The acceptance letter arrived like a hard-won trophy, its digital seal glowing on Baisha's optic-link. Military prep school loomed, and with it, a fresh chapter. The training grounds weren't at Lanslow Middle School's main campus but at the West District branch, a government-sanctioned sprawl carved into barren hills far from the city's pulse. The site was a blank canvas for drills, surrounded by desolate scrubland where the only signs of life were a transit hub and endless dust. No malls, no markets—just supplies doled out by the school, a lifeline in the wilderness.
The West District ran on a boarding system, half military in its iron grip. Sundays were the sole day of freedom; any other escape required a teacher's pass, scribbled with grudging approval. New students had to haul their own gear—bedding, clothes, the works—to settle into dorms that promised little but a roof.
On reporting day, Baisha, Yaning, and Jingyi boarded a public hoverbus, their arms laden with bags. Yaning and Jingyi traveled light, packing just essentials—blankets, a few shirts—figuring they'd ferry extras on weekly trips back. Baisha, though, was a different story. Her luggage bulged, heavy enough to make Yaning grunt as he and Jingyi lent hands to heft it.
"Stars, Baisha," Yaning huffed, hoisting a dense duffel, his red hair flopping into his eyes. "This bag's tiny but weighs a ton. What's in here?"
"Toolbox," Baisha replied, her silver-gray hair catching the bus's dim lights as she adjusted her grip on another sack.
Yaning's face lit with understanding. He'd seen her toolbox—a chaotic trove of wrenches, drivers, and gizmos that could dazzle anyone. "Right. Makes sense." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Moving's rough for a mechanic."
"Mechanic?" Baisha shot him a look, one brow arched sharp. "I'm aiming for mech designer."
Yaning grinned, undeterred. "Sure thing, Mech Designer Majesty. Mind digging into my pack? Got three beef cans in there. Lugging this from the orphanage to the station's got me starving."
Jingyi, seated beside them, scowled, her braid tight as her mood. "No eating on the hoverbus. Rules."
"Come on, don't be a drill sergeant," Yaning teased, snagging a can from Baisha and tossing one to Jingyi's lap. "One each. Live a little!"
Jingyi caught it, her glare softening to a reluctant smirk. Outside, the world blurred past—Lanslow's gray sprawl melting into streaks of light. The hoverbus glided smoothly, hitting three transit stops in half an hour before pulling into the West District campus, a cluster of stark buildings ringed by rocky hills.
The dorms were a short trek from the drop-off. Yaning peeled off toward the boys' block, waving with a mock salute, leaving Baisha and Jingyi to check the girls' roster. Baisha's heart lifted—she and Jingyi were roomed together, a favor she'd slipped in when collecting her scholarship. The school, surprisingly, had agreed.
The dorms were basic but a step up from the orphanage's creaky bunks. Two girls to a room, each with a toilet; two rooms shared a lounge and bath. Baisha and Jingyi claimed 301A, across from 301B. The place was silent when they arrived, their footsteps echoing as they made beds and stowed gear. Baisha's toolbox clunked onto a shelf, its weight denting the wood. Soon, the hall stirred—boots scuffing, voices rising.
A knock came. Two girls from 301B stood at the door. One, round-faced and doe-eyed, radiated warmth, her smile shy but genuine. The other was a vision of wealth—golden hair cascading in waves, her clothes and bag screaming credits. Her posture dripped confidence, bordering on disdain.
"Hi," the blonde said, extending a manicured hand like a queen awaiting tribute, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I'm Parfen Luzi. This is my roommate, Nico."
Baisha shook her hand, firm but brisk, exchanging names. Jingyi followed, her nod cool. But when Baisha said "Baisha," Parfen's warmth chilled, her gaze sharpening as she scanned them.
"Baisha. Yan Jingyi," Parfen repeated, lips curling faintly, as if tasting something sour. "First and second in the entrance exam, right?" Her eyes flicked over Baisha's plain jacket, Jingyi's no-frills braid. "From the orphanage, I heard?"
Her tone twisted "orphan" into something uglier, like "stray" or worse. Baisha's jaw tightened, Jingyi's eyes flashing beside her. They'd faced this kind before—sneers wrapped in silk, words meant to cut. Any hope of small talk died.
"Yep, that's us. Top two," Baisha said, her voice flat as she gripped the door handle, already done. "Seen enough? Cool. Bye."
The door slammed with a satisfying thud. Parfen's shocked eyes—wide as saucers—were the last thing Baisha saw through the narrowing gap.
"Day one, and we get her," Jingyi muttered, tossing her bag onto her bed. "Bad omen."
"She knew about the orphanage," Baisha said, pacing the small room, her boots scuffing the tiles. "School doesn't broadcast that we're orphans who topped the exam. She dug into us. Who's got time for that?"
Her mind churned, and a spark of memory flared—Parfen Luzi, eighth in the entrance rankings. The school had posted the list, all three hundred names. Baisha's near-photographic recall, a gift from her strange crossing into this world, locked it in.
Jingyi's face was stone. "She's got issues. Next time she starts something, I'm knocking her teeth out."
In Jingyi's world, fists solved what words couldn't. Baisha raised a hand, calming her. "Let's not escalate. Yet."
By two p.m., their gear was stowed, the dorm livable. The campus auditorium called, a cavernous hall where all new students gathered for the welcome speech. Baisha recognized the speaker instantly—the finish-line teacher from the trial, his rigid frame and steely gaze unchanged. His voice carried the same unyielding edge, now amplified to fill the room.
"Congratulations on passing," he began, standing at the podium, his uniform crisp against the stage's stark lights. "You're the best of Lanslow's next generation. If you weren't, you wouldn't be here."
He leaned forward, eyes sweeping the crowd. "This isn't just a school—it's a military prep class. Why 'class' for a hall this big? Because three years from now, when you face the Federation's unified academy exam, history says only twenty percent of you will make it. Three hundred start; sixty test. Ask where the rest go? They're failures. And failures belong where trash does."
His voice spiked, sharp as a blade. "You're here for those two words: military academy. Pass, and you leave Lanslow's dust behind, become somebody. But who gets there? Not me to decide—you."
He slammed the podium, the sound a thunderclap. "Now, everyone, out! Twenty laps around the field, then back here. One by one, you'll shout your dream academy. Run out of breath or mumble, and you're packing tonight!"
His roar, boosted by speakers, hit like a beast's growl, daring the lambs to scatter. But these kids had survived the Devil's Road. No one flinched. They filed out, forming ranks under the blazing sun. The field, vast as the trial grounds, shimmered with heat. Twenty laps tested them—sweat soaked Baisha's shirt, her legs burning—but most held steady, trudging back to the hall with breath to spare.
The roll call began, names drawn at random, no longer tied to exam ranks. Students climbed the two-meter stage, some trembling, others sweating through their bravado. They named their academies, voices cracking—mid-tier schools mostly, safe bets among the Federation's nine. Hesitation earned a bark from the teacher: "Again!" Fear of his knife-like stare kept bolder dreams—Central, Saint-Cyr—locked away, self-doubt whispering I'm not enough.
Then Yaning took the stage.
He sauntered up, all loose swagger, his grin defiant under the teacher's glare. Grabbing the mic, he leaned in and bellowed, "Federation Central Military Academy, Command Track!"
His voice boomed, raw and alive, shaking the hall. The teacher, half-deafened beside him, froze, jaw tight.
Yaning and Jingyi had settled years of debate—Central versus Saint-Cyr—with both picking Central, their ambitions aligned. The crowd stirred, a ripple of awe breaking the tension.
The teacher's temple pulsed, but he shoved Yaning off, calling, "Next!"
Jingyi ascended, her face a mask of calm. She spoke clear and firm: "Federation Central Military Academy, Mech Pilot Track."
Silence gripped the room. She bowed to the teacher, crisp and deliberate, then strode off, her braid swinging.
Their boldness cracked the ice. The mood lightened, students climbing the stage with brighter eyes, voices steadier as they named their dreams. Baisha clapped from below, her hands stinging, caught in a wave of nostalgia. It felt like a high school rally from her old life—fervor and hope, tinged with ache.
"Last one," the teacher called. "Number 001, Baisha. Your turn."
She hadn't expected to close the show, but fate loved its twists. Baisha stepped forward, her boots steady on the stage's worn planks. At the mic, she paused, the weight of every gaze pressing in. She exhaled, her blue eyes scanning the crowd—not defiant, not timid, just present.
"Baisha," she said, voice even. "Federation Central Military Academy, Mech Design Track."
A hush swallowed the hall, her words hanging soft but unbroken. No one demanded a redo.
She leaned closer, her tone dropping, each syllable carved with quiet fire. "The noble fear the path, not poverty. Who says a frontier kid can't be a mech designer?"