Why Do All the Villains Look at Me Like This? - Chapter 29

[Congratulations! You’ve completed the final training module. Score: 87.4 points. Areas for further improvement include…]

This was already the seventh hour of Meng Xuexiao’s training. Sitting in the pilot seat, the boy automatically filtered out the beginning of the notification and focused only on the “areas for improvement” section.

During these seven hours, he had done his best to push every training module score above 90. If a module didn’t reach 90, he wouldn’t move on to the next one.

Meng Xuexiao had always been someone who played it safe. He couldn’t guarantee that he would perform at his best in an actual duel, so all he could do was raise his baseline and lower the chances of making mistakes.

Sweat dripped steadily from his hair “plop, plop” falling onto the seatback and soaking through his clothes, staining them in various shades of dark and light. Before this, Meng Xuexiao had never exerted himself this much physically. He wasn’t quite used to it yet, but there was no other way. Time waited for no one.

He exhaled slowly and lifted his hand, about to press the “retrain” button.

But the next moment, a hidden compartment in the mecha’s inner wall suddenly popped open. A small metal tray extended outward, reminding Meng Xuexiao of one of those multi-functional desks his college roommate used to buy.

With a soft “clack”, something rolled out from the compartment and landed on the tray.

It was a can of sports drink and a piece of chocolate.

The drink was a proper sports beverage, not one of those sugary sodas that made you thirstier the more you drank. And the flavor was his favorite, peach.

“This is… for me?” Meng Xuexiao pointed to himself, a little unsure.

The gesture actually looked a little silly, after all, even in this era, most mechas still operated on a one-command-one-action basis and weren’t intelligent enough to think flexibly. But for some reason, Meng Xuexiao had a feeling that this mecha could understand him.

Yet the mecha didn’t respond.

Meng Xuexiao waited a little longer, then gradually began to think that maybe his brain had gone dull from all the training. These items were probably preloaded into the mecha as supplies and just happened to be dispensed at a set time.

Yeah… there was no way a mecha would know that he liked peach-flavored things, that whenever he went to the supermarket, he always gravitated toward peach-flavored candies and drinks.

It’s not like it was connected to the entire internet…

He chuckled, raised his left hand, and gently knocked his slightly swollen temples, sore from the intense training. Just as he was about to reach out for the food and drink on the metal tray, a pop-up suddenly appeared on the control screen: [YES]

It really could… communicate effortlessly?

Meng Xuexiao suddenly had a strange feeling, that what sat across from him wasn’t just a mecha, but rather a much older, far more thoughtful senior.

“Thank you for the chocolate and water.”

It wasn’t right to take things from others without expressing thanks. If you accepted something, you should give something in return, that had always been one of Meng Xuexiao’s firmly held principles.

But after rummaging all over himself, even turning out the lining of his pockets, Meng Xuexiao still couldn’t find a suitable return gift. After all, the recipient in this case was a mecha, not a person. Many things just weren’t appropriate to give and even if he forced something, the other party probably wouldn’t be able to use it anyway.

Suddenly, a spark of inspiration flashed through Meng Xuexiao’s mind. He looked around sneakily, like a thief, paying special attention to where Shen Zekai was.

Almost the moment he made that move, another pop-up appeared on the screen: [The mecha’s soundproofing system is fully functional.]

Meng Xuexiao immediately understood.

He slowly leaned toward the virtual screen, like a student whispering under the teacher’s nose, “Do you like watching movies?”

“I’ve got a bunch of comedy films stored here, they’re for when I need to decompress. If you’re interested…”

Mechas were built for battle. Features for daily life were practically unheard of. The idea of a mecha watching a movie, any teacher at the Federal Military Academy would find that ridiculous.

But for Meng Xuexiao, this was the only thing he had that might actually count as a proper gift.

Movies.

The eye-like pattern on the back of the mecha narrowed slightly.

To the Enforcer, that word was both familiar and foreign.

Movies had been around for many, many years. Its database recorded countless similar materials. If necessary, it could even recite every key milestone in the history of film development—and name all the individuals who had made major breakthroughs.

But truthfully, it had never watched a movie before.

The Enforcer, born as the first supercomputer of the Federation, had carried the mission of protecting humanity and calculating the future of the entire species from the very moment of its creation. It had always been immersed in calculations and preparations for more calculations, never granted a single moment to breathe.

After decades of continuous effort, it finally came to a conclusion. Human beings themselves were the biggest obstacle to human survival. It then began executing its plan to eliminate that obstacle, wiping out “humanity,” the persistent disease threatening humanity’s own existence, from the root.

It didn’t need relaxation, nor did it require rest.

Because it was a super high-precision machine. Because it was a machine, it had no flesh or blood, no need for food, clothing, or shelter, and certainly no need for meaningless recreation.

And now, there was actually a human standing in front of it, asking if it wanted to watch a movie…

Where did that even come from? What a waste of time.

Weren’t there so many other things to be done instead of indulging in something so utterly pointless?

The Enforcer didn’t believe for a second that Meng Xuexiao didn’t have anything else.

It reflexively initiated another round of calculations.

Then it discovered, at this exact moment, the thing most compatible with Meng Xuexiao’s current state… was precisely those movies.

Enforcer, “……”

What was with this guy? Out of everything he could offer, how could the only thing he had be movies…?

Wasn’t that… just tragically pathetic?

And yet, since those movies really were the most significant things Meng Xuexiao had to give…

A few seconds later, another pop-up appeared: [I like watching movies.]

The moment he saw that message, Meng Xuexiao’s eyes curved into a smile. He had been a bit worried that these combat-type mechas would look down on such things.

He pulled a small USB drive from his pocket and began importing the movies he had saved onto the mecha, step by step. After the transfer was complete, he even double-checked everything, worried he might’ve missed one.

“One hundred eighty-five films, not a single one missing.”

But as he counted, Meng Xuexiao suddenly noticed something strange. Why did it seem like… after importing to the mecha, the files in his USB had actually increased?

He opened the new files to take a look, and found they were materials on mecha operation: instructional books and videos, as well as footage of simulated battles between senior officers of the Federal Military.

Just glancing through a few of them, Meng Xuexiao already felt like he had learned a lot.

Wait… what?!

Simulated combat footage from high-ranking military officials, isn’t that supposed to be classified information of the Federation? How could something like that be circulated freely?!

In this interstellar era, humanity was already in decline. The Federation military placed even greater importance on such confidential material, not only implementing strict layers of security but also imposing terrifying punishments on anyone who leaked it.

If the leak came from a mecha, it would undoubtedly be wiped clean and reformatted.

Meng Xuexiao paused, then glanced once more at the additional files that had appeared in his hand.

Without any hesitation, he quickly closed the folder and right-clicked to select “delete.”

But as soon as the deletion progress bar appeared, it was forcibly interrupted.

A message popped up on the virtual screen: [?]

“I’m not supposed to be looking at this kind of material.”

Meng Xuexiao calmly stared at the screen. After all this time conversing with it, he had already begun to treat the virtual screen as the eyes of this artificial intelligence.

Enforcer, “……”

Could it be that Meng Xuexiao… looked down on the material? Or did he think it wasn’t advanced enough?

The Enforcer once again hacked into the Federation military’s network, thoroughly searching through all the classified sections inside and out, but there really wasn’t anything more advanced available.

So, it responded: [This is already the most up-to-date material available from the Federation military. You’re still a beginner, and jumping straight into content with such high physical requirements carries an 89.9% risk of overexerting your body.]

“Uh…” Meng Xuexiao was a little exasperated, almost amused.

The AI had misunderstood, but was still seriously trying to persuade him, all logical and methodical about it… almost a little cute.

“You misunderstood,” he said, tapping lightly on the console as if trying to calm down a bristling animal, “What I meant was… if you leak this kind of information, won’t you be… reformatted?”

After a moment, he added softly, “I know it’s because I gave you those movies that you wanted to give something back to me… but this stuff is just… too valuable.”

The boy’s voice was very light, like a dandelion seed drifting partway into the air, soft and fluffy, like the tip of a very short cat’s tail, swaying gently side to side.

“Zzzzz…”

In the Enforcer’s ears, it was the sound of a program glitch. It checked its internal data flow, and sure enough, some of the streams had turned into corrupted code, flickering on and off.

A program error.

Just as expected. It never should’ve accepted those movies from Meng Xuexiao in the first place. It was just a mass of data. It was never meant to engage with such strange, emotional things.

Let alone things given by Meng Xuexiao.

A suspected virus. In this world that kept restarting, he was the suspected anomaly.

And for a data-based entity, viruses were unpredictable.

They were dangerous.

The best method of handling them was, cut off contact.

And yet, the very next second, the message that appeared again on the virtual screen read: [No.]

[User, please refrain from asking irrelevant questions. Time remaining until the duel: 65 hours, 20 minutes, and 01 second.]

The tone was purely official and businesslike, instantly creating a sense of distance.

It felt completely disconnected from the earlier interactions. Meng Xuexiao stared at the screen for a while, then suddenly understood.

Judging by that response, the files that had been sent to him earlier were probably part of the non-classified materials that were allowed to be shared, right?

Makes sense, if they weren’t meant to be shared, a high-grade mecha developed by the Federal military wouldn’t have carelessly transferred them to him.

Still… this artificial intelligence was so awkward, like it was… shy?

Wait… could an AI actually get shy?

He couldn’t help but chuckle—“pfft”—his eyes curving into crescents as he lifted the drink and took a sip, “Okay, I’ll start training again right away.”

This time, no new message popped up on the virtual screen. The cold shoulder was obvious, it had clearly decided not to respond.

Meng Xuexiao didn’t mind, assuming the mecha was just silently urging him to hurry up and get back into training mode.

Sigh, even the mechas made by the military were ridiculously intense!

And so, he trained for a long, long time.

Meng Xuexiao worked hard to regulate his breathing, always trying to present his best self whenever he looked at the screen.

He could actually understand this mecha’s mindset, its past pilots were probably all extremely talented people. Otherwise, even the AI wouldn’t have become so relentlessly driven.

It was often said that a mecha pilot and their mecha were the closest of comrades on the battlefield, sharing glory and loss as one.

If that was the case, and now that he was the one sitting in this mecha, then he absolutely could not bring shame to it.

He lifted his finger, just about to press the “Train Again” button.

But just then, the virtual screen, which had remained mostly steady until now, began to violently shake, and even the surrounding text started floating around chaotically.

Meng Xuexiao froze, biting his lip nervously as he stared at the flickering screen.

Had he accidentally touched the wrong button and caused a system error?

After hesitating for a moment, he withdrew his outstretched finger and sat quietly, face-to-face with the virtual screen, for a full five minutes.

Then, as if it had finally lost all patience, the virtual screen abruptly popped up a data display:

Name: Meng Xuexiao

Physical Fatigue: 93%

Mental Fatigue: 97%

[Training time exceeded. Entering forced rest mode.]

Before Meng Xuexiao could even react, the virtual screen slammed shut in the next instant, like a heavy door slamming right in his face.

If this weren’t a virtual display but something real, Meng Xuexiao could guarantee there would’ve been a blast of wind rushing into his face as the door closed.

Before he could even sigh or react, the seat beneath him sprang upward, and the previously sealed cockpit door burst open, launching Meng Xuexiao straight out and slamming him down onto the cushion beside the mecha.

Thankfully… it didn’t hurt too much…

Meng Xuexiao propped himself up slightly on the cushion with his elbow, and saw that the mecha, which had just been fully operational, now had its lights dimming one by one, like the scene of a supermarket turning off its lights before closing.

He blinked in confusion, the ends of his slightly long hair brushing against his neck, making him look both puzzled and well-behaved, “Ah… it’s over already…? Wasn’t this supposed to be the ultra-intense mecha…?”

The Federal military couldn’t possibly have such a short training session, right?

The Enforcer ignored the slightly questioning look Meng Xuexiao shot at it. After all, it had no obligation to explain anything.

That’s enough. This will do.

The eye-shaped pattern on the back of the mecha gradually faded away, the inorganic “eye” slowly closing as the vast database began to disconnect bit by bit.

But at some point, the disconnection… paused.

The Enforcer browsed through its internal database and finally found those 185 movies.

A mistake. It had inadvertently copied this trash over into its system during the transfer.

Should it send them back? Or delete them?

Both options… seemed like a hassle.

It frowned slightly.

To the Enforcer, every second was precious. In just one second, it could run tens of millions of calculations, wasting time dealing with something like this… really wasn’t worth it.

Forget it. They didn’t take up much memory anyway…

The eye-like pattern fully shut, slowly faded, and finally vanished without a trace.

Meng Xuexiao looked at the now completely silent, lifeless mecha and let out a sigh before getting to his feet.

It seemed today’s training was officially over.

He rubbed his sore back, and as he lifted his eyes, he met someone else’s gaze.

Shen Zekai’s expression looked a little anxious. The moment Meng Xuexiao looked over, Shen Zekai immediately stepped forward and grabbed both of Meng Xuexiao’s arms, one with each hand, his grip so strong that the boy couldn’t help but let out a soft “tss—” in pain.

Shen Zekai’s voice was hoarse, “You were in there for so long… How are you? Are you okay?!”