Chapter Title: Proving One's Worth
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The Royal Military Academy was one of the Empire's most vital military facilities, sprawling across tens of thousands of square kilometers. It boasted cutting-edge mecha training grounds, vast underground fortress complexes, and a skyline of towering metal structures.
Its crowning glory was a high-firepower mecha squadron, armed to the teeth and rivaling any regular army unit. The pilots were all top-tier elite cadets, handpicked from millions—and every mecha came equipped with a dedicated armorer technician.
That was a rare luxury. Armorer technicians were a special forces specialty, and no other advanced military academy could afford to assign one to each mecha.
The academy's mecha elite class practically monopolized the annual recruitment slots for the interstellar special forces. Countless people broke their heads trying to get in. But it wasn't easy—each year, the number of applicants from across the planets hit eight digits, yet the most they'd ever admitted was two thousand.
The Royal Military Academy's most controversial aspect was that, unlike many elite academies, it didn't exclusively recruit Alphas. Its ground combat division accepted Betas, and its research division took Omegas. Even Dean Edna Consertin of the research institute was a rare female Omega.
This egalitarian policy sparked endless protests from Empire high command. But Principal Caroline had this to say:
"The universally acclaimed Alliance War God, Marshal Gavin Celia, was confirmed to be a Beta, yet his unparalleled military genius was undiminished. It's hard to imagine that if the Marshal had been born in the Empire, he might not even have been allowed into a military academy. That's plainly absurd."
"Gender is no barrier to education. Whether Beta or Omega, every Empire soldier on the battlefield should be comrades."
Though Marshal Celia served as a golden shield for the Empire's people, the debate never died. Many insisted Betas and Omegas had no place in a military academy—even some Alpha students agreed. The class barriers of gender had never truly vanished within its walls.
Alpha males held absolute dominance, followed by Alpha females. Betas and Omegas scraped by at the very bottom.
—Gavin, as a transfer student, was blissfully unaware of all this.
But on his first day, he felt something was off.
He lined up with the other freshmen to collect uniforms. When his turn came, the quartermaster paused, then yanked a pair of extra-large pants from the table and shoved them at him.
"—Next!"
Gavin didn't budge.
"Please give me a smaller size."
"No small sizes. Why don't you go buy kids' pants? Next!"
"I see you have some. Give me that pair."
"Next!"
A faint stir rippled through the line behind him, accompanied by mocking snickers. A burly Alpha freshman clapped Gavin on the shoulder.
"Bro, what major are you in?"
"Armorer technician."
"I'd advise against that. What pilot's gonna pick a scrawny Beta like you as their tech? You'd be better off in the research institute with the Omegas, mixing solutions. Maybe one day you'll get lucky and touch a mecha hull. Ha... ah—"
The voice cut off abruptly. Gavin had suddenly gripped the hand on his shoulder, his thumb and forefinger clamping down on the bony protrusion of the guy's thick wrist.
The guy forced himself silent, but his trembling arm betrayed his pain.
A few seconds later, Gavin turned with a smile.
"Thanks for the advice."
He released the hand and walked off, face serene, as if oblivious to the mocking stares and jeers around him. www.ysyhd.com
The work pants were so baggy Gavin had to cuff the legs and cinch them with an extra-wide belt to keep them from sliding down.
Of course, he wasn't actually scrawny. Omegas in their teens didn't differ much from same-age Betas in build. Only upon full maturity did they soften and curve for breeding, a process further delayed by Beta pheromone injections.
Besides, Gavin had a solid frame to begin with—lean overall, but with taut, unexaggerated muscles forming a sleek inverted triangle. His endurance and conditioning rivaled the Empire's handpicked Alphas; he just lacked their bulky mass.
If he were an Alpha, people might say the kid was a bit slender, like how folks in the Alliance days chalked up Marshal Celia's leanness to heavy duties. But once confirmed as a Beta, opinions flipped.
Discrimination by gender had been blatant in the Alliance era. By the Empire's time, with classism resurgent, it had reached new heights.
The changing room was empty. Gavin slipped on a black fitted tank top and caught a figure behind him in the mirror.
A senior Alpha cadet, built like a tank, eyes brimming with undisguised distaste. He looked vaguely familiar, for some reason.
"I don't know what Dean Edna told you, but you don't belong here."
In a flash, Gavin recognized the voice—the cadet who'd stopped those rutting Alphas that night and tried to drag him to the med bay!
Gavin spun around, locking eyes.
"What are you trying to say?"
"Armorer technician demands top-tier skills. In a class of a hundred, you won't find even one Beta. The mecha squadron only cares about results—no one's picking you. Learning it is pointless."
"Plus, you're an Omega. I don't know why Dean Edna gave you suppressants, and I won't question superiors. But you should leave. Omegas are society's treasures—staying safe at home is best for everyone."
The cadet paused, then added icily,
"And I have to warn you: if those suppressants fail on the training field, you can't imagine the consequences. Lots of guys here aren't like regular Alphas outside. In rut, they've got heavy aggression—that night, you felt it firsthand, right?"
The words carried a warning edge. Gavin narrowed his eyes.
"Are you saying you're better than them?"
"I am."
His tone was detached, but the pride and discipline radiating from his core commanded respect—too bad Gavin had been running into posers nonstop since waking up. Like Empire General Aaron, who'd had his throat grabbed and mecha stolen; or His Imperial Majesty, whose Bìàní had let Gavin escape and even taken a hit. Ordinary posturing barely registered anymore. He just gave a flat "Oh" and said,
"Thanks for the heads-up."
He slung his jacket over his shoulder, slipped on black fingerless gloves, and headed out. The cadet blinked, caught off guard.
"Did you even hear me?"
"I did. Thanks."
"—You..."
"What's your name?"
The cadet hesitated.
"...Dean."
"Thanks, Dean."
Gavin said,
"Thanks for protecting me that night— even if it was just your superior pride at work— I'll repay you someday."
Dean frowned.
"I don't want repayment..."
"But if you blab that I'm an Omega, forget the favor. I'd bet you'd regret it."
Gavin waved casually, didn't linger, and strode toward the corridor's end.
The figure was infuriatingly cool. Dean's frown deepened until he shook his head in disgust.
2.
Despite Dean's nagging vibe, he wasn't wrong—the armorer technician major didn't welcome Betas.
The title sounded badass, but the work was grueling. Sub-S-class intelligent mechas lacked full mental control, so armorers assisted pilots mid-battle with precision tasks: mecha disassembly and transformation, firepower calibration, and more. If a critical fault hit during combat, the armorer handled repairs—sometimes crawling outside for high-altitude work.
It was brutally dangerous, fit only for the toughest Alphas.
The department head was an eccentric middle-aged man named Gudro—tall and gaunt, stern and tight-lipped, but when he spoke, he could flay students alive. On Gavin's first day, Gudro summoned him and cut straight to it:
"Even with Dean Edna's recommendation, I don't want you in my department. Armorer tech demands elite intellect and physique. Plenty die from high-altitude falls per battle—your natural specs fall short."
Gavin took it in stride.
"What would you have me do?"
"Transfer out yourself. If you stay, I'll stick you on theory research. You'd waste your prime years. You don't want that, right?"
Gavin had no special passion for armorer tech—he'd just followed Edna's lead. He didn't care either way.
But he was young, and teenage blood ran hot with defiance. After days of sneers, Dean's advice and the head's warning backfired. Gavin got stubborn.
"Thanks for your kindness, but I'd like to try. Without giving me a shot, how do you know I can't keep up?"
He dipped his head slightly, polite but firm.
"How about I attend classes for now? If I fail the assessment, I'll submit my own transfer request. Sound fair?"
Gudro looked impatient.
"Waste of time? Anyway, you..."
Gavin pressed on firmly.
"You only know if it's a waste after trying. If I'm not mistaken, Alliance Marshal Celia was a Beta too, right? Alphas have superior genes, but has any outdone that Beta Marshal in mecha prowess?"
Gudro: "..."
*Sorry, Marshal—dragging you out to block bullets years after you're gone—but damn, you're a golden shield! So handy!*
"...Marshal Celia was the exception of exceptions. No one else will reach that height."
Gudro's face hardened.
"But for fairness, I'll give you a shot. One month after term starts, first technician test. Score under 300..."
Gudro rolled his eyes dramatically, looking almost comical.
"No need to spell it out—submit your transfer yourself!"
Gavin bowed politely and left.
He kept the major, but a week in, classes were no picnic.
First lesson: memorize theory. Sub-S-class mechas had no neural links, relying on mechanical controls—balance systems, firepower output, alloy properties, ratio parameters... The material was vast and intricate. Armorers had to burn it into their brains, ideally reciting backward flawlessly.
Visual acuity was critical for armorers, so Gudro printed the textbook and handed it to the class rep for individual distribution. When Gavin went up, the Alpha rep didn't even glance at him, slapping down a thousand-page tome.
"—Yours."
"When's the check?"
"Seven days."
Gavin: "..."
He staggered off with the book.
Knowledge came from practice, not rote memorization—that was Gavin's long-held view.
But a Beta student's opinion meant squat to Gudro—combat power: five, total slag.
To conquer the tome, Gavin burned the midnight oil for a full week, focus so intense his Alpha roommate from the command track gawked. The guy's dad was a high brass, and he was a classic second-gen. Passing the study one day, he stopped dead and declared solemnly,
"—You're a hard worker. I respect that!"
Gavin: "...Oh."
"You're just a Beta, but I'll cheer you on!"
The roommate pumped his fist, fired up.
"Go for it!"
"..."
Gavin stared at the encouraging grin, then mumbled,
"...Th... thanks."
These days, everyone used holocomps. Armorer techs were among the few still memorizing books. Luckily, Gavin had an innate knack for mecha—the dry data flowed alive in his mind, each figure linking to specific models in logical chains.
Six days to memorize, one to review. On the eighth, refreshed, book in arm, he arrived to a frosty class rep:
"Gudro wants to check your progress personally."
*...This guy's got too much time...*
Gavin's temple twitched. In Gudro's office, the man was deep in mech schematics with colleagues. He didn't look up as Gavin entered.
"Start reciting. Chapter one."
Then back to discussing.
The disdain was blatant, but Gavin stayed cool. Standing, he relaxed into it—chapter one to five nonstop. Throat dry midway, he poured water himself, returned, picked up at six.
Gudro glanced up, mildly surprised.
"...Akker cannon startup: pressure coefficient at axle 390 is 1.9025, roller fluid density 4.0192... Something wrong?"
"Nothing."
Gudro said coldly.
"Continue."
Gavin's throat scratched; he coughed and pushed to chapter twelve before water break two.
When he returned, the teachers were all staring, expressions bizarre.
Gavin paused, cup in hand, puzzled. Gudro beckoned him in, tone icy:
"How much have you memorized?"
"...The whole thing."
"Seen it before?"
*Discrimination much?*
Gavin's face soured slightly.
"I got it same as everyone."
The teachers looked skeptical. One piped up:
"Recite the last chapter for me?"
Easy: finale was longest but freshest, heavy on text. Gavin rattled it off flawlessly, no hiccups. Finished, throat burning, he sipped water.
Office dead silent.
"...Can I go?"
Gavin waited forever, then asked.
Gudro waved dismissively.
"Go."
Our good lad Gavin, throat in agony, heart seething behind a blank face, marched out.
That night, roommate eagerly asked how the memorizing went. Gavin vented a full evening on gender equality. Next day, roommate—eyes spinning—spotted a tech major pal en route and grabbed him:
"Your department head's a sadist!"
"...How so?"
"Making someone memorize a whole book in a week isn't enough—he suspects pre-studying after! Why can't he treat students equal? If Alphas can do it, why not Betas?!"
"I don't get you,"
the guy puzzled.
"That book's for end-of-term. This week was just first five chapters."
Roommate: "..."
"Who memorized the whole thing? Haha, joke's on you—a thousand pages? Impossible... Hey, what's with that look?"
"...I owe Gudro an apology..."
Roommate clutched his face, turning away.
"Now I get how he feels..."
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