The other cadets are already in their mechs—clunky, safe, school-issued Torigata units with training wheels coded into every joint. But Kaelen’s file had a footnote. A flagged aptitude score. A recommendation from a certain Colonel Saito, whose last known location was a debris field near Jupiter.

SYNAPSE SYNCHRONIZATION: 94%

The hangar floor trembles as ten mechs stride toward the atmospheric catapult. Kaelen climbs the gantry, each step ringing against the metal. The cockpit of Shiden opens with a hiss—not polite, not inviting. It sounds like a beast clearing its throat.

G-force slams Kaelen into his seat. Shiden howls—a sound that is part engine, part screaming animal—and the Academy falls away behind him like a bad dream.

Ahead: the black. The cold. The first real combat drop of his life.

Mira’s voice drops to a whisper. "Colonel Saito used to say: 'The samurai’s sword is his soul. But a mech? A mech is just a really angry receipt for every war you thought you’d won.' "

"That's… specific," Kaelen says.

And somewhere in the code, buried deep in the v1.0.0 chaos, a line of programming that shouldn't exist.

"Stop touching it," says Handler Mira. She doesn't look up from her data-slate. Her prosthetic arm whirs as she taps a calibration command. "The neuro-link hasn't stabilized. You sneeze in that cockpit, the IFF system flags you as hostile, and the point-defense lasers turn you into a fine red mist."

"Final words of wisdom?" he asks, half-joking.

She pauses.

The catapult releases.

The hangar smells of ozone, hydraulic fluid, and fear.