The semester opened beneath a deluge of rain.
As Yilan Star's most prestigious school, Star‑Realm Academy prided itself on student comfort. The opening ceremony was therefore relocated indoors, into the grand assembly hall—a blend of marble solemnity and dazzling light. The moment the new students, soaked but eager, stepped inside, their complaints vanished completely. One glance at the guest list flashing across the banners, and every heart leapt.
The guests of honor were enough to make any newsfeed collapse from excitement:
— Edgar Klin, son of the United Parliament Speaker and Deputy Minister of Mecha Research.
— Colonel Lester, the Central Federation Army's Number One ace, famed as the "God of War."
— Lieutenant‑Colonel Nia, the only woman among the Federation's elite Mecha Special Forces.
The first two names alone stirred frenzied awe. Edgar's face appeared on media reports thrice daily without fail; Colonel Lester was every citizen's daydream—a hero sculpted from myth, the man who had personally repelled wave after wave of First‑Human assaults, his confirmed mech kills enough to circle Yilan three times.
And then there was Nia. Among the trio, she was an icon of impossible tenacity, the subject of countless documentaries and fandom boards. Her story belonged in a drama: born an ordinary colony girl, she displayed uncanny mechanical instincts from childhood.
At five, while playing near her father's construction site, she secretly piloted his old engineering mech into a mine and accidentally unearthed half a crate of low‑grade crystals. By seven she'd dismantled every machine her family owned—ten times over. Her exasperated father sent her to boarding school to keep her from taking apart the public utilities.
At twelve, she graduated high‑school‑level courses years early, but the university refused admission for age. Her response? She boarded her patched‑up Dawn‑class mech and blasted through the campus's mech guards, parking the battered giant squarely before the dean's office until he scribbled an acceptance form on the spot.
The crowd thought that would calm her. They were wrong. During the freshman combat tournament, she demolished every challenger, then—out of boredom—took on the graduate competition too, flattening even Edgar Klin himself.
The humiliated young heir summoned his private guard unit for payback, only to pry open the cockpit and discover a girl barely reaching his shoulder, mud‑splattered and grinning.
What followed was tabloid gold: the unrequited pursuit, the years of rejection, Nia's blunt declaration that she "didn't date losers," her enlistment at sixteen, her unbeaten record across training camps until Colonel Lester personally handed her the first defeat of her life and promptly recruited her into his unit.
Between them, the guest trio combined power, scandal, and legend—the very essence of gossip.
And Ye Cheng would learn all this days later, from others' excited retellings.
Because while the hall rang with speeches and applause, her own class—the Elite Combat Mech Division—was opening… outdoors.
The rain hammered down like a solid wall.
Ye Cheng stood stiffly, cap half‑soaked and nearly sliding off. She kept her gaze front, posture straight. The instructor's boots splashed past her; apparently satisfied that she hadn't flinched, the woman moved on—unlike the few unfortunates now sprawled yards away.
"Better," the captain said crisply, her voice somehow cutting cleanly through the storm. "The rest of you finally look something like soldiers."
No one dared reply. They had already seen what defiance earned—a single kick from this tall, slender Senlo woman had sent a burly cadet flying. Her authority was absolute.
People often described the Senlo as gentle, ethereal. Captain Su Tie shattered that notion. Elegance and brutality coiled within her like lightning.
"Speak!"
The bark came from just beside Ye Cheng; the world went white with sound. She jolted reflexively.
"Report, Instructor! Four hours and twenty minutes—sir!"
Su Tie turned, rain coursing down her sharp features. "Exact time."
Ye Cheng felt ice crawl beneath her skin. "Report—four hours, twenty‑three minutes!"
The captain approached, silent steps splashing through puddles. From this close, Ye Cheng could see the insignia on her sleeve—the Sixth Legion emblem of the Central Army Special Forces, guardians of seventy inhabited worlds across Yilan, Fontane, and beyond.
"Your basis for that report?" Su Tie's voice carried no emotion. "If it's nonsense, you can join the others already rolling in the mud."
Regret hit too late. Ye Cheng swallowed. "Report, ma'am—I… I'm used to counting time in my head when… when I've nothing else to do."
She winced the instant the words left her mouth. Nothing else to do—really? Should she start planning her escape with Kairald's mech already?
For a long heartbeat, the captain simply stared at her. Then Su Tie blinked, turned away, and resumed her inspection. "A habit that could become instinct. Use that head for something useful while waiting. During our exchange, eighteen seconds passed. Your measure from assembly start is four hours, twenty‑six minutes. Three‑minute deviation—thirty laps. Go."
"Yes, ma'am!"
Ye Cheng broke from ranks, sprinting into the sheets of rain.
"And be quick," Su Tie called after her. "We eat at twelve‑thirty sharp."
She glanced at the sky—barely two hours left. Great…
Still, her stamina surprised her. The Star‑Realm Juice Kairald had fed her had left its blessing—or curse—on her body: muscles lighter, lungs stronger. Once, three laps would have flattened her; now she ran all thirty and still made it back in time.
Of course, she credited it all to that one divine bottle, oblivious to the fortune she consumed daily at home.
When the allotted time ended, Su Tie reorganized the soaked survivors and marched them into shelter. The rest slunk away; those standing now would face the next round.
Ye Cheng eyed the departing group through veiled lashes, unease tightening her chest. This was only the beginning. By the end of selection, more than half would be cut. Only the remainder could truly call themselves Special‑Class cadets; the rest would drop to Regular Combat or go home to try again next year.
At least lunch was merciful—real food, all you could eat. The mercy ended immediately after. "Five minutes," Su Tie warned, "or crawl out with the trash."
Afternoon brought a new trial, one that drained the last color from their faces:
Each cadet received schematics for a first‑tier Night‑Half‑grade mech weapon. From there:
choose materials, refine them, forge every component, assemble the weapon personally, and present a working model in ten days.
"Guns that can't fire and swords that can't cut stone," Su Tie told them, "will accompany their makers to the Regular Class. The Special Class does not breed dead weight."
If anyone thought standing in the rain was cruel, this was worse. Building a powered weapon was mid‑curriculum for Engineering Majors, not fresh combat recruits. But the word impossible didn't exist here. Orders were orders.
Entrance into the Elite Class meant giving up a student's comfort for a soldier's discipline. Though not officially enlisted, their regimen differed little from that of the Central Army academies. Graduates from Yilan's Combat Mech Special Class were hunted by every military division. Everyone understood this—and so, no one dared complain.
Yet the word Special came with privileges: housing, resources, freedom. Each cadet was granted a private residence, unlimited library access, unrestricted use of dedicated workshops with free materials, permission to bring five slaves—and authorization for those slaves to assist in assignments.
Thus Ye Cheng moved her entire household into the secluded student complex: two adults, two children, and one very harried young woman trying to keep her sanity.
When the assignment arrived, both Yang Yu and Sorra automatically received synced data through their collars. By the time Ye Cheng tracked back from class, Yang Yu had already screened the materials.
She burst through the courtyard gate, drenched, straight to the shower, then to dinner—eating hastily while reviewing the specimen list he'd arranged.
Night‑Half‑grade sidearms were crude compared to higher tech—nothing too exotic. All components could be requisitioned directly at the workshop depot. Within minutes she'd chosen: a six‑meter mechanical longsword.
Finishing her meal in three bites, she tossed the bowl to the housekeeping robot, instructed the twins to read behavingly, and dashed into the storm again, Yang Yu and Sorra at her heels.
The Special Class Workshop was eerily quiet—arrival too recent, task too daunting. She submitted the order slip to the quartermaster, pushed the laden cart back, and nearly stopped short.
At the workbench stood not Yang Yu, as she expected, but Sorra—already suited in gray craftsman gear.
Her elegant, unreadable Sorra, who until recently barely handled chores, was about to forge metal parts? The mental leap made her dizzy.
Yang Yu noticed her surprise. "With your permission," he said mildly, "I'd like him to work beside us. He might have talent for this as well."
Ye Cheng blinked, then grinned. "Permission granted! The more the merrier."
Work began. She rolled up her sleeves.
To minimize risk, she ordered materials in multiples, using the prefab molds provided. Under Yang Yu's calm, precise instructions, the raw heaps slowly turned into acceptable components. Scrap piled high, but the success rate improved steadily.
After several tons of metal, Ye Cheng finally cradled a handful of polished pieces, tears nearly pricking her eyes. "They're mine!" she exhaled. The triumph was real.
Yang Yu silently tested Sorra's pile with the analyzer—every part flawless. He nodded once. "Good." Turning to Ye Cheng, he added warmly, "Master did very well."
Sorra's yield was a prodigy's—one hundred percent accuracy, ninety‑seven percent superior grade. But Ye Cheng's results were genuinely excellent for a beginner; the praise was deserved.
After logging the completed components, Yang Yu gathered both sets aside. Without a word, Ye Cheng understood: keep going. She fetched another cartload of alloys and resumed work, Sorra assisting by her side.
Near midnight, her arms ached beyond feeling. But at last there were enough parts—quality gleaming, proportions perfect. She practically collapsed onto the floor.
They trudged home through dim corridors; Ye Cheng didn't even bat an eyelid toward the shower this time. She fell face‑first onto the bed and was asleep before the lights dimmed.
Sorra quietly changed into training clothes, then lifted the sleeping twins onto the main bed beside her. With two Senlo's steady breath near, her sleep deepened into calm.
When he looked up, Yang Yu was already standing by the doorway.
A brief exchange of nods. Sorra closed his eyes; a mist of deep‑brown energy rose, drifting like gentle hands across Ye Cheng's figure, knitting micro‑cuts and easing fatigue.
Yang Yu crouched, lifting a corner of the blanket, confirming the faint wounds on her fingers had vanished. He gave Sorra a rare smile and thumbs‑up.
Then, quietly, they slipped out into the rain‑dark night—off to resume their own relentless, secret training.