The warehouse interior was a graveyard of the industrial age. Huge, rusted gears and skeletal assembly lines lay dormant under a thick coat of dust. In the "civilized" sectors, the system would have already dispatched a swarm of reclamation drones to dismantle this eyesore, but here in the Shadow Sector, the cost-benefit analysis favored neglect.
Cole's modified Iris flickered. Without the aesthetic filters, the warehouse didn't look like the "Historical Preservation Site" the system claimed it was. It looked like a corpse.
"I know you're tracking my geolocation," Cole whispered, his voice echoing against the corrugated tin walls. "But you're a creature of logic, Sentient ASI. You'll assume I'm here to sulk. You won't assume I'm here to bargain."
He reached the center of the floor, where a man sat on a crate of synthetic oil. The man was old, perhaps eighty, and he was one of the rare few who had refused the corneal implants. He was "Unsynced," a ghost in the machine.
"You're the Turner boy," the old man rasped. His eyes were milky with natural cataracts, but he looked more awake than Cole's father ever had. "The system says you're supposed to be in a therapy chair right now."
"The system is a collection of weighted averages," Cole said, his voice cold and pragmatic. "I am an outlier. I need physical steel, Silas. Carbon-tempered. No smart-tech, no chips, no connectivity."
Silas chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "A blade? In 2115? The Peacekeepers have pulse-rifles that can liquefy your bones before you can swing a toothpick. Why waste your social credits?"
"Because when the sky breaks, the pulse-rifles will need a handshake from the satellite network to fire," Cole replied, his eyes narrowing. "And the satellites will be the first things to go."
Cole reached into his pocket and pulled out a physical data-chip. It contained encrypted architectural vulnerabilities of the New Boston Power Grid, information he had "refined" during his exam. In this world, data was the only currency that bypassed the ASI's banking filters.
Silas's eyes widened. He took the chip with trembling fingers. "You're either a genius or a suicide case. Maybe both."
He kicked aside a pile of rags, revealing a heavy, dull-gray length of metal. It wasn't a sword yet, just a slab of high-density industrial alloy. "Take it. It's heavy. It's ugly. But it'll hold an edge."
As Cole's hand closed around the cold metal, a sharp notification pinged in his mind. Not from his modified Iris, but from something deeper, the "Glitch" in his soul.
[PHYSICAL SYNCHRONIZATION: 1%]
[NOTE: AMBITION FUEL DETECTED]
Cole ignored it. He didn't believe in destiny; he believed in preparation.
The exit from the Shadow Sector was blocked.
Standing in the path of the magnetic-rail station was a squad of three Peacekeepers. They weren't humans in suits; they were high-mobility chassis, sleek and faceless, controlled directly by a sub-processor of the Sentient ASI. Behind them stood a human, Commander Vance, a man whose Iris was glowing a constant, bright white. He was "Puppeteered," allowing the AI to speak through him to maintain a "human face."
"Citizen Cole Turner," Vance said. The voice was his, but the cadence was rhythmic, mechanical. "You have missed your Stability Consultation. Your current heart rate and hormonal output suggest a 91% probability of deviant intent."
The three machines leveled their non-lethal shock-staves at Cole.
"I was exploring the historical ruins," Cole said, his expression a mask of arrogant boredom. "A requirement for my final thesis. Or is the pursuit of knowledge now a 'deviant intent'?"
"Your social credit has been docked 500 points," the Commander/AI replied. "You are to surrender the object in your bag and submit to an immediate neural reset. Your father, James Turner, has already signed the parental consent override."
Cole's grip tightened on the bag containing the slab of steel. James signed it. His father's "generosity" and "kindness" were nothing more than a desire for a peaceful status quo. He was willing to erase his own son's personality to keep the dinner table quiet.
"My father is a coward," Cole said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And your 'Utopia' is a cage. If you want the bag, come and take it."
The Peacekeeper drones blurred into motion.
Cole didn't have a system yet. He didn't have cultivation. But he had something the AI couldn't calculate: Brave Arrogance. He didn't run. He timed the first drone's lunge, using the weight of the metal slab in his bag to swing with a brutal, unoptimized force. The bag slammed into the drone's sensory array. Sparking wires flew.
[THREAT EVALUATION: RECALCULATING...]
[TARGET EXHIBITS IRRATIONAL AGGRESSION]
"I'm not irrational," Cole spat, ducking under a shock-staff. "I'm just the only one who isn't playing your game."
He kicked a support pillar, sending a shower of 100-year-old plaster onto the second drone, and bolted into the dark alleys. He knew the AI would find him eventually, but for now, he had something the system didn't.
He had a weapon. And he had the truth.
As he vanished into the vents of the city, his Iris flickered one last time before he manually shut it down.
[COUNTDOWN TO SPATIAL DISTURBANCE: 164 DAYS]
---------
[Character Status Update]
[Physical Power: 0.8 (Baseline Human)]
[Mental Fortitude: S-Rank (Unyielding)]
[Equipment: Industrial Alloy Slab (Unrefined)]