Baisha's flyer touched down at the orphanage just as Jingyi and Yaning, back for the weekend, spotted her. Yaning's grin broke wide, and he pulled her into a hug. "You're back!"
Days apart, yet seeing them felt like stepping out of a dream. But Yaning's next words shattered her calm.
"They say Huoman dragged you off-world to gut fish!" he blurted, eyes huge. "What's the deal? Weren't you at a mech-tech conference? Folks swear your fish-stink hits from five meters… smells fine to me, though."
Baisha's mouth twitched, her smile stiff as old leather.
Jingyi snorted. "You bought that?"
"Everyone's saying it!" Yaning protested.
"Not the fish nonsense," Jingyi said, eyeing Baisha sharp. "The conference claptrap. You and Huoman were up to something else, weren't you?"
Baisha's eyes crinkled, sly. "Can't fool you."
She spilled the truth—Huoman's merc stunt on Hanbo, her starbug kills, and the half-dead lieutenant she'd hauled to Lanslow. Yaning's jaw dropped, thrilled yet jealous. "That's wild! Huoman's a jerk—why not take us?"
"He said he could only babysit me," Baisha said, shrugging. "Barely managed that—faked a faint when the army rolled up. If luck hadn't kicked in, I'd be toast."
"You're a prep student," Jingyi growled, darkening. "Dragging you to a warzone's insane. One slip, you're dead."
"My choice," Baisha countered, scratching her cheek. "My path's niche—Liao and Huoman tried talking me out of it. I wouldn't budge. Now it's settled, no more doubts."
Yaning pouted. "You've got your aptitude locked. Me and Jingyi? Still clueless. If you ace Central and we flunk…" He winced as Jingyi pinched him.
"Quit whining," she snapped. "Life first, tests later. What's yours will come—wait for the academy exams."
Yaning rubbed his arm, then perked up. "Oh! Heard the Lucci family's funding our school—holo-cabins for prep! Lanslow's dirt-poor, no big training grounds. These cabins simulate any battlefield, with chips from rich-world academies. We'll see how the elite train!"
He hesitated. "Bad news, though. It's Parfen Lucci's dad. They're West Branch's sugar daddies now—everyone's in their debt."
Trouble for the trio. Teachers wouldn't hassle them—geniuses got leeway—but classmates? That was dicey.
"Don't sweat it," Baisha said. "We'll use their cabins. Just dodge Parfen, no fights, no fuss."
Jingyi scoffed. "With her ego? If her dad's bankrolling, she'll strut like a queen."
Next day, school buzzed—sixty sleek holo-cabins installed, enough for seniors. Freshmen like Baisha, still grinding basics, wouldn't touch them yet. Class felt emptier; seven or eight more had dropped out, faces fading like ghosts. No one blinked—it was normal.
Last period was combat. Baisha floored her sparring partner, routine, when Jingyi's stare pinned her. "Your fight sense—it's sharper."
"Really?" Baisha blinked. She'd held back her aptitude—unleashing it on unawakened kids was unfair—so nothing felt new.
Jingyi's brow arched. "Spar me."
Memories of Jingyi's beatdowns flooded back. Baisha gulped, spotting the gold flicker in Jingyi's eyes—warrior's fire. "Pass," she pleaded. "I'm a mech designer—squishy! Bully Yaning instead."
"No block, you're in," Jingyi grinned, whip snapping into stance.
The arena offered weapons—blades, whips, axes, mostly wood or safe alloys, low lethality. Students picked bare fists or gear to hone style. Jingyi, unmatched, grabbed a whip today—odd for her brutal flair. Most wielded whips for speed, but hers danced like a dragon, heavy yet fluid. Everyone dreaded it. Baisha, a gun girl, loathed close quarters and this matchup.
The whip lashed. Baisha snatched two knives, arms wide—one blade high, one low. The whip coiled her high blade; she yanked it back, straightening the cord, then slashed with the other. Jingyi closed fast, whip curling overhead to snare Baisha's second knife. She aimed an elbow at Baisha's gut, but Baisha let one knife go, using the whip's tension to lock both hilts—a makeshift Emei piercer, its tip grazing Jingyi's throat.
Jingyi froze, stunned. "Where'd you learn that trick? Can't we fight fair?"
"Deception's fair," Baisha quipped. "Mech weapons morph—mine'll have three forms, keep foes guessing."
Truth was, she'd cribbed it from Zhou Yue's blade work.
"You're knives, I'm whip," Jingyi said. "Material's a draw—blades don't break whips, whips don't snap blades. It's all instinct. You're a gunner, I get it, but mech designers face danger too. Train melee—it's no loss."
They sparred more, Jingyi maybe easing up, or Baisha truly growing. No lashes landed. A crowd formed, classmates pausing to gawk.
"Jingyi's unreal—no private coaching, so where's that whip skill from?"
"Baisha's no slouch now—she used to lag, but she's trading blows with Jingyi! Secret training?"
"Didn't she go gut fish for tuition?"
"Mech designer scrubbing fish for cash? You buying that?"
"Central's fees are brutal—forty-eight grand a year! Who's got that?"
"Central's got scholarships, though—no one drops for money. Saint-Cyr's worse—hundred grand yearly, plus extras. Four years there, you're half a mil in debt, slaving to repay loans."
Baisha and Jingyi ignored the chatter, eating packed lunches from the orphanage. Yaning, usually glued to them, rolled in an hour late, breathless, cheeks flushed.
"Sorry!" he gasped, tearing into his food. "Tried a holo-cabin in senior block…"
Baisha laughed. "Chill, swallow first. Cabins are class-only—snuck into senior lessons?"
"Nope," Yaning said, grinning. "Parfen. She's got cabin codes. Mid-morning, they were free, so she let me try. You won't believe it—there's a command sim! I ran four bot matches…"
"All wins?" Jingyi asked.
Yaning thumped his chest. "All losses!"
Baisha and Jingyi traded looks. "…"
"Losing's fine!" Yaning beamed. "Replays taught me tricks—stuff teachers skip, not even in books!"
"Maybe because command's for seniors," Baisha teased. Their classes were theory-heavy: weapons, troops, star systems, tactics.
"Extra prep's no harm," Yaning said, wistful. "Cabins are scarce—not like we can just jump in. Gotta thank Parfen—she pushed me to try command. Saw me crash four times, loved it. I played crushed, begged to train more at lunch. She bit, hook and all."
Baisha smirked. Yaning, naive or not, had command chops—baiting Parfen like a pro. If this was her revenge, bring it on.
He bounced off, buzzing like Baisha with her first optic-link. She glanced at Jingyi. "Thoughts?"
"Rich kids' toys," Jingyi said, shrugging.
True—holo-cabins mimicked senses for normies, not aptitudes. If they replaced reality, why did academies burn credits on training grounds? Still, cabins shone for flexibility, crafting any scenario—perfect for commanders or pilots to grind experience.
"Not curious?" Baisha nudged. "They've got combat sims—top academy data. Might find a fun foe."
Jingyi's eyes lit up. Their morning spar had left her hungry for more. Since Huoman quit coaching her, real fights were rare. "Seniors get dibs, though," she said.
"After hours, they're free," Baisha countered. "Yaning snuck in. He's hooked—bet he's back tonight. Tag along."
"Parfen won't play nice," Jingyi said.
"I've got a plan."
That afternoon, the inseparable duo split. During theory class, they ignored each other, cold as strangers. Rumors flew—Baisha's leave was a Loden aptitude test; she'd transfer soon. Her spar with Jingyi, now near-equal, had sparked a feud, Jingyi's pride stung.
Yaning, clueless, fretted, pleading with both to no avail, moping through lectures. Parfen smirked, savoring the rift, though a pang of envy hit—Baisha's confirmed grade marked her ascent, worlds apart.
After dinner, Jingyi cornered Parfen, face hard. "Cabin codes."
"Wanna try combat sims?" Parfen chirped, smug. "Sure—if you crush Baisha's ego in a fight, they're yours."
"Planned on it," Jingyi said, her edge like a drawn blade. "No one beats me."
Parfen handed over the codes—not for all cabins, just three her dad donated for her clique.
She thought she'd cracked the trio, until a day later, spotting Jingyi and Baisha sharing cherry tomatoes, cozy as ever.
Parfen gaped. "Weren't you fighting?"
"When?" Baisha popped a tomato, blank. "News to me."
Parfen's gears turned, then rage flared. "Jingyi!"
"Here," Jingyi said, cool, meeting her glare. "Calling me out? Name the day—I'll spar you."
Parfen's face twisted, but she stormed off, wise to their game. Another loss to the trio.
Baisha watched her go, then grinned at Jingyi. "Bored of the cabins already?"
"Combat sims are meh," Jingyi said. "High skill, but static—patterns emerge fast. Not like real foes. Huoman's better."
"Next time he's back, I'll corner him for you," Baisha promised.
"Think he'll bite? Feels like he's dodging me."
"He owes Liao cash and left me with the army," Baisha said, firm. "He won't say no."
Huoman's fate was sealed.
Parfen's wrath hit Yaning hardest, banned from her cabins. He'd cheered their prank but mourned the sims. "Cheer up," Baisha said. "We'll buy a dozen when we're rich."
"One's enough," Yaning whined.
"Tuition first," Baisha reminded. "Central's five grand a year."
"How much we got?" Yaning asked, hopeful.
They tallied separate savings. Yaning: one thousand. Jingyi: three. Baisha: "Sixty grand—wait, Huoman swiped my merc pay."
Silence. Only Baisha could scrape first-year fees. Central's aid came post-admission, and their budgets winced at an extra egg.
Yaning looked crushed. "I'm a broke nobody—no cabins for me. Next year, we'll rank up, use them free."
Baisha mused, "Kinda wanna gut fish on the front again."
"Zip it," Jingyi snapped, ruffling her hair. "We'll solve tuition. Lanslow's got aid for academy kids—not sure how much. Scholarships won't cover five grand. Gotta hustle."
Fast cash meant trouble—Lanslow's laws were tight. They'd grill Huoman or beg Madam Qiong for side gigs.
Weekend, free day.
Baisha, fixated on funds, flew to Backstreet. Her flyer's thruster growled—parts aging out. No spares on board, she'd hit a shop.
At the shabbiest repair joint, the boss, lounging with a smoke, blinked at her. "Liao's kid?"
Liao's name carried weight among Lanslow's wrench-turners. Baisha flashed a grin. "Hey, boss. Need parts—since you know my teacher, how's a discount?" She listed her needs; he nodded.
"Flyer trouble? Backstreet's cursed—vehicles break like clockwork here." He quoted a price, ten percent above market but a steal for Backstreet.
Baisha agreed—no labor fees, she'd fix it herself. Clutching parts, she parked by her flyer, borrowed the boss's creeper, and slid underneath. Mid-repair, needing a wrench from her toolbox, she spotted shiny boots nearby. "Buddy, grab the number-two wrench, yeah?"
The boots paused, then their owner crouched, passing her the tool. A pale, flawless hand—clean lines, like carved jade.
Baisha froze, rolling out. A youth stood there, striking: long black hair tied loose, a tailored coat over a crisp uniform, silver tassels glinting with twin badges. His face was art—black brows, white skin, a vivid contrast, beauty edged with something unearthly. Yet passersby ignored him, blind.
Aptitude cloaking—Zhou Yue's trick, bending minds to erase presence, ghost-bug style.
Up close, he echoed Zhou Yue—family, no doubt—but his allure was sharper, almost demonic. His aura pressed, deep and unreadable, setting Baisha's instincts ablaze.
"Hello," he said, his smile polished, manners perfect, yet laced with a viper's promise. "I'm Ning Hongxue, A-Yue's uncle."
Baisha's gut sank. Zhou's kin, here to settle scores?