Five-thirty in the morning, and Baisha didn't need her optic-link's chirpy alarm to jolt her awake. Her internal clock, forged through years of relentless routine, snapped her eyes open like a spring-loaded trap.
She vaulted off the bed in a single fluid motion, the thin mattress creaking under her. With practiced flicks, she folded her blanket into a crisp square, slid her feet into worn slippers, and shuffled to the bathroom, the orphanage's cold tiles biting her soles.
In the mirror above the sink, a figure stared back—a girl transformed. Her silver-gray hair, shoulder-length and slightly mussed from sleep, framed a face that had shed its childish softness. Her frame stood tall and lean, like a young sapling that had finally taken root, unyielding against the wind. As she brushed her teeth, she reached out, wiping steam from the glass to clear the fog. Her reflection sharpened, and for a moment, she paused, caught by her own gaze.
Five years had slipped by since she'd stumbled into the orphanage, a frail stranger in a strange world. Back then, everything—walking, eating, even thinking—had felt like wading through mud. Now, at twelve, she was two years shy of Lanslow's legal adulthood, her body catching up to her stubborn will. Her face, once all soft curves, had begun to carve itself into something sharper. Her cheekbones hinted at angles yet to fully form, her brow carried a quiet intensity, and her bones seemed to hum with a vitality that pressed against her pale skin, eager to break free. Her deep blue eyes—starlit, people called them—gleamed like rare gems, catching the dim bathroom light with a shimmer that felt almost otherworldly.
From kids to adults, the refrain was the same: "You've got an expensive face." Her looks were a paradox—delicate as silk spun from gold, nurtured by wealth she'd never known, yet blooming in Lanslow's dust and grime. Strangers in the streets, catching sight of her, would pause, as if spotting a rose in a wasteland. Every few months, someone would mutter about her "noble air," half in awe, half in disbelief.
But Baisha was no fragile ornament. Five years of brutal training—Huoman's grueling fight classes, Jingyi's relentless sparring, Liao's mechanical gauntlet—had forged her into something else. She wasn't a muscle-bound warrior, no galactic bodybuilder, but flex her arm, and lean cords of strength rippled under her skin. Endless combat drills had honed her instincts, sharpened her resolve. She moved with purpose now, decisions snapping into place like gears locking.
These were the makings of a soldier-in-waiting, raw material for the Federation's ranks.
Baisha's mind drifted to that night years ago, sprawled in her room with Yaning and Jingyi, optic-link glowing. The mech videos from the Central Military Academy's festival had hit her like a plasma bolt. Towering machines, all sleek lines and raw power, had danced across the screen, and her blood had sung. In that moment, her dream of becoming a master mechanic shifted, soaring to a wilder height: master mech designer.
She'd spilled her vision to Liao the next day, words tumbling out in a rush. He'd listened, his mechanical eye-lens spinning silently, his weathered face unreadable. Then he'd sighed, heavy as a collapsing star. "Mech designer's a tough road, kid," he'd said, voice low. "High bar to clear, and the job market's tighter than a vacuum seal. Civilian mechs? Maybe. But combat mechs? The Federation's got those blueprints on lockdown—designers work for the government or nobody. Unless you're born into a dynasty with credits to burn, the materials alone—parts, alloys, test rigs—run tens, hundreds of thousands. Millions, even. Training a master mech designer? That's a fortune most planets can't cough up."
He'd leaned back, grease-stained hands folding. "Lanslow's a backwater, but we've sent a few to the nine major academies. Mech pilots, commanders, military mechanics—we've got those. Mech designers? Not a one. Not in all of Lanslow's sorry history."
Baisha had caught the spark in his words. If Lanslow couldn't teach her, the academies could. Liao approved of her aiming for a military school—better than rotting in the frontier—but he'd nudged her toward a safer bet. "Stick with mechanics," he'd urged, setting down a wrench with a clink. "No mental aptitude needed, just skill. You could even shoot for the big dogs—Central or Saint-Cyr—if you play it smart. Mech design? Every academy demands mental aptitude, at least C-grade for designers, pilots, commanders. For Central or Saint-Cyr? You'd need A-grade, maybe S-grade to stand a chance."
That day, "mental aptitude" had been a shiny new term for Baisha, buzzing in her head like a curious insect. But Liao's point sank in: mech design was a gamble with lousy odds, a path that could dead-end before it began.
Back at the orphanage, she'd dived into the galactic web, chasing answers. Mental aptitude was the Federation's golden ticket, a rare trait tested during academy admissions. A-grade aptitude was already scarce—unicorn-rare, maybe one in a million. S-grade? A cosmic fluke, barely a hundred souls a year across the galaxy, split across pilots, designers, and commanders. Central and Saint-Cyr snapped them up like vultures, leaving scraps for the rest.
Baisha had puzzled over Liao's warning. If S-grades were that rare, didn't that mean Central and Saint-Cyr's ranks were filled with A-grades? A-grade sounded… doable. Less mythical.
But the web had crushed that hope. Mental aptitude wasn't something you could train, not really. Ninety-nine percent was pure genetics, baked into your DNA before you drew breath. It was a lottery, and Lanslow's players rarely won. Even if Baisha had aptitude, the brutal truth loomed: a mech designer's skill ceiling was tied to their aptitude grade. Low grade, low potential. A C-grade designer might tinker with basic frames, but they'd never touch the cutting-edge.
She'd scoured Lanslow's academy admission records. The planet's track record was grim: a handful of students made the cut each year, mostly for bottom-tier schools. The rare few who cracked higher ranks—like the third or fourth academies—peaked at B-grade aptitude. One B-grader had caught her eye. He'd graduated, skipped the military, and slunk back to Lanslow, now a sheriff in a rich district.
Sheriffs—district law bosses—were the Federation's local muscle, partners to the government, feared by tycoons, and loyal lapdogs to Kangheng Biotech. Kangheng's empire thrived on tech and capital, squeezing Lanslow dry. Their sheriffs mirrored the vibe: bribes and corruption were just warm-ups. They secretly backed gangs, pitting them against each other like gladiators, letting local powers burn out until Kangheng stood alone, unchallenged king of the planet.
That B-grade sheriff's story was a warning carved in neon: Sure, you're Lanslow's golden child, but in the Federation? You're nobody. Better to cozy up to a corp, trade your pride for a fat paycheck, and bask in power's perks.
That was the game.
The academies were Baisha's shot at rewriting her fate, but choosing a path was step one. She'd wrestled with it for years, clinging to her mech designer dream but hedging her bets with Liao's advice: mechanics as a fallback. To crack a top academy as a mechanic, she'd need to be a grind god among grind gods.
Five years of rolling up her sleeves—Huoman's fight classes, Liao's shop, endless self-study—had built her into something solid. Liao claimed he'd taught her all he could; the rest was on her. Huoman wanted to drill them in more—shooting, piloting, mock command—but the orphanage's budget was a joke. No ranges, no sims. Those lessons waited at Lanslow Middle School's academy prep program, taught by real instructors, starting at age twelve. Huoman, though, dropped hints he could teach it all himself, and sometimes Baisha wondered if he was some hidden master, slumming it in a nowhere orphanage when he could've been… what? A general? A smuggler? The guy was a puzzle.
Prep school cost credits. Academies cost more. Lucky for Baisha, Liao had tossed her side gigs over the years—small repair jobs, part sales—letting her stash a decent pile. Not rich, but enough to breathe.
And mechs? She hadn't abandoned them.
After changing into a loose shirt and pants, Baisha locked her door and jogged ten laps around the orphanage's cracked dirt yard, her breath puffing in the dawn chill. She headed to the kitchen to help with breakfast, her optic-link buzzing on her wrist. Plopping onto a stool, a sausage dangling from her mouth, she tapped the screen. Messages flooded in.
ClearShadowOverRiver: Saw your mech blueprint from yesterday.
ClearShadowOverRiver: The engine's power structure—there's a new paper from the National Research Institute. Might be worth a look for tweaks.
ClearShadowOverRiver: Also, that heavy cannon transform? Haven't cracked it yet, but it's intriguing.
Baisha's lips curved, her mood lifting like a flyer catching an updraft.
BaiShao: You don't think my design's unhinged?
ClearShadowOverRiver: It's bold. Slapping a heavy cannon on a light mech trades speed for rock-solid defense and max firepower. Tricky for pilots, though—needs polish on the details.
BaiShao: Engines are a headache. Reworked the cannon's transform, but its fire rate's still sluggish compared to light guns. Means the hull's gotta be tough as hell to eat enemy hits.
ClearShadowOverRiver: Got any rare alloys in mind? I can ship some.
Baisha snorted, nearly choking on her sausage.
Years back, she'd stumbled into a mech enthusiast forum on the galactic web, scavenging data like a junkyard rat. Somehow, she'd landed in an anonymous designers' group, where gearheads swapped blueprints and critiques. She'd clicked with a few, but ClearShadowOverRiver was her closest ally—aloof, loaded, and scary good. Early on, he'd been all icy arrogance, like she was beneath him. But Baisha's endless questions, paired with her knack for clever fixes, had thawed him. Now he was almost… friendly. Problem was, he had her pegged wrong—thought she was some trust-fund heiress, tossing out lines like, "Test it once you build the mech." As if! Mechs needed real-world tuning, but Baisha was broke. No workshop, no parts—just digital drafts, simulations, and software stress tests.
ClearShadow kept offering to send materials, oblivious to her reality. Each time, Baisha's conscience wrestled temptation. Those alloys could fetch tens of thousands—maybe a hundred grand—on the market. Enough to bankroll years. She could spin a story, sell the goods, and he'd never know; he acted like the cost was pocket change, more focused on helping than counting credits. But she shut it down, every time, with a firm no.
BaiShao: You send 'em, I've still got no cash to build the rest.
ClearShadowOverRiver: Same old excuse. Broke and designing mechs?
Baisha's heart wailed. Yeah, I'm a mech-obsessed pauper! Got a problem with that? Too bad!
She tucked the optic-link aside and shoved the breakfast cart toward the dining hall, wheels squeaking. Yaning and Jingyi were already there, sprawled at a table. Yaning yawned, his red hair a fuzzy mess, and ambled over to help arrange plates, his fingers inching toward a roll. Jingyi, tallest of the trio, loomed like a statue—graceful as a still lake on the surface, but her scowl could flay souls. She watched Yaning like a hawk, ensuring he didn't sneak a bite.
"Hurry it up," Jingyi said, voice clipped. "We've got prep school entrance exams today."
Right—twelve years old, and the trio was due for Lanslow Middle School's academy prep program. The exam was a breeze: basic grammar, math, history, plus a beefy physical test worth half the score.
Baisha's optic-link pinged again.
ClearShadowOverRiver: You ghosting me now?
She tapped back, rushed: BaiShao: Prep exam today. Swamped.
A long pause. Then a flood of messages.
ClearShadowOverRiver: You're not in an academy yet?
ClearShadowOverRiver: No wonder I couldn't place you. The Bai family's young guys are sparse, and none scream mech designer. You're pre-enrollment?
Baisha sent a question mark, lost in his ramble, but caught one glaring error.
BaiShao: Who said I'm a guy? My profile's gender-neutral.
ClearShadowOverRiver: …
Baisha blinked, then it clicked. Her handle—BaiShao—must've thrown him. She'd picked it on a whim, skipping a few characters when she couldn't think of anything clever.
Across the galaxy, on the glittering capital planet, a grand estate sprawled under starlight. A black-haired teen, dressed in silks that screamed wealth, frowned at his optic-link's glowing interface.
A notification flashed: Your friend BaiShao has updated their ID to ZhangFaCai.
ZhangFaCai: There. No more mix-ups.
The boy stared, speechless.