Chapter One: Twenty-Three Percent

So that one day, when a child stood before a sea of fire, someone ahead of them would not retreat. The screen lit. For one breath, the hall went silent. Then someone laughed. "Synchronization rate: twenty-three percent." The machine's female voice announced the result without mercy. "Assessment: unfit. Recommended transfer paths: ground maintenance, logistics assembly, or industrial mining machinery." Laughter rolled through the hall like gravel. "Twenty-three? My mining dog scores higher than that." "A slum rat really thought he could pilot a mech?" "I heard he applied for scholarship review three times and wasted half a year of slots."