Go Back to Your Big Cat Form! Chapter 3:  “I’m Here for the Divorce.”

Chapter 3:  “I’m Here for the Divorce.”

Translated by Addis of Exiled Rebels Scanlations

Editor: Karai

 

The Federation’s Mecha Research Institute belonged to the Federation military, and all of its personnel held military status. As the Chief Engineer of Base One, Lu Yao held the rank of major General. However, he rarely wore his uniform. In the public eye, he appeared most often as either the Chief Engineer or the spouse of the General. Over time, few people still referred to him as Major General.

“Hello, Aide Zhao.” Lu Yao returned Zhao Minghe’s greeting. Zhao Minghe smiled politely. “Major General Lu, the General has already received word of your arrival on the Ares. However, he is still fighting on the front line and cannot meet you at the moment. He asked me to extend his apologies in his stead.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be working aboard the Ares for a while.” Lu Yao’s expression remained calm, betraying no hint of emotion.

“You… the General may be away for quite some time. Did you come here for something urgent? Perhaps I can be of assistance.” Zhao Minghe could not guess why Lu Yao had traveled all the way to the Silver Halberd Fleet. He had asked the General before, but received only silence in return. The snow leopard had merely cast him a cold glance, clamped its long tail between its teeth, and leapt back onto the desk.

“You can’t help me. I need to see General Zhou himself,” Lu Yao replied. “I came here to get a divorce.”

The sensitive words made Zhao Minghe’s brow twitch. Clatter— In the distance, the sound of a spoon falling to the ground broke the air like a signal horn, plunging the entire hall into deathly silence. The technicians seated at Lu Yao’s table quickly lowered their heads, not daring to look at the two men any longer. Zhao Minghe’s earpiece also went completely silent.

As an aide, he carried real-time recording and transmission equipment, which allowed the snow leopard in the office to see and hear Lu Yao. Normally, if the connected snow leopard did not speak, Zhao Minghe could still hear the steady rumble of a big cat’s breathing in his earpiece—like the hum of a massive engine. But now, there was nothing. It was as if Zhou Yunchen had cut off the feed entirely.

Zhao Minghe knew he could not involve himself in their private affairs. He had neither the standing nor the right words. He had followed Zhou Yunchen for years and had witnessed firsthand the depth of the General’s feelings for Lu Yao. Zhou Yunchen would never willingly agree to divorce. Yet Lu Yao’s words just now had not contained a shred of hesitation.

At that moment, Lu Yao tilted his head slightly, regarding Zhao Minghe with a faint look of puzzlement at his lack of response. To him, bringing up divorce seemed as casual as asking what flavor of nutrient pack to have for dinner.

A thought struck Zhao’s mind like lightning through rotted wood. The mandatory duration of Lu Yao and Zhou Yunchen’s arranged marriage was nearly at its end. Lu Yao had departed from New Blue Star a week ago. If everything went smoothly, he would finish his repair work, obtain Zhou Yunchen’s signature on the divorce papers, and return to New Blue Star within another week. By the time he landed, it would mark exactly three years. The Marriage Match Law would no longer prevent their separation. Did the General… already suspect Lu Yao’s intent?

“Maj— Major General…”

“Do you have any questions?”

Lu Yao’s voice snapped Zhao out of his spiraling thoughts. He had been about to consider consulting Zhou Yunchen, but in his confusion, his inner murmurs slipped out aloud. “N-no, I… nothing.”

Just then, the sound of the snow leopard’s breathing returned to Zhao’s earpiece, followed by a mechanical voice generated through character conversion, “Tell him—I’ll be back on the Ares soon. If Lu Yao wants a divorce, I won’t refuse.” The connection cut off immediately afterward.

Zhao could only grit his teeth and repeat, “Understood, Major General Lu. I’ll also convey your request to the General. I believe he will return as soon as possible.”

“Mm. Thank you.” Lu Yao nodded. He had work of his own and would remain aboard the Ares until Zhou Yunchen returned.

Zhao asked again, “May I ask about your work schedule? I’d like to request your help repairing a severely damaged mecha. She’s very important.”

“I don’t have anything planned yet. Can you take me to see her now? I’ll need to make a preliminary assessment.”

“Of course, Major General Lu. Please, follow me.” Shen Zishen summoned two technicians to accompany Lu Yao, bringing along the necessary equipment.

The mecha Zhao Minghe mentioned was housed in a separate storage hangar, kept apart from the other damaged machines. From that alone, Lu Yao guessed it must have belonged to a senior officer in the fleet.

The heavy doors slid slowly open, light spilling through the widening gap and striking the mecha inside. Bright beams revealed its many scars. Before the full silhouette emerged, Lu Yao’s lashes trembled. He turned to Zhao Minghe and asked, “Is that the Distant Star?”

“Yes. Do you recognize the General’s mecha?”

“Hard to ignore,” Lu Yao answered. “General Zhou’s choice is… unique.”

A mecha to its pilot was like a sword to a knight: a weapon and companion that fought alongside them through the starry sea. In this age of media saturation, a mecha also became its pilot’s personal emblem. For a commander as celebrated and admired as Zhou Yunchen, the Distant Star had become almost inseparable from his identity.

Whenever battle records showed a deep-gray mecha cutting ferociously through alien defenses, tearing apart enemy ranks like a longsword through the void, people immediately thought of Zhou Yunchen—the decorated, awe-inspiring General.

Yet when Lu Yao called his choice “unique,” it was not praise for the General’s grandeur, but an observation. Zhou Yunchen piloted a standard-model mass-produced mecha. He hadn’t even given it a custom paint job. The raw metallic sheen of its armor remained untouched, the only adornment the model designation—“TL”—emblazoned on its chestplate.

Having devoted years to mecha manufacturing, Lu Yao recognized it at a glance: Zhou Yunchen piloted one of his own mass-production designs, the TL03. In this era, when top-tier mecha pilots were idolized by the public, most longed for unique, customized machines. Yet for over a decade, Zhou Yunchen had chosen to ride this unadorned, ordinary production model.

Of course, this did not mean that mass-produced mechas were inferior, as if Zhou Yunchen had made some kind of mistake. Ordinary citizens and mecha enthusiasts often argued endlessly over the merits of customized models, each different in appearance and function, determined to crown one as the “Federation’s Number One Mecha.”

But within the industry, there was an unspoken rule: if you wanted to find the finest mecha engineers, you looked to the creators of mass-produced machines. Mass-production mechas had to meet the needs of the widest range of pilots and adapt to countless environments. A Chief Engineer needed to lead thousands of staff, working day and night to tune data and test models, then collect millions of real battle reports for further iteration—balancing practicality, safety, and cost control.

Each mass-production mecha would be fielded by tens of thousands of soldiers. The Chief Engineer had to aim for perfection, because even a failure rate of 0.01 percent meant hundreds—thousands—of lives lost.

Custom mechas were not, as the public imagined, designed from the ground up with the most cutting-edge, ferocious technology. That only happened with concept models, never intended for actual combat.

To guarantee safety, custom designers could only build on the thoroughly tested structure of a mass-production unit, then add existing modules and fine-tune parameters based on the client’s needs. Cost also had to be considered. No individual could afford the full design process of a mecha from scratch—the numbers were so staggering that even the Federation’s supreme commander would balk at them.

Even so, it was rare for a celebrated Federation General and S-class alpha pilot to remain so austere. Yet Zhou Yunchen’s Distant Star had no extra gunports, no modifications at all—it remained exactly as the TL03 had been built.

When the hangar doors fully opened, the Distant Star stood in its towering entirety before them. The automated lifts were already in place. Zhao Minghe remotely activated the mecha’s systems to vent its internal atmosphere. “To stabilize the internal environment, we filled the cockpit with nitrogen upon its return. It will take about a minute to discharge. Please, wait.”

Lu Yao watched the streams of gas expel from the vents along the mecha’s flanks. As he stepped toward the lift, he pulled a folded, strip-shaped device from his pocket.

About four centimeters wide, the instrument unfolded into a curved arc. Once hooked over both ears, it locked in place against the back of his head. He pressed a button, and the device whirred to life. A harsh, cold mix of air and iron flooded his nose.

Years ago, an injury had damaged Lu Yao’s sense of smell. Only by wearing this specialized instrument—which directly stimulated the olfactory bulb in his brain—could he experience scents again. He usually only restored his sense of smell while working, when confirming a mecha’s condition required the full use of all five senses.

But why, he wondered, would nitrogen need to be pumped in to preserve the interior state? 

The TL03’s frame was tall and slender, built for speed and agility. Standing thirty meters high, it loomed as the lift carried Lu Yao steadily upward toward the cockpit embedded in its chest. Zhao, ever attentive, had already unlocked the system permissions for him.

“Distant Star, open the hatch.”

The curved cockpit door slowly parted under hydraulic power. A white mist spilled from the widening seam—along with something else. A faint, metallic tang of rust. Blood?

Having lived so long in a scentless world, Lu Yao found himself all the more sensitive to odors during those fleeting periods when his sense of smell was restored. Yet it had been more than ten years since he had last smelled blood. That lapse made him doubt his own ability to recognize it.

From the outside, the Distant Star had shown no signs of catastrophic damage. There were no breaches deep enough to reach the cockpit. But the coppery tang still seeped outward with the circulating air. As soon as the hatch opened wide enough to admit a person, Lu Yao pushed forward, stepping quickly inside. When his gaze pierced through the lingering mist, his pupils contracted sharply.

A rush of blood-scent hit him full in the face. Thick, dark stains clung everywhere. Under the combined chill and nitrogen flush, the blood had not yet oxidized; it seemed almost fresh, as if it might still be flowing. The bright red filled his vision.

A sharp beep echoed. The sound jolted Lu Yao, raising the hair along his arms. It was the cockpit’s automated system switching on the lights. In his memory, the cool white glow inside had never felt so blinding, so cruelly harsh.

Lu Yao closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he forced calm into his gaze and opened a channel. “General Zhou is injured?”

“Yes,” Zhao Minghe replied. “The General sustained wounds in a battle not long ago.”

Blood streaked across the warped cockpit floor, smeared in serpentine patterns. Splatters clung to the side panels. Drops had already congealed on the glass console. The metallic stench made Lu Yao’s stomach lurch. His vision dimmed at the edges. He yanked the olfactory stimulator from his head and snapped, “He’s still fighting on the front line?”

“Yes.”

“While injured?”

“He recovered partially in a treatment pod,” Zhao answered. “The fleet already recorded the cockpit’s condition for evidence modeling. If you’re concerned about sanitation, I can have someone clean it immediately.”

That’s what he thought I cared about? Lu Yao braced himself against the wall, letting the odorless air scour the bloody impressions from his mind. “No. Not for now.”

He fixed his gaze on the section of wall most heavily stained. A ragged hole gaped there. With his knowledge of mecha design, he knew all too well what lay behind it.

“Zhao, tell the two technicians to send up a standard internal scanning kit.” Behind that wall lay the mecha’s mental-control core. The torn metal showed clear signs of being ripped open—not a structural failure, but deliberate destruction. And yet there were no signs of outside intrusion. This was a single-pilot mecha. The only one who could have broken through that bulkhead… was Zhou Yunchen himself.

But why? It was almost the same as wagering his life.

 

Author’s Note:

Once again… I want… some… comments…

 

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