Baisha gunned her flyer through the night to Backstreet, snagging the new optic-link. En route, she pinged Zhou Yue, learning he'd already got his.
"You're up late," she typed.
Zhou Yue's voice came low, muted. "Can't sleep."
Since Ning Hongxue's visit, he'd been adrift, though better than before—when he'd ghosted through days, barely leaving his room. Now, at least, he wandered, clearing his head.
"When'd you get yours?" Baisha asked.
"Hour ago. Door delivery," he said.
Baisha: "???"
Why did he get white-glove service while she trekked to Backstreet's grimiest corner? But once the optic-link was in hand, her gripes vanished.
Beaming, she flew back to the orphanage, plopped on her bed, and tore into the box. The link came in a sleek black metal case. She pressed a switch; the sides split, layers rotating like a blooming steel flower, forming a three-tier tray.
First tier: a manual—model specs, performance, usage, even maintenance tips. But no maker's name, no contact, no address—just a silver-black world-tree logo on the title page. A no-brand mystery.
Baisha: "…"
Second tier: a thin card, uncrumpleable, untearable, white as paper. Scrawled in sharp, elegant script: "Work tirelessly by day, stay vigilant by night."
Baisha: "?"
She knew the I Ching—urging relentless effort and caution. The full quote was "The gentleman works tirelessly by day, stays vigilant by night, and avoids fault." If this was the maker's gift card, it reeked of patronizing sermonizing. No company would bait customers like that. She had a hunch who'd penned it.
She ignored the card.
The final tier held the optic-link: a sleek, silver-white ring, light, thin, curves graceful. Unlike market models, it lacked a physical screen—pure holo-projection. Subtle, like understated jewelry, its soft glow refined, not gaudy.
Grinning, Baisha slipped it on, diving into the manual. Step one: recite a voice-locked activation phrase, set at purchase. The phrase? That card's smug proverb.
Baisha, deadpan, muttered, "Work tirelessly by day, stay vigilant by night."
The link chimed, demanding three more recitals for voice data.
Baisha: "…"
Nice one, Ning Hongxue.
Rolling her eyes, she complied. A cool female voice intoned, "Please bind full biometric and ID data."
For security, Baisha scanned her face, eyes, fingerprints—everything—then entered her Federation citizen ID. "Binding complete," the voice said. A silver-hued holo-screen flickered before her.
It had all standard functions, but better. A bold option caught her eye: "Connect external device?"
Her jaw dropped. This was why it cost two hundred grand. It was a portable holo-cabin core—light, adaptable to sensory gear. Pair it with basic externals, and it morphed into a budget cabin. Lanslow's top sensory kits ran two to three grand, hitting eighty percent realism for sound, sight, touch, but no smell. Fine for Jingyi's brawls; perfect for Yaning's command sims—noses optional.
She tapped "Device Connection." Two modes: "Free Link" for custom gear, "Immersive Link" for cabins. School cabins were offline or local-net only—permits cost a fortune, and prep wasn't for web surfing. But this link? It could go online. Hook it to an idle cabin, and you'd surf immersively.
Game-changer.
Baisha marveled—Ning Hongxue's gift was a steal. No cabin yet, but she could borrow the school's. Sensory gear? She had a set—her old birthday gift to Huoman, now his toy for war games.
No time to waste. She grabbed a lamp, banging on Huoman's door.
"Huh? It's late—what's up?" Huoman yawned, wrapped in a sheet.
"Borrow your sensory gear," Baisha said, eyes glinting like an owl's.
Huoman squinted, then flicked her forehead. "It's two a.m., kid. School tomorrow?"
"Just get me a sick note," she said, unfazed. "Say I'm dying."
He raised a brow.
"Hand over the gear," she pressed.
Huoman chuckled. "You think I'm that soft?"
"You left me in that cave—"
"Shh! Fine, little menace, don't broadcast it!" He scrambled inside, stuffed the gear in a bag, and tossed it like a grenade. "No sick note. Last time I took you off-world, Madam Qiong nearly skinned me. Fake your own excuse." He slammed the door.
Baisha: "…"
Jingyi could cover her.
She hauled the gear back, locked her door, drew the blinds, and donned the kit, selecting "Connect Device." A hum buzzed; colors danced across her eyes. She blinked, falling through a silver void, landing in a blank white space.
"Militech-cr04 chip loaded," a soft voice echoed. "Read now?"
Ning Hongxue had mentioned military-grade chips for academy prep. "Read," Baisha said.
A blue progress bar zipped; thirty seconds later, the space shifted. Floating white frames appeared, listing courses: combat sims, command sims, shooting sims, even mech piloting and basic repairs.
Baisha gaped. What's this chip's deal?
The voice guided her through first-boot setup. "This is your 'Origin Space,' a private hub. Customize its environment, lighting, ambiance. Add premade items from the model library."
It was her standby interface. Background options spanned deserts, seas, canyons, starry voids, war-torn cities, pastoral fields. She could set seasons, summon snow, rain, or meteor showers. Beyond vistas, she could craft rooms—courtyards, lounges, bedrooms—but furnishings were basic. Beds worked, chairs sat, TVs played, but teapots stayed put, closets wouldn't open, plants were props. Decoration, not function. Who'd live in this glitchy dollhouse?
She tried a parlor, failed miserably, and settled on a bare grassland, one lonely chair. She named it "Daily Cashflow."
The link prompted friend permissions. Her list was empty—until a ping. A friend request: "Rain on Misty Peaks," avatar a mountain.
Classic Zhou Yue.
She approved, granting him access, and yanked him in. Air shimmered; Zhou Yue appeared, staring at her bald prairie and "Daily Cashflow" label, speechless.
"Still up?" Baisha grinned. "Took you long enough to ditch your old link. This thing's wild—your usual toy?"
Zhou Yue nodded, unsure how to respond. He pivoted. "The chip's latest-gen military tech. Tried it?"
"Not yet," she said.
"They're basic—especially mech piloting. Real mechs beat sims; these are for rookies," he said, scrolling the piloting course. "I cleared these at six. Zhou kids finish by ten. They prefer real rigs—sharpens aptitude."
Baisha: "…"
Some gaps—human to human—yawned wider than human to hog. But Zhou Yue wasn't flexing.
His eyes, soft as ink, met hers. "At Central, you'll get a mech—S-grade, minimum. Clan kids train on A-grades; S-grades are leagues above, reserved for elite heirs with top skills. Rare, even in the Federation. You'll outshine them."
In the Federation, peak aptitude smashed class barriers. He meant to cheer her, but unmentioned: S-grade commoners were near-mythical at Central or Saint-Cyr, barely seen in decades.
Ning Hongxue had hinted Baisha's aptitude rivaled his—double-S, humanity's known ceiling, matched only by the Empire's Ares clan. Their royals hit triple-S, a realm tech couldn't measure, though "triple-S" nobles paled beside royals in combat. The Federation knew this too well.
Baisha, double-S, would quake Central, seizing chances others dreamed of, maybe shifting the Federation's tides.
She shouldn't fret over credits.
Zhou Yue's earnest words landed as friendly comfort. She patted his shoulder, sighing. "We'll see. Let's check the chip's courses. Huh? Why only three mech repair lessons?"
Piloting had dozens; repairs, just three: mech structure and basics, types and common faults, and—building rapport with mech-techs.
Baisha: "?"
Zhou Yue glanced. "Pilots focus on field skills. Mech issues go to techs. Three's plenty."
Baisha blinked, incredulous. "I'm aiming for mech-tech."
Zhou Yue: "?"
Zhou Yue: "…"
"Did I not mention?" she said, weak. "Guess not."
"Mech-tech?" His shock was plain. "But you've barely touched mechs."
Unlike pilots, techs needed deep foundations, often lifelong mech immersion. Some genius mechanics switched, but it was brutal—high aptitude helped, yet the craft was leagues tougher.
"Can your uncle snag a mech-tech chip?" Baisha asked, hopeful.
Zhou Yue's lips parted, dry. "Those are… rare."
Mech design data was Federation-locked, chips held by institutes, academies, or elites like his brother, Zhou Ying.
Zhou Yue faltered. Since the ghost bug, he'd cut Zhou Ying off, claiming it was for his brother's sake. But it was escape—dodging Zhou clan ties, Zhou Ying's care.
Ning Hongxue had said he couldn't favor either nephew, respecting Zhou Yue's choices. But ghosting family was reckless. His words had nudged Zhou Yue toward returning; Baisha's tech dream tipped the scale further.
As a pilot, he couldn't aid her tech path.
"My brother's a design whiz," he said. "I could introduce you."
"You don't want to contact him," Baisha said, reading his turmoil. "Family's messy—I get it. Don't stress over this." No chip? She had forums. She'd scraped by for years.
Zhou Yue frowned, guilt gnawing. After a beat, he said, "There's a place that might help."
"Where?"
"Mech-Tech Alliance Summit."
Baisha: "Never heard of it."
"It's not physical," Zhou Yue said, eyes drifting to her grassland, its openness oddly calming. "The Summit's in 'Boundless City,' a virtual hub built on holo-interaction. Everyone's masked, anonymous. Starnet has plenty of virtual spaces, but Boundless City's unique—'no origins, no races.' Every user has aptitude."
"No races?" Baisha echoed. "Even Imperials?"
He nodded.
"Boundless City" sounded apt, but its aptitude gate made it an elite playground.
"Federation allows it?" she asked.
"They tried banning it," Zhou Yue said. "Backfired. By then, citizens had built lives there—abandoning it meant handing it to the Empire. A military raid flopped, and the Federation lacks Imperial intel. Boundless is a spy haven, so they let it slide. Military eyes and feds' Special Affairs Bureau hunt traitors and leaks outside."
Sounds like a headache.
"The Summit's a free mech-tech exchange," Zhou Yue added. "Avoid military mech deep-dives, and it's safe."
The Summit was the Federation's lightest touch—Imperial tech outpaced theirs, and no genius techs had emerged lately. They hoped for Imperial defectors, new tricks.
Baisha rubbed her chin, hooked. "How do we get in?"
"We've got passes," Zhou Yue said, pointing to a world-tree icon on her panel. "No clue how my uncle pulled it, but they're built into the links."
Baisha recalled the manual's logo. These links might be Boundless City tech themselves.
"Ready?" Zhou Yue asked. "First entry takes time. We can wait."
Other link features tempted, but the Summit's pull was stronger. "Hold on," she said, logging off to slap a note on Jingyi's door for a sick day, then racing back to gear up and tap the world-tree.
[New World: Boundless City, loading…]
[Create new avatar.]
A glowing humanoid appeared. Zhou Yue had explained: faces were randomized from real features, a Boundless rule tying virtual to real. But tweaks—height, build, age, skin, hair, outfits—offered freedom. Most skewed far from reality to dodge recognition, favoring skin-tone shifts, age jumps, or build changes. Gender swaps worked, if you hid tells.
Baisha, a veteran character creator, dove in. No uglying herself—she aged up ten years, stretched to 1.8 meters. A pale, long-haired woman emerged. She sharpened brows, edged eyes, thinned lips, curved the mouth down…
Then she misclicked "gender swap."
Light flared. A tall, long-haired man stood before her—flawless jade skin, chiseled features, silver-gray hair cascading, eyes a metallic blue-gray, cold and leaping. Stunning, yet terrifying in his noble chill, his gaze screaming you're all beneath me.
He echoed Baisha's features, yet was alien—and nailed her aesthetic.
Gorgeous. Fierce. Perfect.
Too haughty, maybe—those eyes begged for a punch. But who cared? She'd wear it once, tweak later.
She picked sleek attire, saved, and stepped into Boundless City.
At the entrance, she spotted "Rain on Misty Peaks"—Zhou Yue, now wheat-skinned, freckled, face softened. "Hey!" she called, her voice a crisp, magnetic baritone. She froze—damn, even the voice slaps.
Zhou Yue gawked, silent, then said, "Your avatar's… bold."
"Just for now," Baisha laughed. "Newbies get one free tweak, right?"
"It's costly after," Zhou Yue sighed.
"Forget it—let's hit the Summit."
Tall avatars did widen your view.
Boundless City sprawled endless, buildings of translucent lines, dreamlike. Shuttles whirred above; ghostly whales swam the black sky, blaring news and tunes. Golden glass butterflies fluttered; Baisha caught one, and it melted into a flyer: "Custom virtual outfits, all resolutions. Grand opening, bulk discounts." The city mimicked high-tech reality, awash in floating glyphs.
Zhou Yue marked the Summit on her map. "They host design contests, display winning works with consent. A kiosk sells past collections. Joining needs a test—try it now, or wait till you're academy-trained."
How hard could entry be?
They teleported to the Summit, a grand white edifice, its gate crowned with a gold-red flame-and-gear crest. Inside, sparse crowds—mostly pale, scholarly types—clustered, some with holo-blueprints hovering.
At the "Registration Desk," a drowsy, bespectacled brunette yawned. "Joining? Fill this, list your mech-tech grade…"
"No license," Baisha said.
He blinked, ready to dismiss, but her stare unnerved him. "Then you'll need the test." He pointed to a wall blueprint. "Spot one error, you're in. That's from the Summit's founding—masters crafted it. Solving it takes mid-grade skill. Entry's just junior-grade—get licensed, it's easier…"
Baisha studied the blueprint, snapped a holo-shot, and circled four spots in red. "Check these?"
The clerk's sleep fled; his glasses slipped. "All… correct. But you marked an extra—side-wing engine?"
"Could be optimized," Baisha said, explaining fault reduction.
He stared, then shoved a form at her. "Master, register! We'll talk after—I'll pay points for your insights, redeemable for rare materials!"
Baisha chatted long at the desk, unaware someone snapped her avatar, posting to a Boundless City group: "Mech-Tech Summit's got a young prodigy! Need tech? Track him!"
Replies flooded—"Got it," "Who's he?"—in the "Wild Mech-Tech Hunters" chat, a fight-fan network. Good techs were scarce, swamped; fans formed intel rings to snag fresh talent.
In a Boundless City music bar, a sharp-dressed youth sipped a cocktail, lounging, scrolling Starnet. The group's buzz drew his eye to the sneaky photo.
He spat his drink.
"Cough—cough!" His gold eyes quaked, tongue nearly bitten. "M-Majesty?"
The Emperor in Boundless City?
Since when did he fix mechs?