Chapter 558: Where is Luca?
Oh, like an entire group and all of them at once.
"Kyle... I-is this alright?"
Ollie leaned closer, whispering as if the crowd could hear them through Kyle’s spiritual barrier. As if whispering would somehow reduce the absurdity unfolding below.
Kyle didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. His expression said it all.
No. It definitely wasn’t.
Not when this—this—was probably what the Captain meant when he mentioned that the Marshal had "asked" about the mecha he received.
"Just follow as directed," that was Xavier’s answer.
Very simple. Very logical. And apparently unhelpful.
So what was this?
"..."
A struggle.
An unexpected, slow-motion struggle to at least scratch the thing.
Back in the cockpit of a certain 90% baby that could not be named—for reasons of both fear and branding—Marshal Julian was experiencing something he had never experienced before.
An existential crisis.
"Everyone, seriously?!"
He slammed a hand against the armrest. "Forget about the blades! Try the plasma cannons! What’s the use of the blades if none of you can even get close enough?!"
The Marshal of the Empire. Commander of a fleet. Slayer of corruption. Veteran of seventeen campaigns. And now?
Babysitter of space snails.
He couldn’t believe it. He had been one of them. One of these bumbling mechas who were now flailing uselessly in the simulation. Was this how he looked before?
God. He must’ve been insufferable.
Twelve more mechas had been deployed in the name of "training and testing." They were supposed to demonstrate the Marshal’s tactical finesse and coordination.
Instead, they looked like a high-speed car chase—where all the cars had flat tires and two of the drivers had vertigo.
Outwardly, the spectators clapped in appreciation. Explosions dotted the sky. Plasma trails crisscrossed with impressive flourish. At a glance, one might even think this was performance art.
But outside the main arena, Master Quinn narrowed his eyes.
Something wasn’t right.
"Are they... holding back?" someone muttered. "Why hasn’t the Young Lord entered the fray?"
Was the military afraid of damaging the mecha?
Valid questions, if only that were the case.
Because in the sealed cockpit of a certain hidden marvel sat a builder who had just realized the problem.
"Oh no," Luca muttered, eyes widening.
The view panned back to the battlefield.
Fire scorched the ground. Mechas buzzed like flies. One who had been pursuing the Marshal even ricocheted off a barrier and spun three times before righting itself.
Julian’s face had turned several shades of grey. It was the face of a man who had just realized: he couldn’t beat himself.
He’d been the one to tell them about the ideal positions and weapons, but clearly none of that was working. And unless he wanted to disrespect this mock battle by just standing there to show the incompetence of the military, then he had better think of something else.
They didn’t need more volunteers.
They needed an intervention.
Meanwhile, one examinee voiced his concern.
"What do I do?" Luca muttered in the cockpit, brow furrowed as he tapped on the screen. "I think the mechas are having a hard time damaging the Marshal’s mecha. Maybe I should’ve also used the hybrid metal composite for the armor instead..."
It was a reasonable thought.
Unfortunately, Sid, a certified guardian mecha and reluctant voice of reason, had other ideas.
"Master Luca," Sid said dryly, "it’s not just the armor. It’s mainly because the Marshal is moving nearly twice, if not three times, faster than the others. It’s very difficult to even hit him at this rate."
Luca blinked. "Oh."
Sid continued, merciless. "And when they do manage to force him into a defensive opening, the components just happen to be resistant to that kind of impact or explosion."
"...Oh."
Luca wilted in his seat. "Then what do we do? How are we supposed to demonstrate like this?"
There was a pause.
Then, as if casually tossing out a lunch order, Luca asked, "Should we attack them instead?"
It was said innocently. Thoughtfully. Out loud.
And if anyone with a functioning moral compass had heard that, alarms would’ve gone off. Sirens. Full system alerts. Military panic levels.
But not D-29.
D-29, bless his twisted non-existent soul, thought it was a great idea. Brilliant, even. But what kind of repair mecha attacks others only to fix them afterward?
A psychopath. That’s who.
Which was why it was such a relief—a miracle, even—that someone normal-ish decided to intervene just in time before Luca was left with no choice but to go with his version of a solution.
A quiet message was sent to the marshal’s terminal.
[Uncle, attack them instead.]
Marshal Julian blinked.
The gears in his mind tried to process this with dignity, but they stalled halfway through.
"Does... does he not need this particular mecha damaged?" he replied cautiously, as if confirming he hadn’t just been encouraged to start a massacre.
"No," Xavier replied. "Any would do."
A pause.
[Actually, the more the merrier.]
Marshal Julian looked at the merriest death threat he’s seen in a while and thought to at least warn everyone.
He sighed and, on their shared channel, said, "Alright. We’ll switch methods. Prepare yourselves."
Breaths hitched.
Then, after a single beat, the Marshal added, "Now run."
And they fucking scrambled.
Curtis didn’t just prepare. He dove. Years under Marshal Julian’s command had taught him the cardinal rule: the moment the word "prepare" leaves the Marshal’s lips, you start moving. Now, whether forward or backward depended on the following words, but just the same, you move.
Because death was en route.
Fast.
Sure enough, the Marshal’s mecha disappeared from radar. Then reappeared. Then disappeared again.
Curtis stared.
This wasn’t teleportation. No blinking. No smoke tricks.
He was just that fast.
Like a specter with a grudge.
And before anyone could shout a warning, three mechas were down.
Sparks. Smoke. Screams of disbelief.
Then the sound of the first impact finally hit.
Curtis’ soul left his body.
FUCK! he screamed internally. I’m gonna need a new mecha after this!!!
The crowd watched in stunned silence, expressions frozen somewhere between horror and fascination. Marshal Julian was no longer commanding the battlefield.
He was cleansing it.
With each calculated move, he hunted the volunteer mechas one by one like some bloodthirsty wraith, too fast for any decent defense. It was a one-sided slaughter. A massacre by pure movement. The kind of speed that made even the seated pilots instinctively stand up like they were trying to outrun the dread creeping up their spines.
Everyone knew the Marshal was strong. That was no secret.
But this?
This felt like resurrection.
Had he died and come back stronger? Who was this monster in a mecha?
Apparently, it was the same pilot who had just made a certain little mechanic sing in delight.
While the solo cockpits of the poor mechas echoed with screams of panic and shocked curses, inside one remarkably peaceful white mecha sat a once-depressed youngster who now practically radiated joy.
A loud explosion rang out. Metal crunched and clattered across the field.
"WOW! It’s a broken leg!" Luca chirped, eyes sparkling as a missile hit the leg of an unfortunate mecha that had just flown past his position.
He leaned forward excitedly.
And just as the smoking debris began to settle, the downed mecha—clearly suffering, its leg torn and tossed to the side like an old toy—was preparing to declare disqualification.
That was when it happened.
A nightmare worse than a homing missile came into view.
The pilot turned. And nearly had a heart attack.
There it was. Up close. Too close.
For the first time, they could clearly see the monster Luca had built. No scaffolding. No shielded walls. No technical veil to soften the impact. It was sleek, bone-white, and strangely graceful. Smooth contours coated in faint shimmering layers that made it hard to focus on for too long.
Like a mirage.
But the truly horrifying part?
There had been no warning. No radar ping. No sensor alert.
It had just... appeared.
The answer to that came in one soft whisper from a master in the observation deck.
"Ghostvine resin," they muttered, hands trembling.
That resin didn’t just blend in; it was stealth in itself.
Luca had built a mecha that didn’t just move silently. It existed stealthily.
The audience collectively flinched. Mecha masters who had been sitting with arms crossed were now on their feet, eyes wide. Some had leaned forward, others had instinctively stepped back. Either way, no one could look away.
"He’s not showing up on the radar!" one instructor shouted.
"Huh?!" came the frantic reply from another.
Down in the arena, chaos paused for a heartbeat.
Because the white mecha, oddly shaped and unsettling in its movements, extended a shimmering shield that pushed away the heat of the explosion.
Then, slowly and deliberately, it reached out. And those who knew nothing of what to expect thought he was going to finish him, showing the true value of stealth. Only—
Everyone watched as it gripped the severed leg, holding it upright like a medic who had seen worse. From the back of the mecha, two mechanical clamps extended and locked the damaged part into place with frightening precision.
And then the transformation began.
The mecha’s arm shifted.
Panels slid back. Joints whirred. And in the blink of an eye, the arm was no longer a limb.
It was a tool.
Not just any tool. A full repair module equipped with welding nozzles, joint sealers, microcalibrators, and a high-speed torque stabilizer. It moved fast. Efficiently. Like a one-man pit crew.
The leg was lifted. Rotated. Debris removed.
Cables were reattached. Joints re-welded, armor re-sealed, and the stabilizers were balanced on the fly.
The white mecha propped, repaired, and reconnected the limb like it had done this a thousand times.
All with another mecha.
Gapes filled the gallery. One of the masters dropped his tablet. An instructor let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeak.
On the battlefield, the pilot of the now-fixed mecha just stared at their repaired limb.
Then turned to stare at the white mecha.
Then very carefully backed away.
Because if that thing could fix you that fast... it could probably take you apart just as quickly.