The production team of The Imperial Academy Elites entered Imperial Academy at nine o’clock the next morning.

Before coming, the director had prepared himself mentally. After all, this was Imperial Academy. The highest academy in the Federation Empire. The place where geniuses gathered, nobles competed, military heirs sharpened themselves, and ordinary students who had climbed up through examinations treated every credit like a life-saving rope.

A school like this naturally could not be filmed like an ordinary variety show.

There would be rules, restrictions and confidential areas. There would be students with powerful backgrounds, difficult tempers, unusual habits, and family lawyers whose communication style was colder than military notices and the director understood all of this.

He had even held three emergency meetings with the production team before filming began.

“Remember,” he had told them earnestly, “our guests are not entertainment trainees. They are Imperial Academy students. Some are future officials, researchers, military commanders, nobles, and industrial successors. We must respect their studies, privacy, and safety.”

The assistant director , camera crew and field producers nodded solemnly. Everyone thought they were ready.

Then they arrived at the S-Class building and  realised that their preparation had been too innocent.

The S-Class building stood at the farthest end of Imperial Academy’s northern district.

Unlike the ordinary teaching buildings, it did not have fixed classroom signs or lecture schedules on the outer walls. The entire building looked more like a private research institute than a student facility. Its exterior was made of pale silver composite metal and transparent crystal panels. Sunlight fell across its surface and scattered into fine lines of cold blue light.

A black-gold access barrier floated before the entrance. Beside it was an academy notice.

S-Class Independent Study Zone. Authorised personnel only.

Below that was a smaller line.

Do not enter without appointment unless you are prepared to be ignored.

The director stared at the final sentence. The assistant director stared with him.

After a long silence, the director asked, “Is that… an official academy notice?”

The guide assigned by Imperial Academy was a calm Beta administrative teacher. He glanced at the sign and said, “Yes.”

The director hesitated. “The last line too?”

The teacher nodded. “Added after repeated incidents.”

“What incidents?”

“Professors entering without notice, attempting to give guidance, then discovering that the students had already finished the relevant research three months earlier.”

The director: “…”

The assistant director: “…”

The teacher continued gently, “Also, a visiting scholar once came in to discuss a topic with Wen Shuo. Student Wen listened politely for seven minutes, then used the scholar’s own paper to prove that his conclusion contradicted his footnote. The scholar needed two days of emotional recovery.”

The director’s expression became blank.

The teacher seemed to feel that this explanation was not complete enough, so he added, “Student Mu once dismantled a demonstration mecha because the academy had labelled it ‘safe for beginners,’ but its secondary nerve-core had a 0.7 percent instability risk under high-temperature conditions.”

The assistant director subconsciously asked, “Was he allowed to dismantle it?”

The teacher said, “After he submitted the risk report, yes.”

“What about before?”

“Before that, the academy was too busy evacuating the laboratory.”

The production team suddenly looked at the S-Class building with reverence.

Their plan had originally been very simple.

First, film the exterior.

Then film a few elegant shots of the students preparing for the show.

Ask some light questions.

Collect a little pre-show material.

Let the audience understand the legendary S-Class.

A smooth and beautiful process.

Now, standing before the building, the director finally realised that the word “legendary” had perhaps been too conservative.

The academy teacher lifted his hand and verified his identity.

The black-gold barrier opened silently.

The production team entered.

The first thing they saw was not a classroom.

It was an enormous circular hall.

The hall had six different zones, each separated not by walls, but by floating data screens, temporary equipment platforms, holographic models, bookshelves, instrument cabinets, and piles of items that looked both expensive and dangerous.

There was no lectern.

No teacher’s desk.

No class monitor.

No schedule written on the wall.

Only a central screen displaying several hundred independent project timelines, research permissions, interstellar appointments, and military confidentiality warnings.

A line at the top of the screen read:

S-Class Final-Year Independent Study Progress.

Below it were six names.

The production team had just taken two steps inside when a route map of half the Federation Empire suddenly unfolded in midair.

Thousands of thin blue lines spread across the projection like a spiderweb woven from starlight.

At the left side of the hall, He Lianzhou leaned back lazily in a chair, one hand supporting his chin while the other tapped three routes closed, opened two emergency channels, and transferred a fleet of cold-chain medical transport ships from the Eleventh Star Region to the border transit hub.

His golden hair was slightly messy, and the lion-tail projection on his terminal wagged once with complete indifference.

“Route 7-B is too slow,” he said. “Move the private channel over. Yes, the one used for luxury fruit shipments.”

A voice from the communication terminal cried out, “Young Master He, that route is reserved for high-value goods!”

He Lianzhou sounded puzzled. “Medicine is not high-value?”

The other side fell silent.

He Lianzhou continued, “Also add two refuelling stations. If the finance department complains, send them to Luo Jingshen. If Luo Jingshen complains, tell him I am saving lives and improving public image at the same time.”

Not far away, Luo Jingshen did not even raise his head.

“Do not use public image as a budget category,” he said coldly.

He Lianzhou smiled. “Then emotional comfort?”

“Rejected.”

“Humanitarian logistics?”

“Acceptable if you attach measurable survival outcomes.”

“See?” He Lianzhou turned back to the communication terminal. “Write that.”

The production team: “…”

The camera had already begun recording.

No one dared to stop it.

On the other side of the hall, Luo Jingshen sat before a dark green holographic model of an abandoned asteroid belt.

His black hair was neatly tied back. His expression was calm, almost indifferent. In front of him, countless mineral deposits, transport costs, security risks, labour requirements, and political ownership disputes turned into numbers that rose and fell across the screen.

A staff member glanced at the projection and whispered, “Is he doing homework?”

The academy teacher said, “No. He is calculating whether an abandoned asteroid belt is worth purchasing before the Ministry of Resources realises its rare-metal content was underestimated.”

The staff member: “…”

The academy teacher added, “He started twenty minutes ago.”

The assistant director’s hand shook slightly around his notebook.

On the far right, Wen Shuo stood beneath a suspended ancient star map.

The star map was incomplete, its text written in an old imperial script that most people could not recognise. Three academic journals floated beside him. He was holding a pen and calmly correcting a translation with an expression so mild that it seemed almost merciful.

“The phrase does not mean ‘the god of the western sky swallowed the silver river,’” Wen Shuo said to the scholar connected through the call. “It means ‘the western navigation gate was blocked by a collapsed wormhole.’”

The elderly scholar on the other side of the projection coughed. “Student Wen, ancient texts are often metaphorical.”

“Yes,” Wen Shuo replied, “but not when the same inscription records fuel consumption, evacuation numbers, and three complaints about ration quality.”

Scholar: “…”

Wen Shuo wrote a new note.

“Also, footnote seventeen is wrong.”

The scholar’s face changed.

Wen Shuo said calmly, “Not morally wrong. Only factually wrong. Please do not be nervous.”

The production team felt that this comfort was worse than no comfort.

Near the inner window, Qi Nian was sleeping.

Compared with the others, he looked almost like a painting.

Silver hair spread across the cushion. His face was delicate and beautiful, his eyelashes lowered, his breathing quiet. A small teddy bear was tucked in his arms. Its fur was old and soft, clearly repaired many times. Against the cold technological hall, the teddy bear looked out of place in a way that made people involuntarily soften their voices.

A young female staff member whispered, “So cute.”

The next second, the teddy bear’s eyes lit up.

A gentle mechanical voice sounded.

“Pheromone fluctuation detected within seven metres. Please maintain emotional stability. Excessive excitement may disturb the patient’s stabilisation cycle.”

The young staff member immediately covered her mouth.

The assistant director asked carefully, “That bear can talk?”

He Lianzhou did not look back. “It contains a stabiliser chip, emergency medical scanner, low-level defence system, and three recorded insults from Qi Nian. Do not touch it.”

The staff member silently withdrew the hand she had just stretched out.

At the centre of the hall, beneath the clearest light, sat Mu Xiyu.

He was assembling a miniature mecha nerve-core.

The object was only the size of a child’s palm, but its internal structure was frighteningly complex. Threads of silver-blue energy moved through transparent microtubes, each one thinner than a strand of hair. Several floating lenses enlarged the internal structure beside him, making every adjustment visible.

Mu Xiyu’s fingers were steady.

The miniature components hovered between his hands as if waiting for orders. His pale lashes were lowered, his white hair falling softly near his cheek. A faint light from the nerve-core reflected against his eyes, making his pupils look almost glass-like.

He did not seem to notice the production team entering.

Or perhaps he had noticed and judged that they did not currently require processing.

Beside him, Yin Canglan sat in a dark chair, reading imperial military reports.

The Crown Prince wore Imperial Academy’s black uniform with restrained elegance. The collar was fastened properly, the silver dragon insignia resting against his chest. His posture was relaxed, but not loose. Even sitting in a student hall, he carried a quiet pressure that made people subconsciously straighten their backs.

A stack of documents floated before him. There were border supply reports, patrol-route adjustments, military expenditure summaries or administrative comments from three ministries.

He read them smoothly, occasionally marking a line with his finger.

Then, without looking away from the report, he picked up a piece of cut fruit with a small silver fork and held it beside Mu Xiyu’s lips.

Mu Xiyu opened his mouth and ate naturally and he continued adjusting the nerve-core.

The production team froze and Yin Canglan turned one page. A minute later, he lifted a glass of water.

Mu Xiyu lowered his head slightly, drank two mouthfuls through the straw, then moved his attention back to the miniature mecha component.

Yin Canglan placed the cup down and his gaze never left the military report.

The whole action was so smooth that it clearly had not happened only once or twice.

The director and assistant director  stared. The camera operator nearly forgot to breathe and only the academy teacher was very calm. He had obviously seen this too many times.

The livestream pre-show page had quietly opened for testing. At first, only a limited number of viewers had access. But within minutes, the clip spread through internal recommendation channels like a fire thrown into dry grass.

Bullet comments began appearing.

【Wait. Is this live?】

【I came in by accident. Why am I seeing the Crown Prince feed someone fruit?】

【That is Mu Xiyu, right?】

【The cold Omega genius?】

【Cold? He just opened his mouth very obediently.】

【No, the point is His Highness did not even look away from the military report. How skilled is this movement?】

【This is muscle memory.】

【The Crown Prince feeds fruit like he is signing imperial orders.】

【Mu Xiyu eats fruit like it is part of the assembly procedure.】

【I suddenly understand the phrase “childhood engagement.”】

【Is this something we are allowed to watch for free?】

The director did not know the livestream test channel had already attracted viewers.

His current attention was on the fact that no one in S-Class had stood up to greet them.

Not because they were rude. But because everyone seemed to be in the middle of something that might affect military logistics, academic history, pharmaceutical safety, interstellar assets, or the Crown Prince’s meal management duties.

The director cleared his throat.

“Good morning, everyone. We are the production team of The Imperial Academy Elites. Today, we’re here to film some pre-show material.”

No one answered immediately.