Neville didn’t wait to see the results of his missile barrage.

The moment the last projectile left his launchers, he was already moving—not toward Grayson, but away. His mecha sprinted toward the nearest rock formation, sand spraying in his wake.

[CRITICAL DAMAGE]

That’s good, Neville thought. But it’s not enough.

A retired general didn’t become a retired general by being slow or careless.

Those missiles’ damage had bought him time, but they had also brought him Grayson’s full, undivided attention.

And there was nothing more dangerous than Grayson paying attention.

[Neville.] Grayson’s voice came through with a deceptively calm tone. [That’s a smart move.]

"Thank you."

[But that’s the end of this.]

"Is that so?" Neville replied with a careless tone, but deep inside, he was already shivering in fright

[I’ll come get you.] That deep voice sent shivers down his spine.

"You’re welcome to try." He forced himself to say confidently as he quickly surveyed the surroundings

Neville ducked behind a towering spire of red rock, his mecha’s sensors screaming warnings as it sensed Grayson’s mecha closing the distance at an alarming rate.

Grayson had abandoned all pretense of caution or thoughts of holding back; his damaged mecha ate up the ground with long, loping strides.

Think, think, think—

—The rock formation.

’Shelly, the structural analysis?’

[The pillar directly behind you has a stability rating of 23%. One solid hit should bring it down.]

’Perfect.’

Neville spun his mecha around, facing the rock instead of his pursuer.

He retrieved his light pulse gun along the way and whined as it charged.

[Where are you—] Grayson’s voice cut off as the pulse connected.

The pillar groaned.

Cracked.

And with a thunderous roar, it came crashing down directly in Grayson’s path.

[Dammit!]

Neville didn’t wait to see if it had worked. He was already running as fast as he could.

His mecha weaved between formations, desperately knowing that Grayson was only a few steps behind.

Another rock formation.

Another pulse shot.

Another collapse.

[You’re destroying the entire map!] Grayson shouted, actual frustration bleeding through his carefully controlled tone.

"That’s a strategy!"

[You’re just wasting time!]

Neville grinned.

"Just as I wanted!"

○●○●

Michael and Michelle had stopped screaming. They had moved beyond screaming into a state of horrified fascination.

"Is he playing hide and seek?" Michael whispered.

"Looks like it."

"Against an alt of a military man?"

"But it’s working anyway," Michelle replied, her voice hushed. "There are no complaints either."

"But why is it working?"

"Let’s watch until the end."

On screen, Neville’s mecha ducked behind another formation.

This time, using its headlights at maximum intensity to create a makeshift flashbang effect as Grayson rounded the corner.

"A flash?" Professor Krenn said in disbelief. "He used his headlights as a flash?"

Professor Iona was furiously scribbling notes. "Adaptive improvisation under pressure. He’s not just reacting—he’s anticipating and creating conditions favorable to his strategy."

"What strategy?" a student demanded. "He’s just running away!"

"Exactly."

"Ugh, unsightly."

○●○●

[TIME REMAINING: 00:59]

Neville’s lungs burned in nervousness.

He had spent the last four minutes doing nothing but running, hiding, and destroying rock formations.

His ammunition was nearly depleted. His mecha’s legs were already flagging, with strain warnings from the constant sprinting.

And Grayson—

Grayson was still persistently coming after him.

But Grayson’s mecha obviously bore damage. There were scars of their earlier exchange, armor pitted and scorched from the missile barrage, but it moved like it didn’t take a hit.

Every time Neville thought he had bought himself some distance, Grayson closed it in a matter of seconds, like nothing.

[Host, your stamina reserves are at 12%.]

’I know.’

[If you stop moving, he’ll catch you.]

’I know.’

[If he catches you—]

’I know, Shelly!’

Neville skidded to a halt behind a particularly large formation, his back pressed against a particularly large rock formation.

His mecha’s sensors showed Grayson’s position—closer now, too close, maybe thirty meters and closing fast.

He was out of options.

No ammunition left except his plasma blade, which would be suicide to use against someone with Grayson’s close-combat experience.

There were not a lot of rock formations left between them either.

[TIME REMAINING: 00:20]

Twenty seconds.

An idea formed.

’Shelly, damage comparison?’

[Enemy mecha at 67% integrity. Your mecha at 91% integrity.]

’So I’m winning.’

[Technically, yes. But—]

’That’s all I needed to know.’

Neville stepped out from behind the rock.

Grayson’s mecha rounded the corner half a second later, blade already raised for a killing blow—and froze.

Neville had dropped his weapons again.

But this time, instead of a surrender, his mecha had assumed what could only be described as a lounging position. One arm propped against the rock like he was posing for a photograph.

[What are you doing now?]

"Waiting."

[For what?]

"For you to realize that I’ve already won."

Silence stretched between them. In the distance, the digital wind howled.

[...huh?]

Neville’s grin was audible through their communication.

"I have more health than you. So when the time runs out, and neither of us achieves a killing blow, the system defaults to whoever has the highest integrity percentage." He gestured lazily at the timer. "You have about ten seconds to hit me. I have ten seconds to not get a critical hit."

Grayson’s mecha didn’t move.

The seconds ticked down.

[You planned this from the beginning.]

"I wouldn’t say planned. More like... worked really hard while making it up as I went along."

Eight seconds.

Grayson’s blade lowered.

His mecha’s posture changed from aggressive to resigned.

Grayson laughed and said, [You’re absolutely insane.]

"Thank you," Neville said as he flashed a cheeky smile.

[TIME REMAINING: 00:00:00]

[MATCH COMPLETE]

[DEFAULT WINNER: GRAVY]

○●○●

The spectator feeds exploded.

"HE WON!"

"HE ACTUALLY WON!"

Michael was on his feet, fist pumping the air as if he had personally won the game.

Michelle had tears coming out of her eyes from laughing too hard.

"He ran away," she gasped. "He just—he just ran away and won."

Professor Krenn slowly turned off his light brain; his expression was unreadable.

He said, finally. "I’d like for him to teach in my advanced tactics seminar."

Professor Iona was already composing a research proposal in her head.

"The cognitive flexibility displayed in that match exceeds our current models for adaptive combat behavior. The way he calculated damage differential and converted a disadvantaged position into a time-based victory condition shows—"

"Shows that he’s a slippery little fish," another spectator muttered.

"That too."