The adrenaline of the combat simulation was still humming in Maya’s veins when the "Media Drones" descended. In previous years, the cameras would have flocked to Cassie, the photogenic ace. But today, the lenses were trained on the girl with the indigo aura.
"Representative Rose! A moment for the global feed!"
A sleek, hovering microphone platform drifted in front of her. The stadium's giant screens flickered, showing Maya’s face in high definition. Every stray hair, every drop of sweat, and the lingering intensity in her eyes was broadcast to millions.
Maya’s old instinct—the one that told her to duck her head and disappear—flared up. She felt the weight of the silence as fifty thousand people waited for her to speak.
"Maya, look up," a familiar voice shouted from the front row.
She looked. Her parents were standing at the barricade. Her father, usually a man of quiet reserve, was beaming, his hands cupped around his mouth. Her mother was clutching a West Corp pennant, her eyes shimmering with tears of pure, unadulterated pride. They weren't looking at a "Legacy." They were looking at their daughter.
Maya took a breath. She didn't look at the camera; she looked at the people.
"How does it feel, Maya?" the announcer's voice boomed over the speakers. "To finally step into your mother's shoes and lead West Corp to the top?"
Maya gripped the edge of the microphone platform. Her voice was quiet at first, but it gained strength with every word.
"I’m not wearing my mother's shoes," she said, and the stadium went hushed. "For a long time, I thought I had to be a 'Legacy' to matter. I thought being a UMA meant being a weapon or a statue."
She looked toward the section where the Vocational School students sat—the kids in work boots and stained hoodies. She saw John, leaning back with a confident smirk, and Hana, who was recording everything on her phone.
"But I learned that the most important part of power isn't how bright it glows," Maya continued, her voice steady. "It’s what you do with it when the lights are off. I’m a welder. I’m a waitress. I’m a partner. My power doesn't belong to a name—it belongs to the people who stood by me when I couldn't even stand by myself."
She didn't use the rehearsed Academy script. She didn't talk about "superiority" or "rankings." She talked about the "Lewis Method"—the idea that everyone, UMA or not, has a foundation to hold up.
"We aren't winning because we’re the strongest," Maya finished, a small, brave smile breaking through. "We’re winning because we stopped trying to be heroes and started trying to be helpful."
The silence that followed lasted for three long seconds. Then, it started in the "cheap seats"—the rhythmic stomping of boots. It spread like a wave, a thunderous roar that shook the very foundations of the Coliseum. It wasn't the polite applause for an elite; it was the raw, emotional explosion of a crowd that had finally found a representative who looked and talked like them.
"The People's Representative!" the commentator shouted over the din. "Maya Rose has turned the UMA Contest into a masterclass in humility!"
As Maya walked off the podium, Cassie was waiting in the wings. She looked at the floor, then at Maya. "That was... a really stupid speech," Cassie muttered, though there was no bite in it. "But the synergy rating just went up another five percent. So... whatever."
Maya laughed, a light, genuine sound. She felt lighter than she ever had. She had found her voice. But as she turned to head to the recovery ward, she felt a sudden, sharp chill—the sensation of a cold, invisible thread brushing against the back of her neck.
She looked into the crowd, her "Cyber-sense" flickering. For a split second, the sea of cheering faces seemed to blur, leaving only one figure in focus: a man in the middle tiers, perfectly still, watching her with a terrifyingly patient smile.
The "People's Representative" had everyone's attention now. Including the one person who wanted to turn her voice into a scream.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf3jXRj8AeN
and then Add to home screen.