01-02-2345, Celestial Era – 16:31
Timer Countdown: T-00:03
An enthusiastic smile spread across Revan Corvus's face as he leaned against the hangar railing, both hands gripping the metal bars that separated the work area where the mechanics were servicing several Astral Gears — all using standard military-grade equipment he had only ever seen in textbooks and online videos.
"Mr. Asterius," someone said in a firm tone, "our grand plan is to spend the night inside the Astral Foundation Academy located on the artificial satellite Cermius. Does that place hold any special meaning for you?"
"Cermius," Asterius replied coldly, "is an educational facility designed to test Astral Gear prototypes before their deployment in the factories after the students graduate."
That conversation caught Revan's ear. He glanced sideways, his once-bright face dimming as he looked at the beautiful, white-uniformed students around him — people his own age who seemed more perfect than human.
"What happened to that enthusiastic face of yours?" Asterius asked sternly.
"Compared to people," Revan said flatly, "I prefer looking at Astral Gears — at least they're cool and useful."
He exhaled deeply, just as a blonde-haired girl, her golden hair reaching her shoulders, stepped up beside him.
"Discipline is essential for an Astral Gear pilot," she said sharply. "Are you even aware that you've just ruined your potential relationship with the highest of the high among Astral Gear controllers?"
Her tone was firm and authoritative as she pointed her finger toward Revan's face, as if scolding a child.
Revan froze, stepping back slightly. The girl lowered her hands but her eyes remained hard.
"What is the meaning of this insulting behavior?" she demanded.
"One touch," Revan replied calmly, "and you'd accuse me of trying to grope you. If you were attractive, I wouldn't mind, but honestly — you're not."
That statement thundered through the hangar like lightning hitting a tree. The workers froze, the sound of tools falling silent. Even Asterius turned, his expression unreadable as he looked at the black-haired young man.
"Do you have any idea of the risk of what you just did?" Asterius asked sternly.
"Of course," Revan said seriously. "I'm trying to avoid cancel culture. From what I know, if she's popular, that means she's got fans. The narrative would paint her as the victim. No contact, no drama."
Asterius frowned. "You're strange. I need to access your codex data."
The middle-aged man stepped forward, placing a hand on Revan's shoulder — a faint electric pulse ran through him, making Revan flinch. The hangar went silent again.
Then Asterius slowly lifted his hand, pinched the young man's cheek, and held it for a few seconds.
"He's human," Asterius declared firmly. "I'll repeat that — he's a pure human with no modifications. His flesh is clean."
The silence deepened. Shock rippled through the group — even Asterius's usually calm expression faltered. The six perfect-looking young men and women around them exchanged wide-eyed looks.
"Human?" Asterius said, his voice sharper. "You mean a natural-born human with no genetic modification?"
"Of course," Revan answered plainly. "Bionic implants are expensive and cybernetic organs require actual surgery. Genetic manipulation is safest done at birth."
Asterius's eyes narrowed. "You do realize the Astral Foundation was established to nurture genetically perfected children."
Revan's expression hardened.
"So I'm already expelled, huh? No worries. My certification from the Astral Foundation came through. I was planning to find work anyway," he said calmly.
"No one's expelling you," Asterius replied, his voice low but firm. "It's just… imagining an ordinary human standing equal among us — the perfected race — is surprising. But I ask that you not resent our perfection."
"Of course," Revan said with a deadpan tone. "Should I call you Fuhrer then?"
"Don't you dare use that forbidden word!" Asterius snapped.
Just then, the ship's captain arrived, and the young men and women straightened up instantly — smiling politely, hiding their egos behind perfect manners.
"Mr. Asterius, please stop this joke," the captain said firmly.
"O honorable captain of this ship," Asterius replied, his tone cold, "this is no joke. This concerns the dignity of our perfection — and our humanity."
"We must conclude this is a serious matter," the captain said firmly.
"This is more than serious," Asterius replied in an equally sharp tone. "This child turns out to be a pure human — completely unmodified. And furthermore, he just called me by that forbidden word, 'Fuhrer.' We may be a perfected race, but through our superior intelligence, we strive for humanity's advancement."
The captain turned his piercing gaze toward Revan. "What were you discussing with him?"
Revan sighed. "Nothing much. Just waiting for the moment I'm labeled as 'unfit for society' and thrown into a labor camp to make myself 'useful' to people like them." His tone was cold, detached, almost sarcastic.
The captain frowned deeply. "That's not what this is. The 'N Group' — the old supremacist faction — is banned. We can guarantee this isn't racism. The Earth Federation has long moved past race and skin color."
The captain's sharp eyes shifted to Asterius. "We have an emergency signal from the surface. We're preparing to land at the Astral Foundation Academy for resupply. We require your direct authorization."
"Understood," Asterius replied coolly. "The situation is critical, and I am not that 'Fuhrer' or any kind of tyrant. I'll authorize your request and ensure proper accommodation is arranged."
Everyone in the hangar went still. The mood was heavy, thick with unspoken tension. Asterius turned again toward Revan, his gray eyes narrowing.
"So then, human," he said, his voice low and precise, "you will be assigned to a special curriculum in the next class."
"My mechanical thesis course is already complete," Revan said in a steady voice.
"No," Asterius interrupted. "The pilot class. You'll be enrolled in a specialized training course at the International Astral Gear College. It's a full scholarship — funded directly by me. No exceptions. Prepare yourself. The class will be extremely difficult."
That declaration made the blonde girl beside Revan snap her head toward Asterius. Her face showed clear anger, though she still maintained her formal composure.
"Are you serious?" she said sharply. "This is an insult to the Astral Gear Foundation — to the sacred institution built by the greatest minds in history!"
Asterius's gaze hardened. "We're talking about someone who built his own Astral Gear. Can you do that?"
The girl's expression stiffened, and she turned sharply to look behind her — toward a massive, snow-white Astral Gear standing at the far end of the hangar. Its joints were reinforced with black metal frames, giving it a striking, almost menacing look.
"Who on earth owns such a flashy Astral Gear?" she asked, her voice tinged with irritation.
"That," Asterius said, "is Scarecrow. He built it himself — without consulting me. Therefore, it will be sealed for now."
"This isn't funny," the blonde said coldly. "We're talking about a legendary weapon feared even by military command."
"It seems," Asterius said, walking closer to the machine, "that he used parts from various Astral Gear models to build the entire thing. As long as there's a proper Astral Frame and a functioning Astral Drive — as that fool once theorized — it appears such a design is indeed possible."
The statement echoed in the hangar. Several mechanics stopped what they were doing, exchanging glances. Even the young pilots, who moments ago had looked down on Revan, now seemed unsettled — as if realizing they were standing near something far beyond their understanding.
Revan just scratched the back of his head, pretending not to care. "So what? It works, doesn't it?"
"That's precisely what's concerning," Asterius said, his voice colder than before. "Something that works without permission, without official approval, is dangerous — especially when made by human hands."
Revan gave a small, tired laugh. "So now I'm dangerous because I'm efficient? Figures."
Asterius didn't reply. He simply turned away, hands clasped behind his back as he looked at the towering Scarecrow — the machine that now cast a long shadow across everyone in the hangar.