Recently, Wang Mian had practically turned my dorm into his personal nap lounge.
"Wang," I leaned against the desk, chin propped in one hand. "If you keep this up, I'm going to start charging membership fees."
He didn't even lift his head. "Fine. How much for an annual pass?"
"No discounts. Prices only go up."
"You're unbelievable. Even friendship has a price with you."
"That's called business sense." I arched a brow and yawned. "By day you make me look respectable. By night I make money. Good teamwork."
The Academy of Nightmares was calm during the day.
But my real life only began after dark.
As soon as curfew passed, I swung out of the window that led to freedom. The iron bars clinked softly. My feet touched the ground without a sound.
Streetlights glowed faintly yellow. The wind carried heat from the distant energy towers.
I walked along the alley and slipped into an underground passage, vanishing into that noisy world like a shadow.
The underground dueling arena was as loud as ever.
Shouts, wagers, the sharp clash of metal—all of it wove together like a heartbeat.
Wearing Apollo's armor, I stood in the stands, quietly watching each fight.
Sometimes I placed bets. Sometimes I took jobs. More often, I was there to deliver goods.
Whenever I gathered enough materials, I sent a message to Superman.
He was a man of few words and quick hands. He'd appear with the parts I requested, then disappear again without a trace.
Back in my dorm, I dismantled, welded, fused, and rebuilt—like performing surgery.
But I wasn't the same girl from years ago, the one who modified mechs using brute force and instinct.
Now every change was precise. Every component had to pass mental-synchronization checks, energy calculations, and neural feedback tests.
My standards were higher, harsher.
One day, I was staring at a holoscreen projection when Ethan dropped by.
"Why do you look like the world just betrayed you?" he asked from the doorway, smiling.
"I'm thinking… if I swap the energy circuit for a multi-layered polymer conduit, maybe I can cut the reaction delay by 0.02 seconds." I tapped the table, brows furrowed. "It's theoretically possible, but I'm worried about an energy overload."
Ethan blinked. "That sounds more complicated than my advisor's thesis."
"Aren't you in the mech department? You don't know this stuff?" I teased.
He spread his hands. "We haven't reached that level yet. We're still at the intermediate module for mental-synchronization frameworks."
I sighed. "Then where am I supposed to ask?"
Ethan thought for a moment, then his eyes lit up. "Go to 'MechLoversNet.'"
"What's that? Sounds like a club for middle-aged hobbyists."
"Don't underestimate it." His smile turned secretive. "It's a legendary forum. People experiment with prototype mechs, neural circuit frameworks, even big names from the underground modding scene lurk there. You can register, ask questions, answer others, earn points, and trade for data. Some people even take commissions to build full custom mechs."
"Sounds like a black market."
"Kind of, but the information's priceless. You like gray zones, don't you?"
I raised a brow, smiling faintly. "Sounds like my kind of place."
That night, back in my dorm, I registered immediately.
Username: Apollo 2.0.
My first post read:
[Help] What causes delay in mental-synchronization circuits when using multi-layer polymer conduits? Looking for insights.
Send.
The moment the screen lit up, a strange feeling flickered through me.
A few days later, I got my first reply.
Anonymous. No avatar, no level badge. Just one line:
"The delay isn't caused by the conduits. Your mental waveform is too stable."
I stared at the words for several seconds.
I had never seen that explanation in any textbook or paper.
I clicked on the user's profile. Nothing.
Blank. No posts. No points. As if the person had appeared out of nowhere and vanished again.
I started visiting MechLoversNet more frequently, searching for useful information.
But soon I realized most high-level threads were locked behind different privileges.
Some required levels, some required points, some demanded special certification.
I scrolled all night, the posts like fog behind glass—so close, yet out of reach.
Leaning back in my chair, I exhaled softly.
"Even on a forum, rank matters."
The anonymous reply still blinked on my screen.
Days later, another message appeared.
This time from a user named only "X_47."
[Reply]
The key to your conduit delay isn't the conduits. It's the overlap threshold in your mental-synchronization zone.
If you like, I can provide an alternative framework.
But I want an exchange.
I frowned slightly.
Exchange?
[Reply]
What do you want?
The answer came almost instantly.
[X_47]
Your data.
Your real-time mental-synchronization waveform.
Unprocessed.
I leaned back, thoughtful.
That was not a request an ordinary person would make.
Whoever wanted raw waveform data was already working at an experimental level of mental frameworks.
I typed:
[Apollo 2.0]
You research neural circuits?
[X_47]
Yes.
So do you.
That's why I chose you.
That last line made something flutter faintly inside me.
I hadn't revealed anything, yet he had pierced the screen and named the exact field I excelled in.
[Apollo 2.0]
Why should I agree?
[X_47]
Because you want the answer.
And I have it.
The screen light flickered.
I could almost hear my own heartbeat.
Calm, restrained, but with a spark of curiosity burning underneath.
I typed my reply.
[Apollo 2.0]
Deal.
Seconds later, an encrypted file link appeared.
Filename: "Synaptic Loop v0.1."
I stared at it for a long time.
It was an entirely new neural-circuit framework. I had never seen anything like it in any paper or data repository.
The logic was seamless. The code was clean.
It felt like the work of a true scholar.
But it was anonymous.
No origin. No signature.
I suddenly remembered Ethan's words,
"The big names there could be academy professors. Or retired military engineers. Nobody knows who they are."
The blue glow of the screen washed over my face.
I murmured, "Interesting."
Then I began testing the model, recording data as I went.
Slowly, a sense grew in me.
I was being drawn into a silent competition, one only mech researchers could understand.
Night was unusually still. Aurora switched off the dorm lights, leaving only the cold blue glow of the console.
The mech stood before her like a silent statue, its silver-gray shell reflecting streams of data.
She drew a deep breath, set Synaptic Loop v0.1 to safe mode, and pressed the neural interface to her forehead.
"Let's see your true potential this time," she whispered.
Data unfolded smoothly before her eyes. Heart rate and neural waveforms merged.
"Synchronization rate: 92%."
Aurora issued a command.
"Left arm defense stance. Three segments."
The mech raised its left arm perfectly.
She smiled and entered the next tactic. Before she could hit confirm, the mech's right arm shifted into a more advantageous angle—
Not random movement, but an improvement on her plan.
Aurora froze. "You're… optimizing?"
She deliberately altered her punch trajectory. The mech pre-adjusted, erasing the weakness she had introduced.
Her heart raced. Not from fear. From excitement.
Lines of data flashed:
"Learning mode activated."
"Predicted response delay: -0.03 seconds."
Aurora's lips curved slowly upward.
"You're not stealing my moves. You're learning them—then doing them better."
The mech stood quietly, its core light gentle, no hint of aggression.
Instead, the synchronization felt like someone beside her clearing the battlefield, paving the way for each thought she had before it even formed.
She exhaled and disconnected the interface. The faint resonance lingered in her fingertips like a warm current.
"This isn't backlash," she murmured. "This is collaboration."
"If I can master this completely, maybe this is the prototype of the next generation of resonance mechs."
The console's recording light blinked softly, like a small animal winking.
Aurora looked at it and, for the first time, felt a clear certainty.
This wasn't something dangerous.
It was her second battle-mind taking shape.