Date: 2510.01.15

  Location: Frontline Command Headquarters

  It was only after Meadow and Nya were officially cleared of their “spy” status and removed from surveillance that they began to piece together fragments of the truth from the officers’ casual remarks.

  It turned out that the night Jack had led them in a surprise raid on the Imperial interrogation base, he had completely crippled the Empire’s offensive at Atlas Station.

  Including several high-ranking Imperial commanders.

  Those bastards died without ever knowing what hit them. One colonel spat through clenched teeth as he said it—yet the look on his face was unmistakably one of grim satisfaction.

  Nya and Meadow could only stare at each other in disbelief.

  That cowardly, slightly lecherous Fatty had done all of that just to successfully complete his thirteenth escape.

  And now the military high command wanted to award him the title of Hero?

  Once Jack’s whereabouts were confirmed, the decision came swiftly. As soon as The Crucible project reached completion, Supreme Command agreed: it was time to have a talk with their new “hero.”

  At that very moment, Hero was sitting in the back of a transport aircraft, contemplating his life.

  Thinking back on everything that had just happened, Jack couldn’t shake the feeling that God was playing a joke on him.

  “Hero?”

  Nothing he had ever done intersected with that word. His record of running away, on the other hand, was meticulously documented in his field logs.

  His mind drifted back to that drunken night on the rooftop. If he hadn’t pressed the consent button, he would be in his workshop right now, tinkering with some mech—

  not being hauled off like a criminal to accept a hero’s title.

  In a haze, he saw that young face again—lying inside a shattered mech, lifeless eyes staring up at a gray, overcast sky.

  His heartbeat sped up, then slowed, then raced again.

  He had never wanted to be a hero.

  He only wanted to live.

  So many heroes were already buried underground, rotting down to bone.

  Only the living get to notice the quiet beauty of the world—the kind no one ever talks about.

  Leaning against the cold inner wall of the transport bay, Jack didn’t notice the looks from the soldiers escorting him to report to command—some confused, some baffled, others openly contemptuous.

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  When Prime World Epsilon’s Supreme Command learned that they were about to bestow the title of Hero on a Fatty who had once clung to a woman’s leg, convinced he was about to be executed, a single thought crossed every mind in the room:

  We should’ve just found a corpse and hung the medal on that.

  This was going to be a public relations nightmare.

  This is a goddamn disaster, Carrick thought.

  But… the results were verified. The action had genuinely turned the tide at Atlas Station.

  And the propaganda machine needed a face.

  Carrick convened his senior staff. A ruthless plan was hammered out.

  “Send him in,” Carrick ordered.

  Moments later, Jack entered.

  The transformation was shocking. Clean uniform. Steady stride. A composed, resolute bearing. Then a crisp, textbook salute.

  Not a trace of the coward remained.

  The generals exchanged glances. The military police hadn’t lied. That meant the sobbing, broken, utterly pathetic “man” they’d described, and the hardened soldier standing before them were the same person.

  The conclusion was unavoidable:

  This Fatty possessed extraordinary acting talent.

  For a brief moment, hope flared in Carrick’s chest. Maybe—just maybe—he could keep it together in front of the cameras.

  Then Jack panicked.

  The brittle shell of composure cracked. The familiar landslide of facial fat shifted as his ridiculous grin began to surface.

  Carrick mentally slapped himself. No. I’m the idiot.

  This clown was going to become the biggest joke in the entire galaxy.

  Still, orders were orders. Carrick picked up his datapad and forced a mask of approval onto his face.

  “Service number TC9527. Corporal Jack Harlan, mech maintenance specialist of Logistics Unit 666,” he intoned.

  “For displaying exceptional bravery and fearlessness during operations… conducting a heroic raid… confirmed elimination of five senior enemy officers… decisive action that broke the enemy offensive…”

  Jack automatically filtered out the ornate bullshit. His brain was running numbers at high speed.

  A promotion?

  Lieutenant rank?

  Higher pay?

  Better housing?

  Maybe an underground bunker?

  A desk job?

  A supply depot light-years from the front?

  Even a locked room—anything, as long as he never heard artillery again…

  “…therefore, Corporal Jack Harlan is hereby promoted to Second Lieutenant, appointed Deputy Company Commander of the 1st Company, 66th Armored Reconnaissance Division. In recognition of his valor, he is awarded the Terra Star Medal.”

  Carrick handed him the datapad.

  “Congratulations, Lieutenant. You are a hero of the Federation. We are all proud of you.”

  Jack’s hands were shaking. The text scrolled endlessly before his eyes. Then—before he could stop himself—his mouth spoke the first thought that surfaced.

  “The… the 66th Armored…” he stammered. “Where are they stationed?”

  Carrick smiled—a kindly expression with iron underneath—and pointed to a blinking region on the holographic map.

  “Right here. Defending the northern approaches to Cadian City. Deep inside the ‘Green Hell.’”

  “The front line?!” Jack croaked. “But… but I’m just a mechanic!”

  Carrick’s smile stiffened.

  “We reviewed your file. You received special operations training,” he said, stressing the words.

  “And you have thirteen documented successful infiltrations behind enemy lines. You possess unparalleled survival instincts. We expect you to pass these invaluable skills on to our troops.”

  He paused, then added almost cheerfully,

  “Oh—and a word of advice, Lieutenant. Watch out for the carnivorous vines and neurotoxic fungi. The Empire hasn’t even started killing us there yet, and we’ve already lost an entire platoon to the local wildlife.”

  Seeing Jack open his mouth again, Carrick cut him off.

  “That will be all, Lieutenant. We have a war to win. Congratulations.”

  A guard gently—but firmly—escorted the stunned Jack out.

  “Good luck!” Carrick called after him, his voice bright and merciless.

  Jack stood in the corridor, a medal in one hand and his death sentence in the other.

  He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t.

  He wanted to cry, but couldn’t.

  He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t move.

  Only one thought looped endlessly through his mind:

  Here we go again.

  Again.

  Again.

  Every time he thought he’d escaped, he was shoved even deeper in.

  For a split second, his world felt like it was collapsing again.

  No—

  The world had never collapsed.

  Because it had never been built in the first place.

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