Baisha's "Count me in" hung in the air, bold and unshaken. Huoman studied her for a long moment, his grin fading into something softer, almost heavy with respect. "You're serious," he said, his voice rough with quiet awe.
Baisha's lips curved, her blue eyes glinting with mischief. "I trust you, Teacher Huoman. You wouldn't lure me into some death trap, right? Madam Qiong and Gwyneth would have your hide."
Huoman blinked, caught off guard, then scratched his head with a wry chuckle. "Fair enough. But listen—if I take you, not a word to anyone. Not a whisper."
She nodded, sealing the pact.
Baisha had scoured the galactic web before, chasing scraps on mental aptitude tests. In the Interstellar Federation, academy hopefuls faced a unified exam, mental screening included, but the machines were rare and costly, confined to hub worlds like Loden Star—her region's trade jewel, a desert-lit beacon of garrisons and commerce. Three years from now, she, Yaning, and Jingyi would head there for the big test, aptitude and all. The elite, though, played by different rules. Noble kids got scanned at five, their families dropping credits to know their rank early.
Beyond those machines, Baisha had never heard of another way to gauge aptitude. Huoman stayed cagey, dodging details, only saying he needed time to prep. "Few days," he muttered, his liquor-tinged breath trailing as he left her with a cryptic nod.
Sunday faded, and school swallowed them again. One week in, the campus buzzed with new cliques, kids sorting into packs like stars clustering. Baisha and Jingyi stuck tight, their dorm a fortress for two. Yaning wasn't so lucky. At lunch, he plunked his tray down at their table, his freckled face sour. "My roommates froze me out," he grumbled, poking at a synth-steak. "Won't even invite me to the campus shop for snacks."
Baisha scooped a forkful of greens, her silver-gray hair catching the cafeteria's harsh light. "No sweat. We'll hit it together later."
"You've got it easy," Jingyi said, her fork stabbing a pork chop with enough force to dent the plate, her braid swinging with barely-leashed ire. "That Luzi idiot across the hall won't quit. Every day, it's snide jabs. I'm this close to snapping."
Yaning could've made friends—his charm was a magnet—but Parfen Luzi's shadow loomed. Her father's clout at Kangheng Biotech made her untouchable, and kids feared guilt by association. Jingyi could flatten a squad, as her beatdown proved, sending rich brats packing. But most lacked her fire. The trio's orphan status—rootless, fearless—left them exposed yet free. Parfen couldn't crush them outright, not here, so she settled for relentless needling, a wasp that wouldn't quit.
Parfen's dad wasn't just any suit—he swayed Kangheng's board, a titan in Lanslow's biotech empire. Her lackeys, drawn by promises of cushy gigs if they flunked out, trailed her like hounds. As long as Kangheng ruled Lanslow, Parfen's venom would flow unchecked.
The trio, green to this game of privilege, spent days on the defensive, dodging her barbs.
"Well, look who's huddled up again," came a voice, syrupy with scorn. Parfen swept by, her golden hair a blazing halo, her tailored jacket screaming wealth. Nico trailed her, pushing a sleek cart piled with delicacies—glistening fruits, pastries dusted with crystal sugar, nothing like the cafeteria's slop. "Straight from the orphanage, huh? That sour stink of poverty carries miles. No wonder you're friendless."
The cafeteria's din dipped, eyes turning but lips sealed. Parfen's arrogance grated on plenty, but her targets—Baisha, Jingyi, Yaning—were too bright, too bold. Top scorers, Central dreamers, unshakably proud despite their nothing-to-lose roots. Envy and awe split the crowd; few could bridge that gap.
Parfen zeroed in on Yaning's heaping tray, her lip curling. "Yaning Kelly, scarfing like you've never seen food. Cafeteria's too good for someone raised on scraps, huh? Can't stop shoveling?"
Yaning's face darkened, his fork pausing. "What's it to you? I'm training for an academy. Big appetite's no crime—I'm not fat."
Parfen tossed her head with a mocking "Hah!" She signaled Nico to roll the cart forward, ready to flaunt her elite spread, when Jingyi's head tilted, her eyes icing over. Her knife gleamed in her grip, poised like a threat. "Keep yapping," she said, voice low, "and this slips. Accidentally."
Parfen paled, the memory of Jingyi's fists flashing clear. She bit back her next taunt, spitting, "Yan Jingyi, I'm requesting a dorm swap tomorrow. I'm done rooming near savages."
"Good call," Baisha said, spooning salad, her tone light as air. "Some of your pals quit last week, right? Their rooms are free. Pick one—great feng shui for you."
Feng shui? More like the vibe of kids pummeled home in a week. Parfen spun on her heel, storming off, Nico scurrying behind.
Yaning flashed Baisha a thumbs-up, grinning wide. "Nailed it! You're the slickest talker we've got. That 'gentleman fears the path' bit at the rally—I didn't get it, but it sounded deep. Didn't know you could roast like that. Full marks in rhetoric for a reason!"
Baisha hid a smile, shaking her head. Parfen's jabs were playground stuff—petty, almost pitiful.
Afternoon drills bled into evening, capped by a mechanics lecture. For Baisha, it was nap time. Liao had drilled her on gears and circuits years ago; the teacher's basics were old news. She sprawled at her desk, flipping through "extracurricular" reads—tattered mech manuals from the school library, relics so rare they dodged the galactic web's archives. Outdated, sure, but their faded pages traced mech tech's evolution, a puzzle she pieced together with a skeptic's eye.
The teacher, a wiry man with a droning voice, had caught her reading before. He'd quizzed her, expecting to trip her up, only to find her answers sharper than his slides. Now he let her be, though today his tone shifted, a spark of intent breaking his monotone.
"We've covered cannon types and principles," he said, his voice rising, eyes flicking to Baisha. She perked up, sensing a shift, her manual forgotten. "Hundreds of guns out there, but missiles, energy, particle cannons dominate. Their mechanics vary by use. Take plasma rounds—ship-mounted versus mech-mounted. Same tech, worlds apart in complexity."
He paced, warming up. "Mech design's a beast. Tiny tweaks ripple hard, like pulling a thread and unraveling the whole damn cloth."
Baisha's focus drifted—he was preaching to her choir. Her nose dipped back to her book, until his next words snapped her upright.
"Today," he said, a sly edge cutting through, "I borrowed something special from the military museum. An obsolete mech cannon. Words alone won't show you how tough these beasts are to crack. So, I brought the real thing."
The room erupted—gasps, shouts, desks creaking as kids leaned forward. The teacher smirked, hauling a gray case from under his podium. He popped it open, revealing a crimson mech component, its surface scarred but sleek, its lines sharp enough to slice the air. Even worn, it hummed with untouchable power, a holy relic of war.
"Anyone who can map this cannon's guts," he said, eyes glinting, "gets a free pass. No more of my class."
The challenge hung, bold and impossible, as Baisha's fingers twitched, her heart already racing to tear it apart.