In the heart of Capital Star, the Military Academy Recruitment Office buzzed with purpose. Each year, as the season for admitting new cadets arrived, representatives from the nine prestigious military academies gathered here, joined by officials from the Military, the Ministry of Education, and the Military Talent Research Institute, to orchestrate the intricate process of selecting the next generation of Federation officers.
The academy representatives first received lists of students who had applied to their institutions and passed the rigorous assessments. These lists, accompanied by academic records, selection test footage, and other pertinent data, were transmitted back to each academy's admissions office for final deliberations on the acceptance roster.
The representatives, many familiar faces after years of annual meetings, exchanged polite pleasantries amidst the hum of work.
"Teacher Xing, it's been three years, hasn't it? You haven't aged a day," one remarked.
The man addressed as Teacher Xing, appearing no older than twenty-eight, wore a silver monocle over his left eye. His simple white trench coat lent him an air of refined elegance, standing out like a poised white crane among the crowd. A silver badge of the Federation Central Military Academy gleamed on his chest. He smiled at his temporary colleagues. "Indeed, it's been a while. You've all traveled far to Capital Star—my compliments. In a couple of days, I'll treat you all to dinner, a small gesture of hospitality."
"Oh, spare us, Teacher Xing," scoffed the representative from Saint Cyr Military Academy, seated opposite. His satin shirt, impeccably tailored and crease-free, shimmered with two rare black gemstones at the cuffs—a clear display of bespoke luxury. "Every time a Central Military Academy rep talks of 'hospitality,' it's some dingy street stall or a packed budget diner. Food from places like that? I'd be sick before I finished."
"Go dine fancy on your own dime, then," Xing retorted, removing his monocle to polish it idly. "Central Military Academy doesn't waste funds on frivolous banquets. If I host, it's out of my pocket. We don't play the clique-building, favor-currying game some academies do."
The Saint Cyr representative bristled. "Who're you jabbing at?"
"Whoever answers," Xing said coolly.
"Sophistry!" the Saint Cyr rep snapped. "First time I've seen someone so proud of being cheap."
"And I've never met someone so picky about free food, turning it into a moral crusade," Xing shot back. "Street stalls, budget diners—what's wrong with them? People eat there daily. But you'd get sick? It's not poison. If your constitution's that frail, train harder instead of pointing fingers."
The Saint Cyr rep's face darkened with anger. "Me? Frail? I'm S-grade mental strength!"
Xing gave a faint, mocking smile. "As if anyone here teaching and handling admissions isn't S-grade."
Only those with at least S-grade mental strength could serve as academy instructors and manage recruitment.
The Saint Cyr rep, choking on his retort, turned away in silence.
Xing replaced his monocle, thinking to himself: This year's Saint Cyr rep is all bluster—worse than last year's.
Refocusing, he began reviewing student lists.
The roster, drawn from dozens of Federation star systems, brimmed with prodigies. His attention naturally gravitated to the top performers. Leading the pack was Baisha, fourteen, registered in Capital Star. Perfect scores in written and basic skills tests, and an exceptional performance in the simulation exercise. Her ranking owed much to her rare double S-grade mental strength.
A double S-grade applying to Central Military Academy? There was no letting such a prize slip away.
Xing promptly sent Baisha's full dossier to Central's admissions office. Within five minutes, he received confirmation: Approved.
As expected.
He continued sifting through S-grade and A-grade candidates by final scores.
The office fell silent, save for the soft clicks of light-screens and rustling of digital files. Though the task lacked technical complexity, screening each student's profile was time-consuming.
Two hours passed in a blink.
One representative looked up from the sea of data, sighing softly.
"What, poor crop this year?" a colleague asked.
"We're a bottom-tier academy—'poor' is our norm," the rep replied with a wry smile. "Still, you can't help hoping. I dreamed we'd get more S-grades this year…"
In truth, most S-grades flocked to top academies. Many who fell short preferred to retake the exams rather than settle for lower-ranked schools.
"How's the applicant pool for Central and Saint Cyr this year?"
Beyond their own academies, everyone was curious about the top two.
As initial screenings concluded, light-screens displayed each academy's application data.
"Saint Cyr's holding strong this year… but they're short two S-grades and one double S-grade compared to Central."
"Predictable outcome," someone murmured.
The representatives whispered among themselves, while the Saint Cyr rep, visibly irked, double-checked his list. "Anyone see the Zhao brothers' names?"
Those familiar with Capital Star's elite circles knew exactly which "Zhao family" he meant.
The Zhao family had academy-age heirs this year?
"If you mean Zhao Jing and Zhao Yi…" Xing, from Central, gave a slow, knowing smile. The Saint Cyr rep felt a chill. "I saw their files. They competed in Capital Star's local trials. Zero points in the simulation—automatic elimination for failing."
The Saint Cyr rep gaped. "Zero? Eliminated? How? Xing Zhen, how do you know this?"
Xing's smile widened. "Because the student who took them out is ours, from Central."
From written records, Xing could trace what students did, who they eliminated, and how they earned their points.
The Saint Cyr rep's face turned ashen. He pressed, "I want their elimination records."
Child's play. Proctor reports and multi-angle system footage were readily available. The representatives gathered around, watching the Zhao brothers' scheming and spectacular downfall in vivid detail.
In short: ambitious, ruthless, but sloppy. Zhao Jing's plan was riddled with holes, his moves too obvious, easily exposed.
His final gambit—ambushing Baisha—crumbled against her effortless mental strength manifestation. The scene was pitiful, a tragedy of hubris and naivety.
"The Zhao family's power isn't rooted in military might," Xing said, his words aimed at the Saint Cyr rep. "Their true heirs pursue politics. These two, decent in physique and mental strength, lack the family's cunning. If they're set on an academy, they should prep properly and try again next year—without dirty tricks. They might just make it."
The Saint Cyr rep sat stone-faced, regretting his demand for the public playback.
"Speaking of schemers, the Zhou family's Zhou Ying was unforgettable," another rep chimed in, easing the tension. "His simulation was a Predator game, too, but with a closer Predator-to-regular ratio. Without a Predator role, he posed as one, infiltrated their camp, and stoked conflicts between factions, playing both sides. He hoarded armory resources, fanned flames at peak tension, and flipped allegiances. When both sides were drained, he became the one everyone courted… A true master of deceit, cold and calculating, with double S-grade strength. A student like that is hard to rival."
The comment was meant to console: Saint Cyr has Zhou Ying—losing the Zhao brothers is nothing.
But the Saint Cyr rep wasn't soothed. "Deceitful, cold, calculating—which of those is a compliment?" he snapped. "And speaking of double S-grades, Zhou Ying's simulation score didn't match Zhou Yue's."
Zhou Yue had chosen Central Military Academy.
The twin brothers' divergent academy choices had stunned the instructors.
But—why compare to Zhou Yue, of all people?
He wasn't a normal student. He was a freak.
A freak who skipped Central's classes to slay star-beasts on the frontlines.
"You're so high on Zhou Yue, why not trade?" Xing teased. "Let the brothers swap as exchange students. We'll take Zhou Ying. Sound good?"
The Saint Cyr rep glared venomously. "Dream on."
"Then why waste breath?" Xing quipped.
The Saint Cyr rep fell silent.
Later, he'd report to his academy, urging the dean to dissuade the Zhao brothers from applying to Saint Cyr next year. Whether the dean agreed, the request was non-negotiable. If those two reapplied, he refused to represent again.
He couldn't bear the embarrassment.
As for the shadow this cast over the Zhao brothers' futures, he neither knew nor cared.
A week later, the nine academies, alongside the Military Talent Research Institute, published the freshman admission lists.
It was an ordinary morning. Baisha, Jingyi, and Homan ate breakfast cooked by Yaning, then huddled around Baisha's light-computer, refreshing the recruitment site. When the list appeared, four pairs of eyes widened, scanning the dense names until they found their own—
Baisha. Yaning Kelly. Yan Jingyi.
Their names, though not consecutive, sat near the top.
Their academy: the Federation Central Military Academy, the top-ranked of the nine.
A moment of silence gripped the trio. They stared at the list, entranced, as if it were a work of art imbued with fatal allure.
Its theme: Dreams Realized.
"…We did it," Yaning said, his voice dreamy, like a breeze over a sunlit sea or flowers adrift in clouds. Joy solidified into exhilaration. "We actually did it!"
"We're all in Central Military Academy!"
The trio erupted, mostly Yaning's ecstatic shrieks.
Jingyi, thrilled, touched her name on the screen.
Baisha remained calmest. She'd expected her admission, and attending Central had been her first goal in this world.
Now achieved, she awoke from a dream, exhaling softly.
…This world wasn't so bad after all.
A seed in her heart took root, awaiting nourishment, rain, and time to sprout, bloom, and bear fruit. She knew now—this was the second life she wanted.
Homan watched, gratified, his stoic facade cracking as Yaning's screams ignited his own fervor. He pulled a cigarette from his chest, lit it with trembling fingers, and, after deep breaths, bombarded his contacts with messages:
My three kids got into Central Military Academy!
Some old friends, stunned, congratulated him, then asked, "You're barely old enough—kids in military academy already? Three at once? You kept that quiet!"
Homan chuckled, typing furiously: You're just jealous! Then he tossed his light-computer into a balcony planter.
That evening, Lady Qiong visited, dining with them and presenting the trio with celebratory gifts: three holographic simulation pods, congratulating their new milestone.
The next day, Central's official admission letters arrived at Homan's door, delivered by a silver robot with winged headgear. After the trio signed, it saluted briefly with its wings.
"Congratulations on your admission to Central Military Academy," it said in a childish mechanical voice. "Please review the attached medical examination notice and enrollment guidelines."
Before enrolling, they needed a comprehensive physical. These were largely formalities—Federation medical tech left few untreatable conditions, and academy qualifiers were unlikely to have serious ailments. The only notable requirement was a "gene test."
Gene testing served two purposes: verifying mental strength consistency with prior results and screening for rare genetic disorders. In an era of widespread radiation sickness, gene tests were routine for everyone, from generals to cadets. The Military tracked genetic mutations to prevent training or combat mishaps.
Gene collapse could trigger mental strength failure.
The trio shrugged off the physical, more excited about the month-long break before enrollment. They planned to visit Federation tourist hotspots, having rarely traveled far. They dreamed of the "Sky Gardens" of the Plant System, where advanced botany painted every planet green, exuding a "natural purity" despite its artificiality. They also longed for the Mount Cluster, where the eternal Starfall—a cascade of glowing micro-planets—wove a luminous waterfall, captivating passing starships.
They downloaded travel photos from the star-net, projecting them in the simulation pods, lingering until bedtime.
The next morning, Homan drove them to a Federation medical facility for their physicals.
This year, the nine academies took about 120 students from Capital Star, fewer than usual—likely due to the Zhao brothers' crew being culled. But the Federation was vast; others filled the gaps.
At the medical building, the trio scanned their bio-IDs at the entrance. A massive holographic board displayed everyone's exam progress, green lights signaling completion.
Federation machines were efficient: lie in a scanner for seconds, shift positions, and basic tests were done.
The gene test was more invasive.
Blood, hair with follicles, oral mucosa, and even bone marrow were collected.
No anesthesia for hardy cadets—the thick needle made Baisha's vision blur, though it was over quickly.
"Why bone marrow? That's insane," Yaning grumbled, clutching his arm.
"It's where mental strength-related gene segments are most sensitive," a passing girl said, laughing brightly, dimples flashing. "Next best is brain cortex cells. Marrow's kinder than cracking your skull, right?"
Yaning shuddered, looking up. She seemed familiar.
Her smile faded under their scrutiny. "No way. It's been days, and you forgot me?"
"We know you," Baisha said. "Bi Yuehong, right?"
Bi Yuehong had been a steadfast teammate in the simulation, her bold defiance of the Zhao brothers unforgettable.
Even Jingyi, slow to recall faces, nodded.
"Good news—I got into Central, too. We're classmates now," Bi Yuehong said, sighing. "I thought I'd never make it, just took a shot. Lucky I had you powerhouse teammates."
She pulled out her light-computer. "Let's add each other. We can look out for one another at Central."
The trio agreed, syncing their devices.
The cadet physicals were a major event. The facility was cleared, staff and machines devoted to the 100-plus students. Results came fast, but reports took longer.
Baisha, drained of blood and marrow, needed to recover.
Her dreams were light, soft as her bed.
Flickering lights danced before her eyes.
The magnificent, starlit wings she'd seen before reappeared, vast and radiant.
Glistening dust fell from the feathers' tips—not dust, but translucent gems of varying sizes. As they dropped into the endless black void, they ignited, a chemical blaze forming an eternal flame. The fire tempered the wings, their contours, colors, and feather roots sharpening. Against the dark, they rose, windless yet soaring, never still.
A piercing cry rang in Baisha's ears.
She'd heard it before, but this time it was deafening, a stone-shattering alarm laced with urgent warning. Her hair stood on end.
She snapped awake in darkness.
Two masked figures in black loomed by her bed, armed, reaching for her. A faint chemical scent—likely anesthetic—hung in the air.
Baisha gritted her teeth, vaulting from bed. She locked her legs around one intruder's neck, flipping him beneath her, knee pinning his back. Grabbing hefty tomes—Legends of Mech Pilots and Illustrated History of Mech Evolution—from her bedside, she hurled them at the second figure's face. As he staggered, she landed a right hook to his temple.
Dispatching them, Baisha realized the house was breached. She snatched a pistol from an intruder's belt, pressing it to his head. "Who sent you? How many are there?"
The man, dazed from her blows, bled from his nose. He heard her but couldn't answer clearly.
Boom—
White curtains billowed wildly. Blinding light poured through the window, bathing Baisha.
A Federation military hovercraft, loaded with eight armed soldiers, hovered outside.
Brandishing particle and beam cannons—weapons fit for mechs or Titan-class border cruisers—they could level Homan's home with a few shots.
"Intruder Baisha," a voice boomed, "you have violated the Federation Security Act, Federation Border Control Act, Federation Alien Species Control Law, and other statutes. The Military suspects you of illegal infiltration and attempting to penetrate critical state institutions. You are now wanted for espionage."
"Drop your weapon and surrender, or we will enforce your arrest by force!"