Star Calendar 2013 年.海舟十二号是一颗垃圾行星,是围绕河滨星的十二个轨道世界之一.它以其庞大的贫民窟而臭名昭著.在大鹰帝国首都星星的贵族眼中——有教养,高雅,充满高贵礼仪——这个地方一直是肮脏,犯罪和腐朽的代名词.
这颗行星因其"金属风暴"而臭名昭著——由大气压力和温差引起的剧烈现象.即使是孩子们也知道它们,因为他们在戴伊格尔国家地理上读到过它们.
想象一下,猛烈的飓风将堆积如山的电子垃圾和金属碎片抛过贫瘠的沙漠.任何被风暴困住的东西都被撕碎和抹去——就像一个古希腊罗马征服者将这片土地夷为平地,以神圣的愤怒席卷各大洲.这就是金属潮汐的毁灭性景象——简直就是世界末日.
在如此极端的条件下,没有生命能够生存.但人类,从来都是创造的异常,已经学会了锻造工具——这些工具使他们能够藐视自然,让其他物种灭亡.
在笼罩着海舟十二号表面的翻腾的黑色风暴云幕中,十二盏闪烁的红灯在视野中闪烁.
这些光芒来自十二个钢体巨人——机动装甲,当前人类工程和军事技术的巅峰之作.
十二台机甲有着宽阔的肩膀和瘦削的身躯,在暴风雨中汹涌澎湃.他们的背包推进器发出的红光全开,但即使是这些机械奇迹在这场灾难性的风暴面前也显得微弱无力.
突然,警报声响彻了所有 12 个单元.他们本已脆弱的阵型在恐慌中瓦解,向四面八方散去.是什么能如此彻底地吓坏帝国最引以为傲的战争机器?
不是怪物.不是敌方单位.但是一个摇摇欲坠的采矿设施.
该设施的出现非但没有提供避难所,反而预示着更糟糕的事情——一场全面的金属潮汐爆炸的开始.
采矿站正在移动.
在风暴的巨大力量的拖拽下,这个巨大的结构像一头怪诞的钢铁野兽一样漂浮着——臃肿,生锈,可怕——在天空中滑翔.
"警告!不明物体接近!
"1 号单元,规避机动!逃避!哔哔——嘟——"
"3 号机组!进来吧,第 3 单元!
"碰撞警报!碰撞警报!重复——!
暴风雨越来越大.扭曲的横梁,破碎的起重机,砸碎的油箱,被压碎的办公椅,残破的汽车零件——所有这些都融合成一场死亡旋风.一阵金属雨像泥石流一样向机甲涌来,将旅行者整个吞噬.
这是纯粹的绝望.
在咆哮的混乱中,漂浮的采矿设施释放出一连串地狱般的金属碎片.
横梁,车床,支撑架,畸形的办公椅,起重机,废弃的燃料罐——无数的碎片在这场大风暴中旋转,像一股毁灭的浪潮一样聚集在十二台机甲上.就好像十二个疲惫的旅行者站在一场突如其来,肆虐的泥石流的道路上.
那绝对是绝望.
第二天.
大鹰帝国的所有主要媒体——大鹰国家新闻,河滨星报,东华报道——都播出了一个令人震惊的故事,在民众中引起了震动:
"军方发言人报告说,在一次例行训练演习中,来自333部队的数十名帝国第十代'天空骑兵'机甲在海舟十二号上被卷入一场意想不到的大气风暴中.他们的状况仍然未知.搜救行动目前正在进行中..."
这一宣布激起了公众的愤怒.
一些公民抗议,指责军队和政府将纳税人的钱浪费在有缺陷的技术上.其他人则哀悼可能已经阵亡的飞行员.外国媒体进行了现场调查,进行了猜测和批评.但所有人的目光都不是集中在军方含糊不清的保证上,而是集中在 333 部队上.
Everyone knew Unit 333 wasn't just any battalion. It was the personal guard of the House of Norman, one of the Empire's four founding noble families. The Normans' lineage traced back to the founding of the Empire itself—they had produced three Emperors and five Prime Ministers. They were legends.
It was precisely because of this family's prominence that what might have been a routine military mishap exploded into a national sensation. Loyalists worried. Rivals gloated. Opportunists watched hungrily from the sidelines.
Thus, the incident was named:
"The Haizhou-12 Event."
A Month Later.
Public interest waned. The event faded from headlines—a result that suited both the military and House Norman. No one wanted such an embarrassing incident mocked endlessly by citizens and foreigners alike.
But for the military and the Norman family, this month had been a living hell.
Then, a breakthrough—a black box recovered from one of the downed mechas was delivered to the Imperial Cabinet's Central Investigations Office.
Inside the vast conference hall sat several aging military officers, their uniforms heavy with gold stars and walls of medals—a presence that exuded immense authority. Yet even among them, the most commanding figure was a woman.
She wore a perfectly pressed black suit. Elegant was too weak a word. Perhaps only a flower from ancient Earth—a violet, rare and regal—could describe her mystique.
She was Lady Su, Duchess of the Norman family.
Fewer than a hundred people in the entire Empire had ever met her in person. Half of them were media fixtures; the rest were shadows whose names the public would never know.
In this galaxy-spanning civilization where traditional power had crumbled and state machinery waned, people like her—aristocrats in the truest sense—controlled vast wealth and influence. One word from them could alter thousands of lives.
The lights dimmed. A projection flickered onto the screen—the black box recording.
All fell silent.
What they saw shocked even these hardened men.
On-screen, the floating mining facility moved like a colossal iron beast through the raging storm, spewing endless waves of twisted steel and debris at the fleeing mechas.
Death unfolded.
A massive beam—long as a basketball court—struck one mecha square in the cockpit, splitting it in half and turning both pilot and machine into metallic pulp.
Another unit stumbled through the metal rain, pierced all over with rods and spikes. It took a few steps forward, sparked violently, then collapsed, dragged into the storm and consumed.
Some mechas fired blindly into the storm, but were quickly torn apart by the sheer volume of incoming debris.
It was as if Death itself hid within the storm, reaping the lives of every pilot—young and old—who crossed its path.
Then, the most heartbreaking moment came.
One mecha, seeing the oncoming wave of destruction, attempted to dive into a crater for cover. But from the storm came a crane arm, spinning like a guillotine, slamming the mecha into the abyss.
No one in the room could bear to watch.
Humanity had come far—but no one dared utter the words "we have conquered nature."
Yet they kept watching.
The recording jumped—suddenly, the mecha labeled Unit 9 appeared on-screen.
Its serial number was painted in red.
Unlike the other jet-black units, this one was different. Unique.
Because it was different, everyone in the room felt their hearts clench.
Unit 9 crawled forward through the storm, back thrusters on full burn, hugging the ground to avoid the metal tornado above.
The thrust-to-drag ratio was perfectly balanced, allowing the mecha to move just under the chaos, dodging the worst of it.
But it was clear—this mecha was running on fumes, like a noble lady tiptoeing across a muddy village road, lifting her skirts with trembling fingers, determined to preserve her dignity amid filth.
None in the room had time to appreciate the poetry.
But even the Duchess's cold expression finally cracked.
Her tightly clenched fists dug fingernails into her palm.
The military elders broke into a sweat.
Someone finally gasped.
The recording trembled. The mining facility loomed directly over Unit 9, like a dinosaur about to crush a speck of dust.
A nearby recording unit dove toward Unit 9—an attempt to save it.
But it was futile. In the instant before Unit 9 was crushed—
A black shadow shot out from the storm.
The black shadow came without warning.
Before anyone could even make out what it was, the figure barreled out of the storm, lifted the Red 9 mecha over its shoulder, and smashed its rear thrusters, extinguishing them. Then, like a bandit snatching a bride, it charged directly toward the drifting mining facility.
"Suicidal!"
"Madman!"
Someone in the room finally found breath enough to shout.
The recording trembled wildly. The pilot of the camera mecha clearly possessed great skill, trying desperately to keep track of the insane rescue attempt. And then, through the blur, the shape of that bizarre black mecha finally came into view.
And in that moment, everyone in the room swore—they had never seen an uglier mecha.
Its core was an irregular sphere, like a salvaged single-man landing pod. The surface was covered with dents and patchwork. Its limbs were a disaster—exposed hydraulic joints, bent cranks, and the legs looked cobbled together from scrap.
By comparison, the Red 9—slung at its waist like a princess—was a model of imperial elegance. This wasn't a clash between nobility and a roughneck—it was between a cripple and a goddess.
And yet—
What happened next left everyone dumbfounded.
That wretched, deformed mecha, burdened with the Red 9, charged into the wreckage of the floating mining facility.
At times, it crawled spider-like, its four limbs bending in unnatural angles, twisting between collapsing walls and flying steel.
At other times, it leapt and sprinted—bounding between platforms, ducking under beams, dodging avalanches of metal.
To the watchers, it was like a crippled dancer, holding a delicate lady in his arms, performing a waltz in the midst of a storm of death.
A waltz in the storm.
Of course, no one could dance in the storm without getting wet.
The junk mecha was frequently struck by flying debris, sparking violently. At one point, it took a direct hit from a bus-sized wreck, crumpling its chest. Many thought the pilot had perished.
But it shook once—then stood back up, dragging the Red 9 forward again.
Only then did the crowd realize—
"The cockpit is crooked!"
That misshapen junk mecha didn't just look like it was made of scrap—it was made of scrap. The cockpit was tilted sideways, haphazardly welded into the main chassis.
And yet, this monstrosity was surviving, not because it was more advanced, but because—
It knew this terrain.
Whenever it had to lie flat, it did so without hesitation. Whenever there was a gap to hide in, it found the perfect moment to dart in. Its knowledge of the terrain and instinct for timing were the only reasons it was still alive—and carrying another mecha no less!
When escape was impossible, it always somehow managed to take damage to non-critical areas. It was almost like the pilot could sense death itself and sidestep it at the last moment.
Eventually, the camera feed cut out.
The last image showed the recording mecha collapsing, heavily damaged. But the junk mecha, despite missing limbs and dented plating, was still running—blazingly fast, vanishing into the storm like a ghost.
The lights came back on.
Silence reigned.
The Duchess slowly stood, exhaling deeply, trying to calm her still-racing heart. She looked around at the men in the room.
"Well?" she asked.
"Incredible luck… is all I can say."
An elder officer, his chest a wall of medals, spoke slowly.
"I won't speak to this person's mecha skill—some of his movements were crude, even clumsy. Mistakes no academy freshman should make. But…"
He paused, eyes still locked on the now-frozen image of the junk mecha.
"…given that structure—pardon me, I say 'structure' not 'design' because it violates every law of fluid dynamics—what he accomplished is nothing short of a miracle. Besides terrain familiarity, one other thing stands out…"
He looked at the others.
"God must truly favor this man."
Another speaker added with a sneer:
"Were it not for that mess of unnecessary attachments and the crooked cockpit, that mecha would've been totaled long ago. The pilot should be dead by now. This whole thing is a farce. I oppose wasting resources to investigate his identity. Even if he saved Red 9, gratitude requires his cooperation. If he vanishes, he forfeits any reward."
Laughter broke out.
Not so much from admiration, but from the sheer absurdity of it all—a toad in a mud pit, scraping and clawing to stay alive.
But the pilot of that grotesque machine had no idea that his desperate struggle had stirred curiosity—even derision—from some of the most powerful people in the Empire.
To a government officer, this might have been a career-defining breakthrough.
To a wealthy merchant, a path to unimaginable power and riches.
To a man in a scrap-built mecha… it might be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, or a curse that would forever destroy any hope of peace.
But none of it mattered. Because—
The pilot had vanished.
Shall I continue with the fourth section, which covers the conclusion of the investigation, the noble girl's reaction, and the final moment of mystery?
"Regardless of who this person is,"said the intelligence officer, placing the final report on the table,"from the footage, one fact is clear: in evading the storm's metal surges, the pilot demonstrated an exceptional familiarity with Haizhou-12's local terrain. He used the geography multiple times to avoid fatal impacts. That's simply not something an outsider could have done."
"Therefore, we believe: he's a native of that garbage planet."
"But despite a month of searching, we've found no trace of the junk mecha. And no trace of its pilot."
The Duchess nodded and rose to her feet. Her personal security advisor followed suit without a word.
The results were in. She got what she came for.
At the doorway, she turned and bowed lightly to the room.
"I'll leave the follow-up investigation and all related matters… to all of you. Thank you."
Everyone in the chamber stood and bowed in return as the Duchess departed.
Afterward, the others began to trickle out—except for one man.
A middle-aged officer, severe in appearance, remained seated, still staring at the final frozen frame of the recording on the crystal screen.
His uniform bore the Golden Violet Leaf—the Empire's highest honor for battlefield valor. Only five people in the entire Empire currently held that medal.
The others in the room fell silent, knowing that his silence carried a different kind of weight.
He pressed his fingertips together, his face hidden in the shadow beneath a sharply hooked nose. After a long pause, his low, magnetic voice echoed through the empty hall:
"This… was no coincidence."
Those who remained looked at each other.
They understood—if it wasn't coincidence, then it was something far more frightening.
"Find him."
This command, from Imperial War Hero Tian Yinzhui, would never appear in the official meeting records.
But shortly after it was given—
Across the vast, glittering galaxy, a detachment of elite personnel aboard the Empire's advanced Harrier-class recon ships—with blazing ion trails—set course for that gray, forgotten garbage star…
Capital Star — Grand Duke's Residence
A majestic mansion built in a fusion of modern and classical styles sat facing an immaculately trimmed lawn, beneath the endless sapphire sky of the capital.
At a third-story window, a girl stood in silence.
She wore a simple, slim-fit V-neck lounge outfit. The skin exposed by the neckline was whiter than snow, enough to make even the Empire's trending "goddess" TV anchor jealous—no matter her own looks or figure.
The girl's beauty was effortless—pure, untouched.
Behind her came a knock.
The butler, dressed in a sharp black suit, entered respectfully.
Seeing the girl standing alone by the wide window, eyes distant, the butler sighed quietly.
Even the most cheerful and optimistic child… would be shaken by something so terrifying.
"Miss Nolan," he said softly, "your Red 9 has been sent to Naan Corporation for repairs. They estimate—given the level of damage—it'll take at least three months to restore."
"Even if it can't be used again," he added, "it saved your life. Perhaps it can be kept here at the estate, as a permanent… keepsake."
"I understand."
Her voice was like fireflies gliding over still water—gentle, calm.
The butler hesitated, then said,
"Forgive me, Miss. I don't know whether I should say this, but… we all experience terrible things. And when we do, they should become our strength—not our shadow. I hope you can recover soon. This is only a phase."
The girl looked out at the sunny sky and the lawn beyond the glass. Her reflection merged with the view—like a ghost of memory.
"They're all dead," she said softly.
The butler had no answer.
"We were piloting the same class of mecha. But… not really."
"My Red 9… which generation was it? Thirteen? Fourteen?"
"If I had been piloting the same type they were, maybe… I'd be dead too."
The butler lowered his eyes.
"That's not how it works, Miss. Your safety comes first. It always has. Always will."
"Because of my status?" she asked.
"Because my identity makes me more valuable? Because the resources poured into me are greater? Does that mean… my life is more precious than theirs?"
He shook his head.
"No. Their deaths don't mean your life was more valuable. You weren't abandoned, and none of this is your fault. This was a disaster, not a decision. And the reason you're alive… is because someone saved you."
"Even with the best mecha, survival wasn't guaranteed. So please, don't torment yourself. To us—to your family—your life is more precious than anyone else's."
"Over the past month, intelligence has found no trace of that mecha or its pilot. They know you don't want to meet them, so they sent me to ask…"
"Do you remember anything about him? Gender? Age? Appearance? Any detail…?"
As he finished, the butler noticed something shift in her eyes—like light breaking through stormclouds.
"You said… no trace?" she whispered.
"None. It's like he and that mecha never existed. They vanished."
"Other than a few scraps we recovered that night… we've found nothing."
She went silent.
The butler, sensing her disappointment, gave a polite nod and left.
The door closed with a quiet click.
She turned back toward the glass—toward the sky and the lawn—and in the reflection of her eyes…
…that moment reappeared.
The broken, battered junk mecha stood in front of her heavily damaged Red 9. It sparked, half-crippled.
But it had just dragged her through a storm of death, from certain doom—back into life.
She clenched her teeth slightly, alert and wary.
She knew her identity.
She knew that mecha… did not belong to the Empire's official ranks.
Its agility in battle… the damaged exterior… could very well be camouflage.
A disguise.
A prelude to a targeted abduction against the Norman family.
So inside her cockpit, she gritted her teeth, her elegant figure tense in her skin-tight suit. She crossed her arms over her chest, ready to bite her tongue if the mecha tried anything indecent.
But—
The mecha did nothing.
No threats. No contact. No words.
Just like when it arrived—it turned and walked into the blackness of the night.
And that final silhouette, as it vanished, was etched into her mind like a statue in the dark.
For the past month, she had been haunted by that image.
Sleepless.
Distracted.
Unsettled.