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"Is he serious? He's going to race a fighter jet?"
"That's insane. I'll grant that Mercer is a genius, but that doesn't give him the right to treat us like idiots."
"At supersonic speeds, the human body would be torn apart by the inertia alone. The g-forces at that velocity would liquefy internal organs."
General Hale's expression had gone flat.
The fighter jet he'd authorized for this test wasn't a training aircraft. It was a frontline interceptor, one of the most advanced airframes in the Valorian military's arsenal. Maximum speed: Mach 3. Three times the speed of sound. A kilometer per second. Fast enough to cross the entire Republic from south to north in just over an hour.
That kind of speed wasn't achieved by hobby projects in borrowed laboratories. It was the product of decades of aerospace engineering, billions of marks in research funding, and manufacturing processes that pushed the limits of known materials science.
And Ethan Mercer was claiming his suit of armor could keep up.
Hale had spent the last hour having his assumptions about this kid demolished one by one, and he was running low on assumptions to demolish. But this? This was where rational assessment met physical impossibility.
In his view, the kid had gotten drunk on the crowd's reaction and was about to embarrass himself at thirty thousand feet.
Maybe that's not the worst thing, Hale thought. A dose of humility might do him good.
Inside the armor, Ethan didn't know what the general was thinking. And he wouldn't have cared if he did.
The truth was, the laboratory environment had limited his ability to test the Mark One at full capacity. He'd run simulations. He'd stress-tested individual systems. He'd verified the theoretical limits on paper and through the System's downloaded knowledge.
But he'd never actually flown at maximum speed. Not in real conditions. Not in open sky.
This was as much a test for him as it was a demonstration for the crowd.
"General Hale, please instruct the pilot to stop hovering. Full speed ahead."
Hale wanted to argue. Wanted to tell the kid to land before he got himself killed. But the memory of every other time he'd underestimated Ethan Mercer was still fresh enough to give him pause.
He picked up the communicator.
"Pilot Zero-Zero-Three. Break hover. Proceed at maximum acceleration."
The pilot acknowledged, and the fighter jet's engines roared as it began to build speed.
On the testing ground's main screen, the cockpit camera showed the jet pulling away from the hovering armor. For a moment, it looked like the skeptics were right. The jet was accelerating. The armor was standing still.
Then Ethan leaned forward.
The adjustment was subtle. A slight shift in posture, a redirection of the repulsor output. The flames jetting from his palms and boots changed angle, and the Mark One surged forward.
Thirty meters per second.
Fifty.
One hundred.
The jet was accelerating hard, engines burning, airframe shuddering as it climbed through the speed envelope. And the red and gold figure remained locked on its wing like it was bolted there.
"One hundred meters per second! That's faster than a high-speed train!"
"And it's STILL ACCELERATING!"
General Hale's composure cracked for the second time that day. Even if the armor never went faster than this, what he was watching was already revolutionary. At a hundred meters per second, the Mark One was fast enough for combat deployment. Fast enough to intercept ground targets, provide rapid air support, and execute maneuvers that no conventional aircraft could match at low altitude.
The entire concept of individual combat had just been rewritten.
But the jet was still accelerating. And so was the armor.
Two hundred meters per second. Three hundred. The numbers climbed on the testing ground's telemetry display, and the crowd watched with the specific, breathless terror of people who knew they were witnessing something that would be in textbooks.
The cockpit camera showed the armor holding position on the jet's wing. Steady. Unwavering. As if the laws of aerodynamics were a suggestion it had chosen to ignore.
Then came the boom.
Not from the jet. The jet had broken the sound barrier minutes ago. This boom came from the armor.
A visible shockwave cone formed around the red and gold figure as Mark One punched through Mach 1. The camera caught it perfectly: a ring of condensation vapor, expanding outward from the suit like a halo, then gone.
The sound barrier. Broken by a man in a suit of armor.
The testing ground erupted.
"IT BROKE THE SOUND BARRIER!"
"A SUIT OF ARMOR JUST WENT SUPERSONIC!"
"This is beyond anything — this is beyond everything — there's no category for what I'm watching right now!"
"Forget the Nobel Prize. They need to invent a new award!"
In the fighter jet, the pilot stared at the red and gold shape flying beside him with an expression that belonged in a hospital.
Supersonic. A suit of armor was flying at supersonic speed, three feet from his wingtip.
He'd trained for years. Logged thousands of flight hours. Pushed aircraft to their limits in exercises that would make most people pass out. And in all that time, the only things that had ever matched his speed were other fighter jets.
Now a teenager in a metal suit was keeping pace with him like it was a casual afternoon.
Before the pilot could process this, the armor tilted its head slightly and looked at him through the cockpit canopy.
Then its right arm swung forward in a gesture that every pilot on the planet recognized.
Speed up.
The pilot's professional composure evaporated.
In his entire career, nobody had ever implied that his fighter jet was too slow. This was a machine built to dominate the sky. A weapon system that cost more than most buildings. And some kid in a costume was waving him forward like a traffic cop telling a bicycle to move over.
Pride took the wheel.
Mach 1.5.
The jet surged forward, engines howling, afterburners painting the sky behind it. For a moment, the armor disappeared from the pilot's peripheral vision. He allowed himself a grim smile.
Trying to race me? You're ten years too early, kid.
Then Ryan Calloway, filming from the rear seat, swung the camera to the other side of the cockpit.
The armor was there.
It had simply switched sides. Matching speed. Holding position. The faceplate angled toward the cockpit with what the pilot could only interpret as amusement.
"That's not — how is that —"
"HOW CAN DECADES OF AEROSPACE ENGINEERING BE OUTPACED BY A HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT?"
Mach 2.
The pilot pushed the throttle forward with the desperate energy of a man whose entire professional identity was being challenged in real time. The jet screamed through the air at twice the speed of sound, fast enough to make the sky itself feel like it was trying to push back.
The armor stayed on the wing.
It didn't struggle. It didn't shake. It didn't show any sign that Mach 2 was even close to its limit.
The pilot's hands were steady on the controls, but his voice cracked when he keyed the radio.
"Reporting to General Hale. Speed at Mach 2. The armor is maintaining formation without difficulty. Requesting authorization to exceed Mach 2."
Inside the testing ground, General Hale stood at the communications station, staring at the telemetry data with the expression of a man who'd just been told the sky was green and was looking up to check.
Mach 2. A suit of armor. Built by a kid. In three months.
He'd started this morning thinking battle armor was science fiction. He'd moved to grudging respect when it hovered. He'd moved to shock when it flew. And now, watching it match a frontline interceptor at twice the speed of sound, he'd arrived at a place he didn't have a word for.
What the hell has this kid built?
He keyed the communicator.
"Pilot Zero-Zero-Three, you are cleared to exceed Mach 2. Push to maximum. I want to know where the limit is."
The pilot acknowledged. His hand moved to a red button that, in peacetime, he'd used fewer times than he could count on one hand.
The fighter jet's limit mode.
Mach 3. The theoretical ceiling. The absolute maximum the airframe could sustain before structural integrity became a concern.
He flipped the safety cover, pressed the button, and pushed the control stick forward.
The jet's engines screamed into a register that sounded less like machinery and more like something alive and furious.
On the testing ground screen, the telemetry numbers began climbing again.
Mach 2.1. 2.3. 2.5.
Every person watching the live broadcast across the Republic of Valoria held their breath.
They needed to know.
Could Mach 3, the absolute limit of the most advanced fighter jet in the military's arsenal, finally find the ceiling of Mark One?