You are free

Among the numerous live streams running simultaneously, “Voice of the Ordinary” firmly held the number two spot with 320 million concurrent viewers, second only to the tournament’s official broadcast.

The announcer spoke at a steady, precise pace, his articulation clear enough for every word to be understood even without subtitles:

“The pilot driving the deep blue mecha is ‘Down with Imperialism,’ and this is his very first Mecha World Cup. Yet, a newborn calf fears no tiger; facing his opponent for this match, the 29-year-old veteran ‘The Prisoner’, ‘Down with Imperialism’ remains rock-solid. Let’s look at the center of the arena— He has just launched his second wave of attacks!”

“Beautiful!” Along with his shout, a scimitar flashed with a biting, cold gleam, plunging straight down and shearing the shoulder clean off The Prisoner’s mecha.

The announcer marveled: “The lightweight mecha, Rattlesnake, paired with light-crystal alloy weaponry, moves like a swallow dancing on a palm, as agile as a stray feather. This effortlessly fluent performance is an absolute visual feast.”

But his voice cut off abruptly.

The spectators gasped: “The Prisoner has caught him!”

Everyone scrambled to look over. They saw “The Prisoner” swinging his hammer head, whipping up a raging gale. Welded to the back of the iron block was a massive iron chain extending a full 30 meters, which coiled around [Down with Imperialism] mid-air in the blink of an eye, ruthlessly dragging him down and slamming him onto the ground.

“It’s over. ‘Down with Imperialism’ is really about to be downed.”

“Of all the people to provoke, why choose The Prisoner? Haven’t they heard of his title as the Butcher of the Grid?”

“Is ‘Down with Imperialism’ slacking off? He didn’t even dodge such a massive target.”

Bai Ling was indeed spacing out.

For some unknown reason, his mind was inexplicably restless as an ominous premonition surged from the bottom of his heart. This exact intuition had saved his life multiple times on the battlefield in his past life, and he had no choice but to pay heed to it.

Something is wrong… No one understood better than he did that Yu Chen would absolutely never say words like “abandon your career to come back and keep me company” under normal circumstances.

What on earth had happened to the merman?

Bai Ling’s expression was dazed as he lay flat on his back, facing the sky. The scoring system’s countdown blasted past his ears: “Ten, nine, eight, seven…”

If a pilot failed to stand within ten seconds, the system would automatically declare a loss.

When the count hit “six,” the Rattlesnake suddenly vaulted into the air. With a forceful twist of its torso, the friction of the blade grinding against the iron chain kicked up a massive spray of flying sparks. Reaching speeds close to supersonic, it severed the iron shackle in one clean strike.

Breaking raw power with pure speed; it was an exquisite maneuver.

The Prisoner’s expression hardened as he realized his opponent was incredibly elusive; continuing further would inevitably drag them into a prolonged war of attrition.

His communication channel was blaring, and the Tuna Master’s displeased voice echoed through the cockpit: “Half the match time has already passed. What the hell are you dragging your feet for?”

The Prisoner: “…I’ll tear him to shreds in the next wave.”

Lan Qi was impatient: “Hurry it up. I have a cocktail party to attend after watching this match. Don’t get in my way.”

The Prisoner casually acknowledged the order, shifting his concentration back to his opponent. He decided to wrap this up quickly and eliminate this final adversary.

The tournament utilized a point-based system. Both he and this “Down with Imperialism” guy had already driven their scores past 4,000 points, currently ranking first. As long as he eliminated “Down with Imperialism,” the grand championship would be within his grasp. Meanwhile, the opponent would have 300 points deducted, dropping down the ranks to face a gauntlet of consecutive round-robin matches to battle for second and third place.

Conversely, if “Down with Imperialism” won, his own championship title would be handed over to someone else.

But that was impossible.

The Prisoner had cut his teeth in black-market grid matches. Those were unlike conventional mecha clubs that only fought two matches every ten days to half a month. In the underground circuits, he had maintained a high frequency of combat every single day, either leaving his opponents kneeling and begging for mercy, or stepping over their heads to climb higher. Over a span of ten years, he had accumulated an extraordinarily rich reservoir of experience.

Yet when he reviewed “Down with Imperialism’s” data, he discovered the opponent was a novice with a total mecha flight time of a mere 60 hours.

The Prisoner couldn’t help but lock his gaze onto the Rattlesnake.

The mecha community could be divided into two primary factions: the Brawler Faction, who like him fought with fist-to-flesh brutality; and the Tech Faction, who relied primarily on mecha performance, dependent upon the AI’s judgment and calculations. In his eyes, the opponent belonged squarely to the pure Tech Faction.

It wasn’t the pilot driving; it was the AI. The pilot inside was nothing more than an airborne decorative ornament.

…Besides, what kind of respectable person openly flirts with their sponsor and calls them “darling” right before a match?

“Look! The Prisoner is about to deploy his ultimate move!” The spectators outside the particle barrier stood up in excitement. “Tear him apart! Tear him apart! Quick, quick, quick, skewer his bird head!”

The announcer reviewed the files: “This pilot ‘The Prisoner’ possesses the lineage of a small carnivorous bird from the order Passeriformes: the shrike. Do not be fooled by its small size as a songbird; its true nature is exceptionally ferocious, earning it the title of the ‘Butcherbird’.”

“Why is it called a butcher? Because they will skewer the carcasses of small birds and mice onto thorns, tearing them apart piece by piece to consume them.”

“Extremely brutal.”

The spectators in front of the screens gasped simultaneously in unison. They only knew that raptors were vicious when feeding, but they hadn’t realized that the Passeriformes order harbored such a twisted existence.

Beside the spectator stands, Anna looked deeply anxious: “A bloody accident won’t occur, will it?”

The Captain crossed his arms and his voice was steady: “No. The tournament strictly prohibits malicious injury.”

As they spoke, they saw Lu Xun walking down with a head wrapped in gauze. The two fell silent simultaneously, recalling that Lu Xun had lost to “The Prisoner” in the previous round. For the sake of theatrical effect, “The Prisoner” had lifted Lu Xun’s mecha high into the air and hurled it ruthlessly down, skewering it right through the iron poles of the podium.

As Lu Xun stood with them, Anna noted with indignation: “The Prisoner is so cold-blooded, yet he dares to market himself as a rebellious rogue to harvest fans.”

Lu Xun wore a miserable expression: “Don’t even get me started. His toxic fans just raided my main page, telling me to thank The Prisoner for gifting me a physical ‘spicy skewer’.”

The Captain turned his head and asked, “Toxic fans? Are they that group called ‘Spicy and Fresh Hot Pot Skewers’?”

Lu Xun was shocked: “How do you know that?”

The Captain gestured casually. Following the direction, the two indeed spotted a group of people holding light boards. What was most infuriating was that the style of their light boards had actually been designed to look like a package of chili powder seasoning: bright red and incredibly eye searing.

“This is an absolute insult! Who isn’t a star-system delicacy around here? Who are they trying to scare with chili powder?!” Furious to the core, Lu Xun immediately strained his vocal cords to scream outward: “[Down with Imperialism], charge!! Flatten… oh wait, liberate that capitalist prisoner!”

The neighboring spectators thought: This… actually makes some sense.

Before they could ponder further, the situation on the field shifted drastically. The Prisoner exploited a tricky angle of attack to clamp onto the Rattlesnake’s mechanical claw. The Rattlesnake’s engine roared furiously, stomping its feet hard twice, yet it unexpectedly failed to break the hold.

This was precisely the vulnerability of a lightweight mecha. Proficient in agility, deficient in raw power.

The announcer’s voice turned tense: “We’ve entered the second half of the match, and it is visibly apparent that ‘Down with Imperialism’ is running out of steam. In truth, he is piloting while ill today. An hour before entering the arena, he was still hooked up to an anti-inflammatory IV drip at a clinic. It is entirely understandable that his reaction speed is slower than his previous match.”

Hearing the announcer begin to make excuses, the spectators shook their heads; “Down with Imperialism” was a goner this time.

Sure enough, this time The Prisoner gave the Rattlesnake no further opportunity to raise its blade and cleave. Without a shred of hesitation, he activated the full horsepower of his specially modified left arm engineered specifically for ultimate strikes. Gripping a light-saber, he hurled it forward, instantly skewering the Rattlesnake’s abdomen and pinning the deep-space blue mecha mid-air.

The lightweight Rattlesnake immediately resembled a broken kite, swaying precariously in the air.

“Oh! Tear him open! Tear him open! Sprinkle the dipping sauce!” the Spicy and Fresh Hot Pot Skewers faction screamed with passion.

To respond to their cheers, The Prisoner bent down to scoop up a handful of arena dust, preparing to execute his classic salt-sprinkling motion to draw a flawless conclusion to this match.

Yet right at that moment, the Rattlesnake’s cockpit doors suddenly snapped open.

Amidst the collective shrieks of the crowd, a figure chillingly detached and athletic leaped straight out of the mecha, landing with absolute precision onto The Prisoner’s frame. Next, with a sharp spin of a screwdriver between his fingertips, he dismantled the top hatch within a few breaths. His lean arm, surging with an unknown source of power, reached inside abruptly, seized The Prisoner, and hurled him straight onto the ground.

Whoosh…

The Prisoner rolled five or six times in the dust pit before barely coming to a halt. He struggled to scramble up, his disoriented vision tracking the scene, only to witness that incomparably arrogant bird slide into his own cockpit and take control of his mecha.

What did “Down with Imperialism” want to do?

Every single spectator in the stadium shared the exact same question. But they found out very quickly. The Prisoner watched open-mouthed as his own light-saber was meticulously extracted from the Rattlesnake’s abdomen, and then—

Slammed ruthlessly into the abdomen of his own mecha.

The exact same position, delivered with an even more vicious force so savage that it punctured the energy core, sending up a massive plume of thick grey smoke.

The Captain remarked with pleasure: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

Anna sighed: “The birdling cherishes mechas above all else. Right now, he must be furious beyond words.”

The gargantuan display screen flashed and jumped as the scoring system automatically calculated the points: [Down with Imperialism], 500 points gained this round, ranking first.

The spectators were utterly shell-shocked: You can even do that?!

Crawling straight out of the cockpit to actively assault the enemy pilot.

This style of fighting was… so damn fierce.

Beneath their dumbfounded stares, the cockpit door slid open, and “Down with Imperialism” leaped down from the machine, pulling off his protective helmet with a single hand. Even though the broadcast had applied a blurring filter due to protection policies, everyone could still discern through the camera lens that it was a sweat-drenched beauty. He cast a lazy, cold sidelong glance back, his smooth spine slick with sweat, his entire frame radiating an explosive aura of pheromones following intense physical exertion.

A presence that caused everyone to draw deep breaths simultaneously.

Countless viewers watching the live stream in front of their screens complained with indignation: “When on earth will they manufacture a terminal that lets you smell pheromones?!”

Lu Xun was jumping up and down to show his support: “Beat him! Beat The Prisoner to a pulp!”

As the camera tracked his movements, Bai Ling walked through the swirling columns of dust to stand before The Prisoner. He didn’t continue executing his retaliation; instead, standing against the backlight, he looked down at the other party and said coolly:

“You are free, Prisoner.”

Meaning he was letting him leave.

Every muscle across The Prisoner’s frame underwent a violent jolt. He lifted his head in utter disbelief, feeling as if, for a split second, he discerned a profound depth within the younger man’s eyes.

Simultaneously, the live stream broadcasted this sentence with a two-second delay.

You are free, Prisoner.

A bizarre ripple resonated through the hearts of the spectators, as if this sentence weren’t directed at The Prisoner alone, but spoken to the thousands upon thousands of onlookers present in the arena, and the hundreds of millions of eyes watching in front of screens worldwide.

At this precise instant, a question instinctively surfaced within everyone’s minds: What is freedom?

Bai Ling tapped the dust from his boots on the ground, stating flatly, “You asked me about my circle handle before the match started. You must really dislike the name ‘The Prisoner,’ right?”

The Prisoner parted his lips: “I…” He was unable to answer.

Bai Ling didn’t obsess over his response. He casually brushed back his sweat-laden white hair and a gust of cold wind swept over, nearly freezing the droplets of sweat on his skin, causing a sharp ache to pierce through his internal organs.

Freezing.

His shoulder blades trembled slightly as he barely managed to control a shudder. Bai Ling sprinted toward the exit, utterly impatient to locate Yu Chen, desperate to stuff both of his hands into the man’s overcoat and warm them up.

At the stadium entrance, Lu Hang was leading the arrest squad through security. During the wait, he looked up at the hovering virtual screen and let out a low chuckle:

“‘Down with Imperialism’ granting freedom to ‘The Prisoner’… that is truly thought-provoking.”

Before he could finish his musing, a stern voice echoed beside him: “Arrest squad, move out. Target: Bai Ling, pilot of the ‘Eloquent Crows and Sparrows’ club. Charges: Attempted regicide, high treason.”

The criminal investigator heading the squad instructed: “Keep this in mind, everyone. Orders from above state that Bai Ling is to be executed immediately upon detention. If he resists, open fire directly. You will not bear any responsibility.”

“Yes, sir!”

Lu Hang’s expression remained flat, his hands tucked into his pockets as he watched them, fully armed and standing in strict readiness.

What a pity… a beautiful talent turned wicked.

Who could have guessed that the genius pilot, Bai Ling, was the primary culprit behind the attack on the Sovereign? Once charged with high treason, Bai Ling was as good as dead.

---

Author’s Note:

The introduction to the shrike was referenced from Wikipedia.

Reading everyone’s opinions and comfort in the comment section, wuwuwuwu, thank you all so much. It really is wonderful to meet you. Lately, I have indeed been downing Ibuprofen quite often to write words. If a day comes where I truly can’t hold on and need to switch to an alternate-day update schedule to rest, I will let you know in advance.

This novel does have an outline! The ending and the upcoming plot have long been set in stone. It’s just that sometimes the minor details get stuck, which is why I fix it repeatedly. I will try my best to avoid this situation. My focus is still on guaranteeing quality; after all, I’m using this as my own sustenance to indulge in, so I absolutely cannot let it derail or turn into filler! (Lies down into the deep fryer)

I am deeply moved, so here is a mini theater.

[Baltic Folk Merman
Observation Log 2]

It was no exaggeration to say that in the fishing villages for miles around, any youngster old enough to dive into the water bound to have a copy of this log pressed under their pillow.

Moreover, most copies had already become wrinkled and tattered.

Who could blame them when everyone relied on reading this stuff late at night to satisfy their imagination of the great ocean? Well… imaginations of all kinds.

Captain Little Bird opened it late at night for the 3580th time.

In truth, he already knew the contents inside out. He could recite the section describing the Merman King backward, and he would even hide under his blanket to indulge in some sweat-inducing associations based on just a few vague words.

The log stated that the Merman King was a fish of peerless beauty.

Though the old sailor who wrote the log never once saw the Merman King’s face in his entire life. He only mentioned ambiguously that one day, he saw a school of merfolk fighting from afar, and saw a flash of brilliant golden color right at the front, shining brightly even amidst the dark, roaring storm on the sea.

When Captain Little Bird was a child, he read it as a fairy tale.

But when he grew to fourteen or fifteen, he suddenly had an epiphany one day, understanding what mating was and what a merman’s courtship season entailed. He pulled this book out from under his pillow and hid in his blanket with a bizarre mindset…

By the time he crawled out drenched in sweat, his eyes darting around, the book happened to be flipped open to the page of the golden-haired merman.

Little Bird: “That must be the Queen of the merfolk race. The scenario written in the log describes them fighting for her mating rights.”

After growing up, Captain Little Bird couldn’t help but think: if he could spend a passionate night with the Merman Queen… how many fish could he catch and how much money could he make! He would quickly save up enough money to leave the small fishing village.

Captain Little Bird decided to ask the “Rocking Horse” Merman he had just met to find out more.

As a captain widely known far and wide for his “angling skill,” Little Bird carried a sea fishing rod with him at all times, casting a line whenever he had nothing to do.

The Rocking Horse Merman popped his head out: “Your way of greeting is a bit peculiar. Why don’t you blow a little conch horn next time instead?”

Little Bird: “But you come over very quickly.”

Old Merman: “Cough, because I just happened to be guarding the gate nearby.”

He casually covered the mouth of a giant jellyfish in the water.

Jellyfish: [Just happened to be], indeed. I won’t say who that merman was who recognized his exclusive fishhook from 800 meters away and launched himself right onto it.