"Imagine an alien that transforms nebulae into organic matter, granting it shapeshifting abilities—until it becomes a spaceship made of extended organs!"
He said it with enthusiasm to his restless classmate, who showed admiration, remarking:
"Just like plants—light is their energy."
"But he isn’t a plant," the boy countered. "And the point isn't the light, but the organic matter that plants consume—converted from inorganic materials."
"And how can that be," the classmate asked, "when one is alive and the other a machine?"
The idea’s originator paused—not in despair, but in reflection—then replied:
"Inspiration... that’s the key. Look at how airplanes mimic birds, how the designs of new inventions mirror the nature of the earliest creatures."
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The discussion didn’t last long; the bell rang, signaling the end of the final class, and the two left the room.
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Delid’s mind was consumed by the robotics competition—a clash of iron against iron. The school’s administration believed contests would encourage creativity and hard work. He couldn’t resist joining, seeing new experiences as adventures that begged to be explored.
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He took a seat and began assembling parts together, only to create an awkward, unbalanced figure. He tried again and again—twice, then three times—but harmony eluded him. Between each attempt, more dilemmas arose than breakthroughs.
"And so on…" became a mantra he muttered as he devised innovative designs. One central idea took shape: instead of deadly bombs spewing fire, his machine’s payload should contain compounds that react with fire to extinguish it.
And so on… came the bullets that, once shot into a storm, would weigh it down and flatten it.
And so on… went the sharp saws, piercing metal—not to destroy but to mend it, repairing what lay within with their razor edges.
And so on…
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With determined resolve, he entered the arena and launched his wheeled robot into the pit.
He won the first match with a bomb that turned the attacking fire into a slippery fluid—his opponent’s wheels slid, losing control. The weapon dropped and burned, and the robot that carried it collapsed. Defeat came in a flash.
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The next match, and the one after, followed the same rhythm—fierce weapons thrown for destruction, and a “defensive-offensive” robot countering with opposite force, racing across the floor.
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No doubt remained—not even among the harshest skeptics—that Delot’s robot would claim the trophy.
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But doubts returned with the start of the final match.
Between him and victory stood a final duel—against the very classmate who’d once discussed the alien idea with him. He had forgotten about that idea—until he realized he was now facing it, embodied in the robot his friend had built.
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There was no bitterness between them, nor even a hint of rivalry. The mood was light, colored with sarcastic banter:
"Good thing you didn’t show up with a flowerpot!"
"Better yet that I made it this far—even after failing physics!"
"What’s physics got to do with it?"
"Everything! Tossing enemies around and flipping them is my specialty!"
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His friend wasn’t joking. He had reached the finals after defeating every opponent with a wild mix of throws, crashes, and ring-outs.
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The bell rang—it was time.
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Delot, uncharacteristically, struck first, ramming into his opponent via remote command. But the other bot didn’t flinch. Neither did Delot, but the match felt locked, immovable.
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He retreated calmly, then revealed a cannon with a missile hidden inside—something the audience, cheering in wonder, hadn’t seen.
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If impact couldn't harm, then a lance’s thrust must rain down with force.
His opponent, recognizing the threat, activated "Spaceship Mode."
The strange, alien-like robot transformed into a spaceship and dashed toward Delot, ramming him with enough force to send him skidding backwards several feet.
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Failure loomed, crowding the boy’s thoughts. Then—an idea struck, just as his robot rose again in a sudden motion, followed by the announcer’s scream:
"Unbelievable! Not only did he stay inside the arena, but he’s back up—lance still intact! Are we witnessing a missle inside a spear?!"
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Delot opened his laptop, programmed commands into the bot. The robot obeyed, launching its cannon into the air. A missile slipped from within as the audience erupted, unable to stay seated.
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Then—a flying scissors kick—a brilliant acrobatic move sent the missile straight into the side of the spaceship, tipping it halfway over.
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After a few tense moments, the undamaged side gave way under the pressure.
Now it lay like a magnet knocked on its side—both halves rendered equal.
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The victor advanced—steps became leaps—then hurled his payload: a sharp lance onto the fallen rival.
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The match was over. The champion took the stage amid applause and celebration. The entire school—teachers and students—watched.
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The contestants shook hands. Then, the winner addressed the crowd:
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> "Thank you all. It is truly wonderful to build, to create, to invent. In the context of battle—which by nature involves danger—one must act with wisdom.
Our goal isn’t destruction. Victory doesn't lie in violence.
Balance must prevail.
My robot is programmed for construction. Even the missile I launched caused only a light shockwave—enough to disrupt my opponent’s balance. The lance, though fierce, was aimed at disabling—not annihilating. And the bombs? They transformed fire into safe liquid through a chain of chemical reactions.
Defeating adversaries by any means necessary is a duty."
The applause roared.
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