The fall ripped the air from Youxing's lungs. Wind howled in his ears—proof he still lived. A muffled boom. His back slammed into soft, springy waste. Impact surged through every limb.
Even cushioned, free fall hurt. Bones felt scattered, organs churning. He lay paralyzed for thirty seconds.
"Cough! Cough!" He gasped. "I'm alive!"
Mold and gasoline stench flooded his nose. He sat up, scanning. Black industrial foam had saved him—old-era trash, his miracle.
He smirked. Luck's paradox: perfect plans birthed absurd failure; despair granted shabby survival.
Body check: bruises, no breaks. Lucky break.
Worse: the loot? He dug frantically through foam and rust. Nothing.
The crash triggered a slide. Part of the pile—and the diamond-shaped energy core—vanished into deeper dark.
"Done." He stared, hollow.
Three months' planning, ruined by a mech-roach. No riches, near death, prize lost. Classic.
No time for self-pity. Plan A failed. Improvise.
He stood, rolled his neck, swapped despair for wry grin. Emergency protocol: skip to Plan G.
In Discolor City, where physics took breaks, no plan was perfect. Plans just pumped you up or let you exit cool. G was king.
He snapped a glow stick. Green light bloomed, banishing shadows. He hurled it down the abyss.
It arced, plunged, flared. Illuminated walls.
No rock or concrete. Vast metal, etched with gear, ark, lightning. Ark Dynamics!
Memory crashed in. One of three titan corps, masters of reality-bending tech. This pit: their facility entrance.
Light fell, revealing spiral stairs—wide, precise, railings intact despite age.
Glow faded. Silence returned.
Choice: climb out, admit defeat; or descend, chase core, hunt relics.
Instinct screamed danger—traps, beasts.
Reason said leave.
Greed whispered: one screw from here bought fortunes. Core below. Break the "almost rich" curse.
Greed won. "Screw it."
Excitement replaced doubt. "Fortune favors fools."
He slid down, feet hitting cold metal. Two more glow sticks—one in hand, one on chest. Steps echoed: clank, clank.
Air grew damp, metallic. Dead signs, blurred warnings.
Legs aching, he reached bottom. Circular platform. Strange machine. Core nestled in a slot, pulsing softly.
Yes! He rushed.
Hum rose. Platform trembled.
Warning in red: "High-Frequency Friction Field Generator. Do Not Disturb Stability."
"Field" meant death. He stepped back.
A clatter. The mech-roach—his rooftop nemesis—dropped from his cuff, skittered, fell into a vent.
Hum stopped. Silence.
Then—shriek! Lights flashed red. Machine shook wildly.