The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] novel Chapter 559

Chapter 559: Mock Battle, My Ass

"D-did I see that right?"

"Did that mecha just reattach a leg?"

"I’m not sure... because what I remember seeing were spider-like tentacles that reached out and grabbed the leg..."

The crowd had devolved into soft murmurs, voices hushed as if speaking too loudly might confirm that yes, reality had absolutely just bent in front of them.

People looked around. Not for answers. Just for confirmation that they weren’t hallucinating. That others had seen it too. That what had just occurred was indeed real and not a fever dream brought on by too much spiritual exposure or not enough sleep.

Then came a very different voice.

"Kyle! Did you see that? Isn’t my brother so cute?!"

Ollie Mylor, ever the devoted sworn-sibling and part-time chaos enthusiast, was bouncing in place. His hair practically glowed beneath the observation dome lighting, and he was waving a hand-painted sign with Luca’s name surrounded by glitter stickers.

"Look at those limbs!" Ollie gasped. "And how he even patted the leg down like a medic trying to reassure a patient!"

Where others saw a horrifying medical horror show, Ollie saw artistry. Precision. Love.

"See! Look at that!" Ollie jabbed a finger toward the battlefield. "He’s even fixing the joint connection aside from patching the damage on the chest!"

He was now waving the sign so hard it was a miracle it hadn’t taken flight.

Kyle, to his credit, remained quiet.

Because what most of the audience was seeing had very little in common with his little star’s cheerful commentary.

What they saw... was a white mecha crouched like a hunter beside another, its tools wrapped around the damaged limb like surgical restraints. They saw something that very clearly had not been broken before—now removed with the delicacy of someone dissecting a frog—only to be "lovingly" reinserted once the chest plating had been stitched back together.

It was the stuff of nightmares.

If Kyle didn’t already know about Luca’s borderline obsessive need for correctly aligned joints, he too would have assumed this was a live demonstration on psychological warfare.

Still, despite the trauma inflicted, the pilot did walk away.

Their mecha functioned. Possibly even better than before. But the pilot would probably flinch every time they saw a wrench for the next six months.

Then came more.

A damaged stabilizer was replaced.

An entire energy canister was swapped out after Luca deemed the impact radius too risky for future pressure containment.

Wings were reattached. Not re-welded. Reattached. Like they had never fallen off to begin with.

And then, casually, as if it were just part of his job description, Luca performed a full torso reattachment on a mecha that had crumpled against a boulder.

By the time he’d completed his ninth repair, the arena looked like a hybrid of a battlefield and a surgical operating theater.

And then it happened.

While circling back, Luca stumbled across something—an opportunity of a lifetime.

He paused.

His expression lit up.

The kind of moment that made Kyle instinctively tense and Ollie squeal.

And it started when Deputy Officer Curtis managed to flee far enough to feel proud of himself, not because he believed in desertion, but because he was following orders.

The Marshal had said to attempt to flee or fight.

Attempt. The operative word.

And while some of his fellow volunteers might go down in history as brave souls for at least trying, Curtis had no desire to be remembered as the idiot who stood his ground against a mecha that so clearly outclassed him—especially when he, more than anyone, knew exactly by how much.

He had a career to maintain. A pension to look forward to. Bones to keep unshattered.

So he chose flight.

With pride.

He just didn’t expect to be found this fast.

Not that he was surprised.

Marshal Julian, after all, was no longer just a man in a mecha. He was a war deity in pilot form, with a new suit that should have come with a planetary hazard warning.

Curtis tried. He did.

Because when he realized there was no more hope of running, he made sure to put up the best fight he could at the moment, relying on the years they’ve worked together to predict what could happen next.

First, a lateral boost across the terrain, landing hard behind a jutting ridge. His mecha dipped low, systems humming as he readied a series of auto-triggers.

This might actually work.

He struck, targeting a joint—specifically designed to target the areas he thought were vulnerable, or in this case, just less durable. It was the cleanest opening he’d seen all day.

Marshal Julian Theron actually defended.

Verify captcha to read the contentVerify