It was like being in a daze.
One mont, Curtis’s cha was sliding backward, grinding helplessly into the ground after being pumled by the Marshal. The next, his vision was abruptly filled with white.
A cha.
Not just any cha.
That cha.
The eerie, gleaming thing lood over him like a phantom, frad in light and smoke, its shape just unnatural enough to short-circuit the brain trying to understand it.
"Huh?" Curtis managed.
And that was the last thing he could clearly recall.
He’d tried to eject. He really had. But sothing had malfunctioned—maybe due to the impact, or maybe because of his bad luck.
So soone else made the choice for him.
From the stands, it looked horrific.
The white cha reared back, spider-like limbs slithering into formation. Then, in one fluid motion, it stabbed its gleaming appendages straight into the mangled chest of Curtis’s broken cha.
Gasps erupted like a chain reaction. One woman fainted. Soone else dropped back onto their seat.
It looked like a horror scene.
Steel limbs. Piercing points. The shriek of tal being ripped apart.
From afar, it looked like Luca’s cha was devouring the other one.
But the master chanics knew better. They could see it—the precision, the aim. The limbs were not attacking the pilot. They were cleanly and accurately digging into the structural joints that housed the cockpit module.
Then ca the final mont.
The audience watched in partial horror, their mouths open, as Luca’s cha gripped the entire cockpit like it was plucking a seed from a poor and unsuspecting fruit.
But just as it lifted free, a rectangular structure—previously hidden behind the white cha—shifted into view.
A box.
And it opened without fanfare, jaws parting wide before swallowing the cockpit whole.
Then it shut.
"..."
"..."
Silence.
Thick. Stunned.
And utterly unlike Curtis, who had not been quiet since the fateful removal.
His scream had begun at the mont of extraction and hadn’t really stopped.
"AAAAHHHHH—"
It echoed faintly over the communication line, just loud enough for every other pilot in their shared channel to hear him losing his mind in real ti.
"Sir?!"
"Deputy?!"
"IS HE ALIVE?!"
Panic flooded the channel.
One of the officers ended up crying.
Another was openly bargaining with the gods.
But then—
"...Hello?" Curtis muttered.
It ca small. Confused. And extrely offended.
He could still speak.
He could still think.
In fact, the kicker was that he could still hear the people from the shared channel?
Which begged the question: what in the na of the empire just happened?
Also, was he not using his inside voice?!
However, all he got was that deceiving montary peace.
Utter darkness. No screen. No status bar. Just breathing and the residual buzz of adrenaline.
And with no real choice left, Deputy Officer Curtis sat frozen, blinking blankly as his heart thundered and the tight cage around him began to shudder.
Because outside, chaos had returned.
And at the center of it all stood a brave little chipmunk who had just raised a spiritual energy shield to face the Marshal’s next attack.
One that ca just as Luca locked Curtis’ cockpit into place and turned to store the shattered remains of his cha.
Suddenly, D-29’s prompt rang out—
"Warning! Incoming attack from the S-class cha!"
"!"
He could’ve fled.
He should’ve fled.
But Luca, being Luca, thought about resource managent first.
That broken cha still had usable parts.
So instead of dodging, which would’ve been impossible at that mont, he let his B-class support cha tank the blow.
A support cha. Against the currently undefeated Marshal Julian.
The people in the stands went pale.
Hands flew up to shield eyes.
So were already bracing to hear the tallic crunch of Luca’s cha folding like a tin can.
Because no matter how strange or terrifying his white cha looked, everyone still knew the truth.
Luca was a cadet.
He was not yet a soldier. Barely a fighter who hadn’t even graduated yet.
And considering what had happened to Deputy Officer Curtis earlier...
They were sure he was about to be flattened.
But then ca the sound.
Clang!
The barrier shimred. It held.
And to everyone’s shock, the Marshal’s cha actually staggered back from an unexpected backlash.
Seats creaked as pilots practically leapt to their feet. One of them even clutched the person beside them like they were experiencing atmospheric turbulence.
What had just happened?
The crowd couldn’t understand. The Marshal had been unstoppable all day.
And yet they couldn’t deny what just happened.
However, at this point, Luca was clear about a few things.
While the barrier had worked, a B-class cha—even one with maxed out durability and Calibration Fidelity—could only do so much against an S-class opponent who also had their specs pushed to the limit.
Luca didn’t wait around.
With a flicker of command, the damaged cha vanished into storage, and his own cha spun on its heel.
Ti to go.
He was in a support unit today. His job was to rescue, repair, and minimize losses.
Repeat.
Rescue. Repair. And to minimize losses.
But Marshal Julian had other thoughts.
Deep thoughts.
Thoughts about duty, the empire, and possible retirent plans.
And then he decided—screw it.
If he was going to et the ancestors after this entire ordeal, at least they knew he did his job. He was going to test both chas just as that cadet wanted.
So as Luca started his retreat, Julian lunged.
The mont was tight. Sharp. Electric.
Luca’s shield dispersed on command, light refracting like shards of glass. Then, without hesitation, he ducked low, narrowly avoiding the Marshal’s incoming fist. Sparks burst from the air friction, and Luca used the montum to rotate his left arm forward.
It clicked.
Then hissed.
And released a torrent of fire.
The flathrower burst to life, blanketing the area in a haze of smoke and light. The flas weren’t ant for damage, but for cover—a wall of dancing heat to obscure his next move.
Which was to escape.
The mont the flas erupted, Luca vanished from sight, the Ghostvine resin cloaking his cha completely. Not a blip appeared on the radar, and even his heat signature faded as if snuffed out like a candle.
The crowd held their breath.
Marshal Julian remained still, eyes narrowing, his instincts sharpening. He wasn’t a man easily fooled.
He had been fighting long before this cadet was born, and with that ca a certain intuition.
Soone like Luca wouldn’t flee in a straight line. He was too thodical for that. Too deliberate.
So the Marshal turned, pivoting just slightly—then struck.
tal collided with tal.
The sound cracked through the air.
And when the smoke cleared, his hand was gripping sothing solid.
A chanical arm.
He had caught him.
Luca’s location reappeared on every radar with a ping.
In the cockpit, D-29’s prompt was sharp.
"Host! Damage to the left arm is at 35 percent!"
Luca winced. "Really, that grip strength is sothing else!"
The Marshal’s armor clearly packed a punch, even without swinging. Just grabbing had left the arm visibly dented, wires sparking.
But Luca wasn’t panicking.
Because while the Marshal had experience in war, Luca thought he had a bit of experience in chanics.
Specifically?
Dismantling.
And because of that, one of the first things he conceptualized for this build...was its modularity.
And how fitting was that?
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