"Now, who can tell me how a knight continues to operate even when its fusion cells are depleted? Yes."
"By siphoning the spiritual energy we pour into their cores from our bodies," a cadet answered.
"Correct. This is why it is..."
After the meeting with the marshal and doctor at the knight-mech production base, all cadets were sent back to their respective facilities. However, Sam, Zero, and I were delayed due to the extensive procedures required for Constellation Knight pilots—medical evaluations, documentation, and security clearances. Tatelov had to sign off on a mountain of paperwork before we were allowed to leave.
The next day, our real education began.
"When activating your knight, it primarily runs on fission power coils, which provide the necessary energy to move their large and heavy frames. The neural link device implanted in your head acts as the primary steering mechanism, even while you're secured in the knight's chest compartment. Your spirit energy functions as a booster—like nitrous, briefly amplifying reaction speed, power, and effectiveness. However..." The instructor hesitated for a moment before continuing. "It's more than just a boost. When you channel spiritual energy into your knight, your body is effectively subsumed. You and the machine become a singular entity, bonded at the cellular level."
A murmur passed through the lecture hall.
"In simple terms," he went on, "your mind and body will synchronize with your knight to an unprecedented degree. You will see as it sees, feel as it feels, and move as it moves. The neural link allows this without constantly draining your energy, but the deeper the synchronization, the less separation there is between you and your knight."
The information was important, but like most of the cadets, I found my attention drifting. We were all eager to pilot our knights first hand. I wanted to practice with Andromeda properly. But before that could happen, I had to pass the written test at the end of the first week—no exceptions.
Thankfully, Traveler had already explained much of this to me in passing, and our morning lectures reinforced it. The information was locked in my head.
"Take this hypothetical scenario," the instructor proposed. "You are in your knight, and your thrusters have failed. You're stuck chest-deep in a tar pit. What do you do?"
I raised my hand.
"Cadet 903."
"Since tar is highly flammable, the best course of action would be to fire my grappling hook into a nearby boulder and carefully pull myself out to avoid igniting the tar and cooking myself alive."
"Good. But what if you don't have a grappling hook equipped or loaded?"
"In that case, I would fire a rescue flare if I had one and remain as still as possible to avoid sinking further. Alternatively, I could use the environment—vines, debris, even wildlife—to help pull myself free."
"Bravo, Cadet 903. That is fully correct."
That evening, after dinner, I found myself standing in the snow-covered training grounds, the same place where I had trained with Traveler for the last year and a half. The cold bit at my ankles, but I barely noticed. Memories of our time together surfaced—him throwing snowballs at the back of my head, me chasing him in frustration after one of his countless pranks, and the quiet moments when we simply sat together, him reading stories aloud.
One in particular had stuck with me—Taken Horizon. He had never finished telling it to me. It was long, filled with gods, apocalyptic forces, and characters that burned with unyielding drive. It even had a character named Firefly, just like me.
He had always seemed happy when he told it, like he was reliving something impossible, something important.
Once I finished my training, I would find him. And this time, I'd make him finish the story.
The Test and the Bet
The next morning, the written exam arrived.
It covered everything—knight mechanics, strategic planning, and hypothetical battle scenarios.
(What gear allows a knight's optics to feed sensory data to the pilot?)
(You have three grenades. A platoon of enemy soldiers is closing in while you're wounded in a cave. What do you do?)
The results were announced the following day at lunch.
I scored 446 out of 500—well above the 370-mark passing threshold. My rank? Eleventh out of 178 remaining cadets.
"My lucky number."
Sam, unsurprisingly, placed first. Zero ranked somewhere in the thirties, which clearly didn't sit well with him. His fangirls didn't seem to care, but Zero certainly did. I could hear his enraged shouting echoing down the halls.
"How is that human egoist better than me?!"
Before we had time to dwell on the results, the assembly bell rang.
Major-General Tatelov stood before the gathered cadets, wasting no time.
"Good work on the written test. You all passed, so there's no need to waste time. After you are informed on how to activate your knights from transport-state, you will begin individual self-training for the next four years—except for your final initiation mission. If you require equipment, submit a request. If it's reasonable, it will be provided. Any questions?"
Silence.
It was already clear—the instructors could only teach us so much. None of them had ever piloted a knight in combat. Our real education would be self-driven.
Tatelov continued. "Very well. There is a slot in the middle of your knight's transport-mode back. Press your thumb into it and infuse spiritual energy. This will activate its combat-mode. The rest of you are dismissed—except for Cadets 1, 10, and 903."
Now that I recall, mass-produced Knights can only compress to the size of a backpack in their transport modes. That means most pilots can't just slip them into their pockets like I can.
Walking up the stage with Sam and Zero, I received a ragged manual and a holovideo device—both packed with recordings from Andromeda's previous pilots. As I flipped through the worn pages, Major-General Tatelov continued his briefing.
"Your private training rooms have been fitted. If the walls need repairs, inform an instructor, and repair drones will handle it overnight."
Sam barely listened, distractedly fiddling with his holovideo device, while I was already scanning the ancient scribbled text in the manual. Zero, the only one paying full attention, snapped to attention. "Thank you for your help, Major-General, sir!"
Tatelov gave a curt nod. "Get to work, you three. No slacking." Then, with a sharp turn, he and the instructors strode away.
As we headed off, Sam suddenly spoke up. "Hey. You two want to make a bet?"
I glanced at him curiously. "What kind?"
"At the end of training—right before graduation—the three of us will have a competition. We'll decide the terms later, but whoever wins gets a favour they can call in anytime from the other two."
"I'm game," Zero said instantly. "But the favour has to stay within reason. That cool with you both?"
"So long as it doesn't cross personal boundaries," I agreed, nodding.
"That goes without saying, Firefly." Sam grinned. "See you in four years, then!" With that, he took off running.
"That's cheating!" Zero shouted, immediately chasing after him.
A soft laugh escaped me as I jogged toward my own training room. The door scanned me with a quick sweep of light before sliding open, revealing a vast space—almost as big as the main hall. I stepped inside, awed by the sheer size of it.
Taking Andromeda's mobile form from my pocket, I pressed my thumb against its back, right between the folded wings, and infused it with spiritual energy. Sparks flickered at my fingertips, making the wings glow faintly. With a short toss forward, the compact brick erupted in a flash of turquoise light.
The next thing I knew, I was inside.
Screens flickered to life, illuminating the cockpit in a soft cyan glow. A smooth, mechanical voice greeted me while several tubes inserted themselves into my arms and neck. Several connected to a blood pump, others to different electronics, and the one closest to my brain would have led straight to Andromeda's key systems.
[Greetings, pilot. I am CK-14, Andromeda. Constellation-class Knight. Formerly Proto Knight 1103, war-class. You may call me Andromeda or PK.]
I blinked, slightly startled at hearing a voice from the walls of the cockpit. "Uh... hi, Andromeda. I'm Cadet 903—Firefly. It's... nice to meet you. Do you have a preferred name?"
[I am most familiar with PK or Andra in my memory logs, but the choice is yours.]
I considered for a moment, wanting something with a personal touch. "Andy, then. It's a pleasure to meet you, Andy."
[Hello again, Cadet. Congratulations on successfully linking. According to military procedures, we are to learn to cooperate and become the most optimal military asset possible within the next four years.]
I took a breath, gripping the controls. "Alright. Where do we start?"
[Neural link is advised for full synchronization. Currently, you have only beginner access. Without it, my full capabilities remain locked. Would you like to establish a neural link? This will require integration with the technology in your brain and bloodstream.]
This was the point of no return. After this, I wouldn't just be a cadet—I'd be a Knight pilot. For life.
But that was okay.
"Yes. Establish the link."
[Neural link commencing. Stand by.]
A flood of data surged through my mind. Screens flickered as the connection formed, sending a pulse of energy through my skull and down my spine. It felt like something threading itself through my brain, stretching into every nerve, binding me to something much larger than myself.
For a moment, it was suffocating—like my consciousness was being swallowed whole.
Then, I adjusted.
I wasn't just *me* anymore. I was *Andromeda and me*. Two bodies. One mind. One infinitely heavier than the other.
[Neural link fully established. Ejecting pilot.]
The screens in front of me retracted, and the hatch swung open as the tubes and needles pulled out of me. The connection between us dimmed, though I could still feel it—like a second heartbeat.
Stepping down onto the training room floor, I dabbed g my wrist against my nose to wipe away a slight nosebleed along with the other jabs of blood from where the tubes stuck into me briefly.
Outside, Andromeda loomed before me—a towering 20-foot titan of dark grey and green armour, its visor glowing turquoise.
"So this is what you look like from the outside when you're online," I murmured.
[Hello again, pilot. This room doubles as a simulation cabin and will be pivotal in your future development. For maximum efficiency, I have devised a four-year training plan. However, to ensure optimal performance, additional specialized equipment is required to enhance your combat effectiveness and survival in missions where we are separated.]
I raised a brow. "You've already got a plan?"
[Affirmative. First, I must analyse your combat style. Answer these questions immediately. Do not be concerned—this is purely for psychological assessment.]
A flicker of doubt stirred in me. It almost felt like Andy was the one in control here, not me. But I shook the thought away. He was the millennia-old war machine. He knew better.
[I detect doubt in your brainwaves.]
"I-it's nothing. Let's start." I waved a hand, eager to move forward.
[Question one. What are your preferred weapons?]
"Dual swords. And rapid-fire guns. But honestly, I'll use anything that gets the job done."
[Question two. Which tactic do you deem most effective? A: Eliminating enemies one by one through stealth. B: Using the terrain to execute a surprise attack.]
I considered it for a moment. "It depends on the situation, but B would be better. A surprise attack disrupts enemy coordination, giving us time to separate them and take them down in groups instead of one by one."
[Noted. Psychological profile complete. All that remains is a physical combat analysis.]
A thought passed through my mind—who was really the pilot here? Andy seemed more in control than I was. But I didn't mind.
"Let's get started, then."
[Agreed.]
Andromeda turned toward the wall, sending a signal that activated the simulation program. The training room's blank walls shifted, morphing into a dense urban battlefield. Structures rose from the ground, forming streets and alleys. A standard-issue auto-rifle from the Nymphas Empire materialized in my hands, its weight grounding me in the moment.
[Simulation commencing in ten seconds. Your objective: last as long as possible so I may collect ample combat data.]
I exhaled, rolling my shoulders.
"If that's all you need," I murmured, cocking the rifle. I raised it, eyes scanning the simulated battlefield. "I won't disappoint."