Ash had become an enigma—a vault of endless potential that kept surprising even the most seasoned mech pilots. His mastery of fundamental techniques, such as the Thomas Spin or the Arc Step, shattered traditional notions of combat. Despite these being standard manoeuvres, Ash wielded them with unmatched fluidity and power. His skill transcended the idea that only advanced mechs or elaborate moves could decide victory. This renewed emphasis on the basics led many to compile Ash's accessible techniques into a sought-after textbook.
He never engaged in conversations and remained elusive, appearing only to challenge three opponents daily before vanishing. No one knew his identity or could uncover even a fragment of his background. This aura of mystery enthralled mech enthusiasts, fuelling their fascination with Ash’s unparalleled skills.
Unlike most, Ash didn’t stick to a single mech. Instead, he constantly switched between standard models, the kind more accessible to everyday pilots unable to afford costly modifications. These mechs often lacked the competitive edge of custom builds, yet Ash made them appear invincible. He squeezed every ounce of potential from each model, his ability to turn apparent weaknesses into overwhelming strengths captivating audiences worldwide.
Each time he adopted a new mech, his fighting style shifted radically. His creativity was boundless, and no one could predict his next move. Watching him was like observing a maestro who could turn the simplest tools into lethal weapons. Even Thornshield, ranked 82nd on the Farr Quadrant battle leaderboard, once confided to a friend, “If he piloted a mech equal to mine, I’m not sure I could beat him.”
Ash’s combat recordings became the hottest commodities on the virtual net. His battles weren’t just fights—they were lessons, inspiring countless pilots to return to their roots. Yet, amidst the storm of adoration he had stirred, Ash remained detached, uninterested in the fame. For him, it was never about recognition; it was about survival. His entire focus lay in strengthening himself to endure the harsh realities of Garbage Planet 12.
Rune, ever the observer, remarked during one of Ash’s rigorous training sessions, “That low-angle multi-directional movement isn’t bad. I might borrow that idea.”
What followed was another gruelling addition to Ash’s daily regimen: piloting Rune in simulations. Rune’s mech could perform up to twenty sharp, low-angle turns within three seconds, a feat so demanding that Ash initially emerged from the cockpit pale and trembling. His legs wobbled uncontrollably before he staggered out and vomited.
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Rune, grinning mischievously, confessed, “Oh, I turned off the hydraulic buffer system in the cockpit.”
Ash could only glare weakly, utterly spent.
“Well,” Rune continued with mock seriousness, “it seems you’re holding up better than expected. I think we can push the intensity a little higher!”
By the second day, Rune had indeed increased the training level, much to Ash’s dismay. But Ash’s resilience proved remarkable. Within a week, his body adapted, and this once-agonising exercise became the most manageable part of his daily routine.
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Meanwhile, tension brewed elsewhere.
“Lost contact?” Geben's voice echoed with disbelief as he glared at Mr. Qiu, the family steward.
“Yes, sir. I’ve tried every channel, but those four Grey Domain Controllers seem to have vanished,” Mr. Qiu responded, his tone tinged with fear. “It’s as if they were wiped from existence.”
“What are you suggesting?”
Mr. Qiu hesitated, then whispered, “There’s a rumour among the Controllers—some of the most powerful can use the virtual net to disrupt neural pathways in their enemies. I fear this may be their fate.”
Geben frowned, sceptical. “And you expect me to believe this? Sounds like an excuse for your incompetence.”
“I swear, sir!” Mr. Qiu insisted. “Every task you assign, I handle personally with the utmost care.”
“Hmm.” Geben’s narrowed eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “Fine. Let’s drop it for now. But if anything else happens—”
“Of course, young master,” Mr. Qiu quickly added, “Your decisiveness is truly inspiring.”
The faintest smirk touched Geben’s lips, his ego sufficiently stroked.
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Far away, Angel—a skilled Grey Domain Controller—hadn't dared enter the virtual net for three days. Anxiety gnawed at him like a relentless parasite.
“Why did I accept that job?” he muttered in his darkened room, his voice breaking under the weight of regret. The memory of that encounter played on a loop in his mind, a nightmare that refused to fade.
The virtual net had always been his refuge, his sky. Now, the idea of logging in felt like a death sentence. Yet the isolation was slowly driving him insane.
On the fifth day, Angel’s once-vivid complexion had faded to a ghostly pallor. By the eighth, desperation overtook him. He could no longer bear the gnawing paranoia. With trembling hands, he reached for his virtual headset.
“What if I’m just overthinking this?” he reasoned weakly.
His fingers brushed the cold metal of the helmet. For a moment, he froze, caught between fear and resolve. Then, with a shaky breath, he donned it and logged in.
The bustling digital world welcomed him with its usual chaos, avatars zipping past in a blur. Slowly, his nerves began to settle. Perhaps, he thought, the danger was all in his mind.
He wandered aimlessly for a while, blending into the crowd. Relaxing, Angel even began humming to himself, his confidence tentatively returning. Just as he decided to visit a Grey Domain Controllers’ hub to investigate the mysterious YC, disaster struck.
A ripple of distortion coursed through the virtual net, freezing everything in place. Angel’s heart plummeted as a foreboding presence loomed.