Chapter 112: Who The Hell Are You?

The missile had a long cooldown—sixty seconds—which meant most players saved it for critical moments. But Neville had learned from watching other people play that sometimes the best time to use a powerful ability was when your opponent least expected it.

The moment [StormRaider]’s mecha rounded the corner, boosting confidently into what should have been an easy pursuit, Neville was ready.

He had already locked the automatic targeting system onto his predicted trajectory path and opened the retractable projectile artillery from his right shoulder. The missile launcher unfolded, painting [StormRaider]’s center mass with a red dot that the other player couldn’t see.

Fire.

A burst of triple successive plasma projectiles erupted from the launcher. It flew across the space between them in a brilliant orange spread. The attack caught [StormRaider] center mass.

The last one burst some asteroid dust from a nearby rock and sent [StormRaider]’s mecha staggering backward. Shields flickered from 100% down to 67% in an instant.

The enemy mecha recovered, but not before Neville pressed forward and fired with his light pulse gun precisely. His opponent’s left shoulder joint had taken a direct hit, the armor plating scorched and smoking.

When [StormRaider] raised the pulse rifle in that arm to return fire, the motion was sluggish, and the targeting was obviously affected.

Neville boosted hard to the right, using his mecha’s superior positioning. He took a note of his [StormRaider]’s damaged arm to dodge the reckless firing. Plasma bolts sizzled past him, missing by meters as [StormRaider] continued to fire in frustration.

Then Neville closed the distance with his standard lightsaber sword, igniting with a sharp hiss. He angled the strike perfectly, exploiting the gap in [StormRaider]’s defense created by the damaged shoulder. His blade carved through the weakened joint, and the enemy’s left arm detached completely from its main body, sparking.

[Host, that was amazing!] Shelly practically squealed in his mind.

"Easy," Neville murmured, with a small smirk as he boosted away to a new position.

Rule one of tactical combat: never stay in the same spot after scoring a hit. Movement was survival.

[StormRaider] was no longer treating this like a joke. The custom mecha moved with renewed focus, compensating for the missing arm. This was a player who knew how to adapt.

But Neville had already analyzed a pattern in his fighting style.

[StormRaider] favored aggressive forward pressure regardless of whether he was bored or in panic. He relied on superior close-combat skills to overwhelm his opponents. With one arm down, the strategy became even more predictable.

[StormRaider] would surely close the distance fast to prevent Neville from kiting1 him with the pulse gun.

The match progressed, and Neville felt increasingly comfortable with that hit-and-run style. He used the asteroids like a three-dimensional chessboard, always keeping obstacles between himself and his opponent. He forced [StormRaider] to constantly reposition while Neville peppered him with pulse gun fire.

Each engagement was calculated. Boost in, fire, boost out. Never commit to a full melee exchange. Force the opponent to chase, to make mistakes, to waste energy on fruitless pursuits while shield percentages ticked steadily downward.

When [StormRaider]’s shields hit 15%, Neville saw the desperate move coming a full second before it happened.

[StormRaider]’s mecha thrusters flared to maximum, sacrificing all defense for one final all-or-nothing charge.

Neville had been waiting for exactly this moment.

He boosted backward into a narrow corridor between two large asteroids, letting [StormRaider] completely commit to the pursuit. Just as [StormRaider]’s mecha entered the narrow passage, Neville spun 180 degrees and fired his light pulse gun at the asteroid above them.

The sustained beam carved through the rock’s structural integrity, and several tons of space debris came crashing down directly onto [StormRaider]’s path. [StormRaider]’s mecha tried to abort, but momentum carried them directly into the falling rocks.

Shields shattered completely, and the armor took a direct hit.

Neville didn’t wait to admire his work. He boosted through a side gap in the asteroids and came around behind his staggered opponent. His standard lightsaber sword came up in a clean arc. He thrusted it through the rear of [StormRaider]’s mecha cockpit.

VICTORY!!

TIME: 4:25

PERFORMANCE: S-RANK

The battlefield dissolved, and Neville found himself back in the waiting area, his heart still pounding from the adrenaline.

The victory notification faded, and—

He was immediately surrounded.

[IronFistforYou]: Who the hell are you?

[SamuraiEXtream]: Oi, how dare you use an Alt account?! There’s no way you’re a noob!

[StarGunner07]: That was a Silver III player! You can’t just—

[MechWarrior99]: Reported for cheating!

Several more voices joined in, overlapping into incomprehensible accusations and disbelief. Neville just stood there silently, letting the storm rage around him.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he pointed up at his username floating above his head: Gravy, in glowing green.

His gesture said everything his mouth didn’t: I’m a real noob. See that green? How stupid do you feel now?

[IronFistforYou] pushed closer, invading his personal space. "No way! You’re a cheater, aren’t you?! Admit it already! Nobody plays like that on their first day!"

Neville was forced to break his silence, his voice calm and indifferent. "I just trained a little longer in the training room."

"Bullshit!" [SamuraiEXtream] grabbed his shoulders and gripped them tight. "This is no place for a cheater like you! This is serious mecha combat, not some—"

"Just because someone is better than you," Neville interrupted, his voice cold and grave, "doesn’t mean they’re cheating."

He pushed through the crowd, brushing past [SamuraiEXtream] with enough force to make his point. "Excuse me."

He heard the muttering behind him, saw the flurry of messages being sent on the game’s chat system. Within minutes, the waiting area’s population had tripled as word spread about the green-tagged player who had demolished a Silver III opponent.

Neville ignored them all and queued for another match.

By his fifth consecutive victory against a Gold II player who had specifically queued to ’expose the fraud’, Neville was starting to understand why people got addicted to competitive gaming.

the act of attacking an enemy while continuously moving away to keep a safe distance, typically by using ranged attacks