The Defective Omega's Six Perfect Alphas

Inside the simulation pod, red lights flashed. A synthesized voice echoed in the small space. "Warning: High-intensity gamma radiation detected. Omegas with unstable energy fields are advised to exit immediately."

Ansel ignored it. He reached forward and switched off the novice safety mode.

His fingers, long and elegant, danced across the control panel. They moved with a speed and precision that bordered on inhuman, a blur of motion that was utterly at odds with the public perception of a "defective" Omega who supposedly couldn't even control his own energy.

Outside, Blake was holding court. "Watch," he boasted to his friends, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Three minutes, tops. He’ll be crying for me to let him out."

He could already picture Ansel staggering from the pod, pale and trembling, too weak to stand without support. Blake would catch him around the waist before he fell and pull that slender body tightly against his own. Under the excuse of checking for injuries, he could let his hands linger wherever he pleased while Ansel remained too dazed to push him away.

"Only crying?" one of his friends joked. "With the way you were looking at him, I figured you’d keep him inside until he begged properly."

Another Alpha laughed. "Lock the door behind you. Give the pretty little Omega a private lesson in what happens when he teases an elite Alpha."

Blake’s gaze remained fixed on Ansel’s shadow behind the one-way glass. His smile turned filthy. "Maybe I will. Once the radiation scrambles his energy field, he’ll be desperate for an Alpha’s touch to stabilize him. I’d only be helping."

His friends broke into knowing laughter.

"Of course," one of them added. "He’s just a Tier-3, and a broken one at that. By the time you’re done ‘helping,’ he might finally learn how to behave around a real Alpha."

Blake's eyes were glued to the data screen displaying the pod occupant's vitals. He waited for the spike in heart rate, the chaotic scribble of a collapsing energy field.

But the lines on the screen remained stubbornly, impossibly flat. They were steadier than a healthy Alpha's at rest.

Blake's smile froze. "... System malfunction?" he muttered to himself.

Just then, on the main simulation screen visible to the entire training center, the simple mech representing Ansel moved. It didn't lurch forward like a beginner's. Instead, it executed a perfect, fluid slide, evading the first volley of laser fire from the AI enemies.

"Holy shit!" one of Blake's friends yelled. "How did he do that?"

On the screen, Ansel's mech became a phantom. It weaved through a dense storm of enemy fire, each movement a masterpiece of micro-adjustments, dodging attacks by literal millimeters.

Blake's mouth hung open. This was impossible. This was not the work of a Tier-3 Omega.

"That's... the 'Ghost Step'!" an Alpha who knew his mech tactics shouted in disbelief. "That's an elite evasion technique only ace pilots can master!"

Every eye in the training center was now fixed on the screen. The previous mockery was forgotten, replaced by stunned awe.

Ansel wasn't just dodging. As his mech moved, a particle blade extended from its arm, carving lethal arcs through the air. Each slash was precise, efficient, and deadly, severing the energy core of an AI enemy with a single, clean strike. No wasted motion.

The red dots representing enemies on the tactical map began to blink out, one after another, in a cascade of destruction so fast it was hard to follow.

This wasn't a simulation. It was a slaughter.

Blake felt a hot flush creep up his neck. His face burned as if he'd been slapped. He had just been sneering about this "delicate prey." Now, that prey was performing a ballet of beautiful, brutal violence on a level he couldn't even comprehend.

Inside the pod, Ansel's expression remained serene. A fine sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead, but his eyes were bright with fierce concentration. This wasn't about showing off. He was using the intense physical and mental strain of the simulation to force the unique, suppressed energy within him to circulate. He could feel it surging through his veins, a sleeping dragon stirring from its slumber.

"Not enough," he whispered, his hands a blur as he pushed the controls harder.

The mech on the screen performed an unbelievable maneuver—a mid-air torso twist, firing in three different directions simultaneously.

"Triple-threading! He's triple-threading!" the crowd roared, their disbelief turning into frantic excitement.

Blake's face had gone from red to a pasty white. He stumbled back a step, his hand fumbling for the railing behind him. His sordid fantasy of comforting a weak, trembling Ansel now seemed like a grotesque joke.

The last AI enemy exploded into a cloud of digital shrapnel.

The results screen flashed:

Time: 2 minutes, 48 seconds. Kill Rate: 100%. Unit Damage: 0%. Rating: SSS+.

The Ares Training Center fell into a dead, profound silence.

The hiss of the pod door opening was unnaturally loud.

Ansel stepped out. He was pale, his breathing slightly ragged. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like a delicate Omega who had overexerted himself.

He didn't even look at the dumbstruck Blake Tucker. He simply walked past him, as if the breathtaking performance that had just silenced a hall of Alphas had nothing to do with him at all.