Hanbo Star?
The name hit Baisha like a stray bolt, her mind sparking. "Isn't that a frontline warzone?"
"Got it in one," Huoman said, his grin flashing teeth sharp as a predator's, eyes glinting with a wild, hungry edge. "The front line, kid. I'm taking you to taste a real battlefield."
The frontline was the Federation's iron wall against the starbugs—swarms of alien horrors clawing at humanity's edge. The border sector sprawled vast, split by safety: warzones like Hanbo, deadliest of all; buffer zones like Lanslow, tense but livable; and core hubs like Loden, gleaming safe. Five years in the orphanage's cocoon had shielded Baisha, but out there, battles raged daily. Small colonies fell to bug tides, erased in hours. Lanslow's poverty stung, sure, but it beat a grave.
"Know why the military obsesses over high-grade aptitude?" Huoman said, his voice low, like sharing a smuggler's secret. "It's not just for crafting or piloting mechs. Humans with aptitude are starbugs' natural predators. Face one, and you'll know if you've got it—or not."
Baisha's curiosity flickered. She'd skimmed forum threads on aptitude, piecing together scraps. Designers' grades capped their mechs' potential—low-tiers couldn't touch high-grade blueprints. Her stunt with the C-grade cannon suggested C-grade aptitude, minimum. Yet she'd tweaked B- and A-grade schematics online, no barriers, no strain, like flipping through a manual. Sometimes, she wondered if her otherworldly soul—her transmigrator's quirk—slipped past those rules entirely.
But testing aptitude by brawling starbugs? That was a leap she'd never imagined.
"You're sneaking us to the front?" Baisha asked, squinting. "If we're caught, it's trouble."
"Sneaking?" Huoman laughed, pointing to her bag's junked optic-link and forged ID. "We're going legit—mercenaries. Hanbo's hiring grunts tomorrow. We sign up, you and me. Ready to bleed in the dirt?"
Baisha stared, deadpan.
"Kidding," he said, waving it off. "They need logistics—cleanup crew. You tail the soldiers, carve up bug corpses, bag the valuable bits."
Baisha's face stayed flat. Glorified janitors, then.
"No need to slug it out," Huoman added, clapping her shoulder, his earlier fire dimming like a staged show. "A few half-dead bugs'll do the trick. We scavenge, let the pros do the killing. Easy pickings. You didn't think I'd toss you to the bugs, did you? I'm not that crazy."
Baisha's eyes narrowed. Sure you're not. Huoman's trust always came with a catch—she'd never fully bought his act. Something lurked behind his easy grins.
She strapped on the clunky optic-link, tucked the ID, and followed him from the alley's gloom. Neon bled across the street, faces blurring in the glow; no one clocked her new guise. A hoverbus carried them to Lanslow's spaceport, its gates bristling with soldiers. They queued for scans, Baisha's fake face passing the machines without a hitch. But at the boarding ramp, a stone-faced trooper eyed their tickets, pausing.
"Hanbo Star?" he asked, voice clipped.
"Yup," Huoman said, all smooth charm.
"Warzone," the soldier said, frowning. "Mercenaries, I'm guessing? You look ex-army—makes sense. But this kid's barely grown. War's no game. Think it over."
His face darkened, a shadow passing. "Lost my brother out there. Seventeen."
Huoman's smile didn't waver. "We're orphanage folk, sir. Merc pay's the only thing keeping our kids fed."
The soldier sighed, defeat in his eyes, and waved them through. "Heard a bug tide's due in two weeks. Get out before then."
They thanked him, stepping into the starship's cabin. It was half-empty, a dozen burly men sprawled across seats, gear light, muscles rippling. Bound for Hanbo's dawn recruitment, they claimed rows, stuffed bags under necks, and snored in seconds.
Baisha stifled a laugh, settling by a porthole. Stars streaked past, the ship a lone firefly darting through the void. Without a beacon, it'd be lost forever.
Three hours later, she stirred from a doze. Hanbo loomed—blue-gray, edged in icy white, storms swirling like ghostly ribbons. "Harsher than Lanslow," Huoman said, catching her gaze. "Blizzards, snow, subzero drops. But the army hooks mercs up with gear—suits, guns."
"If you pass the test," a skinny guy cut in, mohawk spiked, black jacket loose. He grinned, sly. "You dragging this twig to war, old man? Soldier or nanny?"
Baisha muttered, "Do we look that soft?"
"It's your height," Huoman teased. "Short, scrawny—bamboo stick vibes."
"My fault? Your biceps aren't exactly screaming 'hero' either."
"Muscle's not all a soldier needs."
They bantered, ignoring Mohawk, who soured, ready to snap—until Huoman and Baisha pinned him with twin stares.
"Lesson one," Huoman said to her, voice cool. "Mercs settle scores their way."
Baisha raised a brow. "Do tell."
Two minutes later, Mohawk was out cold, twitching, pockets emptied. The cabin's bruisers glanced over, unimpressed, some sneering outright. Huoman crouched, flipping Mohawk's drained wallet. "Pick a fight, pay the price. Lesson learned, eh?"
Mohawk groaned, half-dead.
The ship docked. Hanbo's port buzzed, merc signup right outside—desperate for hands. Baisha's fake ID pegged her at fourteen, the bare minimum. Huoman navigated the chaos like an old pro: forms, signatures, a contract droning about "war's risks" and a measly 2,000-credit payout for death. They demanded a family account for the funds—mandatory.
Baisha faltered, passing the form to Huoman. He scribbled a number and handed it back. Her eyes bugged—it was his account.
"Scumbag," she hissed under her breath, but the form was done. No time to redo it.
At the audit desk, a government clerk frowned at her age. "Too young."
A merc nearby, cleaning his rifle, piped up. "Kid's got moves. Dropped a guy clean on the ship."
Baisha recognized him—same flight. Mohawk's thrashing had earned her cred.
The clerk grunted, waving a redheaded soldier over. "Fine. Test him. Three minutes, he's in."
The soldier shed his armor, keeping only a jumpsuit, and squared up. Baisha's crowd parted, forming a ring. She shot Huoman a look—he was ten meters back, grinning like a spectator.
Jerk.
"Daydreaming's a bad start," the soldier barked, swinging. Baisha dodged, snagging his arm, slamming his ribs and waist. He winced, staggering, and she pounced—yanking his hair, locking his throat, tripping him flat. He hit the dirt, winded.
Silence, then cheers exploded. "Military form!" the clerk marveled. Her moves were instinct, polished years deep—no beginner's flinch.
The soldier, red-faced, scrambled up for round two, but the clerk waved him off. "You should be in prep school."
Baisha froze—too close to her truth. "Family's broke," she said, voice rough, eyes flashing hurt just enough to sell it.
The clerk softened, stamping her form. "Welcome aboard. But kid, use the pay for school—don't waste your youth."
She nodded, pocketing a merc chip for her optic-link and a bulky jumpsuit. In the armory tent, she grabbed a photon dagger and laser pistol—dual modes: blast or net, though the net drained fast. "Follow a vet," a soldier advised. "Learn which bug parts fetch cash. Stick to cleared zones, but stragglers happen. Low-grade bugs, fight. High-grade? Call for help."
Baisha tapped her chip's SOS function. "How do we spot high-grade bugs?"
The soldier's face was grim. "Count the bodies. More dead, higher grade."
She blinked.
"Kidding," he said, saluting. "High-grades don't slip our nets."
Huoman joined her, a sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. "Making friends already? They gave you a photon dagger—I got stuck with a heat blade."
His jumpsuit fit snug, its chem-coated fabric tough against blades, heat, even biohazards. Baisha's was oversized, her helmet and goggles turning her into a yellow minion. Huoman snorted.
She ignored him, testing her pistol's modes. Energy was finite—one misfire, and it was scrap.
Dawn broke, Hanbo's light sharp and cold, slicing the dark like a blade. No warmth followed; Baisha's breath fogged, the ground icing underfoot. Her ears caught whispers from nearby mercs.
"What's the holdup? Taking forever."
"Bug tide's coming—swarms are thicker this year. Army's sweeping longer."
Hanbo's day lasted four hours. Mercs lounged, waiting, some gambling shirtless, jumpsuits knotted at waists. Baisha adapted to the chill, even the food—hard bread, jerky, and throat-searing liquor from steel drums. It burned, then warmed, shaking off the cold.
Dozy with a flask, she jolted as shouts tore through camp. "Army's greenlit! Move!"
Mercs surged, piling into black armored trucks. Horns blared, a primal roar as they rolled. Baisha and Huoman crammed in, the truck rumbling toward a "battlefield" already dead—soldiers gone, only wreckage left. Bug corpses towered, hills of black chitin.
Mercs swarmed like vultures. Huoman's heat blade sliced a giant spider's belly, purple blood hissing. "C-grade, shadow weaver," he said, bagging white slime. "One gram's 300 credits."
Big money—but the army claimed the haul, mercs just got wages.
They borrowed a bike, ditching the trucks for live prey. Ruins yielded one bug, a centipede pinned by debris, its fangs shrieking. Huoman nodded. "Try it. Knife, not gun."
Baisha crept close, dagger humming. The bug arched, its maw blasting a silent wave—air warped, sound died. She flinched, then lunged, piercing its jaw, silencing it. It collapsed, limp.
"Not bad," Huoman said. "No stun from a C-grade's mental spike. Nailing its vocal cords means you're B-grade, minimum. Aptitude's like a hunter's nose—stronger than the bug, you smell its weak spot."
He checked his optic-link's map, frowning. "B-grades are rarer. Intel might point us, though."
Baisha raised a brow. "You've got intel?"
Huoman sighed. "Think I keep the orphanage afloat on scraps? I teach, sure, but I moonlight as a merc across warzones. Easy? Hell no."
No wonder he vanished sometimes. "So when you ditched Lanslow," Baisha said, smirking, "we figured you were dodging debts or bar-hopping."
Huoman paused, then grinned. "Not wrong. Old Liao'd call, hounding me for cash. I'd pick up mid-battle—bugs exploding, signal crackling. 'What? Can't hear!' He'd drop it, tell me to focus before I died."
Baisha snorted. "You're shameless."
He scanned the map, stopping short. "North—a cave, old bunker. Says B-grade corpse, but two merc crews went in, and the tag's still up."
B-grades were gold; crews pounced fast, carving them in minutes. This one lingered.
"Maybe they missed the entrance," Baisha said. "Old mining zone—tricky terrain."
Hanbo's mines died when bugs invaded, bunkers woven deep to dodge storms. "Let's check," Huoman said, revving the bike. "Fuel's low—one loop, then we're done."
At the cave, two trucks sat abandoned. The entrance gaped, rubble-strewn. Weapons ready, they crept down a sloping path, rock walls pale as bone under Huoman's light. No voices, just echoes. A dead end loomed, but a side hole—blasted open—beckoned.
"Someone forced it," Huoman said, eyeing tracks. Baisha ducked through, her hand grazing rough stone. Light grew, faint, until she stepped into a vast chamber.
A domed fortress opened before her, its rusted skylight leaking dim rays. Cranes clung to pitted walls, stone bridges crisscrossing like veins. At the center, a silver sphere floated, glowing softly—a metal moon.
"Anti-grav field," Huoman whispered. "Hanbo's people built it to last thirty years per charge."
The moon still hung, but its makers were dust.
Baisha edged forward, drawn to it, when white tendrils lashed out. "Back!" Huoman roared, his rifle spitting. The tendrils burst; Baisha slashed sticky strands off her suit, heart pounding.
A creature emerged—octopus above, jellyfish below, gray-white, oozing along the wall, its tentacles drifting like underwater fronds. "A-grade!" Huoman shouted. "I'll draw it—call for help!"
Baisha checked her optic-link. "No signal!"
"It's jamming us," Huoman growled, his stance shifting, a lion rousing. "Stay close."
He vaulted out, scaling a crane's beam. Baisha followed, firing as they ran to its control room, bolting the door. "Safer here," he said. "It'd need to crack us open."
"You stay," he added, eyes hard. "I'll handle it."
"That's a starbug?" Baisha asked, incredulous.
"They're shapeshifters," Huoman said, reloading. "Conquer a world, steal its genes, twist them wild—snakes with legs, rhinos with wings. Anything goes, except human DNA. We're their blind spot, their foe. This war's fate."
"You sure you've got this?" Baisha asked, staring him down. "It's A-grade."
"I'm A-grade too," he said, cool as steel. "Trust your teacher—we've got this."
Baisha's jaw tightened. An A-grade slumming as a Lanslow tutor? Bull.
Outside, tentacles scraped. Huoman leapt through the window, shots ringing. His bullets hit the bug's cap, dodged by flailing limbs forming a clear shield—mental force. Same grade, he couldn't read its weak spot fast. He probed, bullets testing.
Then he focused, aptitude flaring. The bug's form cleared in his mind. Coating a bullet with will, he fired—a streak piercing the shield's heart.
Blood sprayed. The bug wailed, crashing down, tentacles curling.
Huoman exhaled, smoke curling from his empty rifle. He turned, ready to call Baisha, when lasers grazed him, hitting the bug behind. It had woven a net, nearly snaring him—until Baisha's shots killed it, its blood pooling gray.
"Octopus vibe," she said, shrugging. "Three hearts, right? Bugs mutate, so I blasted all three. Safe bet."
Huoman laughed, realization dawning. "You—"
Wind hissed. More tendrils struck. He rolled clear; Baisha's lasers lit a cave mouth, revealing a writhing mass—white flesh, black eyes glaring. A nest.
"Bug moms weaken post-spawn," Baisha said. "We got lucky earlier. These are juveniles, though—manageable. Another round, Teach?"
"Gimme your pistol," Huoman said.
"Nope. You're not that much better."
"What, gonna watch me die?"
"You'll live," she said, tapping her optic-link. "Big bug's down—signal's back. I called the army. They're quick."
Engines roared above. Armored soldiers rappelled in, a silver mech gleaming behind them. Baisha's eyes lit up—a mech!
She nudged Huoman: Play weak. He didn't hesitate, collapsing theatrically.
Baisha winced. Showoff.
The army spotted the nest, unloading rounds. The juveniles, A-grade strong, shrugged off fire, their tentacles lashing. Then the mech moved—swift, a blade flashing, slicing them apart like paper. Thirty seconds, done.
The cockpit opened. A black-haired boy stepped out, pale as frost, his face a refined mask clashing with the ruin. A cold edge in his brow hinted at steel beneath silk. He waved off a soldier's report, eyes scanning. "Who killed the A-grade?"
Baisha, perched on a crane, blinked. "Me?"
"You're the only one here," he said, turning, his voice calm but sharp.