The ritual circle hummed, a low thrum that vibrated through the stone floor and into Thesh’s very bones. Cold sweat slicked his sun-tanned brow, the ruddy hue of his Ylishian skin a stark contrast to the blue ceremonial paint that adorned his bare limbs. He finished the final placement of the sacrificial offering, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. From beyond the thick, oaken doors of the town hall, Elder Whistler’s voice boomed, clear and resonant. “Today the boy Thesh dies, and the man who will end our Wandering is born.”

  Thesh’s pulse surged, a wave of heat washing over him as the circle’s glow intensified. A torrent of foreign sensations flooded his mind, a chaotic deluge of memories and experiences that were not his own. The life of another, from a universe unknown, crashed against the fragile walls of his consciousness. Thesh’s control wavered, his body a battleground for two warring souls. Instinctively, he retreated, shielding the core of his being, the essence of himself, like a parent bird protecting its young from a raging blizzard.

  The figure that emerged from the town hall doors was not Thesh. He was taller, broader, the ritual clothes now straining against newly formed muscles. But the transformation was most evident in his eyes. Where cool hazel had once resided, now burned a pair of brilliant golden irises, the unmistakable mark of the Splintered. The crowd, a sea of expectant faces, hushed as Elder Whistler stepped forward. “What do we call you?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

  The Splintered gazed around, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and confusion, as if seeing the world for the first time. “My name is… Lance,” he said, the name sounding foreign, tentative on his tongue. “What is your mission?” the Elder demanded, his voice hardening.

  “To end our Wandering. For Ylishia!” Lance declared, his voice ringing with newfound conviction.

  “FOR YLISHIA!” the crowd roared back, a wave of sound that shook the very air.

  Lance stood before his Mechabelli, the sheer scale of the machine filling him with a sense of awe. The Scope Cougar, as it was called, stood eight meters tall, twelve meters long from head to rear, and boasted a ten-meter tail that doubled as an artillery barrel. Its design, inspired by a large feline predator, was both elegant and formidable.

  “This is your Mech now, Th… Lance,” Elder Whistler said, his voice laced with anticipation. “To build up a reputation, I want you to enter the Rymentall Grand Prix. Ylishia shall gain prestige and galvanize our support to take up arms for our coming independence. Let me introduce you to Rebecca, she’ll be your mechanic.”

  He gestured towards a woman of similar age, her curly red hair, streaked with black highlights, pulled into a tight bun. A thin, three-centimeter scar ran vertically above her right eye, a stark mark against her pale skin.

  “I am getting paid based on your prize money winnings, so there is a lot riding on your splintered head,” she said, her voice sharp and direct.

  “I will live up to everyone’s expectations,” Lance replied, offering a slight bow.

  “Good. Rebecca will follow in the Al-Mi’raj,” Elder Whistler said, pointing to the adjacent Mech bay. Inside, a horned rabbit Mech, five meters tall and six meters long, stood waiting. “It’s not suited for combat, but it’s agile enough to make it over the Tylishia pass.”

  Lance settled into the cockpit of the Scope Cougar, the familiar scent of oiled metal and energy conduits filling his senses. He initiated the boot sequence, the Mechabelli’s systems coming to life with a low hum. Outside, the garage’s long mechanical arms disconnected the fluid bank, installed fine dust filters, and applied a layer of flux wax, a protective coating designed to withstand both the scorching sun and the biting chill of the desert nights.

  He received the all-clear from the gray shirted attendant, his left hand gripping the yoke, his right resting on the accelerator. The Cougar slinked out of the docking bay, its movements fluid and graceful. Lance monitored his instruments, ensuring he had a clear view of his surroundings as he left the military base.

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  The base was located on the northwest edge of the city, the access road running parallel to the main thoroughfare. As he passed, he saw the city’s traffic, a constant stream of vehicles against the backdrop of sprawling apartments and multi-story buildings, a stark contrast to the farmland that had once dominated the area. Fields of hertch, the grain of the Ylishian people, rippled in the warm summer breeze. Children, their flashlights like fireflies, lined the road, eager to catch a glimpse of the Mech.

  Lance was grateful for the Cougar’s smooth ride. An Ursa, while formidable, would have been a jarring experience on such a long journey. He ate his spicy vegetable spread on flat hertch bread, enjoying the meal without worrying about crumbs.

  Once he reached the shrublands, he began to test the Cougar’s capabilities, opening up the throttle, weaving through the dense foliage, and leaping across deep gullies. The Mech responded flawlessly, its agility and responsiveness exceeding his expectations. Before losing communicator range, he sent a status report back to base using his PDA.

  The shrublands gave way to the vast expanse of the Tylishia desert, and Lance began to monitor his instruments more closely. He was carrying a significant sum of money, intended for consumables and modifications for the upcoming matches. The Cougar’s footing became unstable as it traversed the shifting dunes, the landscape a blur of sand and sky. Relying on his navigation systems, he pressed onward, until the jagged peaks of the Tylishian Mountains appeared on the horizon.

  The mountain pass was a treacherous route, a winding path that demanded precision and agility. It was not a road, but a series of ledges and precipices, accessible only to nimble Mechs. The Cougar, built for such terrain, moved with ease, its powerful legs leaping from ledge to ledge.

  After fifteen hours of travel, Lance reached Twin Oaks, a small settlement nestled in the mountains. He found the hotel with its dedicated docking bay and guided the Cougar into its assigned space. Using his PDA, he connected to the dock’s robotics, initiating the maintenance sequence. Robotic arms connected the fluid bank, installed new dust filters, and applied a fresh coat of wax.

  He left the rest to Rebecca and headed to his room, changing into his workout clothes before embarking on a five-kilometer run. He returned, showered, and fell into bed, exhausted, at midnight.

  The next morning, Lance rose at seven, heading to the hotel’s gym for a weightlifting session. After another shower, he entered the tavern and spotted Rebecca, the pilot of the Al-Mi’raj, eating breakfast. He approached her booth, holding his bowl of hertch porridge. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  “Only if you’re here to talk shop. What’s your strategy going into the tournament ?”

  After finishing a mouthful of breakfast Lance replied “The Scope Cougar is better on low resources so creating space while slowly wearing down the enemy Mech with artillery fire”

  “You’re not wrong that the Scope Cougar is better than most Mech when both are out of Turbo and missiles but you have to get to that position first. Your current setup in the Scope Cougar only has room for two turbos and six internal missiles. If we take your strategy as first order optimal, I can get four turbos and 2 external missiles. You’ll have to fire off the missiles at the start of each match otherwise they’ll tear off when you turbo, making you predictable but high enough tempo that you’ll be able to make space. This strategy puts the onus on the other pilot to score a knockout before you inevitably wear them down. Personally I prefer the onus being on me to perform well, and if Splintered are as good as they say then a more skill expressive strategy should play to your strengths against the lower ranked tournament competitors.”

  “I like playing toward inevitable endings, making space is more than just turning tail and running. Besides any plan needs to be customized for that opponents Mech”

  “Plans are worthless but planning is everything. Isn’t that an old Ylishian saying?”

  “Actually it’s a Terchian saying ascribed to Ylishia, but I take your point. Where did you learn all this from? I have gained lifetimes of Mech pilot memories and yet concepts like tempo are still fuzzy to me.”

  “I’ve just always loved Mechs from a young age and my parents were willing to indulge my unquenchable curiosity.”

  “Normal kids don’t have access to Mechs, these are quite literally war machines. It’s only been since the stalemate of the Merchese Civil War that civilians of Falcon Rest could even own Mechs.”

  “My mom was a pilot for the Falcon Rest’s military. I used to read books on Mechs from the military’s library during school. I learned about Maneuver and Tempo from Closhe and Leonhard. I took any opportunity that I could to learn about the Mechs. At sixteen I was better read on Mechs then my mom, or even the smartest from her Brigade”

  “So why aren’t you still with the Falcon Rest’s military?”

  “I couldn’t understand why such beautiful creations should be used to kill. Non-lethal tournaments like The Grand Prix are the pinnacle of Mech expression.”

  “Funny ideology to have when aiding the symbol of a revolution.”

  “You’re not going out and killing anyone.”

  “Not yet.”