Four months later, somewhere at the border of the South China Sea…
POV: Zhang Lei — Ace Pilot, People's Reclamation Army
---
The briefing called it "a ghost suit."
Recon data flagged it as "unidentified."
Command labeled it "an anomaly."
But soldiers had a simpler name:
> The Silence.
---
I didn't believe in curses or ghosts.
Until I saw what was left of Outpost Red-3.
Charred ground.
No blast pattern.
No shell casings.
Just folded steel. Crushed watchtowers. And streaks of blood that led nowhere.
I ran a diagnostic as Meihua descended the ridge, frame stabilizers humming low.
> "Command, Dragon-01 entering grid 7-C. Visual on prior wreckage confirmed. Still no contact with target."
> "Copy that. Maintain caution. Engage only if fired upon."
But that was the problem.
It didn't fire.
It just appeared.
Moved.
Killed.
Vanished.
No signals. No heat. No voice.
Just aftermath.
---
I passed the burned-out frame of a Philippine patrol unit.
The cockpit was still sealed—no breach. But the whole machine had been snapped at the waist. Bent inward.
No explosives. Just... force.
Like a hand crushing tin.
---
That's when I saw it.
Through the mist ahead.
Standing still between the tree shadows—
A tall, humanoid mobile suit.
Painted in tones of black and silver. Smooth-plated. No unit markings.
No federation logos.
No visible reactor glow.
Just... there.
Watching.
---
"Target visual confirmed," I whispered.
> "Can you ID the suit?"
"No match. Looks custom. Design's unfamiliar. Possibly modified PRA chassis or reverse-engineered Eastern bloc frame."
> "Do you see the pilot?"
I hesitated.
"…No."
> "Proceed with caution. Attempt communication."
---
I stepped Meihua forward, slowly.
Target still didn't move.
I activated my external speakers.
> "Unknown unit. Identify yourself. You are operating in a restricted zone under active wartime protocol. Respond or you will be engaged."
No reply.
Not even a twitch.
I magnified the visual feed on its helmet.
No light.
No glow.
No eye-lens activation.
Just reflection.
Like staring at a statue.
---
> "Repeat: Identify or you will be fired upon."
Still nothing.
I could hear my own breath in my helmet now.
Heartbeat syncing with the mech's pulse line.
I tightened my grip on the control sticks.
---
Then—it moved.
One step.
No thrust.
No audio cue.
Just... pressure.
The trees around it shifted like they were exhaling.
It wasn't charging.
It was approaching.
And still... it said nothing.
---
I brought my blade up.
"Final warning—stand down or I'll disable you."
---
No reaction.
Just the faint creak of its left hand slowly curling into a fist.
---
I activated my booster and lunged forward—
The black suit caught my blade mid-strike.
SCCRREECHH!
Sparks rained.
Its fingers squeezed around my weapon—
And crushed it.
---
I tried to disengage—too late.
Its free hand shot forward, grabbed Meihua's shoulder, and hurled my entire frame through the treeline—
CRAAASSHHHH!
---
My cockpit shook.
Warnings flashed.
Balance gyros half-fried.
I groaned. Blood in my mouth.
But I pulled Meihua upright—barely.
Looked up.
---
The black suit hadn't moved.
It just stood where I had struck. Unbothered.
Watching.
Not advancing.
Not finishing me.
Just... observing.
Like it already knew the outcome.
Like the fight was never real.
---
> "Dragon-01 to Command… Target made no transmission. No tactics. No voice. It didn't even draw a weapon."
> "Status?"
"…I'm alive. It let me go."
---
A long pause.
> "Do you believe it's a Gundam?"
I stared into the fog where the black figure vanished.
"…No."
> "Why not?"
"Because Gundams were built to fight wars."
"…And this?"
"That thing wasn't made for war."
I swallowed.
"It was made for massacre."
---
Rain tapped gently against the armor.
The Gundam stood still—half-submerged at the edge of the cliffline, its feet braced against the slick rock, sensors slowly scanning the horizon.
Nothing pursued it.
Mission complete.
---
It had studied the Chinese ace.
Not engaged fully—just enough to measure him.
Reaction speed.
Boost vector delay.
Wrist angle deviation on second strike.
Each movement etched into the Operator's memory, locked behind cold calculation.
No emotion.
No hate.
Just function.
He hadn't spoken during the encounter.
Didn't need to.
The machine moved on its own, synced to the rhythm of his body.
No voice.
No HUD prompts.
No control sticks.
Just the link. Just will.
---
Now, the Gundam—Malaya—knelt.
Rain trickled down the armor.
The metal gleamed a soft silver-black under the storm.
Unmarked.
Immaculate.
Wrong.
Not because it bled.
Not because it breathed.
But because it moved like it understood.
Every footstep deliberate.
Every reaction precise.
The Gundam wasn't mimicking the Operator.
It was anticipating him.
---
The Operator sat in the core, eyes dull, face still.
He blinked once.
The Gundam adjusted its stance slightly, shifting to brace against the wind.
They were beyond control.
This was coexistence.
Or something close to it.
---
Far off, radar pings scattered.
Satellite pings bounced off Malaya's frame and returned blank.
No signal.
No emissions.
The Gundam was there—
But systems couldn't believe it.
---
It had no reactor signature.
No heat bloom.
No neural frequency.
Because it had no reason to speak to machines.
It only answered to war.
---
Three Hours Later,
Forward Intelligence Bunker – 112km From Combat Site
---
The bunker's air was still.
Zhang Lei sat in front of the replay screen, jaw locked, bruises still fresh on his cheek.
The video had looped ten times.
Still no one said anything.
> "Again," Zhang said quietly.
The operator hesitated.
Then tapped the console.
---
The black mobile suit stepped from the fog, rain streaming down its sleek armor.
The projection zoomed in.
No logos.
No burn marks.
Not even scratches.
---
It caught Meihua's blade mid-strike.
Crushed it.
Shoved Zhang's unit like it weighed nothing.
Then turned away—like the fight hadn't been worth its time.
---
The room stayed quiet until Zhang spoke.
> "It didn't hesitate. Not once."
> "Was it AI?" asked a tech.
"No."
Zhang stared into the frozen image.
> "It fought like a man who's already won."
---
They zoomed into the helmet.
Nothing.
No eye glow.
No flash.
Just a blank visor reflecting back the world it ignored.
---
> "There's one more thing," said another analyst. "We isolated the audio."
He pressed a key.
They heard it.
Just after the final strike.
A low, rhythmic sound.
Not radio static.
Not a system pulse.
But a breath.
Faint.
Mechanical.
Inhale.
Exhale.
---
"What is that?" someone whispered.
---
Zhang swallowed.
He didn't answer.
Because it wasn't what the Gundam looked like.
Not what it sounded like.
It was what it meant.
---
A machine that didn't need a name.
Didn't need to explain.
Didn't even see you as a threat.
---
And the worst part?
> "It let me live," Zhang muttered.
> "Why would it do that?"
> "…To see if I get stronger."
"Or maybe... to see if I break."
---
> "How many Gundams are still active in this world?"
I didn't realize I'd spoken out loud until the room went quiet.
All eyes turned to me.
The projection of the black mobile suit hovered on the wall like a phantom—frozen mid-step, rain streaking its smooth, unmarked frame. No glow. No flag. No soul.
Just a blank reflection of death.
---
An analyst finally responded.
> "Known active? Thirteen."
> "And how many have I fought?" I asked.
They hesitated.
Another tech typed rapidly. Then answered.
> "Four."
> "Correct," I muttered.
> "Three were from the Eastern Federation—Japan's Yatagarasu series. The last, Russia's Glacier-Class prototype in the Arctic Gate conflict."
---
They brought up archived battle footage beside Malaya's encounter log.
The Yatagarasu Gundams—sleek, bladed monsters with deadly speed. Precision close combat, hyper-reactive armor. Piloted by Japan's ghost division. Nearly took my life twice.
The Russian Glacier—a walking fortress. Suppression frame with plasma anchors. Slow but impossible to breach.
Each of them strong.
Each of them feared.
Each of them… understandable.
---
I stared back at the frozen image of Malaya.
Black. Silent. Impossibly smooth.
No vents. No noise.
It didn't shine—it absorbed light.
Like it was never meant to be seen.
---
> "Those four," I said quietly. "Fought to dominate."
> "And this one?" asked the commander behind me.
I didn't turn to answer.
> "It didn't come to dominate."
> "Then what?"
My voice dropped:
> "It came to massacre."
---
The silence after that word… felt heavier than the room itself.
One of the younger techs swallowed audibly.
---
> "Gundams were built to shift warfronts," one officer said. "They're weapons of balance. National prestige."
> "Not this," I muttered. "This doesn't care about balance."
---
The analyst beside me flicked to another screen.
Fragmented Malaysian logs. Lost code. Destroyed development chains. But one file partially decrypted.
EX-NTL-0 / MLY-Origin
> [Experimental Neural Sync Core – Class Zero]
Status: UNSAFE. 100% Pilot failure rate. Decommissioned.
---
> "We believe this one was Malaysian in origin," he explained. "But it's not from the international records. This… is something off the books."
> "And no one survived the tests?" I asked.
> "None. All recorded pilots suffered neural collapse. Some were found with cerebral hemorrhaging. Others—never recovered."
---
I stared at the phrase: 100% Failure Rate.
---
> "So how is it alive now?" I asked.
No answer.
---
I looked back at the footage.
The moment it grabbed my blade.
Crushed it.
Threw Meihua like it weighed nothing.
Then just turned and walked away.
---
No stance.
No audio cue.
Just instinct.
Not trained.
Not programmed.
Just... inevitable.
---
> "I've fought monsters," I said. "And I've bled for every inch I won."
> "But this thing… doesn't even fight."
> "It just executes."
---
Another analyst zoomed in on the helmet.
No lens. No glow.
Just a dark, empty face.
And then they played the audio.
The impact. The crack. The hiss.
And then—just barely—
Breathing.
Not mechanical. Not vented.
A low, distant breath, like it came from a man inside who should've died a long time ago.
---
> "You think the pilot's still alive?" someone whispered.
> "No," I replied.
> "Then what the hell is it?"
I turned toward them all. Slowly. The dread solid in my throat.
---
> "Those other Gundams? They were built by nations."
> "This?" I said, pointing to the image.
> "This was built by rage."
> "It doesn't carry a flag. It doesn't answer to command. It doesn't hesitate."
> "It exists to remind the world what we let burn."
---
The image zoomed out.
Just a black shape. Standing still in the rain.
Not claiming victory.
Not seeking mercy.
Just waiting.
---
> "This is not a Gundam," I whispered.
> "This is a curse."