CHAPTER 57: A WAY TO RISE

When she attempted the greeting pulse, her bracelet flared too brightly and temporarily blinded a passerby. When she tried to activate her smart clothes’ temperature setting, she accidentally cooled herself to near-hypothermic levels, and Alexander almost had a heart attack, dragging her back indoors.

Walking in public was another challenge.

The flow of foot traffic moved like a choreographed dance, effortless and synchronized. Ahce, however, kept moving against the current, forcing strangers to swerve around her.

Someone muttered, "Off-worlder," thinking she wouldn’t hear.

Another whispered, "Is she using an outdated OS in her optical brain?" as if she were a malfunctioning tech.

Amiel tried to coach her gently.

"Just follow the blue stream when you want to walk fast. The green one for casual pacing. And stay away from the silver lanes unless you’re an official."

Ahce nodded, determined. She stepped into the green lane. And somehow landed herself directly inside a teleport pod queue.

Things only got worse in social gatherings.

Amiel introduced her to several business partners, and the moment she opened her mouth, she realized her speech patterns were completely outdated. People blinked at her in confusion.

"Your accent is... quaint," one woman said politely.

"It’s retro," another whispered, as if describing a museum piece.

Someone asked if she was roleplaying ancient culture.

During a tea reception, Ahce tried to sit cross-legged on a couch, not realizing that posture was considered childish. She also didn’t know that refusing the tea three times was standard courtesy. She accepted immediately, causing the host to stiffen in embarrassment because she had not prepared the tea yet.

Alexander had to pull her aside afterward.

"You’re doing your best. Don’t think too much."

But his smile held worry.

Then came fashion.

Modern clothes were sleek, minimalist, luminous around the seams. Ahce preferred fabrics with texture, colors that breathed, patterns that felt alive. But those were considered "antique aesthetics" and worn only for themed events.

When she tried to wear a soft dress with embroidered vines, Amiel stared at her for a solid five seconds before saying carefully, "You look... very classical."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No... it’s just... You might trigger a cultural preservation group to recruit you."

Still, there were small victories.

She learned how to control her bracelet’s light signals. She learned how to order food without causing the kitchen robots to malfunction. She learned how to exit teleport pods without falling face-first. And slowly, people stopped staring at her with confusion and started looking at her with curiosity instead.

They called her "old-world charming," "refreshingly analog," and "mysteriously retro," which Amiel insisted were compliments in modern society.

But the truth was simpler.

Ahce didn’t fit in yet. She didn’t blend seamlessly like everyone else. She was still learning how to become part of this galaxy without losing the texture of who she used to be.

Some nights, she lay in bed, listening to the faint hum of the floating city outside her window, wondering if she’d ever stop feeling like a misplaced soul.

But she was adapting.

Slowly.

Awkwardly.

Stubbornly.

She might not fit yet, but she was learning how to shape a space for herself in a world that forgot her kind of softness. And deep inside, she knew one thing.

Social norms could bend a little.

They always did, eventually.

Three months passed by in a blur, swallowed by routine and relentless training.

If there was one thing Ahce excelled in without even trying, it was fighting. Not social etiquette. Not digital traffic lanes. Not navigating the silent politics that draped the capital star like a second atmosphere.

But when it came to combat?

She was born for it.

Back on Earth, she had learned everything from traditional martial arts to mixed martial techniques. Hand-to-hand fighting had always come naturally to her, flowing through her limbs like instinct.

She’d also handled weapons since she was barely a teenager, learning blades, bows, firearms, and improvised combat tools. She had once joked she’d make a terrible housewife but an excellent mercenary.

Here, in the interstellar age, everything was different. Weapons weren’t just metal and gunpowder.They vibrated with energy cores, quantum triggers, graviton stabilizers. But the moment she picked one up, her body understood. The technology was new, but the language was the same. The pulse of danger, the precision of movement, the rhythm of combat.

Then there were the mechas. The first time Alexander brought her to a training bay and let her try piloting one, she didn’t climb inside. She practically flew.

The cockpit closed around her with a low hum, fitting to her body like a tailored shell. Neural threads sank into her spine, connecting her mind to the machine. Most beginners struggled, overwhelmed by the flood of data, the weight of controlling a ten-meter colossus.

Ahce?

She breathed once...

And the mecha moved with her heartbeat.

Everything clicked. Every turn, every shift of weight, every swing of the mechanical arm felt like remembering a song she used to love.

Alexander and Amiel exchanged looks that were equal parts pride and panic.

"She’s too good," Alexander muttered under his breath.

"That’s the problem," Amiel replied.

Their worry wasn’t unfounded.

Ahce’s aptitude, combat, weapons, and mecha piloting were the kind of skillset the military would latch onto. And with an imperial decree already looming over her future marriage, the last thing they wanted was to draw more attention to her.

But Ahce had no intention of shrinking. She needed something that felt like hers, something this world couldn’t take from her.

Fortunately, the military academies allowed adults between eighteen and sixty to enroll freely. In an interstellar society, that range was considered young adulthood, the legal age for choosing careers, marriage, or service.

Alexander, refusing to let her be idle, quietly pulled strings and called in favors. He found her a spot in the First Military Academy, the most prestigious institution in the entire S-ranked planet.

But the galaxy had a twisted sense of humor.

The only available slot...

The absolutely last remaining seat...

Was in the Plant Engineering Department.

A department notorious for low enrollment and even lower graduation rates. Not because it was easy, but because it required an unnatural combination of rare talents. High mental stamina, deep patience, and an affinity to wood elements, the kind of innate ability that lets a person coax life out of artificial soil and engineered seeds.

People said Plant Engineering majors were either geniuses...

Or masochists.