The first time Kael entered Darian's cluttered flat, he thought it looked less like a home and more like a scrapyard.
Stacks of outdated processors, cracked visors, half-burnt circuit boards, and old military rations were scattered everywhere. A stripped-down mecha limb leaned against the wall like a forgotten relic of war.
"You fix all this?" Kael asked, eyes wide.
Darian snorted. "Fix? Kid, half of it's junk. Other half… if you know the right tricks, it still runs. Army throws their old toys away, but I make 'em dance again." He patted the mech limb with a grin that showed missing teeth.
In one corner, a battered console hummed to life, filling the room with the glow of holo-screens. Lines of code scrolled across them, mixing with flickering adverts of underground VR tournaments.
Kael's gaze lingered. "This is… games?"
Darian gave a low chuckle. "Not the kiddie kind. These are mecha war sims. Illegal, hacked, and brutal. Players ride virtual machines, clash in arenas, and bet more credits than you'll ever see." He rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a cracked visor. "And I happen to be one of the best."
That night, Kael slipped the visor over his head.
The world erupted in steel.
He sat inside a towering mecha cockpit, panels blinking with warning lights. The controls felt clunky at first, like learning to walk again. Outside, a neon-lit city stretched across the horizon, riddled with skyscrapers and battlefield scars.
"First lesson," Darian's voice crackled in his comms. "Machines don't fight alone. They break. They jam. They overheat. You don't just pilot—you keep them alive."
On Kael's display, a panel flickered red. Hydraulic failure.
"Fix it," Darian ordered.
"But how—?"
"Think. System's screaming at you. Don't panic—check the flow chart."
Kael's hands scrambled over the virtual controls. After a frantic moment, he rerouted power manually. The panel went green.
Darian chuckled. "Not bad, rookie. At least you didn't blow us up."
The match began.
Across the city, two mechas lunged out of the shadows—hulking giants with gleaming blades and rifles. Kael's heart thundered as he gripped the controls.
"Left flank, rookie!" Darian barked, his own mech storming ahead.
Kael stumbled, nearly tipping his machine into a tower. He fired blindly, shots sparking against steel. The enemy retaliated, missiles raining down.
"Too slow! Anticipate, not react!" Darian's voice grew sharp. "War isn't about pushing buttons—it's about reading the rhythm."
They fought hard. Kael's mech was battered, alarms wailing, but somehow they pushed the enemy back. Darian's precision, Kael's desperate improvisation—it was messy, but it worked.
When the battle ended, Kael slumped in his cockpit, panting.
Darian's voice softened, just slightly. "Not terrible. You'll get there. One thing you should know, though—" His mech turned toward Kael's, its scarred armor gleaming in the neon haze.
"Machines don't win wars. People do. Remember that."
Weeks passed in this rhythm.
Kael learned to patch circuits, repair broken visors, even write fragments of code for Darian's hacks. He grew used to the hum of machines, the clatter of tools, the rush of neon battlefields.
But as the battles grew fiercer, Darian began slipping in lessons that felt different—less about machines, more about men.
He showed Kael how groups of mechas moved like squads of soldiers, how covering fire worked in tandem, how formations weren't just strategy—they were survival.
"Look closer, rookie," Darian muttered one night after a long match. "You think this is a game? These patterns, these moves—they're the same ones I learned in the dirt, holding a rifle. War's the same, whether you're in a trench or inside two hundred tons of steel."
Kael's eyes widened. For the first time, he felt it—the shadow of something heavier behind the games.
And in that moment, he began to understand: Darian wasn't just teaching him how to play. He was teaching him how to survive.