CHAPTER 231: CHAPTER 231 - HUNGRY PLANET

The Farian ship lay silent and still, a fallen giant marooned amid a wilderness that defied understanding. Around it, towering trees stretched skyward, their bark pulsing faintly beneath a slick green surface like veins beneath skin. No wind stirred the thick, humid air, yet the branches whispered in a language older than memory. Between them, countless spores drifted, shimmering like shards of fractured glass under the twin suns, casting fractured rainbows over the ship’s scarred hull. Far off, a steady, deep thrumming echoed—a rhythm so steady it felt like the planet itself was breathing.

Inside the ship, Bian paced the command corridor with heavy, deliberate steps. His boots clanged sharply against cold metal as he tried to shake the growing unease that twisted inside him like a serpent. The soldiers he had questioned so far knew nothing. The old man and the human child—the two who should never have slipped through the ship’s sealed compartments—were nowhere to be found. Disappeared.

Impossible.

His fists clenched tight enough to whiten his knuckles. Someone was hiding them. Someone was protecting them. And Bian hated the idea of being defied.

A crate near the auxiliary maintenance door toppled under his boot, crashing noisily against the wall. "Idiots!" he hissed, voice low and furious. "Useless all of you."

From down the corridor, an engineer stepped forward cautiously, his voice uncertain. "Your Highness, the scout teams we sent onto the planet—they haven’t all returned. The flora... it’s acting strangely."

Bian stopped pacing, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Strangely how? Plants don’t have minds. They can’t attack us."

The engineer swallowed, his face pale under the harsh lights. "Two of the four scouts came back disoriented. They spoke of flowers moving, trees bleeding sap when touched. And... whispers. Voices calling to them."

Bian’s lips thinned, a chill creeping up his spine.

Whispers.

His hand went instinctively to the inside of his jacket, brushing over the small pot of bonding salve tucked there. He hadn’t reapplied it since last night. He’d thought Dican was steady now—stable enough to keep the shadows at bay. But maybe he had been wrong.

A faint flutter tickled behind his ears. The salve’s hold was slipping. A strange voice murmured words he didn’t understand, twisting his thoughts like a crooked thread.

"Where’s Dican?" Bian demanded.

"In his quarters," the engineer replied.

"Send Rhea. Now."

The engineer nodded and hurried away. Alone, Bian leaned against the wall, trying to steady his breathing. The voices grew louder, tugging at his mind. He could feel the edges of his control fraying, the dark places inside him stirring awake. There were memories he wasn’t meant to remember. And Dican—he couldn’t be allowed to remember them, either.

---

Deep within the ship’s labyrinth of vents, Quangya crouched in near-darkness, the rough metal cold beneath his fingertips. Beside him, the old man lay wrapped in a makeshift blanket of foil insulation, one arm protectively around the boy’s trembling shoulders.

"I hear them coming," Quangya whispered, barely moving his lips.

The old man’s voice was calm, a quiet anchor in the suffocating stillness. "Stay still. Breathe quietly."

Quangya’s heart pounded, threatening to betray him. Earlier, strange voices had echoed through the corridors. One voice in particular had stopped him cold—soft, familiar, almost tender. Dican’s.

Unlike the other soldiers, Dican hadn’t joined the search. Instead, he had passed by the hiding place and lingered for a moment, sensing something no one else did.

When Quangya had accidentally scraped a crate too loudly, a surge of fear had gripped him. But the prince’s footsteps had continued on, leaving a fragile thread of hope behind.

---

Dican now stood before the storage shaft where Quangya and the old man hid. His fingertips hovered just above the latch, hesitating. He could hear their faint, shallow breaths inside.

But he did not open the door.

Instead, he glanced up and down the corridor, ensuring no one watched. Then, gently, he slid a sealed ration packet through a narrow crevice.

"Quiet," he whispered. "Stay hidden."

His face was unreadable, but his eyes gleamed with a flicker of clarity—a spark of defiance against the haze that clouded his mind. The whispers inside him had grown louder in recent days, louder than the salve’s dulling haze. He was remembering. Too much.

---

Later, in the medbay, Bian sat hunched over, bitter salve smeared across his tongue. The scent was sharp and biting, but it was the only thing steadying the creeping chaos inside him.

Rhea entered without knocking, catching Bian mid-motion. His eyes darted up, wild for a heartbeat, before he masked his fear with a sharp edge.

"What?" he snapped.

"We have a problem," Rhea said calmly. "Scout team Delta reports the planet’s flora is reacting—actively. Sentient, perhaps territorial."

Bian snorted, though his fingers twitched with unease. "The planet’s watching us?"

"More than watching," Rhea said, stepping closer. "It responds—to emotions, movement. Maybe even thoughts. It’s alive, but not like we understand life."

Bian swallowed hard. The whispers in his head returned in waves, ancient words spilling into his mind, memories that felt both foreign and painfully familiar.

"Find the missing scouts," Bian ordered. "Double the guards. No one leaves the perimeter without my permission."

"And if you find the old man or the child?"

Bian’s voice dropped. "Bring them to me. Alive."

---

That night, Dican sat awake on his cot, hands curled tightly in his lap. He had stopped using the salve three days ago, hiding it from Bian. Memories were rising now—memories that clawed at his sanity.

The boy in the vent—the fragile, frightened child—had stirred something buried deep inside him. A scent—the sharp sweetness of strawberries—haunted him.

His gaze lingered on a sealed jar of jam tucked in a corner. The moment he’d tasted it, his fragmented mind began to unravel.

He had to get them off this ship. Both the boy and the old man. He didn’t know how yet. But he would. Before Bian realized just how much control was already slipping away.

---

Outside, the planet was alive in ways the crew had not imagined.

Vines crept slowly over the ship’s hull, their tendrils glowing faintly in the dark like curious fingers reaching out. They brushed against the metal, as if tasting the strange foreign thing that had landed in their midst.

Inside, night watch soldiers whispered of shadows moving where none should be, figures vanishing as they blinked.

In the medbay, a wounded scout suddenly screamed, eyes rolling back as a strange green mist seeped from his open mouth. He muttered incomprehensible words in an ancient tongue, words that chilled the air.

By dawn, six soldiers showed symptoms: delirium, whispered voices, unseen terrors haunting their thoughts.

By evening, ten were quarantined.

And Bian had stopped eating altogether.

---

On the upper deck, Bian stood rigid, staring out over the wild expanse of trees. Dican stood silently beside him.

"Have you been dreaming?" Bian asked, voice rough.

"What kind?" Dican replied, eyes steady.

"The kind where you’re someone else. Where your blood doesn’t burn, and your skin doesn’t feel like it’s splitting open."

Dican said nothing.

"The salve isn’t working anymore," Bian whispered. "I hear voices. I hear... her."

"Her?" Dican’s gaze sharpened.

"The woman from my childhood. The one who looked like me. She’s calling every time I close my eyes."

Dican took Bian’s hand gently.

"You’re tired."

Bian pulled away, flinching. "Don’t patronize me."

"I’m not," Dican said softly. "But we have to leave this place. The crew is breaking. The planet—it’s affecting us all. If we stay, none of us will leave."

Bian’s façade cracked. For a moment, he looked lost, vulnerable.

"I just wanted to be someone he wouldn’t leave behind," Bian whispered.

Dican said nothing. He already understood.

---

In the vents, Quangya pressed closer to the old man’s side. The whispers surrounded them, thick and suffocating.

"We’ll be found soon," Quangya said.

"Maybe," the old man replied. "But not by those who hunt us."

Outside, the vines bloomed with strange, pale flowers. Their petals twitched, like ears straining to catch sound.

The planet was listening.

And it had heard enough.

Bian stared out at the creeping vines, their pale flowers opening slowly, petals twitching like curious sentinels. His breath came uneven, heavy with the weight of everything unraveling around him. The ship—the crew—his control over both—it was slipping like sand through clenched fingers.

Behind him, Dican remained silent, the lines of exhaustion and something else—fear?—etched across his face. The prince finally broke the silence.

"We have to decide soon," Bian said, voice low, almost brittle. "This place... it’s not just alive. It’s sentient. And it’s watching us like prey."

Dican nodded slowly. "The scouts are missing. The ones who returned... they’re broken. Whispering in tongues none of us understand. More are falling ill every hour."

Suddenly, a distant, sharp noise echoed through the ship—an alarm. The hull shuddered as vines thrashed violently against the exterior, seeking entry.

Bian’s heart hammered. "They’re trying to get inside."

Dican moved beside him, hand resting briefly on Bian’s shoulder. "We don’t have much time."

Together, they turned toward the bridge, where the remaining crew scrambled to reinforce defenses. The vines writhed outside like living chains, pulsating with a terrible intent.

As they ran through the corridors, Bian’s mind buzzed with fractured whispers—words half-remembered, half-dreamed.

"She is here," the voices murmured.

He clenched his jaw. "Who?"

Dican’s voice was steady. "The woman calling you. The planet’s heart."

Bian’s breath caught. "She wants me."

"Not just you," Dican said, his tone grave. "All of us. To become part of this place."

They reached the bridge. The remaining soldiers, gaunt and pale, stared wide-eyed at the viewscreens, where the vines pressed closer, dark and alive.