The stench on Baisha lingered two full days, a ghost of Hanbo's carnage. She holed up in her room, dodging the world—luckily, her school leave stretched a few more days, no need to face the stares. Even so, whispers snaked through the orphanage by day three. Word was she'd slaughtered fish at the market for two days straight, hacking until the sun dimmed, her scent so bloody that fish a hundred meters off keeled over in terror. Her knife work was legend now, her heart colder than the blade.
Baisha sighed, exasperated. "…"
Kids' imaginations were a gift—until they spun this nonsense.
Still, it marked a win worth celebrating. She'd felled an A-grade starbug and helped gut an S-grade ghost bug, pegging her aptitude at A-grade or higher. Mech designers were rarer than pilots or tacticians; competition was lighter. Top schools like Central or Saint-Cyr snapped up A-grades yearly. She'd cleared the bar—confidence would carry the rest.
Fate hadn't screwed her over. She'd drawn a lucky card.
But another matter gnawed. Since dragging herself back, neither Huoman nor that boy had shown. Two days later, as dusk painted Lanslow's sky, Huoman tracked her down, his face a storm of worry.
"You've landed me in deep," he said, voice heavy. "That kid's wounds aren't bad—S-grade healing's kicking in. Problem's his aptitude: wildly unstable. Lanslow's medics can't touch it."
Baisha frowned. "He awake?"
"Was," Huoman said, raking his hair. "Now out again. Look, we saved him, right? Why's he making life hard? He's not bedridden—could limp out if he tried. I told him to hit Capital Star, call a friend, anyone—just don't mention us. He won't budge."
"He's waiting to die," Huoman snapped. "Kid's checked out."
Baisha pictured the boy's silver mech dancing with the ghost bug, blades flashing defiance. Giving up didn't fit. "But why? Guilt over his squad? They're gone, sure, but he avenged them."
Huoman barked a laugh. "Don't paint these clan heirs as saints. They're sharks—grief over grunts doesn't send them spiraling. A young lieutenant? That's hard-won, blood and merit, even with family pull. He's seen death aplenty."
"Cold take, Teach," Baisha said, half-joking.
"You try wrangling him!" Huoman shot back. "Two days, you'd get it."
"Why me? I've got school."
"You hauled him here." He clamped her shoulder, firm. "You ship him out. Whatever it takes, get him off Lanslow."
Baisha caught the flicker in his eyes—less fear, more taboo. The army spooked him deep.
She recounted the ghost bug fight, blow by blow. "Fish rumors are wildfire now," she added, waving a hand, numb. "Might as well lean in—say we did gut fish at the market."
Huoman stared, blank.
"Talk about bad luck," he muttered. "A-grade was rough enough, but a ghost bug? They're not S-grade heavyweights, but they're rare, slippery devils. Barely anyone in the border's seen one. I figured watching you'd keep things tame. Guess not."
His grin turned wry. "Still, we smashed it—trip wasn't a bust."
He left her an address—the boy's hideout—saying he had "cleanup" and would skip the orphanage for days. Baisha could ask Madam Qiong for leave. His beat-up flyer stayed for her.
With Qiong's nod, Baisha flew to Lanslow's infamous Backstreet, a den of smugglers, fugitives, and junkies. No ID checks, just sky-high prices for food, meds, guns—perfect for stashing a rogue lieutenant. She steered clear usually; one wrong brush could taint her record, tank her academy shot. Plus, Backstreet bled credits.
Huoman had scored a shuttered liquor shop, its grimy front hiding a cozy interior. The living room sparkled, a stark upgrade from the decayed facade. Baisha climbed a creaky staircase to a loft bedroom, easing the door open.
The boy—awake—sat on the bed's edge, staring through a small window at Backstreet's bustle. His dark brows dipped, his air cool and still, like a winter pond.
Baisha coughed. "Heard you're refusing to leave for treatment. Why?"
He turned, his fine face blank. "Who're you?"
Her temper flared. "Who? If I hadn't stayed to drag you out, would I be stinking like a fishmonger?"
Surprise cracked his mask. "Sorry," he said, swift. "It's you. Thanks for the save."
"That's not the point," Baisha groaned, arms crossed. "Those ghost bug eggs—their goo was foul. Worst smell of my life."
He paused, then recited, flat as a textbook, "Ghost bug sac fluid's an S-grade material—mech engine lube, hull coating. One milligram runs ten to thirty thousand credits."
Baisha's face crumpled. "One what now?"
"They're rare," he said, deadpan. "No market supply."
She looked gutted. "…"
"If my staying bugs you, I'll go," he said, gripping one wrist. "But I can't yet. My aptitude's a mess—leaving would cause chaos."
Baisha pulled a chair close, softening. "That's why you need help. Don't you want home? Your family's waiting."
His face stayed stone, but his wrist twitched—faint, maybe imagined.
"I'd just burden everyone," he said, spreading his hand before her. "You'd see what's happening to me."
Her eyes narrowed. His veins glowed blue, skin turning translucent, thin as cicada wings over pale knuckles—like the ghost bug's shimmer.
"My aptitude's tainted," he said, voice like rain on tiles. "I've run hypersense too long—it's warped me. Soon I'll flicker like a ghost bug, half-controlled. A monster better off gone."
His calm unnerved her—no rage, just eerie relief, like shedding chains.
Baisha's chest tightened. "What's your name?"
"Zhou Yue," he answered, quick, then met her eyes. "Courtesy says we trade names."
She didn't reply, instead searching her optic-link with "lieutenant" and "Zhou Yue." Nothing. "Alias?"
He shook his head.
"Fine, I'm Baisha," she said, nudging him. "No one just quits. Giving up without a fight—how's that fair to you?"
She patted his shoulder. His hand's translucence faded, just a touch.
He blinked, startled.
"What's that?" Baisha grabbed his hand, squinting. Slim, elegant despite the glitch, it held a strange beauty—nothing like a bug's grotesque sheen. He tugged, uneasy, but she held firm. "Wait."
Minutes passed, no change—yet a patch of skin had normalized, clear to both. She let go; he yanked his hand back.
"Your condition's weird," she said, frowning. "Need human contact to heal?"
"Your aptitude, maybe," Zhou Yue said, hesitant. "Some have unique traits. Yours might counter ghost bugs."
Baisha arched a brow. "That convenient?"
"Possibly," he said, brow creasing. "Needs testing."
"So, daily hand-holding fixes you?" she teased.
He shook his head. "Not just contact—you'd need to channel your aptitude."
"Channel?" She waved it off. "That's academy stuff."
"S-grades wield it like breathing," he countered. "It's instinct."
"I'm clueless," she insisted.
He frowned, puzzled. "In the cave, your aptitude surged—I felt it. You didn't?"
She thought back. Something had shifted, a clarity, but no "force" stood out. "I can teach you to sense it," he offered. "Find it, you'll wield it."
Baisha checked her optic-link's clock. "Another day—orphanage chores call." Kitchen duty awaited; the old cook needed her. "Since you're stuck here and won't call home, stay put." She shared her contact. "Holler if you need me. Did, uh, that guy leave you a link?"
Zhou Yue held up a silver band—barebones, good for calls, alarms, payments, and… Tetris. Nothing else.
Baisha snorted, syncing her ID and wiring two thousand credits. "Stretch it," she said, wincing. "Backstreet's a ripoff."
He stared, floored by the cash.
"I've got two days left of leave," she said. "I'll swing by daily. After that, school's back—you're on your own."
"Academy?" he asked.
"Prep course," she clarified.
His eyes probed. "Not in academy yet, but faking merc gigs on the front?"
"Had to test my aptitude," she sighed. "No funds for main-star scans, too young for exams. DIY or bust."
His jaw slackened, stunned, as she left.
Over days, Zhou Yue coached her aptitude, patient as a monk, no rush despite his condition's stakes. His method, though? A mess.
He started with sensing aptitude—will's essence, he called it, demanding total focus. "It's living water," he said, "flowing anywhere. Don't force it—guide it." One minute, she'd tense; the next, relax. Her brain ached, no spark caught.
"Where'd you get this?" she groaned. "It's contradictory nonsense."
"My own experience," he said.
She flopped back, floored.
She asked about his rank once. He shrugged. "Family strings—means nothing. I hunt starbugs; a title just smooths border hops."
"Don't sell it short," she whistled. "Bug kills are pure merit."
"Report your grade," he said, slow, "and academies will fast-track you. Snag a rank, no sweat."
"Pass," she said, waggling a finger. "S-grade gets me auto-admits to Central?"
He shook his head. "Central's old-school—standard tests only. S-grade won't bend their rules."
"Then why bother?" she laughed. "Exams it is."
"You need to sense it," he pressed, blunt. "Without control, Central'll eat you alive."
"Your tips are too vague," she griped. "Like wizard babble."
He thought, then swung a fist. She blocked, but his kick caught her off guard, fluid, alien.
"What the—" she snapped.
"Combat wakes instinct," he said, stance shifting—some style she didn't know. "Let's see if it sparks you."
Baisha doubted it. Years of Jingyi's beatdowns never stirred anything. But Zhou Yue's moves carried intent—one slip, and she'd bleed. Five minutes in, her knuckles bled, lip bruised, yet no aptitude flared.
Exhausted—he from injury, she from drills—they collapsed, back-to-back, panting.
She nudged his spine, sharp under warm skin. "Is aptitude solid or… not?"
"Both," he said, cryptic as ever.
She mulled, that cave's bird-cry echoing in memory. Suddenly, a chirp—clear, close, like a sparrow dancing round her. Sweet, tiny.
She sighed. I'm losing it.
Days later, the chirps grew—nearer, vibrating her eardrums, painless. Following Zhou Yue's drills, they vanished mid-session. In that silence, she found it: a vast, lazy ocean inside, boundless, hers.
She melded with it, bending it like clay. Zhou Yue hadn't lied.
They sparred again, aptitude on. The world sharpened—she floored him in forty rounds, his stamina shot. Checking him, his pollution had stalled—her force clashing with his.
"No more shoulder claps," she grinned. "We'll just brawl your cure."
He stayed quiet.
"I'm onto you," she teased. "Called your illness terminal, then we crack a fix—you're not thrilled. I spot you cash, no joy. I master aptitude, still grumpy. Robot much?"
Zhou Yue blinked, lost.
He tried a smile—awkward, dodging.
She hit harder.