The five‑o'clock bus from the junkyard to 3212 Academy took only ten minutes—astonishingly fast.
When Vera Warde arrived, the sky was still dark.
There were few people at the school gate. Only around five‑thirty did the crowd begin to grow.
At six o'clock sharp, a teacher came out.
"Everyone, form ten lines and follow me."
The lines were long—Vera estimated five or six thousand students altogether.
After some noisy shuffling, they finally managed to arrange themselves. The teacher's eyes swept lazily over the group before turning around. "Follow."
They marched to the school's training field and stopped. On the podium stood nine other teachers waiting.
Ten teachers stood in a row, whispered to one another for a moment, then the middle one stepped forward to address the students.
"Welcome to 3212 Academy. From today onward, you embark on a painful path of improvement."
Vera looked up at the ten teachers on the stage, a little dazed.
Teachers in this world seemed excessively upright—every one of them straight‑backed and long‑legged.
In her old world, they would have looked exactly like soldiers.
"I don't know how many of you will still be alive by the end of the semester," the teacher continued sternly, sweeping his sharp gaze from left to right. "So treasure every training session—you never know which one might save your life."
"The school, out of humanitarian concern, grants compensation at the end of each term based on the severity of your injuries.
If, unfortunately, you die, twenty thousand credits will be paid to your parents."
Vera: "???"
What did she just hear?
Wasn't a trainee mecha engineer supposed to learn about materials and design, not life‑and‑death combat?
From what that teacher said, the 5,000–20,000 credits she'd seen yesterday weren't scholarships at all!
A chill crept up her spine.
The speech was brief. Soon each teacher led one line of students away to receive uniforms.
Vera followed her group, took her uniform, and during the change of clothes quickly opened her wrist terminal to check information about 3212 Academy.
Her eyes scanned the text at lightning speed.
Then she froze.
There was only one prep school on 3212 Star, specializing in training trainee mecha engineers and trainee mecha soldiers.
ClassB—the one she had enrolled in—was for trainee mecha soldiers,
while only ClassA was for engineers.
…She had picked the wrong class.
The casualty and dropout rates for mecha soldiers were notoriously high.
They began with five or six thousand students a semester and ended with roughly three thousand.
Apart from injuries, many simply couldn't endure the training and quit for ordinary schools.
That, it turned out, was why tuition was cheaper—and why seriously injured students received payouts.
Vera stared at her terminal for a long time.
Changing majors now was impossible; she didn't have the money.
If she dropped out, she wouldn't get her tuition back.
She sighed inwardly. Fine. Survive a semester first—then think about transferring once I earn something. A thousand credits can't go to waste.
A teacher patrolling nearby saw her still half‑dressed and scowled. "What are you doing? Hurry up and change!"
Vera shut off the terminal at once and went into the changing room to put on the uniform.
When everyone had finished, the teacher lifted his chin. "All of you—run twenty laps around the school."
The 3212 campus was huge. They were all kids; even one lap left them exhausted, let alone twenty.
By the third lap, Vera's old dizziness returned—she was hungry again.
"Keep your spirits up!" the teacher called, walking leisurely behind them.
"Our B‑Class isn't like A‑Class with their fancy point system. You'll be judged by one thing only—whether you're still alive after the final exam."
"Alive, understand? Every extra lap you run now raises your survival odds later."
After six laps, the group had clearly split—dozens of students ahead still at full speed, about a hundred lagging far behind.
Vera ran somewhere in the middle, panting heavily.
Occasionally she glanced forward; those kids were unbelievably fit.
By the tenth lap, the teacher stood near the track holding a large box. "We've got some nutrient solution here—about fifty servings. First come, first served."
Vera's eyes lit up instantly. Her pace quickened on reflex.
She wasn't the only one; several students around her accelerated at once.
Clenching her teeth, she pushed herself harder—not just for the drink.
She had to stay in this school to learn anything related to mecha engineering.
She had to finish all twenty laps.
"Thirty… twenty‑nine… last ten bottles! Move it!" the teacher called lazily.
Vera's temples pounded, but she saw there were only twelve people ahead of her.
If she could just pass two, she could get that last nutrient tube.
"…Last three…" the teacher announced as another student sprinted up. "Last one left!"
Vera was fifty meters away when she saw the teacher.
She wiped the sweat from her forehead, gritted her teeth, and sprinted with everything she had—passing two people just in time to grab the final nutrient tube.
Running as she drank, she instantly noticed it was different from the defective ones she'd scavenged before.
A surge of energy flooded her system, warmth spreading through every limb.
She felt like she could run ten more laps.
The fifty students who'd managed to grab one were the first to finish, collapsing soon after on the track.
Vera was impressed—survival truly did make one stronger.
Back in her old world, after a day's work she would rather sit than stand, lie down than sit. Now, at seven years old, she could run this far.
The first day of school passed entirely in running.
When classes finally ended, many still hadn't completed the twenty laps, but the teacher only waved his hand.
"Dismissed. Those who didn't finish may leave too."
Checking the time, Vera saw it was just after five—she had missed the bus.
Taxis existed here—flying ones. But they were pricey. After some thought, she decided to visit the materials market first.
As its name implied, the place sold all kinds of materials.
She originally wanted to buy components to make an electric bike for commuting, but when she arrived, every material was unfamiliar.
After visiting several shops, Vera finally figured out the world's main energy source—GrayCrystals.
These were mined by the Federation and used to power mechas directly.
Ordinary households couldn't use raw crystals—they used crystal cards, each containing refined Gray energy.
A thin card stored power for multiple tools and could be recharged after depletion—much like electricity from her old world.
Vera spent 600 credits on a crystal card preloaded with 500, intending to use it to power her future electric bike. She also bought a welding gun—the one left by the old man was too weak.
After exploring the entire market and familiarizing herself with various new materials, it was already 10 p.m.
At the alley's exit, she noticed a store selling mechas and went in out of curiosity.
The interior was lavish, but only three mechas stood on display.
Each was a different model, each stunning in design—yet according to the data she'd read earlier, mechas were meant for combat.
These three didn't seem capable of fighting insect beasts at all.
She voiced her observation aloud.
A nearby customer chuckled. "Kid, those are decorative mechas, not combat units. The army doesn't sell real ones."
Oh. So that was it.
Vera lingered awhile longer. Each mecha was more expensive than the last—the cheapest priced at five million credits. Still, considering InfusionGold sold at 100,000 credits per gram, the price wasn't unreasonable.
Leaving the shop, she paid 50 credits for a taxi home.
She stayed up all night and finally built a simple electric bike. The next morning, she rode it proudly to school.
Just as she reached the gate, a flying craft descended overhead.
Jin Ke hopped out and waved. "Vera!"
"What's that ride now?" he circled her new bike, fascinated. "Selling it?"
"Fifty thousand credits," she said flatly.
He clicked his tongue. "Forget it." His eyes lit up at the back seat. "Can I at least hitch a ride in?"
"Five hundred credits per trip."
"We're friends!"
"I'm poor."
Jin Ke instantly transferred 500 credits and plopped down behind her. "Done."
As the contraption started moving—far faster than her previous tricycle—he grew more convinced that Vera was the daughter of some hidden master. This bike must have been made by that master, too.
The last one his home tutor had examined turned out to be just crude scrap patched together—it required human pedaling and offered no research value. This one, though, at least ran on energy.
"I'm in A1 Class," Jin Ke said. "What about you?"
"B5," Vera answered.
He froze. "B‑Class? But you're a trainee mecha engineer—how did you become a mecha soldier?"
"Can't I?" she asked coolly.
If life hadn't forced her hand, who wouldn't prefer being an engineer?
"Sure, sure. Nothing wrong with being a soldier," Jin Ke said quickly.
They split paths soon after. Vera found her classroom and took an empty seat, uncertain what today's lesson would be.
The same teacher walked in as the bell rang, laid the schedule on the platform.
Vera looked through it and felt her heart sink:
weighted runs, combat techniques, dagger practice…
Only one day of cultural study per week.
She sighed inwardly. A frail former engineer learning all this muscle work—how absurd.
After more than half a month of classes, Vera's hopes of finding a way to earn money were distant.
The workload grew heavier each day, leaving her trembling by the time school ended. She would collapse asleep the moment she got back to the abandoned building.
Worse still, she heard that even A‑Class hadn't begun midterms yet, yet over 200 students had already transferred out—unable to afford the materials.
A qualified mecha engineer, she learned, was built out of money.
Ordinary families simply couldn't sustain it.
So changing majors was out of the question.
At least the school library was open to all; even B‑Class students could borrow mecha engineering books.
As a former top engineer, Vera decided that was enough for now—she could teach herself.
She'd ask Jin Ke later what his class was studying.
"Today," announced their teacher in the training yard, "you will learn how to hunt. Sadly, our 3212 Star is too poor to afford holographic simulators."
He smiled faintly. "So treat the classmate in front of you as your prey. Use the techniques from last lesson.
Lose and nothing happens.
Win and…" The smile deepened. "…there is no reward."
At the whistle's blow, the student before Vera lunged straight at her, arms around her waist, trying to slam her down.
Damn it!
A fall like that could leave her bedridden for weeks—and though the school's recovery pods could heal injuries in half an hour, she couldn't afford the fee!
Sorry, kid.
She stepped back twice, seized the attacker's arm, yanked hard, then flipped him clean over her shoulder.
And to make sure he couldn't get back up—she dislocated his arm.
Cries of pain echoed across the yard.
The seriously injured were carried to the infirmary one after another.
When her opponent admitted defeat, Vera straightened up, filled with grim resignation.
So this is the path of a trainee mecha soldier—pure violence.
…