Dead silence.

  This was a saline-alkali flat bleached by acid rain. The ground was covered with a thick layer of white crystals, like the dried, wrinkled skin of a dead person. No wind, no insect chirping, only a few rusty steel bars stuck obliquely in the mud like tombstones.

  In this rough, dead gray-white, an inconspicuous black obsidian fragment was half-buried.

  It seemed out of place with its surroundings—on the wasteland corroded by acid rain for a century, only its surface remained smooth as new, so flat that not even a speck of dust could hang on it.

  When the pale sun overhead briefly penetrated the clouds, this fragment instantly captured the light and refracted it into a sharp cold light, piercing straight into the sky.

  That wasn't just the reflection of a stone. That was the texture of a mirror.

  Suddenly.

  Inside this "Mirror" that had slept for a thousand years, a glimpse of extremely discordant gloomy blue lit up.

  The light didn't radiate outward but collapsed inward. The hard obsidian surface boiled like mercury, devouring surrounding light madly. Immediately after, countless complex geometric light paths burst out from the fragment, interweaving into an unstable 3D coordinate system in mid-air.

  Hummmm—Snap!

  With a crisp sound like glass exploding, space was forcibly torn open.

  Three wretched figures were thrown out as if by some huge centrifugal force, smashing heavily onto the muddy saline-alkali land.

  "Cough cough cough... Damn it..."

  Savage landed first. Because of losing the balance of his right arm, he rolled twice in the mud like a gourd until hitting a steel bar. He spat out a mouthful of muddy water with an alkali taste, cursing wretchedly:

  "Is this your 'Safe Landing'? My internal organs were almost flung out!"

  Lyria landed right after. Although mana was exhausted, the elf's instinct allowed her to barely adjust her posture in the air, sliding a distance on one knee. But the severe spatial vertigo made her retch immediately, face pale as paper.

  The last to land was Carlisle.

  He staggered to stand firm; the robe on his body was still smoking the white smoke unique to spatial teleportation. He ignored his companions' complaints but looked back at the obsidian fragment on the ground immediately.

  With their departure, the blue light on the fragment dimmed rapidly, turning back into a cold, dead stone.

  "Channel closed. Coordinates erased."

  Carlisle confirmed in a low voice, then tightened the collar of his acid rain cloak, looking up ahead.

  Biting cold wind mixed with ice slag roared past, rolling up salt dust on the ground like a white curtain. As the curtain was torn open by the wind, that huge, suffocating steel world finally revealed its fangs.

  This was the hem of civilization, a forgotten land stained with oil and blood...

  The brilliant lights of the Aethelgard Imperial Capital couldn't shine here, and the Order of Syntax's laws couldn't extend here. On the map, this vast area was simply marked as "Ashen Wasteland," but in the mouths of exiles, this was a huge graveyard burying the glory of the Second Epoch.

  The lead-gray sky hung low, as if about to collapse anytime.

  Endless acid rain had fallen for a full three hundred years, tirelessly washing this land, dissolving once indestructible alloys into rust-red mud. On the earth, there were no trees, no flowers, only countless metal skeletons piercing abruptly from the mud—those broken transmission shafts, half-buried giant gears, and oil pipelines winding like dead snakes, like skeletons of prehistoric steel beasts after rotting, emitting hollow whimpers in the cold wind.

  Water-accumulated craters shone with weird rainbow oily light; the air was filled with a pungent smell mixed with sulfur and aged engine oil. This was the smell of the wasteland, a perfume named "Decay."

  In this dead black, white, and gray picture, three tiny figures were trudging with difficulty.

  They wore heavy acid rain cloaks, stepping deep and shallow on these industrial corpses.

  Savage, walking at the front, stopped.

  For this former mechanical master, every meter of this journey was punishment. His originally shiny leather apron was now caked with thick gray mud, heavy as a shackle. The most palpitating thing was his right shoulder—it was empty there, sleeve tied into a messy dead knot, swinging weakly with his staggering steps in the cold wind, like a flag declaring defeat.

  Losing that heavy mechanical arm meant not only losing strength but also the complete collapse of body center of gravity.

  "Damn mud... damn rain..."

  The dwarf slipped; that rusty iron pipe acting as a crutch scratched harsh sparks on the slippery metal plate. He cursed angrily, body shaking violently, subconsciously shrugging his right shoulder trying to keep balance—that was muscle memory carved in nerves—but what fed back was only a burst of empty and severe phantom pain.

  "Save your strength, Savage."

  Carlisle followed behind him, voice cold as this sky full of freezing rain. His hood was pressed very low, revealing only the pale lower half of his face. Since leaving that warm underground temple, he had lowered his vital signs to the minimum, like a machine entering hibernation mode to save mana.

  He extended his left hand wearing a leather glove (to cover the charred burn underneath), pointing to the chaotic horizon ahead:

  "Look ahead. Your 'Heaven' has arrived."

  At the end of the wasteland, gray mist was forcibly torn by some massive existence.

  What came first was not the picture, but sound. A low, continuous mechanical roar conducted along the earth to the soles of the feet, making Carlisle's just-connected rib ache faintly.

  That wasn't a mountain range, nor a city.

  That was a steel Leviathan dead in the Archaic Era—"Crust Ripper."

  This was the ultimate creation left by the Second Epoch "Megastructure Civilization," a super-giant land-walking excavator.

  It was simply too big. Just that broken track was like a continuous black Great Wall; every link was as high as a three-story building, rusty surface like the rough scales of a giant beast.

  The main body of the excavator was like a solitary peak cast in pig iron, piercing five hundred meters into the clouds. That huge bucket once used to devour crustal plates was now like an open giant mouth, inserted obliquely into the earth, forming a natural haven.

  And "Blacktooth City," parasitized on this corpse.

  This was a creepy parasitic aesthetic.

  Countless simple tin houses, suspended trestle roads, and even modified containers were densely attached to the skeleton of the excavator like barnacles. Green alchemy neon lights flashed in the mist; steam pipes spewing black smoke wound like blood vessels, decorating this dead giant beast bizarrely.

  Clothes drying were hung between gaps of huge gears; exhaust vents originally enough to spray plasma streams were now modified into illegal smelting furnaces smoking red light, spewing mortal fireworks toward the sky.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  This was a chaotic, dirty, yet wildly vital wasteland slum. It attached to the great corpse, lingering on by sucking the residue of history.

  "This is Blacktooth City."

  Savage looked at that huge mountain of scrap iron; a trace of homecoming warmth actually flowed in his cloudy eyes, although that expression seemed a bit funny in the rain:

  "The world's largest fence for stolen goods, nursing home for wanted criminals, and Mecca for all scavengers. As long as you have money, you can even buy the false teeth of the Order's Archbishop here."

  "Hope we can buy a usable arm." Carlisle added expressionlessly.

  Lyria stood at the last.

  This elf from the forest seemed out of place in this world. She carefully lifted the hem of her cloak, trying not to let those black sludge stain her boots. With every breath, that air mixed with cinder and rusted metal made her throat tight, as if iron filings were stuffed into her alveoli.

  Her ears twitched slightly under the hood. In this wind full of industrial noise, she captured some malicious engine roars.

  "Carlisle is right." Lyria whispered, hand pressing on the only remaining dagger at her waist, a trace of undisguised disgust flashing in her eyes. "There's a Raider motorcycle convoy approaching. That stink of burning low-quality fuel... getting closer. We have to enter the city quickly."

  The only land entrance to Blacktooth City was located at the break of that mountain-like huge track.

  There was no formal city gate here, only two heavy armored steel plates removed from battleship wreckage, welded together roughly, blocking the gap. Above the steel plates, two double-barreled heavy machine guns were mounted; copper cooling pipes wrapped around the barrels, making tooth-aching friction sounds with the rotation of searchlights.

  Pale light beams swept back and forth in the rain curtain, illuminating the mud in front of the entrance as bright as day, and also illuminating that squad of thugs guarding the door.

  They wore colorful exoskeleton armor—obviously defective products pieced together from various models; some hydraulic rods weren't even painted, exposing rusty metal original colors.

  "Halt! Where did you tramps come from!"

  A guard with half his face covered by metal prosthetics blocked the three's way.

  He held a glowing electronic cigar in his mouth; that red prosthetic eye implanted in the socket flashed with an ominous frequency in the shadow. He looked up and down at these three weirdos wrapped tightly, finally stopping his greedy gaze on Lyria's slender figure, which was still conspicuous though covered by the cloak.

  "Want to enter Blacktooth City? Know the rules?"

  The guard poked Savage's chest with the electric baton in his hand; that mouthful of rotten teeth shone yellow under the searchlight:

  "Entry fee, two standard energy crystals per person. Or..."

  He chuckled, prosthetic eye rotating, emitting a faint servo motor sound:

  "Leave this chick to drink with the brothers, I can consider giving you a discount."

  Lyria's hand hidden under the cloak instantly gripped the dagger. In the forest, this offense was enough for her to shoot through the opponent's throat. But she held back; this was a steel jungle, and she could feel at least ten guns pointing here around.

  Savage was about to flare up but was held down by a hand wearing a leather glove on his shoulder.

  Carlisle walked up from behind.

  He didn't take out money, nor did he draw a knife. He didn't even look up at that guard, just raising his left hand on his own, making an extremely precise "Zoom In" gesture in the air, as if pushing aside a layer of invisible spider web.

  In his Truth Vision, the world was stripped of appearance, leaving only flowing True Script streams.

  [Scan Target: Low-Level Visual Enhancement Module (Clone Model: Eagle Eye-3)]

  [Core Logic: General Prosthetic Mandate v2.1 (Unencrypted)]

  [Hardware Status: Focal Length Offset 0.5mm | Optic Nerve Interface Overheating]

  [Vulnerability Detection: Hidden Circuit Node 7 Open]

  "Your prosthetic eye's focus is off."

  Carlisle's voice was as calm as stating a math formula, but seemed extraordinarily weird in this tense atmosphere.

  "What did you say?" The guard was stunned, obviously not expecting this "Tramp" to say such things.

  "Frequent headaches recently? And seeing double when looking at red things?"

  Carlisle looked up; those deep eyes under the hood looked straight at the guard. In his left eye, gloomy blue True Script stream flashed slightly, like a pulse flowing through a circuit.

  "That's a precursor to optic nerve compression. If not calibrated, within three days, your brains will be cooked by that low-quality battery."

  The guard subconsciously covered that prosthetic eye, face changing: "How do you kn..."

  "I'm a technician. Repaired junk a hundred times more advanced than yours."

  Carlisle didn't give him time to think. He extended a slender finger, tapping gently at the guard's face across the air, then made a "Clockwise Rotation" gesture in the void, as if tightening an invisible screw.

  This wasn't magic; this was "Remote Inscription."

  [Inject Mandate: Optical Path Reconstruction / Ether Noise Zeroing]

  [Execute]

  Zzzzt—

  The guard suddenly let out a scream, covering his eyes and retreating two steps. But in the next second, he let go, blinking incredulously.

  The originally blurred world with noise points in his vision suddenly became extremely clear. That migraine bothering him for half a month like needle pricks also disappeared instantly.

  "Holy sh*t... clear! Double vision gone!" The guard shouted in surprise, the look at Carlisle instantly changing from looking at a "Fat Sheep" to looking at a "Father."

  "This is just a temporary patch." Carlisle withdrew his hand; although the tone was still cold, there was no malice. "To eradicate this problem completely, you need to replace it with a thicker nerve conduction wire. But current parameters are enough for you to use until the prosthetic eye scraps naturally."

  "Yes yes yes! Master, please come in!"

  The guard's attitude took a 180-degree turn. He touched his eye socket in surprise; that stinging pain torturing him for a long time really disappeared. He hurriedly kicked open the roadblock, even bowing fawningly:

  "So it's a craftsman! Forgive my blindness! Please, please!"

  In this wasteland world relying on prosthetics and machinery to linger on, power was not only muscles and guns. The "Technology" that could repair prosthetics and make people live more comfortably in this mechanized hell was itself a supreme privilege.

  Just as the three were about to pass the checkpoint, that guard suddenly leaned up quickly, lowering his voice:

  "Master, a piece of news for you, as a thank you gift."

  The guard looked around vigilantly and said quickly:

  "The 'Jawbone District' isn't peaceful recently. Boss Val has some strange buyers there, dressed like attending a funeral, not locals. If you are going to talk business, better keep an eye out."

  Carlisle paused slightly, tilting his head: "Thanks."

  The three passed the checkpoint, walking into the city interior shrouded in shadow.

  "You really fixed his eye?" Lyria asked in a low voice, tone carrying a trace of surprise. She originally thought that according to Carlisle's previous style, he would leave some suffering for the other party.

  "Fixed."

  Carlisle pulled his hood, tone calm:

  "His prosthetic eye driver True Script was full of redundant ether noise, causing the logic core to overheat and compress the nerve. I just helped him do a 'Circuit Reorganization' in passing."

  "Why?" Savage rubbed his hand on that empty sleeve, looking at Carlisle somewhat puzzled. "This isn't like you. In this damn place, kindness usually pays no dividends."

  "Because that error-reporting True Script kept flashing in my vision, flashing until my head hurt."

  Carlisle pointed to his temple, a pragmatic arc curling on the corner of his mouth:

  "Also, in this place full of hostility, spending two seconds moving a finger to turn a potential trouble into a potential informant, the 'Input-Output Ratio' of this deal is very high."

  Savage was stunned, then grinned, revealing a gold tooth:

  "Ha! You kid, calculate more shrewdly than a goblin. But you are right, that kid's news is useful—'Strangers dressed like attending a funeral'... sounds bad."

  "No matter who, as long as they don't block our way."

  Carlisle said no more, striding forward, figure merging into this chaotic neon.

  Passing through that gate, the real Blacktooth City unfolded before them.

  If outside was a dead graveyard, then here was a noisy anthill.

  The inside of the huge excavator was hollowed out and modified, forming an intricate 3D maze. Overhead were crisscrossing rusty pipes and suspended cable bridges; underfoot were constantly vibrating metal grate plates. Through the gaps of the grate, one could see the bottomless dark abyss, where slum lights flickered faintly, like an inverted starry sky.

  There was no natural light here. All light sources came from those haphazardly connected neon tubes and alchemy reaction furnaces.

  Green, purple, and dark red lights mixed together, illuminating pedestrians' faces like ghosts. The air was filled with heavy engine oil smell, low-quality spice smell of roasted meat, and some dizzying chemical steam.

  This was the extreme of "Low Life."

  Here, technology was not for exploring the stars and sea, nor for pursuing truth, but for the humblest survival.

  People implanted rusty hydraulic clamps into their bodies not for fighting, but to carry heavier ores in exchange for a piece of moldy bread; people plugged cheap alchemy chips into the back of their heads not to calculate formulas, but to numb nerves in heavy labor and obtain a moment of false pleasure.

  Dignity here was cheaper than a screw.

  Countless ragged people shuttled around Carlisle. Scavengers carrying recycling bags bigger than their bodies, their spines long bent by heavy loads, emitting jerky bone friction sounds; vendors hawking unknown synthetic meat on the street, meat sizzling on iron plates, emitting a weird sweet smell masking its original rot.

  There was also a beggar with a broken leg dragging half his body crawling in oil stains; an exposed cable dragged behind him was crackling, but he seemed to have lost pain sensation long ago, just numbly reaching out dirty mechanical hands to passersby.

  Lyria turned her head away unbearably. This blasphemy against life disgusted her more than rot itself.

  "This is the abandoned world." Carlisle looked at that beggar, voice low. "The shadow not illuminated by the Order's glory is the truest background color of this world."

  "Follow me."

  Savage tapped the ground with the iron pipe; that "Local Snake" aura made him look slightly taller:

  "We are going to the 'Jawbone District.' That is the biggest black market, and also the throat of this steel beast. There is an old vampire named 'Val'; he should have what we need."

  "Whether Mithril or food."

  Carlisle stopped, looking up at the intricate pipe network overhead. A huge rat was crawling along the pipe; a flashing magic diode was actually maliciously implanted on its back.

  In this world, nothing was pure. Even rats were forced to be cyberized.

  Carlisle's left eye glowed faintly in the darkness, like a hunter scrutinizing prey:

  "And those 'Strangers' Savage just mentioned... if I guess correctly, they might be coming for us."