Baisha climbed out of the mental strength testing device, the teachers' excited expressions still lingering. They smiled, their tone softening by degrees as they addressed her. "Per Federation law, a double S-grade mental strength holder must be reported to the Military for record-keeping. Someone will come to discuss this with you soon. No need to be nervous."
A double S-grade was a strategic asset to the Federation, warranting protection.
Military personnel arrived swiftly—within five minutes, two officers in gray uniforms appeared.
They ushered Baisha into a small meeting room. The dark-haired teacher who'd conducted her test followed, handing off his duties to assist the Military in documenting her data as her examiner.
"Greetings, we're investigators from the Federation Military Talent Research Division," one officer said calmly, displaying their badges to confirm their legitimacy. "We've verified your mental strength report, but we need some basic information to build your profile in our database."
Pausing, they added, "Once your file is complete, your personal security clearance will be elevated. If you encounter danger, you can report to the Military immediately."
Baisha: "…"
Truly panda-level treatment.
The officer pulled up a form on their light-computer for her to fill out—standard questions about family background and past experiences. As Baisha entered her name, the glass door swung open. Two middle-aged teachers strode in, each claiming a chair beside her, speaking in unison with eager smiles:
"Student, have you decided which academy you're applying to?"
Baisha paused, glancing sidelong. Their badges bore the emblems of Central Military Academy and Saint Cyr Military Academy.
"Can you two tone it down?" the investigator across from her tapped the table. "We're still processing Talent Research Division protocols."
"We're not interfering," the Central Academy teacher waved dismissively. "She's here to apply for academies—choosing her path is the priority."
"I agree, we should focus on securing Baisha's future platform," the Saint Cyr teacher said, flashing a refined smile. "With her exceptional talent, she must choose the best environment. Saint Cyr boasts unmatched faculty, teaching quality, and facilities, with top Military recognition…"
"But you're a privately founded academy," the Central teacher interjected with a smirking sneer. "Central Military Academy, prefixed with 'Federation,' is the Military's original elite public institution. We've produced countless generals and luminaries—our heritage runs deeper than some academies."
Baisha: "…"
The recruiters traded barbs, then turned their focus to her.
Central teacher: "What do you think, student?"
The Saint Cyr teacher cleared his throat. "Baisha, Saint Cyr offers generous scholarships for driven students. Our top award is 500,000 star-coins annually. Given your special talent status, if you pass our entrance exam and enroll, I can request a special bonus for you—at least this much…" He subtly signaled: two million star-coins.
Baisha gasped.
Two million star-coins was a fortune to her, but to Saint Cyr, it was pocket change—cheaper than a basic A-grade mech. A bargain for a double S-grade.
The Central teacher shot a venomous glance at his rival, then spoke confidently. "Central also offers scholarships, covering all tuition and fees."
The Saint Cyr teacher raised a provocative brow, as if to say: That's it?
The Central teacher smiled, assured. "I hear Baisha has two childhood friends, both S-grade?"
"If you join Central Military Academy, and those two S-grades achieve 'excellent' in the entrance exam, I can ensure all three of you study at Central together."
A buy-one-get-two deal!
Central's offer was substantial. Not every S-grade could enter Central—the most selective of the nine academies, it scrutinized ability, character, and conduct. An "excellent" exam score wasn't enough; they reviewed candidates' test footage, only admitting those who caught their eye.
Not every S-grade was a shoo-in.
The teacher implied they'd bend the rules for Baisha, lowering the bar slightly for her friends, provided they weren't utterly subpar.
Baisha paused, then said, "Teacher, maybe we should discuss Central's scholarship system instead."
The Central teacher's smile froze.
He'd thought his offer was irresistible.
Yet Baisha was still talking money!
For a moment, he felt a pang of frustration—a double S-grade swayed by cash, likely to be snatched by Saint Cyr…
But Baisha continued, "Actually, all three of us want Central Military Academy."
The Central teacher's eyes lit up.
Baisha: "We believe Central is the best. No need for guaranteed admissions—I trust we can all earn our spots."
The teacher blinked, nearly tearing up.
"But I'd like to know about the scholarship system," Baisha said, finishing the Talent Research form and turning to him earnestly. "We're really poor. Scholarships kept us going these past few years."
The Central teacher, surprised, glanced at her form: born on border-world Lanslow, an orphan, recently adopted by a Capital Star agent. Her two friends shared similar origins. Her grades topped Lanslow Middle School, but border education was lackluster. Central's admission rate in such regions was near zero…
He considered, then said, "We'll discuss post-exam. Rest assured, Central never skimps on diligent students. We won't let tuition or finances hinder your studies."
As for scholarships… they could be sweetened.
He'd lobby the dean upon return. Saint Cyr's lavish offers grew yearly—Central had to keep up, or top talents would slip away!
Due to their stellar mental strength grades, the trio was courted by various academy recruiters.
Lesser-ranked academies approached, offering fallback spots if they failed Central or Saint Cyr.
The trio, touched, politely declined.
"Outrageous," Yaning grumbled. "They're jinxing us!"
"Don't take it personally—they're just blunt," Homan said, grinning as he flew them home, his smile unwavering. "Feeling good? Then focus. Prep for tomorrow's entrance exam."
Yaning, curious, asked, "Which academy did you graduate from, Lieutenant Homan?"
Homan flashed a proud grin. "Your dream school—Central Military Academy."
Trio: "!!!"
With A-grade mental strength, Homan must've been among the top candidates back then.
"Why didn't you say sooner? We scoured for Central's info," Yaning sighed. "Could've just asked you."
"Too much intel spoils the journey," Homan shrugged. "Central's exceptional, though. I had fulfilling, happy years there. If you'd picked Saint Cyr, I'd have lost sleep…"
Jingyi smirked. "Is dissing Saint Cyr a Central tradition?"
"Not quite. Back in my day, I envied Saint Cyr's facilities—fancy dorms, gourmet dining, shiny mechs…" Homan reminisced, wistful. "But you're right—we never miss a chance to one-up them, just with finesse."
The next day, the academy entrance exam began.
Yesterday's mental strength tests had culled many.
Eliminated students weren't doomed—they could pivot careers or enlist. The nine academies trained officers, but the Military ran soldier camps too. Graduates' prospects and starting points just differed sharply.
The first test was a written exam, combining subjects into one grueling half-day paper. Central's historical cutoff demanded an 85% score to stay competitive. Fortunately, the tests were predictable, and with steady performance, the trio breezed through.
Afterward, Homan urged them not to compare answers, but they couldn't resist, reviewing every question. Baisha's photographic memory recreated the paper, ensuring accurate score estimates.
The results were solid—even Yaning grinned, having nailed the mechanical theory diagram.
Next came the lengthy basic skills tests.
Piloting, shooting, combat—skills they'd honed endlessly—posed no issue for securing "excellent" grades. They accidentally wrecked a sparring bot. The overseeing teacher, noting their mental strength ratings, wasn't shocked, calmly awarding "excellent," ordering a new bot, and—crucially—not billing them.
Cause for celebration.
Combining written and skills scores, those meeting academy standards were notified two days later for the final test: a simulated exercise.
Only about 400 candidates remained.
The venue was Adlai Star, a man-made satellite near Capital Star.
Students traveled in two batches by starship.
En route, a teacher explained the exercise rules.
The terrain was diverse—jungle, canyon, mountains, desert—each a microcosm of extreme conditions. Candidates had to survive three days and nights with scarce food and supplies. Hidden armories held weapons like firearms, and students could hunt mutated animals for points. Different animals yielded different scores. Final rankings hinged on points earned.
Candidates carried signal devices, recording every move, with rescue on standby for danger. But death wasn't impossible.
"This is an exam? It's wilderness survival!" Yaning griped, learning their starting gear was just three energy bars and an alloy dagger. A big eater, he'd devour the bars in one meal. Were they to hunt for two days?
Starship candidates exchanged looks. Savvy ones began forming alliances for the field. Teams were efficient, but most were strangers—trust was shaky.
Baisha scanned the cabin, calling out, "Anyone applying to Central Military Academy?"
Silence fell.
Someone whispered, "That's the double S-grade! Heard Central and Saint Cyr teachers fought over her after her test."
She'd chosen Central.
Soon, voices piped up: "Me! I applied to Central!"
"I picked Raynis Academy…"
"Star Kite Academy for me…"
Candidates with matching applications clustered, mingling.
"Oh~" Baisha gave a sly smile. "A reminder: our applications differ. Your real rivals are those with the same choice."
The lively bonding froze.
She was right. Rankings mattered, but each academy had fixed Capital Star quotas. To secure a spot, they had to outshine same-application peers.
Their hasty mingling now sowed risks for the exam.
Candidates clammed up, lips sealed.
The lead teacher, observing from the front, was stunned. Recording had begun the moment they boarded, tracking reactions. Baisha's maneuver—stoking enthusiasm, then chilling the mood—caught them off guard.
"What's she thinking?" the lead teacher asked the instructor beside them.
"Preventing quick alliances," the instructor chuckled. "With unclear application overlaps, the safest bet is partnering with the strongest."
High points maximized academy admission odds.
Baisha, a double S-grade, was a formality for Central. For non-Central applicants, she wasn't a rival; for Central hopefuls, top students wouldn't aim to topple her but to ally, boosting points and admission chances.
Her double S-grade was an unbeatable card.
Sure enough, post-disembarkation, many chose to ally with Baisha. With two S-grades—Jingyi and Yaning—her starting lineup was formidable. She welcomed all comers, forming a thirty-plus-strong group.
Baisha was the first to amass such numbers.
"This exam has over a dozen noble house heirs, mostly A-grade, four S-grades," an instructor monitoring feeds noted. "The leader's Zhao Jing from the Zhao family."
The lead teacher raised a brow. "The senator's Zhao family?"
The instructor nodded.
On monitors, the second batch disembarked. A stern-faced teen led the noble clique, his group silent behind him.
Once both batches arrived, teachers distributed basic supplies: a small pack with energy bars, a dagger, and a red communicator, unlockable only by the owner's fingerprint. Pressing it meant voluntary withdrawal—zero points.
The exam began, and students scattered.
To hunt mutated animals, they had to seek prey actively.
Baisha's new squad huddled, planning their first camp.
Without water, the desert was out. Other areas had sources. The canyon had a river but was hard to access. Jungle offered the best hunting odds, followed by mountains.
Baisha decided instantly: "Send five to scout the canyon. Yaning, take ten to the mountains—focus on terrain and armory crates. The rest, with me to the jungle for hunting."
Her large group needed more prey. On day one, their numbers suited a jungle sweep.
But others had the same idea.
After a jungle loop, Baisha's team met a lean, dozen-strong elite squad in the dense forest. The others had already claimed an armory—five kinetic guns and a sniper cannon.
A sharp-featured, cold-eyed teen stood thirty meters away, beside a boy his age, elegant but grinning cheekily.
"Student Baisha, right?" the grinning boy said. "I'm Zhao Yi, this is my cousin Zhao Jing. We don't want trouble, but first-come, first-served…"
Someone on Baisha's side bristled. "We got here first."
Zhao Yi: "Tricky. We think we did. When sides meet, one backs off. We're armed and not retreating. So, sorry, your turn."
Baisha, weaponless, crossed her arms, listening intently. "Hmm, lots of mutated animals here. Too many to count…"
Zhao Yi's smile faded. "You know where they are?"
"My mental strength's sensitive," Baisha said, feigning distress. "That testing device amped it up. It's overwhelming…"
She grabbed a pebble, hurling it at a nearby dark-green shrub. As it rustled, a red-eyed rabbit leaped out, soaring half a person's height. Baisha squinted, flinging her dagger single-handedly—
"Squeak!"
Mutated red-eye rabbit killed—5 points.
Five points were trivial, but every bit counted. Fresh in the field, candidates hadn't scouted animal lairs, seeing only green jungle.
Yet Baisha casually bagged a well-hidden target.
Was double S-grade perception this cheat-level?
"How about a deal?" Baisha said. "I point you to two big ones, we borrow your weapons, score a point haul, and split it fifty-fifty. Without gear, we'd lose people tackling large mutants."
Survival trumped points—failing to last three days meant elimination, regardless of score.
Zhao Jing hesitated, then agreed to cooperate.
With Baisha, they had a human GPS. They razed three rabbit dens, killed five mutated deer, and two giant pythons, with smaller gains along the way. Two students, however, were gravely injured and eliminated—one gutted by a python's fangs, blood drenching half his body. Zhao Jing, sparing sniper ammo, shot the python's head, enraging it. Its massive tail snapped trees. Jingyi, agile, distracted it; Baisha shot its eye, and the group swarmed, knifing it to death.
Many were splattered with foul blood. Jingyi, baiting the python, was doused in sticky snake blood, barely wiping it off. Without water, they endured.
In one morning, they racked up over 2,000 points but were parched and exhausted.
Unwilling to burn energy bars, they debated roasting their kills.
"No spices—it'll be vile," Zhao Yi griped, hating the humid, sunless jungle. "Where's water? I'm dying."
Baisha led others to chop banana trees and bamboo, hollowing trunks for seeping juice—palatable, safer than raw water.
Zhao Yi moved to drink, but Jingyi's glare stopped him. "Go start a fire."
Zhao Yi: "…"
Jingyi, face smeared with snake blood, looked feral, like a primal savage. Zhao Yi briefly feared she'd gut him.
They drank, then realized they lacked pots. They skinned and skewered the meat, roasting it half-raw, reeking and fishy.
Some ate, tears falling—harder than fighting the python.
"Let's hunt this afternoon, then leave," someone groaned. "Canyon, mountains—anywhere's better."
After another grueling afternoon, they trudged out of the jungle.
Zhao Jing and Baisha parted, his group heading elsewhere.
Soon, a scout team Baisha sent returned.
The canyon team reported a barren stone beach with a clean stream—vital intel.
Near night, Yaning's mountain team returned, laden.
"Mountain mutants are wolves," Yaning said. "We've killed tons in chip training—I know their weaknesses. We won, but…"
They'd left with eleven, returned with four.
Yet these four topped the team's points, embodying risk-reward.
They brought an armory crate—weapons, ammo, basic meds.
Baisha's group now had twenty-one members.
Their wrist communicators showed:
Exam field remaining: 253 candidates.