**Chapter 3 – The Letter**
*'Dear Crey,*
*What's up? By the time you're reading this, I'll already be gone hopefully. At first, I considered leaving a text on your Watch-ID, but given the nature of our... Age old profession, I decided an old-fashioned letter would be more fitting—unlike my cheap repairman career. Consider it a luxury farewell, a final touch of class to our relationship.*
*Now that you're practically nineteen, a youth brimming with possibilities, I want you to enroll at Terra Military Academy for further studies. My sincerest hope is that you'll hone yourself into the most extraordinary Evolved Fighter of this era. I've already registered you for the Entrance Exam. And just so you know—if you fail to appear after registration, you'll be liable for a massive penalty for wasting their time.*
*This isn't a warning, my dear child. This is a* **NAKED THREAT** *from your esteemed Old Uncle. Remember, I'm ruthless in matters like these, and I'm only doing this to drag your lazy ass toward a better future. Becoming an Evolved Fighter is the dream of every young man and woman on Earth. Yet here you are—a useless waste of space, clinging to your old uncle's washed-up ideals.*
*An Evolved Military Officer—a super-soldier wielding cutting-edge EXO-Armor—is the pinnacle of human evolution and technology. These warriors are the backbone of humanity's intergalactic endeavors. From Venus to Mars, even to our farthest colonies on Europa, every young person dreams of standing among them. Only a spoiled, lazy bastard like you would rather rot away in some backwater shop, living like a retired man. The world is ripe for taking only if you are strong enough, and with your skills whether wanted or unwanted, it's almost like easy tutorial for you.*
*Crey think about me if not yourself, though I'm wasting away I haven't still lost my ambition. I know you are sharp, though you pretend to be oblivious you might have guessed I was not exactly moving around the continent randomly. I need something to do, and for that I can't even take a lazy vacation out even if I had to raise you up all the while living nomadic uncomfortable life. If not for you, atleast for me become strong become someone so that one day if I come to take shelter from you. Like I have done for you all these years.*
*If I'd known that my unenthusiastic influence would ruin your potential, I'd have left your ass in that burning building. For once, Crey, choose glory. Choose the fire of youth. At your age, I'd already enlisted in a military academy.'*
---
**"Excuse me, sir!"**
A melodic voice interrupted his reading. Crey glanced up to see a strikingly pretty air hostess leaning into his private cabin, her uniform designed to flaunt generous amounts of fair skin—a calculated appeal to luxury clientele.
**"Would you like me to adjust your compartment settings? The flight's about to take off, so I recommend activating stabilization and partial blanket mode to counter turbulence."**
Crey folded the letter and nodded. She flashed a professional smile, her fingers dancing over the controls while her eyes lingered just a second too long. The unspoken invitation was obvious.
Crey wasn't dense—just disinterested. Okay to be more honest he was pragmatic. He had no chance here.
After delivering his snacks and drinks, she lingered, but Crey politely dismissed her. He understood the game: she was hunting for a wealthy patron, someone young who could afford regular flights on this supersonic luxury liner? A perfect husband material. It wasn't materialistic or gold digging, it was called being realistic. After all marriage is exchange of benefits, if put in crude terms no?
What she didn't know was that he was even poorer than she is. If she had not overlooked his cheap clothes and mistook them for rich people's peculiarity, that is. And this ticket of expensive air travel? A non-refundable, non-transferable parting gift from his uncle.
Crey, ever the realist, had no intention of playing along. He'd learned early that scorned women were forces of nature—a lesson hammered into him during his nomadic years with Uncle. Better to avoid trouble altogether.
---
He returned to the letter, where the tone shifted abruptly:
*"Listen here, you little sh*t—I know you're still not convinced. So let me spell it out:*
1. *I sold the shop. The new owner isn't the 'civil discussion' type. More the 'break-your-knees-first' type.* Even if it is thier knees being broken by you, it would still amount to the type of nuisance which both you and me abhors.
2. *I drained both our bank accounts. Every last credit.* No need to thank me, it's just I need funds to relocate my old ass.
3. *I stripped the shop of anything remotely valuable. No scalping your way out of this.*
*I'm basically fleeing town. If you stick around, expect a parade of angry customers at the door—people I took money from but never finished their repairs. Try relocating in this city, and you'll be jailed before sunset.*
*Forget any clever workarounds. Your only path forward is the military exam. Fail honestly, and I'll even send you startup funds for a new life. But* **try to run, and I'll find you.**
*This is for your own good, Crey. In a world where life grows cheaper by the day, strength is the only currency that matters. Even if you crave peace, you need the power to defend it. Otherwise, you'll end up like me—a broken man carrying scars too heavy to forget.*
*P.S. I ate all the food in the shop. Bon appétit.*
*P.P.S. We'll meet again… someday. Maybe.*
*—'Old Cripple' (Your damn proud Uncle)."*
---
Crey closed his eyes, the letter crumpling in his grip. His face betrayed nothing, but a quiet sadness seeped into his chest—so faint even he barely noticed.
*'Goodbye, old man. Thanks for... a new life.'*
Outside the cabin window, the engines roared as the supersonic jet pierced the clouds, carrying him toward an uncertain future.