Chapter 11
Chapter 11
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: Three Moves to Victory
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As it turned out, the person you least wanted to see was the one you were most likely to run into—such were Dean's thoughts when he spotted Gavin in the close-quarters combat arena.
The internal rankings had been underway for a week now. Having just clawed his way into the top four after several grueling rounds, Dean was under immense pressure. He’d come to the training hall before bed to loosen up his muscles. Elite upperclassmen had private rooms in the facility, and as Dean crossed the outer lobby, heading for his own, his gaze was suddenly drawn to a corner.
It was a duel between two students—both in form-fitting protective suits, full-face helmets, and goggles. From their builds, one was clearly an upperclassman; the other was harder to peg.
Their weapons were striking. The upperclassman wielded a long Axel-alloy blade, a material so hard and rare it fetched jaw-dropping prices. Once honed, it sliced through steel like mud—literally. It could plunge into metal, spin a full 360 degrees, and pull out without a mark.
The other's half-length military saber gleamed pure crimson gold, its edge flashing like a streak of blinding light with every swing. Dean had no time to inspect its make, though—the wielder moved too fast. Slender in frame but brimming with power, each strike was ruthless and fierce, overwhelming his opponent like a storm.
The one-sided bout ended swiftly. The upperclassman faltered, flailing left and right, until a flick caught his wrist. His long blade flew from his grip—straight toward Dean!
A normal person might’ve dodged, but Dean’s instinct was to draw his broadsword and bat it away.
In that split second, before his blade cleared the sheath, a crimson flash sliced through the air. *Clang!* A heavy ring echoed as it smacked the long blade flying.
*Thud!* The weapons spun, embedding deep into the wall—hilts-first.
The lobby wasn’t crowded, but gasps of shock rippled through it.
“Holy shit!” The upperclassman yanked off his helmet, cupping his hands in salute.
“Impressive! Too impressive, little bro. Ground forces?”
The victor said nothing, just walked to the wall and yanked his saber free with a tug.
The upperclassman’s enthusiasm didn’t flag.
“Your skills are insane. I haven’t seen many in the mech corps who could take you. Hey—Dean? You’re here too? Sorry, did I nearly hit you?”
Dean recognized him as a mech corps classmate and nodded back.
“No worries, Taylor. Who’s this?”
“No idea—system random match. Little bro, what year? Name? You look pretty young, haha. Freshmen are getting scary good these days, haha…”
Dean eyed the victor closely. Something felt familiar, but the full-body gear hid everything.
A ground forces freshman? The combat track had produced some real standouts this year. Rumor had it the Royal Guard had already scouted a few…
“Care for a match?”
Dean asked on impulse. The victor paused, then swept his blade down in a flourish.
A conservative salute to begin. Dean’s eyes lit up. He drew his broadsword in a whoosh, and blade met blade in a deafening clash of metal.
“Good!”
Dean roared, leaping back. His broad blade whipped toward the freshman’s waist. In a flash, the newcomer closed in face-to-face, thrusting silently at Dean’s heart!
“Watch out!” Taylor blurted.
Dean spun away; both strikes missed. He braced for a head-on clash and pulled back to guard—only for the freshman to press forward, spinning with Dean’s body and slashing backhand at his throat.
Such a direct kill shot!
Dean’s heart jolted. He jerked his head back as the crimson edge flashed past—perilously close. Without the suit, even half a second slower, and his neck would’ve been slit.
So fast! The thought hit Dean, then he yanked his blade. The broadsword’s close-range power surged, slamming into the freshman’s back.
A solid hit. The freshman grunted, yanking his saber to block the next downward chop. But Dean switched to a thrust, tip at the mask in an instant:
“—It’s over!”
“It’s over!”
Dean froze at the voice—but it was too late. As the freshman spoke, he backflipped, leg sweeping out to topple the nearly six-foot Dean. The saber plunged past his face into the floor!
—Three moves!
From start to finish, just three exchanges!
Dean lay on the floor, staring at the blade inches from his cheek, utterly stunned. Those kill shots were brutally direct: heart stab, throat slice, skull split. Nothing like arena sparring—straight out of a battlefield deathmatch!
The freshman rose slowly.
“Yield.”
“Lesson learned… huh?!” Dean finally placed the voice. In that instant, he was sure his ears were playing tricks.
An Omega?
Please don’t let it be that armed technician Omega!
Losing to an armed technician was embarrassing enough for the mech corps. An Alpha losing to an Omega? Might as well jump off a building! No—even that wouldn’t wash away the shame!
Dean wasn’t helmeted, and his horrified expression finally tipped Taylor off.
“What’s wrong, Dean? You know him?”
Dean: “…”
“No. No clue.”
Dean blinked. The freshman coolly lowered his head, sheathed his blade, and walked away.
.
The locker room had a showerhead enclosed in frosted white glass. Faint water sounds echoed from within.
Dean sat on the bench, silent for a beat.
“Why’d you tell Taylor you didn’t know me?”
Gavin didn’t reply.
“You won fair and square. I don’t care if people say I lost to an Om… to a Beta. If you’re worried I’ll lash out in sore-loser rage, there’s no need…”
“Nothing like that.”
Dean glanced at the glass as the water cut off.
“I’m done. Can you step out?”
Dean: “…Ah! Right!”
Dean spaced out outside the locker room door for a good while—of course, to passersby, the esteemed top student was just brooding thoughtfully, brow furrowed. Several underclassmen greeted him warmly. Five minutes later, the door opened. Gavin emerged in his jacket, towel over his neck, hair dripping.
“You waiting for me?”
Dean’s mind was a mess. He nodded irritably.
“Losing to me hit you that hard?”
“…No, not at all.” Dean inhaled.
“I’m just curious why you’re so strong. That’s all.”
“I don’t know either.”
Truth was, Gavin really didn’t. He’d have loved to track down the “exiled fleet” Aaron the General mentioned to get answers, but Red Soil Star was bombed to hell by the Ninth Fleet, and the ghost mech reduced to scraps. No leads left.
But to Dean, it sounded evasive. He backpedaled at once.
“Fine if you don’t wanna say. Just curious—you’ve earned my respect.”
…Wasn’t respect for classmates a given…?
Gavin had no words for Imperial Alphas. He sighed, grabbed his bag, and headed out.
Dean started to offer a ride home but caught a faint, almost imperceptible sweet tang as they brushed past. His body jolted, adrenaline surging, senses sharpening. He took two steps after Gavin.
“Wait, that scent on you…”
Gavin turned, puzzled. His lips parted slightly; water dripped from his hair down his neck, into his collar, pooling in the dip of his collarbone.
Dean stared, that scorching midnight heat surging through his limbs. He could hear his heartbeat thundering.
“What’s wrong?” Gavin asked hesitantly.
Now Dean was sure: not an illusion, but a trace of Omega pheromone slipping past chemical blockers. Faint enough to ignore—yet his Alpha instincts snagged it.
The second time he’d sensed that lustful allure—from the same person.
So sweet, so fragrant, seeping into his blood, tendrils yanking his soul free, every cell screaming.
“Don’t move…” Dean reached out like a man possessed, leaning in to sniff deeply at Gavin’s neck, breaths hot and ragged.
The scent played hide-and-seek: vanishing into fabric, peeking from blockers. Subtle, teasing, stirring—now trapped in the Alpha’s pheromones, a hazy veil draping the soft skin at the boy’s nape.
Alpha instinct screamed: conquer, mark, claim, breed.
Dean fixated on that patch behind Gavin’s cervical spine, primal urge roaring: bite there, sink teeth into tender flesh, draw blood. He’d collapse, kneel, trembling and submissive, offering himself…
Dean couldn’t stop. He leaned, licked, then bit down.
But Gavin recoiled like he’d been struck by lightning, shoving him away.
“What the hell are you doing!”
Dean staggered, blood rushing to his head—he was hard!
The reaction was blatant, impossible to hide. Dean panted, eyes burning with raw aggression and possession.
Gavin burned with fury under that naked stare but caught on quick. He yanked a temporary suppressor pill from his bag, swallowing it dry—no time for water. It wouldn’t touch heat cycles but blocked scents fine for now.
“…Sorry,” Dean rasped.
Gavin softened a fraction.
“No harm done.”
But Dean knew it wasn’t nothing: he’d nearly marked him.
Not a full knot, but clamping the Omega’s nape until his pheromones soaked the blood—that was a classic temporary claim.
Its strength depended on the Alpha; it screamed “mine” to the world. Only a stronger Alpha stealing the Omega, or time metabolizing it out, would erase it.
Sovereignty. Possession. Gavin might not get it, but Dean did.
Raised in this world, he knew eat-or-be-eaten rules. Claiming an Omega didn’t need permission; plenty of chauvinist Alphas thought that. But he wasn’t one. Gavin had beaten him fair, earned respect—deserved better.
“I’m truly sorry. If you want to report to Dean Edna, I can…”
Dean trailed off as two knocks sounded. Taylor’s anxious voice:
“Dean! You in there? Big trouble!”
Dean breathed deep, cracking the door.
“What?”
“Holy shit, what’re you doing? Come on! Academy comms just came in—your mech’s glitched!”
2.
Dean’s mech was glitched.
Gavin knew it at a glance. The C-class machine loomed under dim skies, lusterless, shadows thick—like shrouded in invisible gloom.
“A C-class mech!” Gryphon popped from Gavin’s bag as a light brain, bouncing on his shoulder.
“Rare these days. Imperial regulars are still mostly D-class. A C-class gets majors in the fringes—what’s this punk’s deal? Officer brat?”
Gavin blinked.
“You hate him that much?”
“He tried to mark you!” Gryphon fumed.
“I wanted Aaron the General to mark you!”
Gavin: “…”
A herd of curses thundered through his mind before he stammered,
“You knew that general’s the second-most hated Imperial male by Omegas, and you still… ?!”
Dean clearly saw no issue, frowning at his assigned technician.
“What’s wrong with it?”
The tech— a top armed technician track star—looked grim.
“No clue. Main program’s got three billion junk commands. Looks hacked. I tried cleaning, but it won’t open the data gate. Probably mental corruption. Might not fly tomorrow…”
Dean strode to the mech’s foot, barking,
“Ranzhu! Open data gate!”
No response. A silent steel giant.
“Voice commands jammed—junk commands hogging the queue. My boot-up order from half an hour ago hasn’t even hit. Even as owner, yours is queued… let’s see…” The tech tapped his computer.
“…Ten minutes out.”
Dean’s face darkened.
“How bad’s the mental corruption for this?”
“Nerve net fifty percent dead. Nasty work.”
“…Those Interstellar Academy bastards,” Dean muttered.
“Dyna, that prick.”
He stroked the cold plating. Then a calm voice from behind:
“Restart the nerve net.”
Dean and the tech whipped around, staring at Gavin.
Tech: “Who’s he?”
Dean: “Armed tech track Om… Beta freshman… not the point! Gavin! What’re you doing!”
Gavin sat cross-legged on the ground, towel loose on his neck, black finger guards on as he hammered the keyboard. His familiarity with mech code was uncanny. Before Dean could say “Don’t sit there,” Gavin hit enter hard.
“Cut the nerve power supply. Ready to restart.”
Dean: “…”
The tech fumed.
“What’re you smashing?! Nerve nets are preset at build. Know how complex a C-class one is?!”
Dean tried to stop him, but the tech exploded.
“Might’ve scraped by with backups. Now? Pro tech restart takes three months min! Dean! Where’d you dig up this Beta noob? He knows jack!”
Gavin waited till he finished.
“No rush…”
“How not?! Now it’s D-class loaners from school! And fast— if the corps hears—”
“Already restarted it,” Gavin said helplessly.
“Told you, chill.”
He spun the computer. Code raced across the screen, went dark—then lit:
【Nerve net docking requested. Open data gate? Y/N】
Tech: “Don’t tou—”
Gavin: “Yes.”
*Ding!* 【Thanks. Docked.】
Tech: “…”
Dean, stunned: “When’d you hack the voice system?”
“Uh… just now.” Gavin worked without looking up.
Truth: he didn’t need to hack. His mental threshold made 3S mechs like Gryphon kneel; this “impressive” C-class was a wide-open vault.
Gavin slipped into the database, slicing three billion junk commands like veggies. The tech, out of ammo, tried Dean one last time:
“You’re letting a Beta freshman mess with your C-class?!”
Dean eyed Gavin, hesitated.
“…Let him try.”
“Fine! Your funeral!” The tech slammed his kit and stormed off amid clangs.
Dean gaped, face full of “…” before turning woodenly to Gavin.
“Know how much I paid to get him as tech?”
“Didn’t know you had to pay for that level of tech.” Gavin snapped the computer shut.
“Commands deleted. Now enter the mech to purge the corruption.”
Two purge methods: remote via linked computer if it boots; or physical plug into the nerve net if not.
The latter was dicey. Nerve-net mechs were labyrinthine inside, and this C-class air-combat frame was fighter-sized. Weird shit could happen in there.
Dean hated risking an Omega, but after Gavin insisted, he yielded.
“Fine, but I’m going in. Protect you if shit hits.”
Gavin sniped,
“Who’s protecting who?”
…The burn silenced Dean all the way inside.
They crawled the hot, cramped maintenance duct—crawled, knees and elbows only, inching along.
Dean wanted to lead, but his bulk risked jamming. No choice: Gavin first. Twenty minutes in, he regretted it. Reason: head up, and there was Gavin’s ass!
—Impossible not to see in this pose! And an Alpha ignoring an Omega ahead? Torture!
Dean was disciplined to a fault. Having an Omega tech risk it already crossed his line; peeking shattered it.
But fresh off rutting pheromones, heat lingered. And this might be his last shot at such intimate, unblocked Omega views. The emotional pull was fierce.
Imperial ABO ratios were dire lately: one Omega per six thousand; one markable per twenty-eight thousand. Worse, Omegas shunned Alpha soldiers—“chauvinist hellholes,” they called it. “Crazy to pick one as partner.”
Aaron the General was exhibit A: public image as “ruthless killer.” Doomed to bachelorhood. Emperor Heinrich too—once spooked Omega kids at a hospital visit, fleeing amid tears. Nurses: “Scary just to look at.”
Few brass scored Omegas. Dean didn’t fancy his odds without kidnapping—legal, but career poison. Most likely? Lonely death.
Terrifying for instinct-driven Alphas. No mate, no heirs—anti-nature.
Dean’s head swirled with tangled thoughts, eyes drifting up despite himself. To distract, he counted steps: 820, then lost track.
“…Cough, Gavin,” he blurted.
Muffled echo ahead: “Yeah?”
“What kind of Alpha do you want as partner?”
Dean cringed, wanting to bite his tongue.
“—Haven’t thought about it.” Gavin paused, surprised.
“You’re not bad… but I prefer women.”
Silence in the duct.
Dean: “……=口=……”