The Farming Saint in the Starry Wasteland (Elizabeth Schofield) novel Chapter 427

Chapter 427 It’s Suffocating

He thought about calling back, about explaining himself to Deon, about begging if that’s what it took.

But reason told him it was pointless.

That line about “finding someone who has options” wasn’t a threat. It was a notification.

The Fifth Military was moving against him.

No. Not the Fifth Military.

The people standing behind the Fifth Military.

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The people who had never cared whether he lived or died, who had only ever seen him as a tool.

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He’d done their dirty work, and when everything blew up, they hadn’t answered his calls. He’d saved himself by reversing the decision, and now they were going to replace him.

What was he to them?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

4. 4.

Maverick slammed the brakes and the hovercab lurched to a hard stop along the roadside.

He slumped over the steering wheel, dragging in heavy, ragged breaths, his entire body trembling.

Outside the windows; unfamiliar streets. Unfamiliar lights.

He had no idea where he was.

No idea where he was supposed to be going.

His device buzzed again.

He looked down. It was an internal system notification.

“Kingdom Interstellar Route Authority Personnel Appointment Notice…”

His chest seized. His fingers shook as he tapped it open.

It wasn’t his.

It was Scapier’s.

He let out a long breath and collapsed against the seat back.

But the thought drifted through his mind like a ghost: what about next time?

Would the next notification have his name on it?

He thought about the things he’d said at his in–laws‘ house.

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Chapter 427 It’s Suffocating

All those righteous, ironclad things he’d said.

All that talk about having long since repaid whatever he owed the Buckners.

All those words about Scapier being useless.

He thought about the look Joan/had given him from the floor.

He thought about Scapier launching himself across the room, fists swinging.

He thought about Dilfus’s face, grey and slack, crumpling toward the ground.

He thought about himself walking out that door into the night without looking back.

He’d thought he’d won.

He’d thought he’d protected his position.

Protected everything he’d spent twenty–three years clawing his way up to.

And now?

He lifted his head and stared into the dark beyond the windshield.

The night was thick out there.

Thick enough to drown in.

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The moment the call disconnected, the office fell into total silence.

Deon stood where he was, his grip on the device tightening almost imperceptibly.

He didn’t turn around yet. He let his breathing settle, arranged his expression into something controlled, and then crossed the room toward the inner office.

He knocked and entered. His superior, Gregory, sat behind the desk with his back to the dark window beyond.

The office lights had been dimmed low, casting a dim amber halo around the man and leaving the edges of him soft and indistinct.

One hand rested on the armchair’s arm. The other lay flat on the desk, fingers tapping in a slow, steady rhythm against the surface.

Each tap fell into the silence with sharp clarity, one after another, precise and unhurried.

Deon walked to the front of the desk, stopped, and said nothing.

Gregory didn’t lift his head. He didn’t look up.

His gaze rested somewhere in the middle distance, the way a person looks when they’re deep in thought or possibly thinking about nothing at all.

The tapping continued.

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Chapter 427 It’s Suffocating

Deon kept his breathing as quiet as possible.

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Five years at Gregory’s side had taught him exactly what this particular rhythm meant. The Chief of Staff was working something through.

The best possible thing to do right now was stay silent and wait for him to finish.

Seconds passed, one by one.

The only sound in the room was that low, measured tapping.

Deon held his spine perfectly straight, though a fine sheen of sweat had collected at his hairline.

Then the tapping stopped.

Gregory raised his head and looked at him.

There was no anger in that look. No disappointment. Just a quiet, even steadiness, the way someone might regard a familiar object.

But the moment that gaze swept over him, the hairs along Deon’s spine rose without his permission.

Gregory studied him for a moment, then spoke.

“Deon,” he said, “last year’s military championship. What place did you finish?”

Deon blinked.

The question came from nowhere, with no apparent connection to anything he’d just reported.

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