After the controversial duel with Major Seraphina, Jack wasn't finished. He drove his battered "Junkyard Dog" to a quiet corner of the Nexus and began to watch the duels of the other masters. He was quickly captivated by a top-tier, Diamond-level duel already in progress.

  On one side was a classic, Binar Imperium royal-issue [Gungnir] class mech. On the other hand, a [Hawk] piloted by one of Seraphina's teammates from the Republic of Fenix.

  The combat between these two mechs was nothing like Jack's own dirty, deceptive street brawling. This was the "art of war," as precise as ballet and as lethal as a surgeon's scalpel.

  The announcer's voice in the observation hall was a tidal wave of hype: "DO YOU SEE THAT, PEOPLE! THIS IS A TOP-TIER APS DUEL, EFFICIENCY WITHOUT AN OUNCE OF WASTE!"

  The live chat feed scrolled into a blur: [IMPERIAL CHANNEL]: Gungnir is invincible! [ALLIANCE CHANNEL]: Don't die, Raine! Hold the line! [PIRATE CHANNEL]: Fuck me, this is even scarier than the Seraphina fight!

  Jack stared at the screen, his own heart skipping a beat. "Gods," he muttered. "Every one of this guy's moves is like a scalpel. Not a single wasted motion."

  In that moment, he knew—his previous victory was won more through cunning and his opponent's underestimation. If he faced a monster like this, tricks alone wouldn't be enough to survive.

  "His 'Command Throughput' is terrifying." A familiar voice sounded beside him. It was Leo. The military nerd, at some point, had also entered spectator mode and was now staring at the screen with a fervent glow.

  "Command Throughput?" Jack asked.

  "Yes, Lieutenant," Leo explained, his voice buzzing with the excitement of a scholar who has found a kindred spirit. "What we usually call 'hand speed' isn't accurate. With modern DNI control systems, the more critical metric is how many valid commands a pilot can issue per second. We call it APS."

  He pulled up a data analysis chart. "The average pilot is around 10 APS. You, Lieutenant, based on my analysis of your 'Loki' replays, can peak at 27, and can even push 32 at your absolute limit." As Leo said this, his eyes were burning with a white-hot light.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "But—the man on the screen, Major Garrett in the [Gungnir]," Leo said, pointing at the ghost-like figure, his voice filled with awe, "he has been maintaining a stable 30 APS for the past half hour."

  Jack's throat went dry. He knew what that meant. It meant that every second, his opponent could make a dozen more moves than he could. In a fight between equals, that was the difference between life and death.

  "And the pilot in the [Hawk], Silas Raine from the Lyran Republic, his APS is only around 25, but his ability to predict the battle is monstrous. He's reading every one of Garrett's killing blows before they even launch."

  The longer Jack watched, the heavier his heart sank. For the first time, he clearly understood the gap between himself and the true top-tier masters of the universe.

  "Damn it," he thought, his voice a low growl in his own mind. "All my wins have been based on tricks. Against someone like this... tricks are fucking useless."

  The battle ended in a negotiated draw. But the shock it delivered to Jack was immense. For the first time, he shifted from a player who just wanted to "survive dirty" to someone who felt the faint stirrings of a desire for "true power."

  He was lost in thought when the datapad on Leo's wrist let out a piercing, high-priority alarm. The sound was like a thunderclap, silencing the entire observation area for a moment.

  "I couldn't find you anywhere!" Leo's face was pale, his forehead beaded with sweat as he rushed to Jack. "Quick, you have to see the battle reports! The front… the front lines are on fire!"

  Although Leo's words were jumbled, Jack didn't need to ask. He knew he was talking about the front at the Cadian Gorge.

  When they reached the War Planning Department, the place was in chaos. Everyone was moving with grim, hurried expressions. Just as Jack had predicted four days ago, the Draconian Imperium's general offensive had launched, right on schedule, at dawn this morning.

  But the method of attack was bizarre. The Imperial army was throwing its main force, like a madman, entirely at the "Garo Mountain" highlands, even exposing the shadow of the "Tartarus Legion" there. But the Commonwealth's flanks were strangely quiet.

  "This is illogical," an analyst muttered, staring at the holographic map. "This looks more like a performance, designed to draw our attention."

  Looking at the familiar, conspiracy-tinged deployment on the report, Jack was suddenly reminded of the photograph from the Pantheon of Modern Strategists. The ordinary-looking, slender man, with calm and profound eyes.

  The Commander-in-Chief of the Draconian Imperial Army: Cyril Vane.

  "Last time, at the Cadian Gorge, you left a back door open for me." Jack stared at the map, his thoughts as cold as ice. "This time, what are you planning, Cyril?" He took a deep breath. "In the game, I can lose a hundred times. But in the real world, against someone like you, I can't afford to lose even once."