Dan Heng, I got you a deluxe bathtub—auto-fill, auto-heat."
"What's the catch?"
"While it's heating, the junk leaks electricity."
"No matter. I like cold water; no heating needed."
Dan Heng studied the pop-up luxury tub… and pondered.
A bath wouldn't hurt. It doesn't look like junk at all; just pull the plug and it won't electrocute me. Not that he feared a shock—who enjoys a random zap?
Soaking in the cool water, Dan Heng washed away days of fatigue. Leaning against the rim, eyes closed, he finally let his nerves uncoil.
The temperature sat squarely in his comfort zone.
Weird company, but the benefits are real.
Or rather, the boss is no ordinary person.
Caelus… Dan Heng felt he knew nothing, remembered nothing, yet Caelus seemed intimately familiar with him and March 7th—down to the color of their underwear today.
Still, best not to dwell on it.
Dan Heng reached for a book.
These too were "junk" Caelus had collected; some might be priceless sole copies.
One bore a scribbled signature—Zan something, first something—the ink too blurred to read.
He picked up a famous title and opened it.
The cover was a wreck, the pages pristine.
Perhaps Caelus's "junk" simply meant flawed yet functional.
Turning trash to treasure?
Rather eco-friendly.
"If the universe is solvable, it must lead to one ultimate question."
"Existence of the solution precedes the solution itself."
His mind gradually calmed.
March 7th strolled past Dan Heng's cabin, stretching, her light steps halting at a dangling plug. It hung in mid-air, as if accidentally knocked loose.
"Huh? Why's this unplugged?" She tilted her head, a pink strand falling, puzzled. In her world, devices need power—something must be loose.
"So careless," she muttered, stepping forward and picking up the plug without hesitation.
"Loose? Let me fix that."
She aligned the prongs and pushed firmly.
Click. The plug seated flush. Instantly, current surged, rousing the "luxury bathtub" that should have stayed silent.
The water remained placid, its chill keeping Dan Heng alert.
Then, without warning, numbness burst from every inch of skin touching the water, racing through his body.
Bzzzzzzzt!
—
"March, next time… uh, ask before you plug things in," Caelus coughed.
Dan Heng was fine—just upgraded to Electric Boy.
"Sorry, sorry! I'll be careful…" She clasped her hands, eyes squeezed shut, unable to look at him.
"Forget it. Just don't plug anything outside my room next time."
Dan Heng shook his head.
March 7th nodded like a pecking chick, face screaming "I didn't mean it!"
"One more thing—don't touch the junk I stashed in the high-risk zone."
Caelus produced a strange device, slowly spinning.
[Picture]
Celestial Suppression Final Weapon zydone
"What is that?"
"A bio-weapon, freshly salvaged. Dangerous—don't touch."
"Bio-weapon?" March 7th half-stepped back, cyan eyes wary yet curious. "Is it… alive?"
"Fifty-one percent bio still counts as bio-weapon."
"What's its name?"
"zydone. Full title: Celestial Suppression Final Weapon zydone. Function: annihilate all matter within 200 light-years. A higher-dimensional life-form—deployed, it dwarfs our warship."
Caelus explained.
This thing's from the new Ultraman.
"Captain," Dan Heng said, voice lower, "keeping something like that on board… isn't it too dangerous?"
Even a one-in-ten-thousand chance of activation would be catastrophic.
"It's safest with me." Caelus wagged a finger. "You'd rather it sat somewhere else?"
Dan Heng: …This thing makes void-collapse pulses look tame. Annihilate everything within 200 light-years—so vast it outstripped March 7th's imagination; she just sensed it was "super scary."
But Dan Heng knew exactly what it meant.
Two hundred light-years could span a dwarf galaxy.
Not affect—obliterate.
"As long as no one fiddles with the hidden switch and inputs the specific frequency, it stays dormant."
Caelus carefully pocketed zydone.
"Toss it back and some unlucky—or malicious—passerby might grab it. That's disaster. With me, at least I know what it is."
Dan Heng fell silent. Rationally, it was madness: storing a galaxy-buster in the living quarters.
Yet instinct from days of observation told him Caelus, though erratic and flamboyant, wasn't reckless. His attitude toward these "junks" felt less like carelessness than absolute mastery.
"I'll remember your warning," Dan Heng finally said, temporarily accepting it, though his gaze at "zydone" remained razor-alert. "Remember, you're not alone on this ship."
"Relax. Even if it activates, it needs my command to unleash a one-trillion-degree fireball."
March 7th, curiosity trumping fear, asked, "Captain, is it… cute when deployed?"
Caelus choked, recalling files: "Uh… not by conventional standards. Black-yellow stripes, glowing head-lamps, horns, and a roar of 'Zy—done—'—silent or not, it reeks of menace."
"Oh…" She sounded disappointed. "Sounds not-cute."
"So no worries. The day I fish out a space-time eraser bomb, then we're really doomed."
Cosmic Junk Company, Cosmic Junk Company, grand-opening sale! If you can imagine it, we can sell it!"
"Every single piece of junk on opening day costs no more than 5,000 credits—no way to lose, no way to regret!"
Normally he would never waste a second on trashy ads this cheap.
But when Lygus saw the flyer, he fell silent—for a long time. A chill crawled from his core straight to his processor.
This was big.
Very big.
Lygus's mechanical CPU was icing over.
Could anyone explain how this garbage ad had slipped through his firewall and into the Staff?
Though Erudition had anchored the future… he sensed this had nothing to do with Erudition.
It was a variable.
His gaze swept across the Talia Star System—not some famed trade hub or tech nexus, just barrens and… abandoned worlds.
"Every piece of junk, max 5,000 credits… junk?" he murmured. "Junk that can breach my firewall? I'd love a look."
A freshly updated headline caught his eye.
Moments ago, an enormous surge of unstable imaginary energy had erupted on Abandoned Planet No. 1145 in the Talia system.
The spectral signature matched an Imaginary Outburst—crude, erratic.
Part of the planet's surface had been permanently reshaped.
The coordinates of the blast overlapped the address in the Cosmic Junk Company ad.
Coincidence?
Lygus didn't believe in coincidence.
Data flooded in, was filtered, analysed.
Most was garbage—exaggerated ads, fake intel. Then a handful of buried posts surfaced.
Anonymous notes from fringe routes, almost drowned in the noise.
"Saw a weird ship near Trash-Heap, looked freshly salvaged but crazy fast, weird jump sig."
"Heard some junk planet in Talia wiped out a whole bug swarm—quietly."
Oh?
Each scrap was harmless; together they pointed.
Was an Emanator—or worse—about to be born?
More likely: some being wielding raw imaginary force, unaware of what it stirred.
But breaching his firewall… could it threaten Erudition itself?
Junk—by definition, useless.
Rupert the First had risen from a dump; the emperor checkmated by Erudition had also been… junk.
And the neurons Lygus now used were Erudition's cast-offs.
He couldn't wait. If the ad had reached the Staff, his location was exposed—or the enemy had tech he couldn't fathom.
Lygus reread the line: "If you can imagine it, we can sell it."
Arrogant… yet tempting.
What if they truly could sell anything—even a way to defeat Erudition?
Perhaps he should place an order.
After all, Zandar had nine spare bodies.
But after he replied, Lygus fell silent again.
"To unsubscribe, reply TD."
TD… an answer he hadn't expected.
If this was random spam, their tech was absurd. A frontal breach would have been respectable.
This was overkill.
A mass-mailed ad had cracked his encrypted firewall.
genesis set
Demon Pass
Those two "pieces of junk" on the site snared his gaze.
Sold.
Hard to tell if hoax or real.
Worse: the genesis set was listed as… a children's toy?
Supreme camouflage—or did the seller see "creation" as child's play?
Demon Pass, flagged "use with care," could make anyone agree to your request—efficacy against Aeons untested. Who bought it, and what wish did they make?
"I have a computer I can't control. Do you stock anything suitable?"
Lygus smirked at himself.
"Hello, please wait while agent Xiao-Qi finds the perfect item for you."
March 7th turned to Caelus.
"Captain, new customer—says his rig might be infected."
"Virus? Send him that antivirus flash drive I dug up the other day."
"Dear customer, may I recommend our bestseller Super-Antivirus Flash Drive! Plug-and-play, wipes every stubborn bug, leaves your PC sparkling! Only 999 credits, free shipping!"
She copied Captain's canned spiel with practiced ease.
Days later, a plain black USB stick arrived at the neutral station he'd specified.
Cheap plastic shell, no brand, weightless—like a street-stall trinket.
A single program—classic antivirus—yet brutally effective: every virus Lygus had coded was erased.
So he shipped the thing to himself.
[god 365 antivirus software – scanning…]
The progress bar crawled forward.
1%…15%…42%…
Beep-beep-beep-beep—Lygus killed it.
Any longer and it might stick chopsticks in his head.
[smallBird Wallpaper installed successfully.]
Lygus: ?
What in the cosmos was smallBird wallpaper?
[Super-Fun RedMoon installed successfully.]
[0721 Browser installed successfully.]
"?"
Where had these come from?
A heap of useless bloat had slipped into his throwaway OS.
You bundle-install too?
Then again…
Better not touch god 365; it seemed purpose-built to murder machines.
But the bundleware… hm? Bundleware?
An idea sparked.
Lygus be like