A three-minute countdown flickered on the screen. Feynman had already sprinted into the EMP building. As a star student of Stellar Academy, he had a private training room at his disposal. He bypassed the crowds and logged into the Link immediately.
In the short time he'd been waiting, the spectator count had climbed to over two thousand. Compared to professional streamers, it was a drop in the ocean. EMP was a massive industry—its Virtual Mode was a cash cow that provided the Alliance with the funds to host the Pan-Solar System tournaments, complete with staggering prize pools. Streaming was a coveted career, but Leo's situation was anomalous: he wasn't a certified streamer, and he didn't allow friend requests. Those watching were either people he had personally crushed or those who had heard about him through word of mouth.
Zane was among them. When he saw Puppet match with Feynman again, he knew sparks would fly. While Puppet had won the last round, many considered it a fluke—a moment where Feynman wasn't at his peak.
In his training room, Feynman stripped off his jacket and tossed it aside, his teeth bared in a predatory grin. Opportunities like this didn't come twice.
Arles, who had been in the middle of a lecture, found Feynman's sudden exit strange. Even for elite students, showing such blatant disrespect to a professor was rare. But once Arles checked the Link and saw the matchup, he let out a yelp and bolted out of the classroom as well, leaving a confused professor behind. The teacher, well-versed in the eccentricities of mecha pilots, simply tapped the chalkboard and continued. Clearly, his students had encountered a "special event."
By the time Arles reached the EMP lounge, Tita was already there, staring at the main display.
"Feynman requested this himself," Tita said with a wry smile. The guy was blunt to a fault. Pick yourself up from where you fell—a great motto, but did he really have to broadcast it to the whole school? Everyone trusted Feynman's skill, but if he lost again, the public humiliation would be total.
"Captain, let's see who this guy really is. Whoa, Feynman is going all out."
Realistic Mode. The mecha selection screen appeared. Feynman chose his signature machine, the one that had made him a legend in the recent tournament—the NUP Cyclone Zero.
The Cyclone Zero was a 75-ton medium-class unit powered by dual nuclear fission engines. It featured shoulder-mounted guided missiles, an Alpha Electro-Laser Rifle, and the Zero Dragon-Slayer Blade. As the flagship of NUP's New Era series, its power and weapon systems were top-tier. Most importantly, the Dragon-Slayer Blade was forged from a new element discovered on Kepler-22b, significantly boosting the combat effectiveness of titanium blades. Previously, pilots had to choose between the weight of titanium or the sharpness of lasers; this new element offered the best of both worlds. It was the future of the NUP regular forces.
On the other side, Puppet selected the Armored Dragon once again.
Zane's heart sank. Having fun was one thing, but Feynman was playing for blood. Don't play with fire, Puppet, Zane thought. Choosing that mecha was like starting the fight with one hand tied behind his back. As an Earthling, Zane desperately wanted to see someone put the arrogant Moon-dwellers in their place, but this choice looked like suicide.
Puppet vs. Eternal Starlight. Armored Dragon vs. Cyclone Zero.
The spectator count actually dipped. People figured the match was over before it started. Why watch a slaughter?
The two mobile suits spawned into the familiar arena. Feynman's jaw was tight. Same place, same mode—it was the perfect stage for revenge.
The Dragon-Slayer Blade snapped into position. Clack. The Armored Dragon's titanium blade unsheathed in response.
The arena fell silent, save for the low hum of the engines. Even through the holographic feed, the spectators could feel the oppressive aura radiating from the Cyclone Zero.
Feynman moved. Heedful of his last mistake, he was steady and methodical, refusing to give Puppet an opening. He knew the opponent was a close-quarters specialist, but he was confident that in a war of attrition, his superior machine and experience would guarantee a win.
Entering strike range, Feynman's eyes glowed with intensity. The Cyclone Zero's footsteps were heavy as it initiated a sudden dash followed by a short-hop vertical slash. It was a brutal, linear attack designed to shut down the opponent's mobility. If he landed this, he'd ride the momentum until the Dragon was scrap metal.
The Dragon-Slayer Blade came down like a falling mountain. Against a standard titanium blade, a direct clash would likely result in the Dragon's weapon snapping in half. The logical move was to retreat and reset... but did an Armored Dragon even have an advantage to reset to?
Screeeech— Clang— Boom—
Three distinct, violent sounds tore through the speakers in rapid succession. And then:
VICTORY: PUPPET!
...
The spectators sat in stunned silence. What the hell just happened?
The entire Stellar Academy EMP building went deathly quiet. Had they just seen a ghost? In the blink of an eye, the Cyclone Zero had been decapitated.
In mecha combat, a decapitation was the ultimate "crushing" victory. It was a statement: You aren't even on my level.
On the screen, the Armored Dragon stood casually while the headless Cyclone Zero twitched on the ground. Everyone expected Puppet to say something—a boast, a taunt, anything.
Instead, the arena faded to black. The opponent had been kicked.
Inside his training room, Feynman stared at the message: You have been removed from the match by your opponent. He slapped himself across the face, once, twice, three times, his eyes bloodshot as he frantically spammed the rematch button. How? How could this happen?!
"Arles, go calm him down. This is embarrassing," Tita said, frowning. Feynman was clearly losing it, smashing equipment in his room. Losing was fine, but losing control was unacceptable.
"On it, Captain."
"Playback. Slow it down," Tita ordered.
Across the EMP network, thousands were doing the same. It made no sense. A titanium blade should have shattered against a Dragon-Slayer Blade. The performance gap was too wide.
The slow-motion footage rolled.
As the units closed within eight meters, the Cyclone Zero had initiated the hop-slash. Puppet had two choices: clash or retreat. If he retreated, Feynman would have hounded him to death. But the Armored Dragon didn't retreat. It took a single step to the right—a micro-adjustment.
The titanium blade met the Dragon-Slayer Blade, but not head-on. It was a "sliding parry." Puppet angled his blade upward, sending a shower of sparks flying as he deflected the force of the blow. In the same motion, he spun his unit, using the momentum for a backhand strike that suppressed the Cyclone Zero's recovery. Within a fraction of a second, the titanium blade disengaged and swung back around in a clean, horizontal arc.
A three-hit execution from the God of Death.
Watching it in slow motion made it even more unbelievable. Who was this pilot? If the opponent had been a nobody, it wouldn't be as shocking, but Feynman was a pro. At the moment of the strike, Feynman had been predicting moves and counter-moves, but he was still utterly shut down. It looked simple, yet it felt impossible.
Whispers broke out across Stellar Academy. Their technical knowledge was far beyond the average gamer's. They watched the replay again and again. Some began to notice the footwork—the minute shifts in the Dragon's position, the perfect synchronization between pilot and machine. It was the pinnacle of "Human-Machine Unity."
This wasn't just a pilot. This was a master. And someone that skilled... didn't feel like an Earthling.