In the virtual staging area, Neville stared at his mecha’s control panel and felt his heart sink as he recalled.

If he used the neural sync interface that he was familiar with, he would be under suspicion since no one should be able to use neural sync solo at this point.

This mecha used standard manual controls. An array of buttons and switches that required actual physical manipulation.

He could almost hear Shelly laughing at him from wherever she was lurking in his system space.

[Host, is there a problem?] Shelly spoke just in time, like an innocent as a fox in a henhouse.

’You know exactly what the problem is,’ Neville thought back furiously. ’I can’t use neural sync here. I don’t know how to use these control panels!’

[Then don’t pilot smoothly. Problem solved!]

’That’s not—’ He cut himself off, aware that his game avatar had been standing motionless for too long. ’Fine. Just... tell me what buttons to press when I said the move. I’m confident with my reaction time.’

Neville selected the tutorial map option and loaded it into a simple training environment.

A standard mecha materialized in front of him. A fifteen meters of reinforced metal, armed with a plasma blade, light pulse gun, and triple-shot projectile laser missiles.

Basic equipment. Nothing fancy.

He gripped the control sticks and pushed forward experimentally.

The mecha lurched like a drunk beast.

"Okay," he muttered. "That’s the movement control. Good to know."

For the next several minutes, Neville fumbled his way through basic maneuvers.

Walking. Running. Jumping. Turning.

Each action required a specific combination of inputs that he never had to consciously think about before.

With neural sync, moving the mecha was as natural as moving his own limbs. Without it, he felt like he was trying to thread a needle while wearing boxing gloves.

But muscle memory was a funny thing.

His fingers remembered patterns even when his mind didn’t. The typing speed drills at the black hell hole and experience in the high-pressure environment in the Maxwell Corporation had honed his manual dexterity to a tee.

When Shelly fed him button combinations through their mental link, his hands executed them faster than conscious thought.

Left stick forward, right trigger, bumper tap, rotate...

The mecha pivoted smoothly, raised its pulse gun, and fired a precise three-shot burst at a target dummy.

"Not bad." Grayson’s voice suddenly came through the internal voice communication in this private room.

Neville nearly jumped out of his skin. He had forgotten that Grayson was still here.

"Your movement’s a bit rough, but your targeting is solid," Grayson commented.

"I’m a little rusty." Neville guided his mecha through an obstacle course, gaining confidence with each successful maneuver.

His strategy instincts, at least, remained sharp. He read the terrain automatically—noting chokepoints, cover positions, flanking routes. The knowledge was burned in his memory from his previous life of hours of watching, and the experience of a few hours of playing this game before.

"You’re adapting faster than most beginners," Grayson observed. "Your terrain analysis is excellent."

"Its just like typing fast at the company." The words came out before Neville could stop them. "Memorizing the controls. Creating shortcuts. Executing it as fast as possible, that kind of thing. It translates well to operating manual controls."

Grayson paused and looked at him for a moment before saying, "That’s... one way to put experience into action."

Neville couldn’t tell if Grayson believed him or not. His voice carried that particular flatness that could mean anything from acceptance to pointed skepticism.

"Why didn’t you try entering the military?" Grayson suddenly asked. "With skills like these, you’d have been fast-tracked through the academy."

The question hit Neville like a bucket of cold water.

Why didn’t I enter the military? He thought bitterly. Maybe because my target wasn’t in that place? Maybe because my ’skills’ were forcibly drilled into him by a cheat system and a training dimension that doesn’t officially exist to complete my mission?

Or maybe, a darker part of his mind whispered, you should ask yourself why YOU couldn’t save yourself from the star pirates if you’re so skilled. You came from the military, too.

Because of that passing thought, Neville suddenly remembered that day.

Remembered piloting a real mecha with neural sync engaged, pushing himself to semi-transform to pilot the mecha and reach the star pirates to save Grayson.

But this man just forgot everything and went on with his life without even asking who saved his life.

Really infuriating.

"I’m just playing for fun," Neville said, finally forcibly swallowing the bitterness of life.

"Hmm."

Grayson didn’t push further, which was somehow worse than if he had argued to convince Neville. Instead, Grayson spent the next twenty minutes walking Neville through advanced techniques.

The emergency thrust vectoring, shield timing, and energy management during extended engagements. He was a patient teacher, explaining concepts clearly without condescension.

Neville absorbed everything, his respect for Grayson’s combat knowledge growing with each lesson.

It seemed that he really rose into the general position from the bottom. His tactical understanding ran deep, honed through years of actual battlefield experience.

Not that he was questioning Grayson’s capabilities, it was just that the imagination of the poor of the wealthy was the worst. Rising to powerful positions with money was within his worst expectations.

"I think you’re ready," Grayson said after getting a good look at his movements. "Shall we have a real match?"

Neville’s pulse quickened. "Are you sure? I’m still pretty shaky with the controls."

"I’m sure." Something in Grayson’s tone sharpened. "Just saying, but I don’t plan on holding back even though you’re a newbie."

"Then don’t." Neville found himself smiling despite his nerves. "There’s no gentleman in here. It’s all fair game."

Grayson’s chuckle was low and warm. "Great."

○●○●

The observation deck had reached maximum capacity.

Michael and Michelle Frost sat glued to their holographic screens, surrounded by dozens of other military academy students who had caught wind of the event.

The two professors hiding amongst the crowd also watched from a separate terminal. Their data recorders were running at maximum sensitivity.

In the end, thousands of other players had discovered the piggybacked broadcast and tuned in too.

"They’re about to start," someone whispered.