to temporarily fill it.

No one is immune to mistakes or errors, not even Lu Yuan. And the Mecha Maneuver Team was a unit that existed for “error tolerance.” The quality of the Mecha Maneuver Team directly determined the error tolerance rate of the battlefield.

The task Lu Yuan’s personal guard had to complete was also to check for leaks and fill gaps.

But this kind of checking and filling wasn’t done after a problem occurred. It was meant to nip problems in the bud.

Mending the fold after the sheep are lost¹ is something that can be achieved through training, but seeing the whole from a small sign requires a sufficiently calm head and rapid thinking.

Lu Yuan’s personal guard members were usually reserve officers. Lu Yuan gave them the chance to be “clear-headed bystanders,” allowing them to observe the battlefield. While learning, they also observed whether the commander was making mistakes.

The personal guard would also be scattered across the battlefield. Perhaps on the fringes, perhaps in the center of the crossfire-they would choose the positions where they ought to be.

They would participate in combat like ordinary soldiers, but while fighting, they would constantly monitor changes in the situation. If they believed the commander had made an error, they had to report the situation to Lu Yuan immediately.

In short, for Lu Yuan, the Mecha Maneuver Team and the personal guard each had their own roles.

The Mecha Maneuver Team was a high-level version of soldiers, like hematopoietic stem cells that could be placed anywhere on the battlefield. The personal guard, meanwhile, were future, backup commanders-the “eyes” or “tentacles” that helped Lu Yuan better control the overall situation.

Therefore…

Lu Yuan could leave the training of the Mecha Maneuver Team to his subordinates. But for his own personal guard, he had to train them himself.

After every battle was the time for the personal guard to hand in their homework.

To understand their capabilities and to grasp the situation of the battlefield at all levels, Lu Yuan required them to summarize the battlefield conditions they had observed and report collectively after the battle.

Normally, for campaigns without too many surprises, the reporting didn’t last very long. On the way back to the Command Ship, the members of the personal guard would organize their written reports and send them to Lu Yuan. By the time they returned to the Command Ship, Lu Yuan would have mostly finished reading them and would directly ask questions or provide evaluations based on their reports.

This day was no exception.

Lu Yuan quickly dismissed the members of the personal guard, arranging for them to go about their business as usual.

There was only one slight abnormality.

Today, he asked one person a few extra questions and specifically told him to stay behind.

This wasn’t particularly unusual in itself. Because this personal guard member, named Li Xiangbei, had been in a battlefield sector today where the commander had suffered a sudden illness and briefly lost the ability to command. Li Xiangbei had reported it in time and had temporarily taken over the command duties for a period.

After such an incident, it was perfectly reasonable for Lu Yuan to ask a few more questions.

However, keeping him behind alone…

As the others walked out, they all looked back at the young man who had been left behind. The thoughts revealed in their eyes varied.

Some were gloating, some were sympathetic, some offered silent comfort, some looked utterly confused, and some… were envious and jealous.

The last category belonged to Lu Yuan’s die-hard fans.

After all, everyone knew that being kept behind for special training usually meant something hadn’t been done well and Lu Yuan needed to address it privately. This was hardly a good thing.

Except for those few fanatical followers who felt that as long as they could stand before Lu Yuan, even being scolded was a blessing, no one would express envy toward someone being kept behind.

Though Lu Yuan had never actually scolded them.

As for the confused ones, they were the types who tended to overthink.

They habitually pondered exactly where Li Xiangbei had gone wrong to require Lu Yuan to speak to him privately. But they were completely baffled and couldn’t help but feel puzzled.

Because Li Xiangbei had performed very well.

Not only was his reaction timely, but after taking over the command duties, he had executed them excellently. The casualty rate in that sector of the battlefield was also relatively low compared to other divisions. In Li Xiangbei’s report, no one had found anything he had done wrong.

In fact, his performance could even be described as remarkable.

Specifically, after discovering that morale had dipped due to the commander’s sudden illness and the last-minute change in leadership, he had reacted swiftly to provide Inspiration to the soldiers, achieving outstanding results.

This was something many members of the elite guard might not have been able to pull off.

After all, it was an impromptu speech delivered before tens of thousands of people without any prior preparation.

What they didn’t realize was that Lu Yuan hadn’t kept Li Xiangbei behind because he had done something wrong, but rather…

Because he had done too well.

Watching until everyone had filed out and the door was firmly shut, Lu Yuan finally spoke. “You are Nan Yingzhe.”

“I am.” A hint of helplessness appeared in the young man’s eyes.

Ever since Lu Yuan began questioning him—or rather, ever since he used Inspiration on the battlefield—he knew his identity could no longer be hidden from Lu Yuan.

The Mental Power trait of Inspiration was far too rare. More accurately, it was an ability exclusive to the Imperial Family.

Translator’s Notes