Ren Vesmir Larkinson had learned to stop counting failures.
In the first month, they had felt like bruises—each mistake a reminder that he was not of this world, not a native of the Mech Era, not someone who belonged in a place where children could identify power couplings before they could write essays.
By the end of the first year, the bruises became calluses.
He no longer recoiled from failure. He studied it. Rebuilt it. Understood its patterns and root causes. If there was one thing his previous life had prepared him for, it was the patience to learn slowly.
This world moved fast—warp-speed ships, orbital elevators, plasma weapons—but mastery still took time.
And time was something Ren had finally decided to give himself.
He told his mother in the first month:
"I'm not applying to school yet."
She had blinked, surprised. "But you're already seventeen. That'll make you older than Ves."
He nodded. "Then I'll be older than Ves."
It didn't matter.
Not to him.
Because he knew what the entrance exam at Rittersberg would require. He knew the intensity of its challenges. The prestige of its competition. The System hadn't activated for Ves yet—but Ren had no such miracle waiting for him. No divine shortcut. No spiritual guidance.
If he wanted to stand on his own, he would need a foundation strong enough to carry his weight.
So he took two years off.
Two years of dirt, grease, books, cuts, repetition, and purpose.
Year One
Brill's scrapyard became Ren's school, temple, and forge.
Each day, he reported before first light-cycle. Cloudy Curtain's habitat might not have a sun, but Ren's body adjusted to the rhythm of labor. Brill, as ever, was a gruff, unsympathetic teacher—but his silence was permissive. The old mechanic never praised, but never turned Ren away, either.
Ren started with cleaning—simple, humiliating work. Wiping grease from parts, clearing debris from the hangar floor, and cataloging crates full of scrap by manufacturer labels.
But that monotony gave him an eye for detail.
He began to spot variations in model types. Differences in how the same sensor mount was assembled depending on its generation or licensing authority. He learned that even junk had a story—if you listened closely.
By month three, Brill gave him a simple task: replace a worn-out heat sink on an old rotary cannon.
Ren failed. Twice.
The first time, he used a mismatched socket and fried the capacitor. The second time, he forgot to vent the coolant and burned his fingers through his gloves.
The third time, he succeeded—and logged every step in his dataslate.
That became habit.
He documented everything.
Not just what to do, but what not to do. Why certain couplings warped under stress. What alloys responded best to cheap thermal paste. Which servo brands were salvageable and which were factory-welded garbage.
He created his first technical journal, titling it boldly: "BASICS, V0.1."
By month six, he could fully disassemble and reassemble a mech-grade shoulder actuator blindfolded.
Not because it was flashy—but because he'd done it over thirty times.
Year Two
With the basics burned into muscle memory, Ren turned his attention to design logic.
He wanted to be a designer, not just a technician. And that meant understanding systems.
So he raided every open-source schematic archive available through the CloudNet. He consumed military manuals, engineering dissertations, and ancient patents no longer in commercial use. He wrote summaries in his own words, forcing himself to explain concepts aloud to an empty room.
How did servo clusters distribute force?
How did long-range energy weapons manage heat dispersion without destabilizing internal targeting systems?
How did predictive tracking software interact with environmental sensors during real-time combat?
He didn't have answers to all of it—not yet—but every day brought him one layer deeper into the puzzle.
He built mock circuits on his workbench using scavenged modules. Rigged primitive simulation environments using patched training software and old processors.
The simulations were ugly. Blocky. Prone to crashing.
But they let him test theoretical component layouts—how a pulse rifle's recoil would affect gyroscopic balance, or how line-of-sight interference degraded lock-on efficiency.
He learned by doing.
And more importantly—by failing.
He failed again, and again, and again.
And learned.
Brill noticed the change.
The old man rarely spoke in full sentences, but by the end of the second year, he'd stopped barking corrections. Instead, he left Ren small challenges.
A disassembled railgun with no wiring diagram.
A scorched fire-control node that needed recalibration with no manuals.
Once, he handed Ren a warped drone chassis with only a short note: "Make it fire straight."
Ren spent six days on that one—and nearly threw it into a garbage compactor out of frustration. But when he finally got the stabilization matrix to sync with the magnetic containment fields, the mock test hit center target five times in a row.
Brill watched silently and handed him a new tool belt the next day.
"Don't borrow mine anymore."
Ren smiled and accepted the unspoken promotion.
The Decision
On the final night of his second year, Ren sat in his apartment, staring at the four battered components he had restored himself:
A stabilized recoil compensator for railgun-type kinetic weapons.
A dynamic targeting scope with atmosphere compensation.
A multi-phase cooling shroud for beam rifles.
A diagnostic assistant relay for pilot-actuator interface testing.
Not a full mech. Not even a full weapon.
But each was his.
Designed from scrap. Repaired with understanding. Improved through iteration.
He could talk through every millimeter of design, every parameter he'd tweaked, every mistake he'd turned into an optimization.
He checked the entrance schedule for the Rittersberg University of Technology.
The registration deadline was in twelve days.
His heart didn't race.
His hands didn't shake.
Because this time, he wasn't hoping to pass.
He was ready to fight for it.
Ren told his mother over breakfast.
"I'm applying to Rittersberg."
She looked up from her coffee with a raised brow, then smiled faintly. "You're serious?"
"I've never been more serious about anything."
She reached over and gently touched his hand. "You're going to be in the same year as Ves."
"I know."
She hesitated. "Won't that be… odd? He's your younger brother, but—"
"He's on his path," Ren said. "I'm on mine."
She gave a quiet, knowing nod.
That afternoon, Ren filed his application packet.
He included everything—his technical journals, simulation logs, physical design files, and even video tests of his rebuilt modules under stress conditions.
He didn't ask for special treatment. No legacy admission. No favors from the Larkinson name.
Just his work.
Let it speak for itself.
Back at the scrapyard, Brill handed him a sealed container.
"Old exam kit," he said. "Mock test from five years back. Thought you'd want to see what they'll throw at you."
Ren took it reverently.
He looked around the scrapyard—at the crates, the debris, the tools, and the scars on his hands.
Two years ago, he couldn't tell a stabilizer from a stator.
Now?
He was ready.
Not to be a genius.
Not to be a hero.
But to be a designer.
One line at a time. One bolt at a time. One mech at a time.