“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 words lingered like cold iron in the humid air of the service bay. Beside him, Qingyi shook, her shoulder pressing tight against his arm as Vang watched. The elder’s eyes, like polished obsidian chips, flickered between them, savoring the blow he’d just delivered.
“A… physical mech?” Qingyi’s voice was a strained whisper, her gaze locking with Wanchen’s. Her baseline palsy, usually concealed, showed in the rhythmic twitching beneath her ear. “But… Wanchen doesn’t have the genetic interface. His reflex circuits wouldn’t register a basic handshake, let alone full harness sync.”
Vang’s smile widened, a thin, cruel slash across his face. “Precisely, my dear wrench. A minor oversight, wouldn’t you agree? But perhaps the esteemed Lu Wanchen can simply rely on his antique disciplines to dismantle a seventy-ton biped with his bare hands.” He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that promised ruin. “The Council is quite keen on this… demonstration of biological superiority. It will be quite the spectacle. I suggest you both begin preparations. The semi-finals are in three days.” With a final, lingering look of satisfaction, Vang turned and strode out, his synthetic cloak swishing like a serpent’s tail, leaving behind an oppressive vacuum.
Qingyi slumped against a nearby workbench, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The vibrant neon signs outside cast long, distorted shadows through the grimy viewport, making the piles of scrap metal seem like predatory beasts. “Three days, Wanchen. It’s impossible. Without an augmented spine, you can’t step inside an Aegis chassis without an immediate shunt error. The bio-feedback alone would cook your brain.” She wrung her hands, a gesture of desperate helplessness. “This is Vang’s way of ensuring you fail. He’s taking away your advantage, forcing you into a game you can’t play.”
Wanchen placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch a steadying anchor. “Then we change the game, Qingyi. We build one I *can* play.” He scanned the clutter across the concrete, measuring angles and discarded hulls. “Remember what I told you about Qi? How it flows, how it interacts with the physical world? The frames here are constructed to amplify biological impulses. What if we build one that amplifies… something else?”
Qingyi lifted her head, a flicker of bewildered hope in her fatigued eyes. “Something else? Like what?”
“Kinetic force,” Wanchen stated, his voice calm, resolute. “Pure leverage. We don’t need a bio-jack if the armature simply follows my own limbs, rather than an interface for synthetic synapses. A strictly manual rig, driven by my posture and Qi.”
Qingyi stared at him, then at the rusting chassis of a forgotten utility mech half-buried under a tarp in the corner. A slow, almost imperceptible spark ignited in her eyes, chasing away some of the weariness. “A purely analog mech… No splice implants, no Star Network protocols, just raw counterweights and a pilot’s balance. It’s insane. It’s… brilliant.” A wry smile touched her lips. “And I think I might just have the perfect frame for it.”
She moved with a renewed, frantic energy, pulling back the tarp to reveal a skeletal, multi-jointed frame, originally cast for heavy cargo lifting, its actuators powered by hydraulic pistons. It was a centuries-old relic, long discarded by the Aegis Conservatory. “I’ve been tinkering with this for months,” she explained, her voice gaining a feverish edge. “A private project. I wanted to build a rig that bypassed fragile cranial ports entirely. Something robust, something… honest.” She gestured to a complex array of gears, cables, and spring-loaded counterweights. “I rigged it with reinforced pulleys and internal gyros to translate large-scale leverage into joint articulation. It’s slow, unrefined, but it steps forward without a spliced pilot.”
For the next two days, the workshop rang beneath their hammers. Wanchen, despite his worsening internal petrification, worked tirelessly, helping Qingyi reinforce the frame, reroute power conduits, and integrate the kinetic translation system. Qingyi, ignoring her own tremors, welded an open cabin that let Wanchen drive the steel frame with full-body stances, turning the iron husk into heavy armor guided by classical forms. They dubbed it the ‘Echo.’
On the third day, as the semi-finals approached, they hauled the Echo into the center floor for its first run. It was a lumbering, patchwork beast of dull grey metal, scavenged parts, and exposed wiring, a stark contrast to the sleek, hyper-efficient machines of the Aegis fleet. Wanchen climbed into the rig, the cold metal pressing through his tunic. He breathed deep, guiding his Qi into the iron levers, coaxing the hydraulics to hiss and the steel cables to bite.
Slowly, ponderously, the Echo rose. It took a hesitant step, then another. Wanchen shifted his weight into an opening stance, the frame's broad struts mirroring his posture with a heavy grind. A grin, genuine and unburdened, spread across his face. “It works, Qingyi! It actually works!”
Before Qingyi could respond, a high-pitched whine sliced through the air, followed by the searing scent of ionized particles. A crimson bolt sheared out from the shadows near the depot's blast doors, slamming into the Echo’s shoulder with a harsh clang. Sparks showered. Wanchen stumbled in the harness as the scaffold rattled violently.
“Look what we have here. The legendary anomaly and his pet greasemonkey, playing with scrap.”
A figure emerged from the smoke, clad in matte obsidian plating. An industrial plasma cutter hummed sharply in his grip. His face, visible through a transparent visor, was a mask of cold fury, bearing a striking resemblance to the Iron Butcher. “My brother is still undergoing cortical recalibration after your display in the ring,” the intruder snarled. “I’ve come to ensure you rot more permanently, Wanchen.”
Qingyi scrambled for an iron pipe, backing away. “A line Centurion—frontline tier!”
Wanchen unhitched his harness and dropped from the cradle to the deck, drawing the intruder's glare while the motionless Echo loomed behind.
The intruder advanced, the glowing edge carving crimson trails. “No spliced marrow, no powered exoskeleton, just a failing heart and a useless relic hilt.” He lunged straight for Wanchen’s sternum.
Wanchen didn’t move. His gaze swept the immediate vicinity, landing on a janitorial cart. An ash-wood broom shaft leaned against it. He seized the haft, driving his Qi along the grain until the dense timber turned rigid as tempered steel. He deflected the red arc, wood meeting superheated plasma with a resounding crack that numbed the intruder's wrist.
The Centurion fell back, shocked. “What did you—?”
Wanchen didn’t give him time to recover. Wanchen stepped inside the guard, the staff turning end over end. He drove the tip into the suit’s vulnerable flex-points—the unprotected elbow seal, then the soft hollow behind the knee. The armored man stumbled, his gear insulated against particle beams rather than blunt, concentrated pressure. He brought his laser blade around in a wide arc, aiming to bisect Wanchen.
Ducking under a wide swipe that scorched the air, Wanchen thrust the ash tip directly into the power conduit along the man's left thigh. Imbued with internal Qi, the wood cracked the casing like a sledge, discharging the circuit in a bright burst that left the exoskeleton twitching dead.
“My suit!” Vos roared, enraged. He stumbled, losing his balance, the laser blade wavering. Wanchen swept the shaft across his ankles, upending him. Vos crashed to the grimy floor, his armor sparking, his laser blade clattering away, inert.
Shift crewmen huddled near the catwalks, frozen in disbelief. A highly augmented Centurion, brought down by a cadet with a wooden stick. The humiliation burned in Vos’s eyes as he struggled to rise, his suit sputtering.
“You baseline freak!” the fallen Centurion snarled through gritted teeth. “You’ll pay for this! We’ll all pay!” With a guttural cry, he slammed his hand against a concealed panel on his wrist. A sequence of shrill chimes rang through the bay, followed by an automated klaxon: “Overload charge armed. Facility structural compromise imminent.”
Qingyi gasped, her face draining of color. “He tripped the auxiliary cell!” Qingyi yelled. “The ceiling supports are blowing!”
A terrible groan ripped through the vast structure. Metal screamed as girders buckled. Above them, overhead trusses buckled as severed conduits discharged through the framework. Slabs of concrete and sheared rivets plummeted toward the deck. Wanchen dove across the gap, tucking Qingyi beneath his chest as the roof came down.