Wanchen’s chest still burned, a phantom echo of the systemic shock. His lungs dragged for air, each intake rasping like torn silk. Yet the sharp burn across his ribs sank beneath the cold dread settling in his gut. His gaze, still blurred, cleared enough to fix on the console’s illuminated text, a terrible, intimate violation of Qingyi’s privacy. *Terminal. Remaining function estimate: 28 days.* The words blared, merciless and stark, mocking the frantic relief he’d felt just seconds before. Qingyi stared at him, her eyes wide, glistening with unshed tears. The smudges of grease on her cheekbones seemed like war paint now, a desperate camouflage. Her hand, still poised over the ‘Execute’ command, began to tremble violently, a tremor that resonated with the silent scream in Wanchen’s own chest. She saw that he saw. The air between them hung suspended, taut and fragile. He pushed himself up, ignoring the protest of his abused body, and reached for her. His fingers brushed her arm, light as a feather. “Qingyi,” he rasped, his voice raw. “How long?” Her head snapped back as if struck. “W-Wanchen, I… it’s nothing. A glitch. The diagnostic ran wild because of the unscheduled override.” Her voice was thin, fragile, a transparent lie. She gestured wildly at the screen, her hand shaking so hard her entire arm vibrated. He held her gaze, steady and unflinching. “Qingyi. We both know what that means.” He closed the distance, gently taking her trembling hand, his thumb tracing the oil-stained skin. The delicate bones felt impossibly frail beneath his touch. “And I know what ‘neural degradation, stage four’ means. I read the reports at the Conservatory. The ones they hide from the public.” The last vestiges of her composure shattered. A choked sob escaped her, and she crumpled, burying her face in his shoulder. Her small, lithe frame shook with the force of her grief, a silent earthquake. “It’s… it’s been months, Wanchen. I tried to fix it. Every night, after you left, I plugged myself into the diagnostic rigs, trying to re-splice the neural pathways. But it just keeps… fraying.” Her words were muffled against his tunic, wet with her tears. “Twenty-eight days, Wanchen. Twenty-eight days until my mind turns to static.” He held her tighter, the ache beneath his sternum deeper than any torn muscle. The truth, exposed and raw, bound them in a shared, chilling embrace. “And I,” he murmured, his voice thick with a confession he hadn’t meant to utter so soon, “have less than ninety. My core, it’s… petrifying. From the inside.” He felt her stiffen in his arms, her sobs hitching. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers, seeing the dawning horror, the mirror of his own despair reflected in their depths. “The Genesis Pod. It’s the only way for either of us.” She looked up at him, her face tear-streaked, but a new, terrible understanding blossoming in her eyes. “The Pod… it’s for one,” she whispered, the words barely audible. “Only one life can be reset.” The reality struck between them like an iron hammer. The Zenith Tournament, his desperate scramble for survival, had just taken on a new, crushing weight. He wouldn’t win it for himself anymore. He couldn’t. He gripped her shoulders, a fierce resolve hardening his gaze. “Then I will win it for you.” Qingyi stared, speechless, her own tragedy momentarily eclipsed by the enormity of his sacrifice. “Wanchen, no. Your life… it’s just as precious.” “My purpose has always been to protect,” he said, his voice quiet but absolute. “You are the kindest soul I know. You deserve more time. I will survive this long enough to get you to that Pod.” He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Now, we work. When is my next match?” Shaken but galvanised, Qingyi nodded, pulling away to her console. Her fingers, though still trembling, flew across the holo-keyboard. “The roster. It’s too random. We need to manipulate the algorithms, force a favourable bracket.” Lines of code scrolled, a vibrant cascade of data. Her face, though pale, was alight with concentration, the mechanic’s fierce intelligence momentarily overshadowing the dying woman within. “The match-making matrix is designed to prevent player collusion, but there are always backdoors, vulnerabilities in the data streams if you know where to look.” Minutes later, the Star Network’s notification chimed on the console. “There!” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with triumph. “I’ve nudged you into the ‘Dreadnought Gauntlet’ path. Your next opponent, Xylar, uses a heavy siege mech, slow but powerful. It plays to your strengths, Wanchen. More joints, more vulnerabilities.” Just as Wanchen leaned in to study the updated bracket, the hangar door hissed open, flooding the grimy space with the sterile light from the corridor outside. Arch-Splicer Vang strolled in, unannounced, a faint, synthetic scent of ozone preceding him. His robes, woven with threads that shimmered like captured starlight, seemed out of place amidst the oil slicks and discarded components. “Well, well,” Vang purred, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic beauty of Qingyi’s workshop, landing on a rack of finely tuned neural calipers. He picked one up, his long, elegant fingers turning it over. “Such… dedication to the craft. A rare quality these days, when most prefer the elegance of pure genetics.” His eyes, ancient and knowing, flickered to Qingyi, then to Wanchen, a thinly veiled warning in their depths. “It would be a pity for such a promising mechanic to be… recycled. Especially if her champion were to lose his motivation.” He stepped slightly in front of Qingyi, shielding her, his senses flaring as he traced the familiar, nauseating resonance of Vang’s corrupted Qi. The elder’s casual threat hung in the air, a poisoned barb. Vang merely smiled, a predatory curve of his lips. “Speaking of motivation, Wanchen, I have some exhilarating news regarding the Zenith Tournament. The Council has just approved a groundbreaking new directive. To truly showcase the undeniable superiority of the genetically augmented, they’ve decreed a significant rule change for the semi-finals, effective immediately.” He paused, letting the silence build, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. “The final two rounds will no longer be fought in the virtual realm. From here on, all semi-finalists will pilot actual mechas in the open arena.”

The Glass Truth