He didn’t aim for Grayson’s current position. That would be stupid—the man would have already moved by the time the projectiles reached him.

Instead, he targeted where his instincts screamed Grayson would be. He factored in boost trajectory, evasion patterns, and the psychological tendency to circle left.

Three projectiles screamed upward through the sand cloud, trailing smoke.

Grayson dodged every single one of them.

His mecha twisted in midair, the missiles passing close enough to scrape paint but never connecting.

Of course, Grayson dodged them.

But dodging wasn’t the point.

While the sand still hung in the air, Neville’s mecha was already moving.

He scooped ocean water. Even though this place was simulated, it was still functionally real within the game’s physics.

He hurled it at Grayson’s descending form. Not at the cockpit or the weapons. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

But on the left arm with an open wound. He aimed it at the scorch mark, at the exposed wiring beneath damaged plating.

The water hit its target.

And Grayson’s mecha twitched.

[MALFUNCTION DETECTED]

In real life, new interstellar mechas had waterproofing that could withstand complete ocean submersion even when wounded.

But this was a standard model—an older design used specifically because of its educational value in teaching basic combat principles. Its shielding was functional but far from comprehensive, especially around pre-existing damage.

A short circuit rippled through Grayson’s arm systems.

Minor and temporary, but it could buy enough time.

Neville felt a surge of vicious satisfaction.

But that’s when Grayson stopped playing around.

Neville could feel the instant, terrifying change in the atmosphere.

All the casualness was gone and replaced by something cold and mechanical and utterly lethal.

Grayson’s mecha looked like it recovered from the malfunction in seconds. But he probably just proceeded to use a manual override that Neville had not yet learned to do.

Then Grayson’s mecha moved.

Really, really fast.

Neville’s conscious mind couldn’t track it.

One moment, Grayson was twenty meters away; the next, he was there, blade already swinging.

Neville threw up his arm to block and felt the impact shudder through his entire frame.

[LEFT ARM: DESTROYED]

Another strike.

[TORSO INTEGRITY: CRITICAL]

A kick that sent him sprawling backward.

[CORE SYSTEMS FAILING]

Grayson had stopped holding back.

Every attack now carried the full weight of military training, of countless battles fought and won.

The plasma blade came down one final time.

[CRITICAL CORE DAMAGE]

[MATCH COMPLETE]

[WINNER: MechaPlayer25846]

[TIME REMAINING: 00:00:50]

After that notification, Neville’s vision faded to black before the private room’s respawn lobby materialized around him.

His mecha stood pristine and undamaged in the metallic hangar, all evidence of its recent destruction erased by the game’s reset protocols.

Grayson’s avatar appeared beside him; his avatar’s movements looked infuriatingly smug.

"Not bad," Grayson said.

"Not bad?" Neville couldn’t help the incredulity that crept into his voice. "You destroyed me in under a minute."

"You made me get worked up over it." A ghost of a smile tugged at Grayson’s lips. "The sand trick was really smart. I didn’t expect you to use the terrain as a weapon."

"Fat lot of good it did me." Neville crossed his arms, fully aware that he was pouting and completely unable to stop himself. "Were you even trying at the beginning? Because that ending felt very different from everything before it."

Grayson had the grace to look slightly sheepish. "It’s been a while since I played. I needed to warm up."

"Warm up?" Neville stared at him flatly. "You were warming up while casually dismantling me piece by piece."

"I wouldn’t say casually—"

"You didn’t even deny dismantling me piece by piece."

[Host, your blood pressure is rising,] Shelly interjected cheerfully. [Should I prepare a calming playlist? ♪(๑ᴖ◡ᴖ๑)♪]

’Shut up! You’re also at fault for sending late translations.’

[Ah! You should’ve learned it already, host. I can’t always translate for you!]

’What else do I have you for here?’

[Hmph!]

Neville took a deep breath, forcing the frustration down. Getting angry at Shelly wouldn’t change anything.

He had known going in that he would be outmatched by Grayson. The only question had been how long he would last.

Answer: not that long.

But giving up wasn’t in his nature. Not when he had clawed his way up from nothing in this world just to get close to this man.

"Best of three," Neville said abruptly.

Grayson blinked. "What?"

"Three matches. I’ll win at least one."

The words came out with more confidence than he felt, but confidence was ninety percent performance anyway.

"Neville, you don’t have to—"

"No. We’ll do this." He met Grayson’s avatar directly, channeling every ounce of stubborn determination he possessed. "Unless you’re afraid of losing?"

Grayson’s avatar showed an exasperated fondness that seemed to appear whenever Neville did something reckless.

"Fine," Grayson said, and his smile widened just enough to make Neville’s heart skip. "Best of three."

○●○●

Unbeknownst to both players...

The Mecha Research Institute’s observation deck buzzed with activity. Dozens of holographic screens displayed the match from multiple angles, capturing every movement, every strike, every tactical decision in crystalline detail.

"Fascinating tactic," Professor Krenn murmured, his weathered face illuminated by the glow of the displays.

The head of the Tactical Simulation Mecha Department had seen countless matches in his decades of teaching, but something about this one demanded attention.

"[Gravy]’s fundamentals looked rough—amateurish, even. What was he really trying to do by showing us this? Was this guy trying to throw us off?"

Beside him, Professor Iona leaned forward in her chair, dark eyes tracking data streams that scrolled alongside the live feed.

"It’s more than that. Look at his decision-making patterns." She pulled up a timeline analysis, highlighting key moments. "He’s processing information faster than his current control can execute. There’s a disconnect between cognition and action—almost like he’s fighting with one hand tied behind his back."

"You think he’s sandbagging?"

"No." Iona’s fingers danced over her console, calling up the readings from the live feed.

"His stress responses are real. He’s genuinely struggling with the controls. But his tactical instincts..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "I’ve seen veteran pilots with worse battlefield intuition."