CXIII
The canyon is steep, almost vertical in places, the simulated stone glowing faintly under the grid‑light. Our flag sits high on the ridge, pulsing with our squad number — 17 — like a beacon daring us to reach it.
The enemy holds a defensive ring around it.
Triangular red dots crawl up the canyon walls, shifting into formation. They're coordinated, disciplined, waiting for us to make the wrong move.
My heart thunders.
But the plan is already forming — not from the simulation, but from memory.
The bone‑canyon.
The fae ridge.
The way danger moves when it thinks it has the high ground.
I inhale sharply. "Okay. We've got light cloaks, anti‑gravity boots, and stunners in our random inventory."
Atta flicks her tail, eager.
The fox‑man's ears twitch.
The Ursinid shifts his weight, ready to charge.
Daryll stands beside me, avatar smirking like he already knows the outcome.
"We sweep around," I continue. "Stay concealed in cloaks. Take out stragglers quietly. Once their energy signatures thin out, we'll have openings."
The triangular dots pulse — unaware of the trap forming around them.
"They'll be distracted by the center team," I say. "Six of us go straight through the canyon. Draw them in."
The fox‑man grins. "Classic misdirection."
"Not misdirection," I correct. "A funnel."
The Ursinid rumbles approval.
"And once they're focused on the center," I finish, "the ridge team drops down from above using anti‑gravity. Hit them hard. Hit them fast."
Atta bares her fangs in a smile. "Ambush from elevation. Perfect."
The squad moves.
Light cloaks shimmer, bending the simulated light around us. We sweep along the canyon edges, silent, shadows slipping between rocks. Stragglers fall quickly — stunned, tagged, removed from the grid. Their red dots blink out one by one.
The center team advances, boots humming softly as they hover just above the canyon floor. The enemies shift toward them, drawn by movement, by heat signatures, by the illusion of vulnerability.
Openings appear.
Energy signatures thin.
The ridge team — my team — climbs.
Anti‑gravity boots lift us effortlessly, hovering just above the canyon wall. The wind simulation brushes past us, cool and sharp. The flag glows brighter as we ascend.
Below, the enemy cluster tightens around the center squad.
They're distracted.
They're committed.
They're blind.
"Now," I say.
We drop.
The boots hum, slowing our descent just enough to land with precision. Stunners crackle. Cloaks flare. The enemy formation collapses under the sudden strike from above.
Points rack up across my HUD — glowing numbers rising fast.
+12
+18
+25
Squad Efficiency Bonus: +40
The agility of our team members spikes — avatars moving faster, sharper, energized by the momentum of victory.
I stay in the center of the formation, guiding, adjusting, keeping discipline tight. My main squad members form a protective ring around me, moving like a single organism.
Daryll's avatar leans close, voice warm even through the simulation filter.
"My little Sunshine," he says, amused and proud. "I do believe we are winning."
And for the first time, I feel it — not luck, not chance, but command.
The adrenaline fades, the scoreboard appears, and reality settles back in.
The battlefield dissolves around us—terrain collapsing into light, the canyon walls melting into gridlines, the enemy signatures blinking out one by one. The gel loosens its hold, lowering us gently until our feet touch the floor of the tube. The helmet dims. The breather clicks off.
Sgt. Grackel's voice echoes through the auditorium, calm but carrying that unmistakable Centauri Corps authority.
"Simulation complete. Scores uploading."
The tubes open with a soft hiss.
Cadets step out—some triumphant, some dazed, some muttering curses in languages I don't recognize. The Felinid girl shakes out her tail. The Vulpinid fox‑man cracks his knuckles. The Ursinid bear‑soldier rolls his shoulders like he's ready for round two.
My pad vibrates.
Squad 17 — Third Place.
Not first.
Not perfect.
But solid.
Earned.
A victory—though not a total one.
Atta grins at me, fangs flashing. "Third is good. Third means you didn't get lucky."
The fox‑man nods. "Third means you had strategy."
The Ursinid rumbles, "Third means you can improve."
Daryll steps beside me, his avatar fading as he pulls off his helmet. His real smile is softer, warmer, far more dangerous than the simulated one.
"My little Sunshine," he says, brushing a thumb across my cheek. "I do believe we are officially impressive."
I laugh—breathless, relieved, still buzzing with adrenaline. "We have a long way to go."
He tilts his head. "That's the point. If you were perfect now, the rest of the semester would be terribly boring."
He's right.
Because when we walk into the next class—Interstellar Ethics, Galactic History, Xenobiology, even Navigation—they all feel… dull. Flat. Like someone turned the volume down on the universe.
Virtual Battle Class had been alive.
The other classes?
They were just lectures.
But this—commanding mixed‑species squads, reading terrain, making decisions under pressure—this felt like the beginning of something enormous.
And as we leave the auditorium, Daryll's hand warm at the small of my back, I know one thing with absolute clarity:
I want to get better.
I want to climb that scoreboard.
There are only a few classes that make my pulse jump the way Virtual Battle Class does.
But Spacial Mechanics and Navigation—that one hits different.
Because that one is about my ship.
The one they assigned to me.
The one waiting in a hangar somewhere, sleek and dangerous and full of potential.
The one I'm supposed to fly.
So when the lights dim and the navigation consoles flicker to life, I'm already leaning forward, already hungry for every detail.
The instructor—a tall, crystalline humanoid whose facets glow when he speaks—taps the air and the entire room shifts into a holographic cockpit. Panels bloom around us, switches materializing, star‑maps unfurling like luminous scrolls.
"Cadets," he says, voice resonant like chimes, "today we begin practical navigation. Your assigned vessels have been simulated for training. Treat them as real."
My heart kicks.
I pour everything into learning—every switch, every dial, every glowing glyph on the console.
I practice docking sequences until my hands ache.
I run emergency drills until my breath comes fast.
I memorize the navigation lattice, the jump coordinates, the way the engines hum when they're ready for a dimensional slip.
It's all virtual.
But it won't stay virtual.
Sooner or later, they'll walk me into a hangar and show me the real thing—my ship, my crew, my responsibility. The vessel that will carry me through star‑lanes and dimensional folds and whatever impossible missions they decide to throw at me.
Daryll watches me during class sometimes, leaning back in his seat with that amused, fond expression.
"You're glowing," he murmurs once, as I execute a perfect simulated jump. "My little Sunshine is going to be a pilot."
I don't answer.
I'm too focused on the console, on the stars unfolding in front of me, on the feeling that this—this class, this ship, this skill—is something I was meant to learn.
Something I'll need.
Something that will matter.
And when the simulation ends and the cockpit dissolves into light, I'm already thinking about the next lesson, the next drill, the next chance to get better.
I look up at the mechanized robot towering over us—three stories tall even in its incomplete state. Alien students crawl over its frame like brightly colored insects, installing plates, wiring joints, calibrating servos that hum with a low, predatory vibration.
"Woah," I breathe.
Daryll's roommates exchange amused glances. They've seen this before. I haven't.
They'd arranged a visit to the Robotics Station of the Engineering Major, a cavernous workshop filled with scaffolding, holographic blueprints, and half‑assembled machines that look like they could punch a hole through a mountain.
Second‑years swarm everywhere.
The Felinid girl gestures upward. "They're designing their own mechas this semester."
The fox‑man adds, "They'll put them through virtual battles. Full‑scale simulations."
The Ursinid rumbles, "Winner gets to build a real one."
I blink. "A real… mecha?"
He nods. "Six stories tall. Specialized alloys. Tougher than an Earth battleship. Lighter too."
I stare up at the robot again. Its armor plating gleams like liquid silver. Its limbs are jointed with alien engineering—smooth, elegant, terrifying. The head is still open, exposing a glowing neural core that pulses like a heartbeat.
Students crawl over it, tightening bolts, installing sensory arrays, arguing over torque ratios and plasma‑resistance thresholds.
One crystalline student leaps from a scaffold, landing lightly beside us. "This one's a tri‑form model," she says proudly. "Humanoid, quadruped, and artillery mode."
I gape. "It transforms?"
She beams. "Of course it transforms."
Daryll leans close, voice warm. "Sunshine, you're staring."
"How could I not?" I whisper.
Because this isn't just engineering.
This is ambition made metal.
This is artistry with consequences.
This is the kind of machine that could change a battlefield—or level one.
The Felinid girl taps her pad. "The virtual battles are brutal. They simulate real physics, real damage, real tactical pressure."
The fox‑man smirks. "Second‑years get cocky. Third‑years crush them."
The Ursinid nods. "Fourth‑years build legends."
I take a slow breath, letting the scale of it wash over me.
I've been learning to fly a ship.
To command squads.
To navigate star‑lanes.
But this—this is another universe entirely.
A universe where students build giants.
A universe where engineering isn't just a major—it's a proving ground.
I lean back, watching the mecha's neural core pulse brighter as another component locks into place.
And for a moment, I forget everything else—Earth, loss, fear, uncertainty.
Because right now?
I'm standing in a workshop where six‑story robots are born.
And I'm finally starting to understand just how big this new life really is.