?“Alright, frien—no, brother… I mean, you’ve passed. Yeah, I swear you’ve mastered walking,”? Schneider declared with exaggerated solemnity.

  Lassam smiled faintly. Friends to brothers in a heartbeat—Schneider’s standards sure shift fast. From his observations, Schneider was notoriously aloof, with only a handful of fellow “geniuses” in the academy earning his camaraderie. Strangely, Lassam felt a flicker of pride. Before today, he’d never have qualified. Yet beneath it simmered unease—thankfully masked.

  ?“Isn’t walking… normal?”?

  ?“Normal? Oh, totally normal,”? Schneider mumbled, staring blankly.

  When a self-proclaimed genius encounters someone leagues ahead, bitterness often follows. But Schneider, to his credit, swallowed his pride swiftly. Lassam’s heightened mental sensitivity caught the fleeting envy in his voice, though he felt no triumph. After all, he wasn’t piloting the mech.

  ?“What now?”?

  ?“Now…”?

  A video request popped up. Schneider’s face filled the screen, grinning slyly. ?“Ever raised a kid?”?

  Lassam relaxed as Schneider’s tension dissolved—but the question baffled him. Eighteen and parenting? Pets, maybe? ?“No,”? he answered firmly.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  ?“Know what kids want after walking?”?

  ?“Run…?”?

  ?“No—jump!”? Schneider crowed.

  ?“Jump? Seriously?”?

  ?“Dead serious. Time for leap drills.”?

  Schneider ended the call, smirking. Who cares if kids actually run first?

  He demonstrated: arms out, knees bent, the mech launching a meter high—its thrusters humming—before landing gracefully meters away. ?“See? Start small. Don’t expect my flair without a year’s pra—WHA—HOW?!”?

  Mid-lecture, Lassam’s mech mirrored the motion flawlessly, soaring in a fluid arc. The landing? Steady as a veteran’s. Schneider gaped. Had he not witnessed Lassam’s earlier wobbles, he’d never believe this rookie had never touched a virtual mech before.

  Lassam, however, panicked internally. Too perfect. He’d meant to falter, but the sensor consciousness ignored his mental pleas to “tone it down.” It obeyed commands—not subtleties.

  ?“Genius…”? Schneider thumped Lassam’s mech shoulder, awed. ?“You’re a natural.”?

  ?“Genius, huh?”? Lassam muttered bitterly.

  Trapped in this charade, he faced two paths: reclaim control (and expose his ineptitude) or let the AI play “genius” indefinitely. The latter meant enduring undeserved praise—but the alternative? Suspicion, ridicule.

  Screw it, he decided. Let the AI handle the game. Play the prodigy.

  His gaze pierced the virtual armor, picturing Schneider’s stunned face. So what if they call me a genius? For once, I’ll take it.