Yang Yu wasn't lying. This time, he truly had come to the black market to purchase high‑grade Star‑Realm Juice.
Ye Cheng had once tasted the Dawn‑grade variety and felt nothing unusual—that was natural. Low‑level Star‑Realm Juice produced only mild effects. But mid‑ to high‑grade juice was an entirely different matter. The Intermediate grade enhanced the body's physical resilience; the Advanced grade heightened the mind itself, sharpening reaction speed and cognition.
The problem was that Star‑Realm Fruit could only grow in the territories still inhabited by the First Humans. Its quality was tied directly to their natural environment. Smuggling was the only method to obtain the real thing—and only a handful of channels existed.
Here the hybrids held a distinct advantage: born with innate elemental energy, they could enter First‑Human ecosystems without disrupting the environment, sometimes even trading directly with border worlds. To buy the best Star‑Realm Juice, one had to deal through the hybrids.
Yang Yu took a seat in the corner of the underground auction hall, folding his hooded arms while the stage blazed with one rare item after another—crystals, elemental alloys, custom mechs. The auction opened twice each week; its lots were always advertised a day in advance across certain encrypted networks. It catered primarily to New‑Human collectors and hybrid brokers. This part of C‑District was controlled by hybrid gangs—there were no deposits, only instant trades. Payment was made in cash, Source Crystals, or anything the seller deemed valuable. But anyone who bid without paying… would be lucky to leave intact.
Half an hour later the bidding reached its peak. Intermediate Star‑Realm Juices and mid‑grade crystals appeared one by one. Yang Yu knew his real target would come last. He closed his eyes, resting—but even with eyes shut, he could feel someone watching him, a weight on his senses that refused to fade.
Good. So they'd taken the bait.
Moments later, the final items appeared—each more tempting than the last, culminating in a fragment of Dusk‑grade Source Crystal, eight centimeters across. The crowd erupted. Yang Yu did not move.
The crystal went to a striking hybrid woman, and excitement rippled through the room. The next lot was announced. He opened his eyes.
"Twilight‑grade Star‑Realm Juice! Four hundred milliliters! One‑hundred‑percent purity!"
Finally.
He rose without rush, pushed through the murmuring crowd, and stepped up near the platform. From within a plain cloth pouch, he overturned his payment—letting a cascade of crystals roll across the floor.
Crimson, golden‑orange, even one deep brown—at once, every voice in the hall died. The scene froze. After ten stunned seconds the auctioneer nearly slammed the gavel down on impulse, barely remembering the procedure in time. His voice shook.
"Any other bids?!"
None.
No one dared. A buyer who could casually drop such wealth was not one to provoke. After a heartbeat of silence, Yang Yu said quietly, "Package it."
The gavel fell. Staff rushed to secure the bottle, sealing it into a reinforced container before handing it to him with both hands. Yang Yu accepted it and left through the special exit reserved for high‑value buyers.
Outside, the alley smelled of dust and neon. It was already past midnight; even the night‑roaming "larks" of Sixth Street had thinned out.
He walked on without haste, taking care not to appear cautious. He made sure to glance over his shoulder now and again, the perfect image of a nervous man clutching treasure to his chest. And indeed, a shadow followed—but with remarkable patience, making no obvious move.
When Yang Yu drifted toward the quieter fringe of C‑District, the stalker realized time was running out. Once Yang Yu boarded a mag‑rail cab, he'd vanish from local sensors; assaulting a registered taxi was tantamount to suicide.
Decision made, the stalker closed in.
From the moment his subordinates had reported a black‑collared hybrid spending such wealth, the red‑haired man had been intrigued. To his mind, this target was obvious prey: a night‑half‑grade slave, probably running errands for some pampered New‑Human master too frightened to show his own face in hybrid territory. Their collars linked them to their owners—bound, traceable, harmless.
But that flashy payment—dozens of mid‑ and high‑grade crystals at once—reminded him of another incident, one that had set whispers raging across the underworld. And that bottle of Twilight‑grade Star‑Realm Juice… worth a fortune, powerful enough to boost elemental talent itself. His fingers itched.
He drew his weapon.
Yang Yu heard a faint shift of air behind him, then the cold press of metal against his back. A low voice ordered, "Don't move. Hand over the juice."
He actually smiled beneath his hood.
His answer came without a word—a sudden whip of wind. The air condensed, honed to invisible razors, and sliced backward. The attacker barely managed to spring away as two massive scars tore through the pavement where he had stood.
That's no night‑half energy. The red‑haired man's instincts screamed. The speed of that condensation, the force behind each cut—this was someone far stronger than expected.
Yang Yu landed lightly beside the gouged concrete, the breeze of his own power tugging at his cloak. The gashes glowed faintly under the streetlight—deep, bottomless.
The stalker stumbled three steps and froze. And then he felt it: the cold kiss of a blade pressing against the side of his throat.
Yang Yu's hand was steady. Power surged from the sword like a quiet tide, slamming into the red‑haired man's collar. Its deep‑red shimmer flared, shifted… and darkened to brown.
Dusk‑grade.
A voice, calm and dangerous, said, "Identity."
The red‑haired youth stiffened, surprise flickering across his face. "You? You again? Spirits—do you haunt me?"
"Identity."
"…You don't want to know. I should be asking why someone of your strength is still tailing that little New‑Human girl like a dog."
"This sword's heavy," Yang Yu said tonelessly. "By the fourth time I ask, I might drop it. Identity."
The smuggler sighed, realizing bravado would only shorten his life. "Businessman," he replied, stressing the word. Yang Yu's silence told him he saw straight through the euphemism: official Source‑Crystal refiners by day, smugglers by night.
"And?"
"Can't we hybrids stop killing each other?" the youth muttered, raising his hands slowly. "Fine—you want honesty? I'm—"
"Star‑pirate?"
The word froze him cold. The killing intent pulsing from behind was unmistakable.
They'd fought once before—as avatars in the VR combat hall Mecha Unrivaled—and Yang Yu had recognized the rhythm of those attacks. Afterwards, on the flight home, he'd realized where that familiarity came from: it matched the style of the red‑haired raiders who had attacked a year ago.
He had never found proof. Until now.
Yang Yu tightened his grip. The blade bit in, drawing a fine line of blood. "A year ago, in the Golden Eleventh Sector—you were the ones who ambushed Young Master Yang Qian?"
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Then the youth clenched his teeth. "…How would you even know that?"
Yang Yu's eyes narrowed, voice dropping into steel. "Good. When you get to the other side, give your captain a message: None of you will escape."
"It wasn't me!" the smuggler blurted, feeling the lethal energy spike. "You don't have to bother killing me—they're already gone."
Yang Yu hesitated a fraction.
"They're dead," the redhead continued bitterly. "Every one of them. They crossed the Central Federation Army's mech‑special‑forces division. The whole fleet was wiped out."
For a moment, Yang Yu said nothing.
It fit the pattern. His intelligence had noted the pirates' sudden disappearance a year ago and their later return with smaller, scattered operations. He had assumed they'd gone to ground to evade both First Human and New‑Human patrols.
So they'd been eradicated.
"Details," he demanded. "And your link to them."
The youth swallowed. "Their leader—my foster father. They went after Mech‑Master Yang Jin's son, thinking it was an easy ransom. Came back empty‑handed, all right? But they made the wrong enemies. The New‑Human army hunted them to a hidden base and burned it with everything inside. I wasn't there. By the time I heard, it was already ash."
Yang Yu could tell the account was true. If that man had led the assault, not even corpses would remain.
Still, knowing his enemies were dead gave him no comfort. The fire of vengeance burned just as bright.
The pirates had been only weapons—the hand that aimed them remained hidden beneath the waves.
The first hint of dawn crept into the alley, silvering the grime. The air between them thickened again. The red‑haired youth did not dare to speak; the man behind him emanated quiet, unbearable danger.
And deep inside, Yang Yu whispered to himself: Then who holds the trigger now?