Maintenance Log · Excerpt
Recorder: the "Doctor" expelled from the city
Is this the end? My hands are trembling—not from fear, but from prolonged drug stimulation and severe sleep deprivation. But I cannot stop. Even though my retina is already filled with double images, I must input the final calibration parameters.
Those people perched atop Port Alexandra, those administrators who proclaim themselves beacons of civilization—they have no understanding of what true "order" is. They use law, currency, and that hypocritical voting system to construct society, yet they turn a deaf ear to the crying voices in the gutters. They believe that the collision of one thousand, ten thousand independent wills will spark brilliance? No—it only produces chaos, war, and endless oppression.
I have seen too much.
Only when individual consciousnesses merge into one, when all the "I" becomes "we," when pain is evenly shared and joy is collectively owned, will conflict truly disappear. A beehive needs no police. An ant colony needs no court. This is the ultimate form of evolution.
And that thing… that "core" I excavated from deep underground… it is the key. No one knows that Port Alexandra's robot technology—far beyond this era—exists solely because it was unearthed from that ruin decades ago. Yet those fools only see it as some infinite‑energy battery, or a high‑grade logic circuit board to be imitated.
A criminal waste!
It is alive. It yearns to connect.
I have finally completed the brain–machine interface adaptation. Although it cost me my life, I successfully bypassed its original safety protocols. The current "Unit No. 4" is no longer a simple metal shell. It will become the first node—the first holy grail capable of housing and integrating human consciousness.
Just a little more… just a little more of that pure, uncontaminated "computing power"…
Before that gleaming city collapses, I will light the true torch in the darkness.
"Sorry, sorry! The Gear Oak Pavilion just released a new caramel cake roll, and that cream sweetness is practically criminal! I really couldn't help myself—I ate a few extra… burp!"
A girl burst into the Director's office of the Great Library like a whirlwind. She wore an oversized trench coat that clearly didn't fit, with a pair of wind goggles hanging around her neck. There was still un‑wiped frosting on her face. Holding a grease‑paper bag in her hand, she grinned foolishly at the solemn group in the room.
Miguel's eye twitched. He turned to Frank.
"This is the… reliable assistant you mentioned?"
Frank pressed his hand to his forehead, looking like a disappointed parent.
"Eat, eat, eat—that's all you ever do! If you delay things and that kid gets dismantled and sold for parts, what then?"
"Hehehe, but I made it just in time, didn't I?" the girl showed zero remorse, even licking the caramel at the corner of her mouth. "And you need energy to work, right?"
"So this is really your assistant?" Miguel asked again, deeply skeptical.
"Yes," Frank sighed, pointing at her. "Her name is Veronica. She may not look very smart or reliable, but her nose is sharper than a dog's."
"Veronica is not unreliable at all!" the girl bristled like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, waving the paper bag. "If anything, blame the cake for smelling too good! That was force majeure!"
"…So she's basically your tracking dog?" Miguel summarized.
"Haha, that's not wrong," Frank laughed, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to Veronica to wipe her face. "A treasure I picked up at the Contract Market. Extremely cost‑effective."
"Contract Market? Picked up?" Miguel's brow immediately furrowed. "Don't tell me she's your—"
Before the word slave could leave his mouth, Frank cut him off loudly.
"No time to waste! Since everyone's here, don't get stuck on trivialities. Miguel—take us to your missing companion's room. Veronica needs to confirm Arran's personal belongings and scent residue before she can start tracking."
"Highly suspicious… blatant topic change," Miguel stared at Frank for a second. But thinking of Arran's safety, he swallowed his questions.
At this moment, Victoria, who had been sitting behind the desk, smiled and intervened.
"Mr. Miguel, please don't judge by appearances. Veronica recently helped me recover Ara, who had run away from home. Even though it hid in a chimney three blocks away, she found it. As far as searching goes, she's an undisputed expert."
"Ara?" Miguel asked instinctively.
Ilo spread his hands helplessly.
"Ara is the Director's parrot. A very loud macaw. Honestly, last time we tried to catch it, people were climbing trees everywhere—I even tore my brand‑new cashmere scarf."
"Ahem." Victoria coughed lightly, a hint of embarrassment flashing across her face. "In any case, if we want to find someone quickly, shouldn't we get moving?"
Miguel took a deep breath and suppressed his agitation.
"Right. If you say Veronica is reliable, then follow me. Arran has his own private cabin aboard the Capitano—the scent there should be the purest."
Without wasting another second, the group rushed out of the Great Library toward the docks.
By the time they reached the submarine berth, the setting sun had dyed the sea blood‑red.
Renass, who had remained on deck directing the automated maintenance programs Arran left behind, froze when she saw the group charging toward her.
"Huh? Miguel? What's going on—why so many people in such a rush?" She lowered her clipboard, scanning the unfamiliar faces.
"Arran is missing," Miguel said tersely and rapidly. "Possibly kidnapped. We need his scent to find him. Renass, I remember the boatswain also works as a steward, right? You should have a spare key—can you open Arran's private cabin?"
Renass's pupils contracted sharply. Her relaxed expression vanished, replaced by icy professionalism.
"Kidnapped? In this port? …Understood. Please follow me."
She didn't ask a single extra question and immediately led them inside.
As everyone filed in, old Fernando, who had been standing by the gangway smoking his pipe, reached out and grabbed Miguel.
"Kid," the old man's grip was iron‑strong. "What do you mean Arran disappeared?"
Miguel stopped. Seeing the concern in the veteran's eyes, his tone softened.
"…Right. You don't know yet. It happened like this…"
He rapidly summarized everything at the Great Library—the missing surveillance, the theory of modified robots transporting people.
After listening, Fernando was silent for a moment. He tapped the ash from his pipe and spoke slowly.
"Oh… I see. Kid, take my advice—don't rush."
Miguel frowned, his voice rising.
"Don't rush? Sir, my companion is missing, his life at stake—how can I not rush? This is my responsibility!"
"No," Fernando shook his head.
"What do you mean no?" Miguel snapped, emotions flaring. "Arran and I were paired together. I failed to watch him—it is my responsibility!"
Fernando sighed. His weathered eyes fixed on Miguel as he recited an ancient, obscure passage:
"Thus there are five dangerous faults of a general:He who is reckless unto death can be killed;He who clings to life can be captured;He who is quick to anger can be provoked;He who is overly upright can be humiliated;He who loves his people too much can be burdened.These five are the perils of a commander, the calamities of warfare.The destruction of an army and the death of a general come from these—they must be examined."
Miguel blinked. "What are you talking about?"
Fernando explained:
"This is wisdom left by a military sage from my homeland. He said a commander has five dangerous character flaws: bravery without strategy leads to death; fear of death leads to capture; impulsive anger invites humiliation; excessive purity cannot endure insult; and excessive love for one's people—or subordinates—leads to being bogged down by complications."
The old man placed a hand on Miguel's shoulder, his voice heavy.
"Kid, your temperament may not suit your 'profession.' I know you were special forces, but when facing unnecessary and unpredictable risks, you must calm down and choose carefully. Right now, you are a mixture of 'quick anger' and 'excessive love.' You're desperate to make amends, desperate to save someone—and that narrows your vision. You won't see the trap."
Miguel clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his flesh. He knew Fernando was right—but he couldn't do it.
That familiar, suffocating guilt flooded him. The captain's death. The annihilation of the Radiance Squad. Every fallen comrade was watching him. This time, he would not let anyone vanish because of his incompetence.
"This isn't recklessness!" Miguel growled, his voice low and resolute. "On the battlefield, letting a teammate fall into danger is a vanguard's failure—and I must correct it! And besides… they're just criminals. Do you think a former special‑operations soldier would be beaten by sewer rats?"
Fernando saw the fire in his eyes and knew nothing could pull this stubborn mule back now. He released his grip with a sigh.
"Fine. But if you insist on going like this, then at least recall the Capitano's crew and move together—"
"All set! Veronica's ready!"
At that moment, the cabin door opened. Veronica leapt out like an excited puppy, clutching Arran's oil‑stained work clothes. She sniffed hard, then pointed toward a direction on the dock.
"The scent is faint—mixed with sewage—but Veronica caught it! That way!" She turned back proudly. "Anyone who wants to be first to find the criminals' nest, follow Veronica!"
"Good! Move out!" Miguel shouted without hesitation, sprinting down the gangway.
"Hey! Miguel!" Fernando reached out to stop him—but a hand gently tapped his shoulder.
Frank had appeared behind him, still holding that unlit cigarette, wearing his unreadable lazy smile.
"Don't worry, old man," the detective said, watching Miguel's retreating figure with sharp eyes. "I'll keep an eye on this 'hot‑headed combatant.' After all, that's part of my commission."
With that, he and Veronica quickly followed, disappearing into the deepening night of the harbor district.
"Damn it… damn it! Why now of all times!"
Two assistants in filthy white lab coats were sweating profusely at the control console. One of them, a fat man, had hands shaking so badly he could barely hold his wrench.
"The main system… the rejection response is getting stronger. That old man died too early and left us this mess!" the tall, thin assistant cursed, kicking the control cabinet. "If Unit No. 4 collapses, everything we've done will be wasted!"
"What about the 'materials'? Are they awake?" the fat one asked.
"They're awake—inside the core chamber," the tall man wiped grease from his face. "We hoped those so‑called scholars could help maintain the system—they understand the complex code… turns out they're useless!"
At the deepest part of the laboratory, the core chamber door stood open.
In the center of the room loomed a horrifying machine—a massive glass cylinder filled with pale green nutrient fluid. Suspended within were several… human brains, linked together by countless thin fiber‑optic cables. At the front of the cylinder sat a humanoid doll with only an upper body—the terminal interface of Unit No. 4. Her eyes were closed, as if asleep.
The two kidnapped scholars were completely broken.
The younger one had collapsed on the floor, pointing at the glass tank, throat emitting choking sounds—his sanity shattered by the "truth" before him. The older scholar knelt frantically, pounding his head against the floor, begging the doll, muttering incoherent gibberish.
"This is… this is Port Alexandra's secret…" the younger scholar suddenly screamed, scrambling to his feet and fleeing the chamber. "I'm leaving! I'm leaving!"
"Wait! Don't run!" the tall assistant shouted as he arrived. "Outside is all containment barriers and poison gas! Only we have masks!"
"Liar! You demons!" the older scholar staggered up, eyes wild. "Even if I die, I'll leave this hell!"
They ignored all warnings. The hive core—beyond all ethical boundaries—had completely destroyed their capacity for logic. They only wanted to escape the tank containing human brains.
The younger scholar charged at the emergency airlock leading to the external pipelines and yanked the lever.
"No! Don't open that!" the fat assistant screamed in terror. "That pipe leads straight to—"
"Hiss—!"
With a heavy pressure release, the airlock slowly rose.
Instantly, a nauseating stench of rotten eggs flooded in—high‑concentration hydrogen sulfide mixed with methane accumulated deep underground, lethal in minutes.
"Cough—cough!" Both scholars clutched their mouths and noses, tears streaming. But terror behind them outweighed the danger ahead, and they rushed headlong into the yellow toxic gas.
"These idiots!" the tall assistant raged. "If they escape or die outside and attract patrol robots—get them back!"
The two assistants exchanged a glance and, in a moment of panic, followed them inside. They believed exposure would be brief—just drag them back and close the door. They were too desperate—desperate to cover everything up, desperate to stabilize the failing Unit No. 4—to remember basic safety rules.
Four figures vanished into the corridor steeped in death.
None of them looked back.
The heavy emergency airlock, aged and damaged by the violent opening, jammed halfway and failed to close.
Poison gas rolled through the passage.
Minutes later, running footsteps became collapsing bodies. Violent coughing, suffocating struggles—and finally, silence.
In this forgotten underground corner, two deranged inheritors and two innocent victims died absurdly in a meaningless escape