The smell of solder clung to Edward Varden's clothes like stubborn smoke. His small workshop was alive with the sharp hum of tools, the faint buzz of energy circuits, and the occasional crackle of static. Sparks danced like tiny stars, casting fleeting shadows across the walls cluttered with half-built frames and scattered tools.
Edward adjusted his grip on the micro-calibrator, brows furrowed in concentration as he connected the last piece of the circuit board into the mech's tiny heart. His black hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat.
"Just… a little more…" he muttered under his breath, voice shaky from the hours he'd already spent here.
Click.
The last part snapped into place.
Edward exhaled slowly, almost afraid to move. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
Whirrrr.
The miniature mech on the table twitched. Its crystal-blue eyes flickered to life, glowing faintly. The sound of energy flowing through its circuits filled the small room, like the heartbeat of a newborn creature.
Edward's eyes widened. A smile tugged at his lips. "You're alive."
The mech's head turned slowly, its glowing eyes locking onto his. Its stubby legs moved—one step, then another. It looked like a small knight in armor, clumsy but determined.
Edward leaned in, heart pounding.
Then the mech wobbled… and collapsed with a sad little beep.
"…And you're dead," Edward groaned, slumping back in his chair. He ran a hand down his face, staring at the motionless prototype.
"Another failure," he whispered. The words tasted bitter.
It wasn't like this was new. He'd failed hundreds of times. But each failure hit the same—sharp, cold, and deep.
Edward looked around the workshop—his sanctuary and his cage. Rows of unfinished prototypes lined the shelves, like fallen soldiers. His dreams, all broken.
Because no matter how much he tinkered, no matter how advanced his designs were… it would never be enough. Not without martial resonance.
In this era—the Federation Era—strength wasn't measured in money or politics alone. It was measured in martial force. Humanity had united under a single banner, forged in the fires of war against alien threats. Nations no longer fought each other for dominance; they fought to survive.
And at the core of that survival were Martial Mechs—giant machines piloted by warriors whose bodies and minds resonated with the mech's core, turning cold steel into living weapons of war.
But to pilot one… you needed strength. You needed martial talent. A body that could synchronize with a mech's systems and withstand the strain of combat.
Edward Varden had none of that.
He was smart—brilliant, even. His designs had won awards in high school competitions. His professors called him a prodigy in integrated martial-engineering theory. But theory didn't win wars. It didn't make you a warrior.
And Edward… wanted to be one more than anything.
He wanted to stand on the battlefield inside a mech of his own design, fighting for humanity's future.
But his body was weak. His martial energy barely existed. His constitution? Trash-tier.
The Federation's rankings had made that clear years ago.
"Ed!" a voice called from the doorway, snapping him out of his spiral.
Edward turned. His sister, Keana, stood there with a smug grin. Her long black hair swayed as she leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"Mom says dinner's ready," she said.
Edward sighed, pushing his chair back. "Coming."
Keana's sharp gaze flicked to the collapsed mech on the table. "It broke again?"
Edward bristled. "…It just needs a little tuning."
Keana smirked. "Sure. Just like the last five you 'tuned.'"
"Go eat your food, brat."
She laughed and walked away, humming a tune.
Edward lingered a moment longer, eyes tracing the tiny mech. He reached out and brushed its cold metal shell with his fingertips.
"One day," he whispered.
The Varden home was small but warm, filled with the scent of herb-infused stew when Edward entered. His mother, Gloria Varden, was setting the table, her gentle hands moving with practiced grace. His father, Arthur Varden, sat at the head of the table, broad-shouldered and weathered, the kind of man who carried his strength quietly.
Keana was already digging in, flashing him a grin as he sat.
"You've been in that cave of yours all day again," Gloria said, setting a steaming bowl in front of him. "At this rate, you'll turn into a mech."
Edward chuckled softly. "If that's what it takes to get into a cockpit, I'll take it."
Arthur raised a brow. "Still dreaming about piloting?"
Edward met his father's gaze. His voice was steady, firm. "It's not just a dream. I'll make it happen."
Arthur sighed, leaning back. "Ed… you know the truth. Without martial talent, you can't resonate with a mech. Even if you build the strongest one in the world, you won't be able to control it."
Edward's fists clenched under the table. He'd heard this before. From everyone.
No talent. No chance.
But he refused to accept it.
"I'll find a way," he said quietly, determination burning in his eyes. "Even if it kills me."
Silence hung heavy for a moment. Then Gloria spoke softly, "Eat. Dreams are fine, but you need strength to chase them."
Edward smiled faintly and picked up his spoon.
But his mind wasn't here. It was out there—beyond the stars, in a mech of his own making.
That night, as the moon spilled silver light through his window, Edward lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
In his mind, he saw giant mechs striding across burning fields, their weapons blazing as alien warships rained fire from the skies. He saw martial artists splitting mountains with their bare hands, their qi roaring like storms.
And then, he saw himself—standing in a cockpit, piloting a mech he built with his own hands.
"That's where I belong," he whispered to the empty room.
His eyes drifted to his workbench, where the broken prototype sat silently in the dark.
"…No matter what it takes."
At dawn, Edward slipped out of the house, a small training bag slung over his shoulder. His parents would scold him if they knew, but he didn't care.
Today, he would push harder than ever.
He walked for hours, leaving behind the streets of his hometown until the forest stretched before him—a sea of green whispering in the wind.
Edward tightened the straps on his weighted gauntlets and stepped into the shadows of the trees.
This was where he trained every day. Away from prying eyes. Away from laughter and pity.
Here, he could fail a thousand times and no one would see.
He dropped his bag in a clearing and rolled his shoulders. "Alright. Time to become a martial artist… damn it."
He started with stances. His muscles burned. Sweat poured down his back. Hours passed, his punches growing heavier, his breathing harsher.
And yet—
It wasn't enough.
His fists were slow. His kicks lacked force. His footwork was clumsy.
Why? Why couldn't he improve?
Edward collapsed to his knees, gasping, his heart pounding like a war drum.
"I'm… not giving up…"
He clenched his fist and slammed it into the dirt.
And that was when he heard it—
A low hum, deep and ancient, like energy pulsing beneath the earth.
Edward froze, lifting his head. The ground trembled faintly, a glow seeping through the cracks a few meters away.
"What the…?"
He staggered to his feet and stepped closer, heart hammering. The glow grew brighter, pulsating like a heartbeat—warm, golden, alive.
And then—
The earth collapsed.
Edward shouted as the ground gave way, dragging him into darkness.
Edward's consciousness swam in darkness. No sense of time, no sound, only the echo of his own heartbeat pounding inside an infinite void.
Am I… dead?
The last thing he remembered was the golden bones crumbling into liquid light and surging down his throat like molten metal. His chest still burned as if a furnace had been lit inside him.
Suddenly, a cold chime rang in his skull—clang—like metal striking metal. Words, carved in light, drifted before his eyes.
[Inheritance Initiated]
Legacy of the Void Body: Accepted.
Warning: Vessel unqualified. Body reconstruction mandatory.
"What the hell…?" Edward whispered, his voice echoing through the endless dark. "Inheritance? Reconstruction? This isn't a damn mech manual…"
The darkness fractured. A flood of memories not his own roared into his mind—visions of towering warriors tearing mountains apart with bare fists, mechs kneeling in reverence to flesh-and-blood cultivators, and a solitary figure sitting beneath stars, chanting:
"Break the vessel. Perfect the void."
When Edward opened his eyes again, he was lying in the same cavern, but the world felt… sharper. Every crack in the walls pulsed like veins of light. The bones that had once glowed with ancient runes were gone—completely absorbed into him.
He staggered up, clutching the book. Its black cover shimmered faintly, like it was breathing. Four characters burned into the surface:
Void Body Manual.
Edward's hands trembled as he flipped it open. Each page radiated a chilling, divine aura, and at the very first line, his stomach dropped.
"To forge the Void Body, first destroy the mortal shell."
"What…" His voice cracked. "You mean I… I have to break myself apart first? Are you kidding me?!"
But the next words made his throat dry up.
"Only through destruction can perfection arise. Blood must drown the old form. Flesh must crumble. Pain is your hammer, death your anvil."
Edward laughed—a hollow, broken laugh. "What kind of sadistic cultivator wrote this crap?!"
He wanted to throw the book away. But then he saw his reflection in the cavern's pool. A weak body. Thin arms. The kind of body mocked by every martial student since childhood.
If I can't do this, then forget piloting a mech. Forget competing. Forget protecting anything.
Edward clenched his fists. His nails dug into his palms until blood dripped into the water.
"No," he growled through gritted teeth. "I'll do it."
The moment he spoke those words, the cavern seemed to hum, like the entire space acknowledged his resolve.
And so it began.
Edward started with the first step: bone shattering. He struck his arms against jagged stone, again and again, until his vision blurred. Every impact was a lightning bolt of agony ripping through his nerves. His scream echoed through the chamber, but he didn't stop.
Hours passed. His body broke. His flesh tore. His bones splintered like brittle wood. But the golden essence inside him—the liquid light—stirred. It flowed to the wounds, knitting them back stronger, harder, denser than before.
Then came the muscle tearing, where he had to contract every fiber until it ruptured, only to let it heal under the suffocating pressure of the Void Body art.
Pain became his entire existence.
By the time he collapsed, his blood had painted the cavern floor crimson. But when he woke again—he wasn't weak Edward Varden anymore.
His body felt balanced, every proportion in perfect symmetry. His heartbeat was like a war drum, steady and deep. His skin gleamed faintly as if it carried its own light.
He had become something else.
Not supreme. Not invincible. But no longer weak.
Edward clenched his fist and felt raw power surge through his veins. For the first time in his life, he smiled like a warrior—not an engineer.
"…Perfect body," he whispered, recalling the manual. "And this is just the start."
His gaze turned to the cavern ceiling, where faint cracks revealed a sliver of night sky. Stars shimmered like distant flames.
"Federation Martial Academy…" Edward grinned, blood still drying on his lips. "You're not ready for me."
He picked up the book, tucked it under his arm, and walked out of the ancient chamber with steps that felt like thunder. The Void had given him a gift. And the world would learn his name.