The entire galaxy is in a frenzy.
My name, Vex, is currently a hotter topic than the Imperial Crown Prince's love life.
"The Junkyard Monster!"
"The Wrench Demon!"
"That lunatic who burned someone alive with high-voltage electricity!"
On the net, my holographic image is everywhere—that scene where I'm dragging the half-wrecked "Wrench," staring coldly at the Crown Prince.
Some curse my cruelty, some praise my ruthlessness, and countless gamblers who lost everything because of me are posting death threats online.
I shut out all the noise.
In my container workshop, there is only the sizzling of welding and the thick stench of engine oil.
The "Wrench" lies quietly on the repair rack, looking even more pathetic than when I first dug it out of the scrap heap.
The left arm socket is empty, with only a few severed hydraulic lines remaining. The armor on the chassis looks as if it's been gnawed by a beast—pitted and covered in scratches deep enough to see the frame.
The farm tractor engine I pushed to its absolute limit is now letting out weak, rhythmic moans, ready to crap out at any moment.
This is the price of advancing to the finals.
I rinse my burned arm with coolant; the icy liquid clears my muddled head a little.
Tomorrow is the final.
My opponent: Leon Valerius, the Imperial Crown Prince.
And I am left with nothing but a pile of scrap metal that's about to fall apart.
*Buzz—*
My personal terminal vibrates. It's Jinx.
I swipe the screen, and her holographic projection pops up instantly. Her expression is more solemn than I've ever seen it.
"Vex, things are bad," she says, getting straight to the point, her voice kept very low.
"Spit it out," I respond coldly, working a spare armor plate with a grinding wheel. Sparks fly, reflecting off my expressionless face.
"The Brotherhood has gone mad." Jinx takes a deep breath. "You killed 'Sequence Five' in the semifinals, and it cost them a massive fortune in the underground betting pools. They've already set an inescapable trap."
My hands pause for a moment."The Brotherhood"... that gang with the tattoo of a two-headed snake coiled around a gear. I remember ripping off the cannon barrel of one of their thugs named "Sledgehammer."
"What do they want?" I asked.
"It's not a question of 'want'—they *will* do it!" Jinx's tone became urgent. "I've intercepted their internal communications. Whether you win or lose tomorrow, the moment you leave the arena, they will use everything in their power to hunt you down!"
She paused, emphasizing every word: "Their goal is to capture your 'Wrench' alive. They seem to have taken a massive interest in your mech."
I sneered. Capture it alive? Do they think my mech is some kind of rare pet?
"It's not just them," Jinx's voice held a hint of despair. "The scale of the underground betting for this final is unprecedented! Major powers across the Empire, even people within the Imperial family, have placed bets! Vex, do you understand what I mean? This match isn't just about you and the Crown Prince anymore; you're standing on a massive powder keg!"
I fell silent.
This meant that even if I won the match, I wouldn't make it out of the arena.
Lose, and I die.
Win, and I still die.
"There's even worse news." Jinx seemed reluctant to continue, but she gritted her teeth and sent over a data package. "This cost me a fortune to get—the complete blueprints and performance data for the 'Archangel'."
I opened the data package, and for a moment, I felt my breath hitch.
On the screen, a 3D structural diagram of a pure white mech, looking like a work of art, rotated slowly.
The "Archangel."
Construction cost: three hundred billion Imperial Credits.
Every plate of its armor was a composite of memory metal and nano-ceramics, capable of self-repair.
Its power core was the Empire's most cutting-edge "Heart of the Sun" reactor; the energy output was stable and efficient, with almost zero fluctuation.
Its frame was built from the flawless "Hephaestus" alloy; theoretically immune to metal fatigue.
Its nano-shield could deflect ninety-nine percent of all ballistic and energy attacks.
Its fire control system, cooling system, mobility system... every module, every part, represented the pinnacle of Imperial technology.
Perfect.
It was... a perfect killing machine.I scanned the soul-crushing data line by line; for the first time, my "Engineer's Eye" felt the heavy pressure.
Faced with this machine, the "Wrench Combat" I took such pride in and my talent for spotting any weakness felt like a total joke.
It had no weaknesses.
At least, theoretically, it lacked any structural flaws I could exploit.
All my previous victories had been built upon my opponents' arrogance and the flaws in their equipment.
But now, my opponent was the Crown Prince of the Empire. He had the finest equipment in the universe, and after my last match, there wasn't a chance in hell he would underestimate me again.
"Vex?" Jinx asked, seeing I'd gone quiet, her voice thick with concern. "Are you okay?"
I closed the schematics for the *Archangel*, took a deep breath, and slowly let it out.
The scent of engine oil permeating the workshop brought me a flicker of calm.
"I'm fine," I replied calmly.
If the machine was perfect, what about the man piloting it?
I opened another folder containing all the public footage Jinx had gathered on Crown Prince Leon.
Every speech, every military parade, every public appearance.
And every recording of his past mecha matches.
I studied them frame by frame.
Watching how elegantly he piloted his mecha, defeating his opponents with textbook precision.
Every movement was impeccable, precise as if measured with a ruler.
He never took risks, never acted on impulse, and always chose the most optimal, secure tactics.
He was just like his perfect mecha: a combat program without emotion or flaws.
The minutes ticked by.
Outside the window, the sky turned from deep black to a pale gray.
The dawn of the finals was approaching.
I shut down the footage and sat quietly in the darkness of the cockpit.
Was I in despair?
A little.
But more than that, it was a madness smoldering in my bones—the kind that only ignites when you're backed into a corner.
Since I couldn't find a weakness, I stopped looking.
Since all my techniques were useless, I stopped using them.
My gaze finally landed on the object lying quietly in the toolbox: a massive, heavy industrial wrench, stained with years of grease and grime.
It was the one thing my father had left me.
And it was the reason for my junk mecha's name.A crazy, desperate idea began to take shape in my mind.
I leaped out of the cockpit and began the final modifications on the *Wrench*.
I stripped away every functional long-range weapon module, even if it was just a battered electromagnetic rifle.
I tore out all non-essential sensors and targeting systems.
I even ripped off most of the remaining external armor, leaving only a few critical plates to shield the core engine and the cockpit.
Every bit of weight and energy I saved, I poured—all of it—into just two areas: thrusters and structural reinforcement.
I was going to make this piece-of-junk tractor engine roar with unprecedented thrust in the final moments of its life.
I would make this already hideous mech even uglier, even purer—a steel monster that existed for nothing but ramming.
Jinx's holographic projection remained active; she watched in stunned silence as I tore the *Wrench* apart and then reassembled it in the most brutal fashion imaginable.
"Vex... what... what are you doing?" her voice trembled. "This is suicide!"
I didn't answer her.
I simply picked up that massive industrial wrench and welded it dead solid onto the *Wrench's* sole remaining right arm.
From now on, it was no longer a tool.
It was my sword, my fist, my everything.
When I was finished, I stood before the transformed—or rather, utterly hideous—*Wrench*.
It looked like nothing more than a sprinting engine with a giant iron fist.
I smiled.
Screw perfect design.
Screw nano-shields.
Screw Imperial technology.
You have your "Archangel," the pinnacle of divine perfection.
Me? I've got nothing but a wrench used for fixing tractors.
Tomorrow, I will use the most primitive, most barbaric method possible to challenge that "god" of perfection.
I'm going to use this wrench to personally smash everything you're so proud of.