Chapter Sixteen: "Clashing Sparks, Loyal Hearts, and a Digital Duel"
Parfen's ambush caught Yaning off guard, but her venom shifted fast—not the usual sneers, but a wedge meant to split them. Yaning blinked, genuinely puzzled. "You got a glitch in your head or what?" he said, his freckled face scrunching. "Baisha's got mech designer chops—so? If she gets into an academy early, great. Even if she leaves Lanslow, we're all outta here eventually. I'm aiming for command, Jingyi's for mech pilot, Baisha's for design. No overlap, no beef. What's there to mope about?"
Parfen's jaw dropped, her golden hair framing a look of disbelief. "You think academy slots grow on trees? Like you just stroll in?" She paused, eyes narrowing. "Wait—your goals really are Central Military Academy, aren't they?"
Yaning and Jingyi went quiet, trading a glance that screamed, This girl's circuits are fried.
"Madness. You're all insane," Parfen hissed, teeth grinding. "Central demands A-grade aptitude, minimum. You ever tested yours? Got any at all, dreaming that big? Baisha's different. She cracked that C-grade cannon like it was nothing—means her aptitude's B-grade, at least. You two? Never even checked."
Jingyi cut in, her obsidian eyes locking on Parfen, cold as a blade. "Baisha mentioned rich folks get early tests. With your family's pull on Lanslow, you've been scanned, right? What's your grade—below B? That why you're acting unhinged today?"
Parfen froze, her skin prickling as if flayed bare. Her shoulders shook, eyes reddening with a storm of fear, shame, and fury. Jingyi read it all, unflinching.
"I'll be watching," Parfen spat, voice low, "to see what sorry mess you three are in three years." She spun, storming out, leaving the classroom's hum to settle.
Yaning leaned back, scratching his head. "She always ends up raging, tossing a line, and bolting. Why keep picking fights?"
Jingyi shrugged, her braid swaying. "Not enough training. Teachers go soft on her—Luzi name's got weight."
Meanwhile, in the faculty office, Baisha faced a different storm. The head instructor, his face stern as ever, leaned forward. "We can't test your aptitude here, but your mech talent's undeniable." His tone held rare warmth, tinged with chagrin. "It's embarrassing to admit, but West District's not equipped to train a designer. You're wasting potential here. We can apply to transfer your records to Loden Star's prep program. If they approve, your residency shifts there too."
The mechanics teacher, still reeling from Baisha's cannon stunt, chimed in. "Loden's the hub of the border sector, under the Thirteenth District. It's a warzone out there—tough, bloody. If you tap their resources, they'll likely bind you to their academy, Raynis. It's fourth-ranked, solid, but if your aptitude's high-grade, staying could clip your wings."
A fork in the road. Baisha stayed quiet, weighing it.
The head instructor pressed, his voice earnest. "You're an orphan—no backing, no wealth. For a designer, those matter. Loden's a shot most don't get. Yes, Thirteenth's frontline's brutal, but promotions come faster. And defending the Federation? That's a soldier's duty."
Raynis wasn't Central, but it wasn't nothing. Still, Baisha didn't waver long.
"I'm staying, sir," she said, her voice steady.
"Because you're dead-set on Central?" the instructor asked, brow raised.
Baisha tilted her head, a faint smile breaking through. "Where I learn mechs isn't the dealbreaker. I've got family—friends. Central's Yaning and Jingyi's dream since forever. If they're aiming there, I'm with them, all the way."
"I know we'll all make it."
That evening, the trio grabbed sandwiches from the cafeteria, settling on the training field's gear—pull-up bars and weights glinting under floodlights. They ate, joking between bites, then lingered, mixing chatter with light drills.
Baisha mentioned the transfer offer, casual as she dangled from a bar. "Turned it down. Loden's folks sound like a hassle," she said, grinning lazily. "Shame, though—I could've faked it, nabbed a free aptitude test, then bailed with a 'sorry, bad vibes' excuse."
Yaning, squeezing a grip trainer, snorted, the tool creaking rhythmically. "You think they're running a charity? That's kid-level scheming."
Jingyi frowned, kicking Yaning's shin and thumping Baisha's back, nearly toppling her. "This chat or training? Focus, or it's pointless. Yaning, that gripper's too light—grab a heavier one. Baisha, quit slothing like a koala. Move!"
Drill-sergeant Jingyi took over, relentless. They sweated through the field till eight, then trudged to the dorms, showering off the day's grime before bed.
Baisha flicked on her optic-link, settling into her nightly ritual: a sweep of the mech designer forum. A ping surprised her—ClearShadowOverRiver, her old net pal, breaking months of near-silence. Since she'd switched her ID to Zhang FaCai and spilled her orphan roots, their chats had dwindled. Shadow, once open, had gone cagey, as if her reveal—plus the "rich kid" vibe of her new handle—had soured things. Busy with prep school, Baisha hadn't pushed, unsure what to say when he flickered online.
Tonight, he broke the ice.
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: Send an address. I'm mailing those parts and materials I promised.
The tone was curt, like he was buying a clean break. Baisha's patience frayed.
[Zhang FaCai]: Keep 'em. I'm from nowhere, sure, but I've got pride. If you think I'm too lowborn for your circle, fine—you've helped plenty, and I'm grateful. No need for gifts. Let's call it a good run as friends.
She sent it, sharp but honest. Shadow went quiet, then dropped an ellipsis.
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: It's not your background.
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: I just… couldn't wrap my head around you being a girl.
Baisha stared, dumbfounded. That's the hang-up?
[Zhang FaCai]: My profile says gender-neutral, always has. If it bugs you, think of me as a mech-obsessed blob.
Another pause, then a reply, almost gritted out.
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: How do you not act like a girl, though?
Baisha laughed aloud, fingers flying. Personal attack, huh?
[Zhang FaCai]: How old are you, met three girls total? Male, female, whatever—I don't spend three days fretting over engine paint colors. Who cares? Mechs just need to work.
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: That's aesthetics! A top mech's gotta shine, inside and out!
[Zhang FaCai]: That's nitpicking. Your designs? No vision, just detail-chasing.
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: My mechs? I test-fly every one. Skip a detail, I feel it. Unlike someone who's never touched real parts.
[Zhang FaCai]: Oh, I touched one today. Felt divine.
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: …
[Zhang FaCai]: You brought it up. That sheen, that weight—pure magic.
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: Stop! Fine, I'm over it. Wasted days arguing.
He pivoted, back to his old brisk self. [ClearShadowOverRiver]: Real talk—I need your eyes on something.
A file pinged through—a mech perception suppressor schematic.
Baisha's brow arched. Mechs leaned on aptitude to sync with pilots, their sensors maxed for precision. Designers juiced those circuits to boost performance; weaker ones barely scratched the surface. A suppressor, though? Capping that sync? Wild.
The design split sensing into three tiers—stage one dulled, stage three razor-sharp, data shifting starkly between. For most pilots, it was pointless. Why throttle your link when sync was king?
[Zhang FaCai]: Who's this for?