Blank Slate Recruit

Mu Fan rubbed his head. When light returned, he found himself back at the entrance of the Metal Revolving Door.

What kind of Boot Camp was this? Brother Fatty said simulated combat wasn't a big deal, right? How could there be such a twisted Training Camp?

He looked around and confirmed he was no longer in that death-filled Training Base. He let out a breath.

Glancing at the Electronic Screen by the entrance, he saw a red no-entry symbol and a countdown timer. He calculated it would hit zero around midnight the next day. That's when he could enter again—what that mysterious Fighter meant by "the next day."

How could it be so intuitive? The tech was this advanced? Mu Fan walked out of the Training Camp with deep reverence for the technology.

Outside, the Mechanical City still pressed down, blocking out the sky. He looked down at his wristband: "Lemon Balloon — Online — In Battle."

Mu Fan sent a single-finger message: "I'm Mu Fan. I'm out."

Ten kilometers away, in a City Ruins scene, an orange-painted mecha was hiding cowardly in a gap formed by a broken wall beside a crushed building, with rubble piled against it.

Inside the Half-Cycle Cockpit of the Generation 6.5 Fantasy Mecha, Lemon Balloon, Fatty was grinding his teeth: "You bunch of Bronze Five-Star trash. You see my mecha's good and gang up to screw me over? Sons of bitches."

The truth was, those Bronze Five-Star players were clearly smurfs. Fatty's plan to dominate Bronze as a Silver player had completely backfired. This had happened at least fifty times out of a hundred. Every time, Fatty died cleanly. But this time, the group was clearly mentally twisted. Six on each side. The enemy paired up, their aim dead-on. They shot out the legs of the clueless allied mechas, then chopped off their limbs with alloy blades, leaving only the torso with the cockpit. And then... these shameless bastards started playing soccer.

Five had already been kicked to pieces. Brother Fatty wasn't going out there. Too embarrassing.

Suddenly, two red dots appeared on the radar scanner to his front left. Enemies! Fatty gritted his teeth, said a prayer, and activated engine stealth mode.

Good thing his mecha was top-tier. Those Bronze trash were only driving Generation 5 Initial System Mecha.

Wait, shit. They're Gen 5. What am I scared of? The mecha gap is huge!

In the PO Battle Network's twelve-player small-team battles, the default matchmaking limit was one generation difference. That meant if you drove a Gen 4 mecha, the lowest opponent you'd face was a Gen 4 Initial, and the highest was a Gen 5 Initial. The system wouldn't match you with opponents or teammates too far apart—that would be blatantly unfair. Each generation gap was 5 to 8 years, enough for a clear skill difference. Above Gen 7, the gap could reach 10 years per generation.

This was the Fantasy Combat zone. Fatty sat in the quiet cockpit, muttering: "You're so good, go to Real Combat. Why hang around here? Driving free system mechas in Fantasy. Freaking insane."

Two red dots on the radar were closing in. Crap, they found me. Fatty had an uncanny talent for sensing danger, especially when it came to escape. He always peaked in those moments.

The two red dots entered the building behind him. They were going to shoot through the wall.

Suddenly, his wristband beeped: "I'm Mu Fan. I'm out."

That fast? Fatty froze. That was barely any time. He hadn't even finished one match.

He gritted his teeth and snarled: "You trash. You're forcing Young Master Harry to step up."

Detonate! War Scorpion Mine!

Four football-sized holes burst open in the floor of the building behind Fatty's mecha. Four mechanical scorpions, gleaming with white metallic light, crawled out. Their laser beams locked onto the two mechas that had just entered the first floor with active scanning off.

Jump, impact! The four scorpions shot forward at unbelievable speed.

Boom! Boom! A violent blast of air erupted. Fatty's orange mecha was hurled out by the shockwave.

As for those two mechas—they were already blown to pieces.

"Underestimate your grandpa Fatty? These are the highest-spec Fantasy active-seeking mines I bought for my Gen 6 mecha," Young Master Harry snarled.

The two red dots on the radar vanished instantly.

"Damn it! 3, 6. Calling 3 and 6." The enemy leader called on the team channel. No response.

System notification: "Lemon Balloon" killed "Qiao Musen."

System notification: "Lemon Balloon" killed "Sai Erda Ka."

System notification: "Lemon Balloon" achieved a Double Kill.

"Hahahaha! You trash!" Fatty's arrogant voice boomed through the speakers from the ruins.

Bang!

That flashy orange mecha was like a lighthouse in the dark. A crisp gunshot rang out. The energy core of Fatty's mecha was torn open by a high-velocity sniper round, triggering a high-temperature energy explosion.

"You son of a—" Fatty didn't finish before being swallowed by flames.

Fatty's figure appeared in the waiting area. The crowd was sparse. He slumped into a sofa with a gloomy expression.

"Exhausting Brother Fatty. These useless teammates!" He was full of resentment about the last fight. No coordination, total chaos. If not for his gear and the two kills he dragged down, this match would have been a total loss.

Wait. Wasn't there something he forgot?

He slapped his forehead. Right. Mu Fan said he was out. He'd been so tense in the fight he never replied. Almost forgot.

"Video call request. Accept?"

Mu Fan had been staring at his wristband for several minutes. Finally, a ding. The call connected.

"Mu Fan? How are you out so fast? I told you the training was boring," Fatty said, his gloom still lingering.

"Yeah. Training's done. What now?" Mu Fan didn't want to explain much. It was too embarrassing. He'd died twice in there, and it felt so real. Plus, he wasn't one to explain things anyway.

Fatty grumbled: "I was in a match just now. Didn't see your message. Those bastards screwed me over. I lost. Ugh."

Mu Fan didn't fully grasp winning or losing yet. "What now?"

Fatty saw Mu Fan wasn't picking up his thread and sighed: "Wait. I'll send you coordinates. Go to the Teleportation Point near the Training Camp and come to me."

"Ding. Received coordinate invitation from friend Lemon Balloon. Sync to navigation?"

"Yes." Mu Fan confirmed. A route projected onto the Light Screen. He looked up, spotted the Teleportation Point ahead to his right. People were coming and going, flashes of white light flickering.

Mu Fan walked into the eggshell-like structure. Inside, it wasn't crowded—just him. Looked like the PO Battle Network opened a separate Teleportation Space for each player.

"Please state the destination," a floating, elongated Control Panel asked.

"Destination coordinates: xxxx, xxxx."

"Confirmed. Player 'Egg Lord,' step into the teleportation circle. Teleportation begins."

A flash. A Blank Slate Recruit who hadn't passed combat training—and had forgotten about mecha training—teleported straight out of the Training Base.