The Gut Pit Arena was less a venue and more a cavernous wound in the heart of Sector 7's industrial district. It stank of oil smoke, cheap synthetic spirits, and the damp earth of a perpetually leaking filtration system. Overhead, dim, malfunctioning utility lamps cast sickly yellow light on the crowd pressed against the safety railing—a churning mass of local mechanics, desperate gamblers, and those few, stiff-backed spectators from the upper sectors who treated the low-born's struggle as brutal entertainment.
In the center of the ring lay the remains of a salvage-grade utility chassis, Unit 88-Delta. It was a beast of old iron, the kind of heavy lifting mech that had been phased out a decade ago for lighter, more efficient Cultech models. Rust bloomed on its segmented plating like metallic moss, and one of its massive hydraulic arms lay detached, coolant weeping onto the oily dirt.
Kai Zore, seventeen years old, his frame lean and wire-tight, was hunched over the mech's exposed core. He was working fast, his calloused hands a blur of motion over the tangled bundles of fiber-optic cable and scarred power regulators. The grime on his face mirrored the dirt on the floor, but his dark, analytical eyes—the only pristine things about him—held a terrifying, almost obsessive focus.
His rival, a thick-necked brute named Brick who worked for one of the city's minor repair cartels, stood nearby with his arms crossed. Brick's mech, though also technically salvage, was pristine, polished, and visibly upgraded with factory-grade components. The contrast was deliberate, a public declaration of the financial gulf between the competitors.
"Clock's running, Zore!" the announcer, a man whose voice was permanently hoarse from years of shouting over industrial noise, bellowed into the echo. "Two hundred seconds to system diagnostics! If that thing doesn't walk, you forfeit the pot and your stabilizer arm, boy!"
Kai ignored him. The noise, the lights, the threats—they dissolved into a dull, white static against the intense concentration needed to execute his plan. The core problem wasn't power; it was pathway integrity. The main conduit had fractured, and he didn't have the time or the high-grade materials to replace the entire segment.
Standard procedure dictates rerouting to the tertiary conduit, Kai thought, mentally scrolling through the maintenance manuals he'd memorized since childhood. But tertiary only handles 30% load. It won't walk.
He took a deep, slow breath, closing his eyes for a second. He wasn't relying on manuals. He was relying on the forbidden.
He reached out and placed his bare palm directly onto the hot, vibrating metal casing of the power regulator. He was searching for the subtle, organic hum of Bio Energy that all Cultech possessed, the invisible pathways that fused the mechanical systems with the universe's life force.
He initiated his cultivation technique: the Divergent Flow. It wasn't the steady, predictable current taught in elite academies, which followed established meridian lines in the tech. Kai's flow was wild, asymmetrical, and rooted in his own unique energy map—an unconventional training born of necessity and self-taught practice.
He pushed a fine, silvery thread of his Inner Force into the fractured conduit. The surrounding metal immediately began to scream—a high-pitched whine audible only to those close enough. The metal was resisting the imposition of this alien, custom-made energy pathway.
Ninety seconds.
A sharp, searing pain shot up his right forearm. A small, black bubble of burnt synthetic skin appeared where his arm touched the casing. He didn't flinch. This was the risk of the Divergent Flow: it worked, but it taxed the body and often corrupted the tech with instability. He was forcing the remaining Cultech fibers to grow a new connection point, overriding the structural damage by sheer, focused will.
"What is he doing?" Brick scoffed, loud enough for the nearby scouts to hear. "He's frying the whole chassis! Look at the heat bleed!"
Kai held the flow steady. He saw the circuit path clear, not in the schematics, but in his mind's eye—a blinding, unstable silver line cutting through the darkness. He held the connection for three agonizing seconds, stabilizing the rogue circuit just enough to carry the necessary load.
With a final, sharp, ragged exhale, he yanked his hands away. The unit's system lights—dead moments before—flashed green. He quickly slammed a patch panel over the exposed core, ignoring the throbbing pain in his arm.
Thirty seconds.
Kai hit the power activation rune on the console.
The massive, rusted utility mech shuddered, groaned, and, with a terrifying clatter, hauled its segmented body upright. It stood crooked, favoring its good side, but it was functional. It took one shaky step, then a second, leaving deep gouges in the dirt.
The crowd erupted. It was a roar of genuine shock and vindication. The low-born loved seeing the impossible achieved with nothing but scrap and skill. The pot, a meager but life-saving amount of credits, was his.
As Kai began the arduous task of prepping the salvage for transport—he needed every single credit the parts were worth—a small path opened through the cheering crowd. A tall, impeccably dressed man stepped into the ring. He wore the sharp, silver-and-blue uniform of a high-level scout for the Leading Star Academy, one of the Top 5. His face was cold, precise, and entirely unimpressed.
"Kai Zore," the scout said, his voice crisp, controlled, and utterly dismissive. "A truly remarkable display of brute-force efficiency. You pushed that salvage unit past its design limits."
Kai looked up, his face expressionless, the adrenaline beginning to drain away, leaving a hollow exhaustion. "Limits are just numbers someone else wrote down, sir."
The scout's thin mouth curled into a patronizing smile. "Indeed. We reviewed your application data. Your academic scores are, mathematically, flawless. Your technical aptitude is undeniable. However, the top five academies require adherence to foundational principles and established lineage. We cannot risk admitting a maverick who relies on… unconventional training and back-alley success. This kind of unpredictable energy work is a liability, not an asset."
He paused, letting his words hang heavy in the sudden, absolute silence of the pit.
"Your final refusal is confirmed."
The scout did not hand him the rejection. He dropped a sleek, palm-sized data chip—the physical confirmation of the rejection—on the oily, dirt floor directly at Kai's feet. It landed with a soft, final clink that sounded louder than the entire crowd's roar.
"Enjoy your credits, Zore," the scout added, his gaze sweeping over the grime-stained environment one last time. "They won't buy you class."
He turned on his heel and walked away, the silver of his uniform a cruel, gleaming contrast to the rust and the defeat. Kai stared at the chip, his hard-won victory turning to a bitter, familiar ash in his mouth. He knew the rejection was coming, but the utter contempt of the delivery reignited a familiar, cold, burning rage. It wasn't just a rejection; it was a societal stamp, permanently blocking his path.
They won't buy you class. Kai bent down and picked up the chip, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white. He had just cheated death with scrap metal and his own raw genius, and he was still trash in their eyes. He was going to make them regret that assessment.