Training Ground Three was the academy's primary mech combat zone, spanning the size of three football fields. The floor was paved with impact-absorbing nanomaterials, and the dome simulated various galactic environments. By 3:00 PM, a crowd had already gathered—news of Sheer's challenge had traveled fast.
Orion, dressed in his gray attendant's uniform, stood out sharply among the sea of silver-white noble uniforms. He walked to the edge of the field and saw Sheer talking to a small group. One of them made his pupils contract.
Shen Cetus. The second son of the Shen family, with silver hair and purple eyes. He was one of the "Twin Stars" alongside Peregrine, but also the major antagonist of the late-game—the mastermind behind the Falling Star Battle, a conspirator who used the Krai to eliminate his rivals.
Right now, Shen Cetus still wore that gentle, jade-like mask, smiling as he listened to Sheer brag about "how fun the Defective is."
"He's here." Sheer waved Orion over. "Come on, get in the mech and show me something."
Orion walked over and handed the keychain to a nearby technician. "Could you initialize this for me, please?"
The technician, a half-blood, frowned as he took the chip. "Starfall? I haven't seen this model before..."
"A Shen family prototype," Cetus spoke suddenly, his voice warm. "A birthday gift I gave Sheer last year. It hasn't been officially named yet. Student Orion, are you sure you want to start it here? Prototype operating systems are different from mass-produced ones; they might require... adaptation."
He was testing him. Orion heard it. Cetus wanted to know if Orion knew the mech's secrets. If Orion appeared too skilled, it would be suspicious; if he appeared too clumsy, it would solidify his "Defective" label.
"Thank you for the warning, Master Cetus," Orion bowed. "I'll try my best."
The technician inserted the chip. The holographic screen exploded with dense streams of data. Orion watched the parameters, his heart rate accelerating—it was exactly as he had designed. Power core output, joint torque, neural link latency... every number was etched into his memory.
"What's the boot code?" the technician asked.
Orion remained silent for half a second.
In the game, the code for Starfall was Shen Cetus's birthday, but that was the post-release version. The current prototype used a different system—one he had written into a discarded draft of the design docs. The temporary boot code was "STARDUST."
"STARDUST," he said. "All caps."
The technician entered it. The screen flickered, then flashed a red warning: Insufficient Permissions.
A few chuckles broke out in the crowd. Sheer tilted his head but said nothing.
Orion stared at the warning, then remembered—before the draft became the official setting, he had changed the logic. The real code for the prototype wasn't a string of text. It was a gesture password.
On the metal panel below the reader, he drew a five-pointed star with his index finger.
The screen went black for an instant, then surged back to life with a brand-new interface: [Welcome, Unregistered Pilot. Select Operation Mode: Standard / Advanced / Limit.]
"Limit," Orion said.
The technician gasped. Limit Mode was a hidden feature of the prototype, theoretically known only to the designer—it increased neural synchronization to 300%. The pilot would feel every micro-damage to the mech as if it were happening to their own body.
"Are you certain?" Cetus's voice changed, a hint of sharpness piercing through the warmth. "Limit Mode places an extreme load on mental power. Even for a Pureblood Noble..."
"I'm certain," Orion said.
He climbed into the cockpit. Neural link tentacles wrapped around his neck like a jellyfish. A sting, then a scalding flood—he became the mech. The three-meter-tall steel frame was his limbs; the roar of the power core was his heartbeat.
In his vision, the training ground dome switched to a simulation of the Seventh Sector. Three artificial suns, a gray-blue nebula, and a floating target ship in the distance.
"Basic test," Sheer's voice crackled through the comms. "Destroy the target ship. Shortest time wins. The current record is Shen Cetus at 47 seconds."
Orion flexed the mech's fingers. The handling of Starfall was identical to the game model—even better, actually. There was no lag from a keyboard or controller; thought translated directly into action.
He remembered the dev-note he'd written: [Limit Mode is a gift for 'geniuses'. Ordinary people will suffer mental collapse within 30 seconds, but a true pilot will feel the ecstasy of 'Man-Machine Unity'.]
"Let's begin," he said.
The moment the countdown hit zero, Starfall moved.
It didn't run; it glided. In Limit Mode, the thruster output was liberated to its theoretical maximum. Orion could feel the heat of the back jets, the vibration of air being torn apart, and even... where the target ship's weakness lay.
Port side, the third armor plate—a 0.3mm gap at the seam. A texture error from the game's original 3D modeling, but in this reality, it was a genuine structural flaw.
He unsheathed the plasma blade. Instead of aiming for the main hull, he lunged diagonally into that tiny gap. Energy surged through. The target ship's power core overloaded, exploding into a firework within three seconds.
Dead silence filled the comms.
"...How many seconds?" Sheer's voice went up an octave.
"3.17 seconds," the technician's voice was trembling. "And... and he's in Limit Mode. His mental power readings... they're normal. No fluctuations."
Orion disconnected the neural link and climbed out. The connection points on his neck were still numb, but the rush of "Unity" was addictive—like the strongest liquor, or the deepest all-nighter.
He looked at Shen Cetus. The gentle smile on the man's face had finally cracked—not with shock, but with a gaze that was re-evaluating the value of a commodity.
"How did you know about that gap?" Cetus asked.
Orion tossed the keychain back to Sheer. "A guess. The target ship's modeling is flawed. The texture of the port armor doesn't match the actual structure. I guessed the designer was being lazy."
It was a truth and a lie. The truth was the "modeling error" existed; the lie was the "guess"—he knew because he was that lazy designer.
Sheer caught the keychain but didn't throw it back this time. He stared at Orion for several seconds, then suddenly laughed. This laugh was different—less playful, more serious.
"Interesting," he said. "Does Peregrine know you can pilot at this level?"
"No," Orion said.
"And does he know you took my mech and showed off right in front of me?"
"Also no."
Sheer laughed even harder. He hopped onto his hover-bike and tossed something else to Orion—a data chip embossed with the Midas family crest.
"There's 30 million credits in there," he said. "Buying your time for this afternoon. Come with me. I want to see how much more you can 'show off'."
Orion caught the chip. He didn't look at it, nor did he refuse. He knew Sheer's routine—the "insulting gift." The more the recipient seemed not to care, the more the young master wanted their gratitude.
"Master Sheer," he said. "I belong to Master Peregrine."
"I know," Sheer revved the engine. "That's why I'm 'buying your afternoon,' not buying you. Get on, or I'll go ask Peregrine to borrow you myself."
Orion looked at the chip, then at Sheer. 30 million. In his past life, he had set Sheer's annual allowance at 50 million. This playboy was spending over half his yearly income for one afternoon.
"I need to leave lunch for Master Peregrine first," he said. "Then I will go with you."
When Orion returned to Peregrine's dormitory, he found the door open.
Peregrine was standing in the center of the reception room, his silver hair still damp—clearly just back from training. He was holding the thermal container Orion had left, staring at the Yangchun noodles inside with an unreadable expression.
"Master Peregrine," Orion stopped at the door. "I'm back."
Peregrine looked up, his golden eyes devoid of emotion. "Where were you?"
"Master Sheer found me." Orion placed the 30-million chip on the foyer table. "He gave me this and asked me to accompany him for the afternoon."
He spoke bluntly on purpose, as if reporting in, but also as a test. The game lore never specified how intense Peregrine's possessiveness was, but he wanted to find the boundary.
Peregrine set the container down and walked toward him. Every step was slow, but the pressure was doubling with each footfall. Orion's back hit the doorframe; he had nowhere left to retreat.
"30 million," Peregrine whispered, leaning down until his nose nearly brushed Orion's forehead. "To buy one of your afternoons?"
"Yes."
"And you agreed?"
"I said I had to leave lunch for you first."
Peregrine was silent for a moment, then suddenly smiled. It was a cold smile, unlike Sheer's—a calculated output of emotion.
"Orion," he said. "Do you know why Sheer gave you that money?"
"Because he thinks I'm fun."
"Wrong." Peregrine's fingers tilted Orion's chin up. The grip wasn't heavy, but it was inescapable. "It's because he wants to steal what is mine."
Orion's pupils shrank.
"Of the Five Families, the Cinders lead," Peregrine's voice was soft, like a bedtime story. "But the Midas family has the money. The Shens have the tech. The Vipers have the intel. And the Jordans..." He paused. "The Jordans have you."
"I am a Defective," Orion said. "The family wouldn't—"
"The Jordans don't know your pheromones can stabilize me," Peregrine interrupted. "But I know. And now, Sheer knows too."
His thumb pressed against the carotid artery in Orion's neck—the area where pheromone concentration was highest. Orion could feel his own pulse thumping under the Prince's fingertip. He could feel Peregrine's breath against his skin, smelling of bitter black coffee.
"You are mine," Peregrine said. "Since last night, only I am allowed to smell you. If Sheer touches you..."
He didn't finish, but Orion understood. The possessiveness was a hidden attribute that only triggered under "specific conditions." In the original game, those conditions never met—because the original Orion never got within three meters of the Prince.
Now, the conditions were satisfied.
"I won't let him touch me," Orion said, his voice steadier than expected. "But I need this money. 30 million is enough to buy a second-hand engine for a small battleship."
Peregrine narrowed his eyes. "What do you need an engine for?"
"The Falling Star Battle," Orion looked directly into his eyes. "There are eighty-six days left. I want to live, Master Peregrine. I want to buy a ship fast enough to take you with me when the battle breaks out."
It was a truth and a test. He wanted to see how Peregrine would react to the name of the battle—in the game, the Prince shouldn't have known about the impending disaster yet.
But Peregrine's expression shifted.
It wasn't surprise; it was something deeper and darker. His golden pupils contracted for an instant, as if a switch had been flipped.
"How do you know about the Battle?" he asked, his voice so low he was almost talking to himself. "That is a military secret. Even I..."
He stopped mid-sentence.
Orion's heart skipped a beat. He realized he'd overstepped. This was a real world, not just a script—the "Falling Star Battle" might not be following his timeline exactly.
"I guessed," he recovered quickly. "The frequency of Krai activity, the defense loopholes in the Seventh Sector, and..."
"And?"
"And you," Orion lowered his head. "Your recent state looks like you're preparing for something big. I guessed... it's a war."
Peregrine was silent for a long time. So long that Orion feared his lie had been exposed. Beads of sweat began to form on the back of his neck. Peregrine's fingers were still on his artery, feeling the moisture of that sweat.
"You are very clever," Peregrine finally spoke. "So clever that it makes me want to lock you away, so you can only be used by me."
Orion didn't dare respond.
"But clever or stupid," Peregrine released him and stepped back. "You are mine. Go with Sheer, take the money, but remember—"
He turned toward his bedroom, his silver hair trailing behind him.
"When you come back tonight, I want to smell your pheromones. If I can't smell them, or if I smell someone else on you..."
The door slid shut, cutting off the rest of the sentence with a sharp metallic click.
Orion leaned against the doorframe and exhaled slowly.
He had gambled right. Peregrine's possessiveness was a weakness, but also a weapon. As long as he could provide the value of a "stabilizer," he could buy enough time next to this Prince to change the script.
Eighty-six days.
He looked at the chip in his hand. 30 million credits, glowing blue in his virtual account.
It was enough for a ship. A ship that, during the Falling Star Battle, could take Peregrine and run.