"The most crucial aspect of piloting a mech isn’t flashy techniques, but the combination of micro-movements," Schneider said, his playful demeanor vanishing as he grew serious.

  Latham blinked, struggling to keep up with Schneider’s sudden shift in tone.

  "Basic stances, transitional postures—these micro-movements are the foundation," Schneider continued, demonstrating fluid hand motions. "Mech combat demands adaptability. To make the right split-second decisions during clashes, you need both combat experience and… fundamentals so deeply ingrained they become instinct."

  "Deeply ingrained?" Latham echoed, puzzled.

  "Yes. You drill these movements until they’re etched into your bones, fused with your soul. Until you can execute them flawlessly blindfolded, purely by reflex."

  Latham inhaled sharply, hesitating before asking, "Is this… the only way to reach the pinnacle of mech piloting?"

  "No." Schneider cracked a grin. "This is just the bare minimum. If you can’t master this, you don’t deserve to touch a mech."

  "Then how do you become elite?"

  "Experience. Talent. Grind."

  Latham’s eyes sharpened, uncertainty replaced by resolve. "Understood. I’ll drill the basics. And study the footage."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Schneider nodded approvingly, a genuine smile breaking through. "Keep at it. I’ve got things to handle."

  As Schneider left the training room, Latham’s lips barely moved as he whispered, "Thanks."

  Removing his neural sensors, Schneider stretched luxuriously in his living room, sighing in relief.

  "Enjoy bullying the rookie?" A middle-aged man settled beside him, swirling two glasses of crimson wine.

  "Uncle Raqqa." Schneider straightened instinctively. Though this was his home, Raqqa—his mentor and uncle—commanded respect.

  Raqqa’s smile didn’t waver. "Well?"

  "Incredible." Schneider accepted a wineglass, downing it in one gulp. "Latham’s a freak of nature. A genius who’ll outpace me within a year. Mark my words—if I don’t spar him now, I’ll be the one eating dirt later."

  Raqqa arched an eyebrow. "Coming from you? That’s… unexpected."

  "Because it’s true." Schneider leaned back, covering his face with a hand. His voice turned hollow. "After seeing him today? You either grow up or get left behind."

  Raqqa patted his nephew’s shoulder, recognizing the ache of dethroned brilliance. He’d seen this before—prodigies eclipsed by greater flames.

  "How long until he surpasses you?" Raqqa redirected.

  "A year. Maybe less." Schneider groaned. "Then I’ll avoid sparring him like the plague."

  "Up." Raqqa slapped his back. "Skynet. Now."

  "Why? Training’s done! I’m not getting pummeled today—"

  "You told Latham you can floor your first opponent in ten seconds." Raqqa’s grin turned predatory. "Prove it."

  Schneider froze. "That was a motivational lie!"

  "Skynet. Now."

  "Can’t we—"

  "Alternatively," Raqqa tapped his wrist-com, "we’ll book the academy’s live combat arena. Loser covers the rental."

  Schneider paled. "Uncle—"

  "Move."