The title of "Mecha King" represented the undisputed No. 1 among all mecha pilots in The Human Grand Alliance.

  Since humanity entered the cosmic era, mecha piloting had become the most popular sport. Though most civilians couldn’t operate actual military-grade mecha, this did nothing to dampen public enthusiasm.

  The Mecha King reigned supreme across all piloting competitions—a crown of honor revered in The Human Grand Alliance, comparable to the glory of a 21st-century Ballon d'Or winner.

  Such prestige naturally came with astronomical earnings. The annual income from competition prizes and endorsements for such a figure defied imagination.

  No one could have predicted that their son possessed this "once-in-a-millennium" talent.

  "Is... this true?" Father asked cautiously, unaware his voice trembled slightly.

  "Yes, Dad," Latham replied calmly. Yet no one noticed the cold sweat soaking his back.

  Only now did his suspended heart settle. When Father asked that question, Latham knew he’d passed the test—after today’s conversation, no one would ever doubt his psychic capabilities again.

  Seizing the moment, Card produced a contract. "Mr. and Mrs. Fang, this is our corporation’s proposal for your son. Please review it."

  The parents numbly accepted the multi-page document, skimming its contents.

  "We foresee extraordinary potential in Latham," Card elaborated. "He’ll receive top-tier resources—the finest mecha, elite coaches, premium benefits. We guarantee the optimal environment for his growth. Upon signing, we’ll immediately provide a weekly sponsorship fee of one million credits until he turns twenty, after which his formal contract will include substantially upgraded terms."

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  Father struggled to tear his eyes from the contract. The couple exchanged wry smiles—their annual earnings barely matched that weekly sum. Factoring in the free training facilities and coaching costs, Black Phage Group’s total investment became unimaginable.

  Though tempted to accept immediately, Father remembered Latham’s earlier passionate declaration. "What do you think, Latham?" he asked, expecting an obvious answer.

  Yet against all expectations, the youth hesitated before announcing under four pairs of eager eyes: "I refuse."

  "Excellent! Wait... what did you say?" Card’s smile froze mid-transformation.

  "Mr. Card, I won’t join the mecha training program yet."

  "Why?" The executive’s voice sharpened. "If terms are unsatisfactory, we can negotiate! The million-credit weekly sponsorship already hits the legal cap for minors, but..." He glanced meaningfully at the parents, "...certain supplemental benefits could be arranged off-record."

  Even their supervisor watching nearby burned with envy.

  Latham grimaced. Were it not for his fatal hidden flaw, he’d have accepted without hesitation. Steadying himself, he countered: "You misunderstand—the offer surpasses all reason. My refusal stems from having no current interest in professional mecha piloting."

  Card’s arm hung suspended in disbelief. "But our training camp records show you demonstrated exceptional enthusiasm during Skynet simulations!"

  "True," Latham conceded. "But witnessing real mecha combat’s brutality yesterday... I’m psychologically unprepared for that reality."

  Understanding dawned—the collateral damage from yesterday’s mecha accident had traumatized him. Latham inwardly cheered at this flawless excuse.

  After a weighted pause, Card pressed: "Authentic combat does demand mental fortitude, but we have resources to—"

  "Enough!" Father interrupted, fury flashing in his eyes.

  "—consultants," Card hastily amended. "Not therapists. Specialists to help process challenges."

  "No." Latham’s tone brooked no argument. "When I’m ready to engage with mecha again, you’ll be my first choice. But not now."

  "Son, perhaps we—"

  "Forgive me, I need rest." Latham gestured to his temple and exited without another word.