The Greatest Mecha-Chapter 70: Clash Of Steel

Sól could feel her spine throbbing inside the mech’s nerve-linked pilot chair. The feedback was intense. Every vibration, every tremor echoed through her bones as if she were inside the metal shell, not just controlling it. Her vision flickered with the red hue of warning alerts as her shoulder launchers unleashed a ferocious storm of guided missiles.

Across the scorched arena, the enemy knight mech raised its shield in desperation, metal arms shaking under the incoming assault.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Explosions rang out in a violent cascade, filling the air with fire, smoke, and blinding light. The force of the attack shattered the enemy’s shield into molten debris, hurling the mech back like a puppet cut from its strings. It crashed into the far wall, sparks flying from its joints.

"Damnit!" the enemy pilot’s voice blared through open comms. "Do you have any idea how much this’ll cost to fix?! I’m going to make you pay for that, you psycho!"

Sól’s lips curved into a faint smile. "You came for blood. Don’t complain when you bleed."

She reached for another volley—only to hear her AI’s cold voice cut through the chaos:

"Missile launchers overheating. Energy core output at 64%."

Crimson alerts blinked across her console. She hissed between her teeth. Too much heat. Her control systems allowed limited overrides—Percival was a brute-force frame, not built for finesse or fancy gymnastics. But it could take a beating. It could deliver death.

She assessed her enemy. His mech, a regal knight-type with gold-trimmed plating and archaic flair, looked like something out of a myth. But the scorch marks, buckled plating, and twitching servo joints told a different story. His sword—a massive slab of tempered alloy—remained intact. One clean hit could carve her down the middle.

She needed to end this. And fast.

With a deep breath, she reached back and equipped the Percival’s melee weapon—a long iron spear that glinted with faint runes along its shaft. She gripped it with both mech arms, letting its balance guide her thoughts. She had trained with spears since she could walk—martial arts, traditional drills, and real-world spars had burned the weapon’s rhythm into her muscle memory. frёewebηovel.cѳm

Now it was time to see if her body and the Percival’s steel skeleton could sync.

Her opponent raised his sword into a combat-ready stance. "A spear against a sword? You’ve got guts, girl. Let’s see if they spill easy."

Sól didn’t respond. She sank into a stance, legs wide, weapon lowered, body centered. She imagined the calm of still water—waiting, silent, deadly.

He lunged.

The knight’s mech tore through the distance in seconds, heavy legs pounding the earth. His broadsword rose high above his head and came crashing down in a killing arc.

Sól pivoted. Her spear lifted just in time—metal shrieked as the weapons clashed. The ground beneath them cracked. Sparks burst around them like miniature suns. But the Percival didn’t give. Its arms held firm. The block held.

"Not bad," the knight growled. "But this ain’t over."

"Good," Sól said. "I’m just getting started."

She twisted her hips and thrust forward, aiming directly at his chest.

He sidestepped, fast—almost too fast—and her spear glanced off his armor. It should’ve been a glancing blow—

Boom!

The explosion rocked both mechs.

A plume of fire erupted from the knight’s chest plate. His mech stumbled, arms swinging for balance.

"What the—what the hell was that?!" he shouted. "Since when do melee weapons explode?!"

Sól blinked at the smoking tip of her spear. "There was no mention of explosives in the spec sheet..."

Then she smirked.

"Looks like the designer left me a surprise."

From the safety of her cockpit, she whispered, "Thank you, Disciple."

The knight mech steadied, but the pilot’s bravado was cracking. "You’re insane," he said, breath ragged through the mic. "I’ve fought elites. Top-ten duelists. None of them ever—"

"Maybe they weren’t trying to win," Sól cut in.

Then she lunged.

This time, the Percival’s movements were smoother, more fluid. Not elegant—Percival wasn’t built for grace—but purposeful. Direct. Violent.

The knight tried to counter. He slashed at her right side, the blade biting deep into her mech’s thigh.

Critical damage. Servo control compromised.

Pain flashed across her interface. The nerve-linked feedback made her thigh throb as if her own leg had been slashed. But she gritted her teeth and pushed through. Pain was information. She could use it.

The knight raised his sword high for a killing blow, armor gleaming in the firelight.

He never got the chance.

Sól feinted left, then lunged forward, driving the spear straight into his mech’s torso. The weapon pierced through armor like a bullet through glass.

And then—

Boom.

A second explosion erupted inside his chest cavity. This time, systems didn’t just fail—they disintegrated.

The knight’s scream echoed through open comms before his audio cut to static. His mech dropped to its knees, then fell face-first, lifeless.

Sól stood over him, her spear sizzling with smoke, her own mech barely staying upright.

Silence.

Then the system’s voice echoed across the arena:

"Victory. You are the victor. MVP: THE WHITE CAT. Mech: THE PERCIVAL."

Her screen shifted back to the team lobby. Bright messages flooded her chat:

> "Holy crap that spear—" "You baited him with the stumble?!" "Insane clutch!" "Adding you. Please squad up next match?"

Even the proud heavy-armor pilot she’d clashed with earlier humbled himself: "Where can I get that frame...?"

Sól ignored most of them.

She was staring at the Percival’s image in her loadout menu. Somehow... it felt different now. It wasn’t just a machine anymore. It had fought with her. Reacted. Adapted. As if... alive.

She tapped on the designer’s name.

The Disciple.

She left a glowing five-star review with one comment:

> "Your spear design just won me a war."

Then she stepped out of the pod. Golding rays of light poured through her room’s balcony window.

Her cat, Sylphie, lay sprawled across the keyboard, tail flicking in annoyance.

"You’re finally awake," Sól said, stretching. "You lazy girl always oversleeping. One of this days I will take you into one of my games."

Sylphie meowed in protest.

Sól laughed.

"Fine. Next time, you get a battlesuit."

A/N: Please readers I need your support in my work, and help to promote my work in any way possible. I will greatly appreciate it.