我正 resting in my room, scrolling through my phone when a notification pops up. It's a message from an unknown account, "Join the Tri-Ace Online Gaming Championship—Tri-Ace Tri-Ace Tri-Ace." My heart races—this isn't just a game. It's a challenge. I pull out my nano-drone, which has been my sidekick ever since I got my first taste of the Tri-Ace protocol at age eight.
"Tri-Ace Tri-Ace Tri-Ace," the drone repeats, its voice mechanical and insistent. I tap a button, and it takes me to a dimly lit hacker haven. The walls are overloaded with screens displaying cryptic symbols and lines. I spot a lone figure in a black leather jacket, their face hidden in a mask. They're playing alone, but the camera lingers on their nervous movements.
The game is unlike anything I've ever played. The interface is a series of floating nodes, each glowing with an otherworldly aura. My hands fly to the controls—I'm a Tri-Ace myself, a descendant of the ancient Tri-Ace culture, built for speed, reflex, and silent movement. But here, the focus is on thinking, not reflexes. My drone chirps, "You're losing, buddy."
The masked man takes a deep breath and focuses. The nodes flicker, and my thoughts hurtle through the void. The environment is shifting—colors, shapes, and patterns converge on a central point. My vision blurs, and I feel a surge of energy course through me. But it's too late. The masked figure smirks, and a green laser blips into the center. They're gone, and the screen goes blank.
I press a button on my drone, and it takes me to a dimly lit room. The walls are lined with monitors, each showing a name tag: "Tri-A三角洲Tri." My heart skips a beat. I tap the screen—I'm the Tri-Ace Tri-Ace Tri-Ace champion.
But there's something else watching. A shadow in the corner of my vision. It's moving. Not like anything I've ever seen. It's—wait, it's the Tri-Ace Tri-Ace Tri-Ace.
