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the truth

  Latham made no effort to mask his yearning. Card seized the opening. "Ever wanted to pilot one yourself?" The security chief’s voice dripped honeyed temptation.

  Before Latham could respond, his father cut in. "Out of the question."

  Card blinked. "Why?"

  "Those were military-grade mechs," the older man said tightly. "Requiring sixth-tier physical or psychic potential. My boy hasn’t..."

  ?"I’ve broken through."?

  The declaration hung like a shock grenade. His mother’s hands flew to her mouth. Father’s skepticism hardened. "Fifth tier? When?"

  Latham channeled his newfound mental discipline, projecting conviction. "Months ago. Tried telling you during our last family dinner. Remember? The one you left early for a quarterly audit."

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  Guilt flickered across both parents’ faces. Card watched with predatory interest as the boy weaponized their neglect.

  ?"We’re... we’re sorry, son."? Father’s admission came rusted with disuse.

  Latham shrugged, the gesture perfected through years of lonely meals. "Doesn’t matter now."

  Card stepped between them, a human buffer against awkwardness. "What matters is your boy’s raw talent." He launched into vivid descriptions of Latham’s training facility triumphs—the fluid stance transitions, the instinctive interface syncs.

  ?"With proper conditioning,"? Card concluded, ?"he could contend for the Grand Alliance’s Mech Sovereign title."?

  The parents paled. Mother gripped the sofa’s anti-grav upholstery. Father’s corporate-calm facade cracked. ?"You’re suggesting our son—"?

  ?"—is a once-in-a-generation psychic prodigy?"? Card finished. ?"Skynet’s biometric logs don’t lie. His neural flux spiked at 7.3 teraunits during yesterday’s simulator run."?

  Latham fought a smirk. 7.3 teraunits—the exact output threshold for military pilot certification. The spectral light’s gift kept giving.

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