On screen, both mechas loaded into their bays. Standard models, both of them—no customization, no upgraded weapons. Pure pilot skill against pilot skill.

[MATCH PARAMETERS]

Mode: 1v1

Time Limit: 5 Minutes

Map: Beach (Random Selection)

Loadout: Standard Mecha - Plasma Blade, Light Pulse Gun, Triple-Shot Projectile Laser Missiles

The countdown began.

3...

2...

1...

[LOAD]

The map materialized around Neville in a wash of color and sound.

They’re at a Beach Map.

Sandy shores stretched beneath a simulated sun, dotted with rocky outcroppings and the skeletal remains of crashed spacecraft. Waves lapped at the shoreline in an endless rhythm.

Its beautiful, if you had time to appreciate it.

But Neville didn’t have that kind of time.

He spawned on the western edge of the map, behind a towering rock formation that provided immediate cover.

Grayson should be somewhere on the eastern side since the standard spawn protocol kept combatants separated at the start.

Think, Neville commanded himself. This is a beach map with an open terrain in the center, but lots of vertical cover near the water’s edge. The crashed ships would provide ambush points, but they’re obvious choices. He will surely expect me to use them.

[Five minutes on the clock]

[Timer...]

[Starts...]

[NOW!]

Neville moved.

He kept his mecha low, using the terrain to mask his approach. The sand slowed his movements slightly, but it also muffled his footsteps.

Neville circled north, avoiding the direct path toward the center.

A pulse of light flickered at the edge of his vision.

Neville threw his mecha sideways on pure instinct, and a triple-shot missile barrage screamed past where he had been standing moments before.

He’s really aggressive, Neville noted, returning fire with his pulse gun.

The shots went wide.

Grayson’s mecha had already relocated behind a half-buried starship hull.

He’s testing my reaction time.

[Not bad,] Grayson’s voice came through, and he casually said. [Most people freeze when they get surprised.]

"Is that so?" Neville circled right, putting another rock formation between them. "Then I’ll have to try harder than that."

[Oh?]

The next two minutes were a masterclass in asymmetric warfare.

Grayson fought efficiently and deadly.

Every shot conserved energy. Every movement served a tactical purpose. He controlled the center of the map with patient precision, forcing Neville to either engage on his terms or cede ground.

Neville fought and took risks that made no logical sense.

He vaulted over cover instead of around it, closing to melee range when his ranged advantage was greater, burning boost fuel in short, sharp bursts that throw off any prediction.

[What are you doing?] Grayson asked after Neville narrowly avoided a point-blank missile exchange that should have killed them both.

"Trying to win."

[You’re just fighting randomly.]

"Is it working?"

A pause.

[Unfortunately.]

The truth was, Neville’s unorthodox approach disrupted Grayson’s rhythm.

Military training emphasized optimal firing solutions, standard engagement protocols, and known-quantity responses.

Neville threw all of that out the window because he had never learned it in the first place. His tactical education came from a sadistic training program that rewarded survival over technique.

But Grayson wasn’t a top military graduate for nothing.

At the two-minute mark, he stopped trying to predict Neville’s movements and started reacting to them instead.

His mecha’s response time sharpened. His shots came faster, adjustments calculated in real-time.

Neville felt the pressure with each advance.

The window of opportunity was closing.

’Shelly,’ he thought urgently. ’I need an opening.’

[Host, his energy reserves are at sixty-three percent. Yours are at forty-one. He’s outpacing you on efficiency.]

’I know that. What can we do now?’

[Analyzing... he favors his left side when retreating. Possible blind spot opened every 5 seconds.]

Neville filed that information away and launched his next attack.

He came in hard from the right, forcing Grayson to turn.

Then, instead of pressing the advantage, he broke left and went dark—cutting all active systems, letting his mecha drop behind a sand dune like a dead weight.

[What—]

Grayson’s confusion lasted exactly 1 second, and that was all the time Neville needed.

He burst from cover on Grayson’s left, plasma blade ignited, moving faster than his clumsy manual-control performance should have allowed.

Shelly fed him the button combinations like a conductor leading an orchestra.

Boost.

Slash.

Pivot.

Slash again.

His fingers executed them without much conscious thought.

The blade carved through Grayson’s mecha’s left arm. The limb was almost sliced off if Grayson hadn’t dodged in time.

Still, it inflicted damage to Grayson’s mecha.

[MINOR DAMAGE]

"Got you," Neville breathed.

[Not yet.] Grayson’s counterattack came.

A pulse gun burst followed immediately by a shoulder-mounted missile launch. Neville blocked the bullets with his blade but took the missiles full in the chest.

[MODERATE DAMAGE]

They broke apart, circling each other like wounded predators.

Two minutes left on the clock.

○●○●

"This is insane," Michael whispered, his eyes never leaving the screen. "They’re both playing at a professional level."

"No, no. Look at [Gravy]’s movement patterns," Michelle murmured, her tactical training kicking in. "He’s compensating for control lag by over-rotating. That’s not a beginner’s habit—that’s someone who knows exactly how much input delay to expect."

"But he was fumbling through the tutorial twenty minutes ago!"

"I know. That’s what doesn’t make sense."

A few seats away, a cluster of senior cadets was having their own heated discussion.

"Isn’t that an alt account?" one asked, pointing at the [MechaPlayer25846] identifier tag. "258. That’s the standard military alt account registration format."

"Yeah, the ’258’ number is a dead giveaway. Official secondary account, probably for private use."

"If [Gravy] was really a cheater like the forums kept saying, why would he fight against someone using a verified military account? That’s asking to get arrested."

"Unless they’re in on it together?"

"No way." Another cadet shook his head firmly. "Military alts have identity verification tied to their physical virtual pod. There’s no way around the biometric locks. Whoever’s playing that account, their real identity is logged and timestamped by Imperial servers."

"What if someone found a way around it?"