Reborn With A Technology System In A Fantasy World-Chapter 277: X-77

Below them lay a hangar bay the size of a major city. Rows upon rows of predatory starships sat in their docking cradles, attended to by swarms of floating maintenance drones and teams of mechanics from a dozen different races.

"Welcome to the Vanguard Hangar," Greg said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space as he leaned over the railing. "This is where the Diamond League keeps its toys. As you can see, there’s a lot of hardware here so we can’t go check each one individually, unless you’d like us to be here forever. So, I’ll give you the breakdown of the three main combat classes available to hunters. You pick your poison."

He tapped his wrist, projecting a large, rotating holographic display into the air between them. It showed three distinct silhouettes.

"First," Greg said, highlighting a bulky, heavily armored shape, "you have the Heavy-Class Interceptors. These are flying fortresses. They come equipped with Void-alloy plating thick enough to ram an asteroid and shrug it off. They have heavy shielding . The downside? They steer like a brick. They’re slow, their acceleration is garbage, and they can’t outrun a Void Beast if things go south. You have to stand your ground and tank the hits."

Adrian shook his head almost immediately. Standing still and taking hits was not his style.

"Next is the Medium-Class," Greg continued, highlighting a balanced, delta-winged vessel. "This is the standard. The workhorse. Moderate speed, decent armor, balanced energy consumption. Most hunters go for these because they offer the safety of the middle ground; fast enough to maneuver, tough enough to take a grazing hit. It’s the most reliable."

"And finally," Greg said, highlighting the third section with a smirk. The holograms shifted to show sleek, needle-like ships that looked more like missiles than vessels. "The Light-Class. These are pure speed. Minimal armor, light shielding, but engines that are comically oversized for their frames. They can outrun almost anything in the galaxy, but they guzzle energy like you wouldn’t believe. Their reactors are always running hot. Most can only operate at peak combat efficiency for a few hours before needing to vent heat or recharge their cores. If you get hit in one of these, you don’t need a mechanic; you need a funeral."

Adrian listened, his mind calculating variables. "Does the ship belong to me after I choose it?"

"No," Greg replied, crossing his arms. "It’s on loan from the Concordat. You break it, you buy it. And you can’t afford to buy these. However... if you successfully complete five missions, ownership is transferred to you. It becomes your personal vessel to modify as you see fit."

That was all Adrian needed to hear. Modification. That was his domain. He didn’t view armor as a primary concern; against attacks, he knew from experience that even heavy armor would eventually fail under sustained assault. Speed was survival. Evasion was life. And the energy issue? That was an engineering problem. Once the ship was his property, he was confident he could redesign the core or integrate a Void Crystal to solve it.

"I want a Light-Class," Adrian stated firmly.

Greg raised an eyebrow but nodded, a hint of respect in his eyes. "Alright. Let’s go make your pick."

They descended from the catwalk to the floor level, walking down the rows of Light-Class ships. They were all variations on a theme: sharp angles, massive engines, and stripped-down hulls. Some were incredibly small, little more than a cockpit strapped to a reactor. Others had slightly reinforced plating but sacrificed agility.

Adrian registered each one, analyzing their specs with his [Omnisense]. He saw flaws in some of their design and their integration of Void Crystals. But he kept walking, dismissing ship after ship, until he finally saw it.

It sat apart from the others, resting in a cradle of magnetic fields. It was beautiful. It was painted a stark, clinical white, its hull smooth and seamless, almost organic in its flow. It lacked the jagged edges of the other ships; it looked less like a machine and more like a sliver of solidified light frozen in metal.

"That one," Adrian said, pointing.

Greg followed his gaze and let out a low whistle, scratching the back of his neck. "Ah. You have... expensive taste. That’s the X-77. It’s the fastest ship in the hangar, bar none. It uses an experimental pulse-drive system."

"But?" Adrian asked, sensing the catch.

"But it’s a diva," Greg admitted. "Its experimental drive is unstable. It generates heat at a rate that standard cooling systems can’t handle. It can’t run at full burn for more than one hour before the core enters emergency shutdown to prevent a meltdown. That’s a massive drawback in a prolonged hunt. Most pilots won’t touch it."

Compared to the other Light-Class ships that could last for hours, one hour felt laughably short. It was a sprinter, not a marathon runner.

"How much faster is it?" Adrian asked.

Greg pointed to a standard Light-Class ship they had just passed, a sleek vessel in its own right. "See that one? X-77 is ten times faster. Maybe more. It doesn’t just fly; it pierces space."

Ten times. That wasn’t just speed; that was strategic superiority. That was the ability to dictate the terms of any engagement.

"I want it," Adrian said, his decision made instantly.

Greg shrugged, pulling out his data-slate. "Your funeral. If you run out of juice in deep space, don’t expect me to push." He tapped his wrist, transferring the authorization codes. "It’s registered in your name for the duration of the mission. Here are the keys." He tossed a small, crystalline chip to Adrian.

They walked up the ramp and boarded the ship. The interior was surprisingly spacious for a Light-Class vessel.

The aesthetic was stark white and chrome, matching the exterior. It had two small, spartan cabins with beds and essentials for long hauls, a small hygiene unit, and a main central room that served as both a living area and the cockpit.

The cockpit was a marvel of sleek design. There were no physical buttons or levers. The control panels were holographic touch interfaces that floated in the air, customizable to the pilot’s preference.

Greg took the pilot’s seat, his hands dancing over the controls with ease as the ship’s systems woke up. Adrian took the co-pilot’s seat next to him, strapping himself in.

"Can you fly?" Greg asked, glancing over.

"No," Adrian admitted. "Not a starship."

"Figured. You’re free to observe and learn if you wish. Once you think you’re ready, you can take over. Until then, I’m driving. I don’t want you scratching the paint before we even leave the dock."

Adrian nodded, his eyes glued to the readouts. The engines came to life, a sound not like a roar, but a high-pitched, singing vibration that resonated in his teeth. The X-77 lifted off the deck, repulsors whining, turned, and shot out of the hangar bay.

They passed through layers of security fields checkpoints. They flew past the massive defensive batteries of the Nexus, past the bustling trade lanes filled with freighters, until finally, the last blast door of the outer ring opened.

They were out.