The mech cannon gleamed under the classroom's harsh lights, a battered relic that stole every breath. Who hadn't dreamed of piloting a mech, tearing across battlefields in a titan of steel? Mechs were humanity's ultimate weapon, the Federation's genius forged into unstoppable machines. Even Parfen, daughter of a Kangheng Biotech titan, froze in awe—her father's clout couldn't buy one. Mechs belonged to the military, their tech locked tight by federal decree, untouchable to all but the elite.
"This cannon's from a C-grade mass-production mech," the teacher said, his voice cutting through the hush. "Retired twenty years, a museum piece. Without that, I'd never have gotten it here." His eyes flicked to Baisha, probing for a flinch. "Mechs evolve fast—this is a fossil now, but its guts are still a maze. Most mechanics wouldn't know where to start."
It was a trap, cooked up in faculty huddles: show Baisha how brutal mech work was, scare her off her designer dream. Let her taste the impossible, and she'd pivot to something saner.
"I'll say it again," he declared, arms crossed. "Anyone who cracks this cannon's structure skips my class for good."
The room laughed, taking it for a jest. They'd barely scratched mechanics, one chapter in. Dissect a mech part? That was like tossing a toddler into a starship race. Giggles bounced off the walls, but Baisha's face stayed still, her blue eyes tracing the cannon's scars. The teacher smirked inwardly—perfect bait to shake her.
Baisha's mind, though, ran a different track. Her pulse quickened, not from fear but thrill—this was her first real mech piece, not a holo or sketch. Sure, it was outdated, dissected to death on mech forums by nerds like her. She'd pored over those threads, swapped notes with "ClearShadowOverRiver," her anonymous ally who'd sent her reams of old schematics. A C-grade cannon? Child's play.
But should she bite? The teacher's ploy was transparent—his acting flimsier than a junkyard hull. This was a nudge to quit, a staged hurdle to "save" her. Play along today, and tomorrow he'd raise the bar. Still, skipping mechanics class was tempting. Her nights were stretched thin, sneaking mech models under blankets after lights-out, her optic-link's tiny screen straining her eyes in stuffy air. Freedom from this course meant more time to chase her real work.
She stood, her voice clear. "Teacher, you mean it?"
The room fell silent, heads swiveling. The teacher's eye twitched, caught off guard. "What?"
"Can we tweak the deal?" Baisha pressed, unfazed. "No classes, but I take the exams, and they set my grade."
Mechanics included daily scores. If she ditched and he zeroed her participation, she'd flunk despite acing tests. She wasn't gambling blind.
The teacher barked a laugh, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Think I'm some schemer? Fine. Crack this, and you're free—full daily marks, no strings."
"Thanks," Baisha said, stepping to the podium. She rolled up her sleeves, unclipping a silver tool pouch from her belt. It unfurled, revealing a neat row of drivers, probes, and pliers, each glinting like a tiny blade.
The teacher gaped. "You carry that on you?"
"Gotta have tools to crack a part," Baisha said, calm as ever, picking a driver and spinning it in her palm, the metal flashing. "Can't exactly x-ray it with my eyes."
He tensed, voice rising. "What're you doing?"
"Disassembling," she said, like it was obvious. "It's just C-grade. No aptitude needed—it won't blow."
"Blow?" The teacher choked, lunging to snatch the cannon, his mechanic's instincts screaming. But Baisha was faster, scooping it up. Gasps rippled through the class, every heart in their throats, braced for a blast that never came.
Baisha studied the cannon, tilting it under the light. Seconds ticked, then her tools moved—swift, precise. Screws popped free, panels slid off, wires uncoiled. In moments, the cannon was a sprawl of parts on the desk, a dissected puzzle laid bare.
The teacher stared, speechless. She'd done it—ripped the thing apart like it was a toy.
But Baisha didn't stop. She froze, ignoring the scattered bits, and tapped her optic-link, fingers flying. The teacher snapped awake, nearly howling. "You broke it?"
"Isn't that the point?" Baisha said, not looking up, her tone dry.
He slammed the desk, eyes glistening with panic. "How do I explain this to the museum? I borrowed it whole!"
"Relax," she said, still tapping. "You asked for the structure, not just a teardown. I'm setting up a holo-display—trying to link my optic-link."
She wanted visuals—her software could map the cannon cleaner than words. A soft click sounded; the link synced to the room's holo-screen. Light flared, projecting her interface, its glow catching the teacher's stunned face.
Baisha's fingers danced, weaving lines of light. From the cannon's shell inward, she built it—part by part, layer by layer. Joints locked, conduits pulsed, energy paths glowed. It was a fortress rising from nothing, flawless, exact, each piece slotted with surgical care. The class watched, dumbstruck, as a digital cannon took shape, its innards bared in ruthless detail.
"Done," Baisha said, stepping back. Ten minutes had passed, though it felt like eons. "That's as far as I go."
The teacher blinked, surfacing from a trance.
"Any deeper, and I'd hit restricted tech," she added, sighing. "No mech designer license yet—spilling core secrets in public gets you locked up. Federal law, sixty-year embargo. But I can talk design principles, materials, upgrades—open stuff."
She turned, warming to the crowd, her voice steady but alive. She broke down the cannon's quirks—alloys, stress points, why newer models ditched its frame—teaching like it was her stage. The teacher sank into a front-row seat, scribbling notes, his jaw slack.
Yaning leaned to Jingyi, whispering, "Should we pull her back? She's high on this."
Baisha was cool-headed most days, but Yaning knew her spark. This was her first mech, her hands practically singing as they tore it down. Excitement bled through her calm, a quiet fire.
Jingyi shook her head. "Let her cook."
Yaning glanced ahead, spotting the teacher—their teacher—engrossed, pen flying. He snorted, slumping back. Baisha was done with this class, no question.
Her lecture rolled on, a lone voice slicing through fog. The students barely followed, their heads spinning: She cracked a mech cannon. She mapped it—actually mapped it. To them, she wasn't Baisha anymore—she was an alien, a prodigy hiding in plain sight.
Only the teacher kept pace, his notes piling up until the bell cut her off. He swept the parts into the case, barely glancing at them, and beckoned Baisha. "Office. Now."
Kids grumbled—she hadn't reassembled it, and they'd wanted a peek. Chatter erupted, alive with shock. "Mech designers are kinda badass," one said. "Mechanics too," another shot back, faces flushed with new dreams.
Parfen alone stayed grim, her golden hair a stark frame for her pale scowl. As she passed Jingyi, she paused, voice low. "You didn't know she could do that?"
"Knew a bit," Yaning cut in, blunt. "Not your business."
"It's your business," Parfen snapped, her eyes boring into them. "That talent—anyone saying she's got none is blind. But Lanslow can't train a mech designer. They'll test her aptitude. She'll go to Loden Star, maybe get snatched by a military zone, fast-tracked to an academy."
Her lips tightened, voice dropping. "She'll transfer. Leave you behind. Never come back to Lanslow. You really have no thoughts on that?"