Chapter 35: The Gathering Storm

The room was in disarray, clearly having been thoroughly searched. Milton scanned the space, finding nothing of any value. With a heavy sigh, he backed out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him.

He then looked ahead. It was nearly ten o'clock at night, and the corridor was already packed with passersby. Stagnant, humid, and foul air fermented in the narrow passageway. Most of them were bundled in thick, heavy coats whose original colors had long since faded, leaning indifferently against the corners or huddled together in piles. Every so often, wisps of murky smoke would drift by, accompanied by deep, hacking coughs.

Many more had their low-quality ocular implants glowing, evidently browsing something—some were no longer satisfied with that, donning grease-stained "virtual reality rigs" to immerse their minds and bodies completely in a bizarre, kaleidoscopic digital world. Perhaps it was a sensory-simulation film, an online virtual game, a variety of live-streaming channels, or something else entirely.

Watching this scene unfold, a smile curled involuntarily at the corners of Milton's mouth.

"Ahem—"

Milton gave a light cough and clapped his hands. "Tell me, everyone, does anyone know the tenant of this room?"

A silence of more than ten seconds followed his words. There was no response. Only a few people lifted their heads slightly, cast a glance at Milton, and then returned to their own business.

"Two hundred credits."

The next moment, Milton held up a finger and raised his voice. "Anyone who has information about this tenant, I’ll pay two hundred credits on the spot. Credits, dark coins, procurement vouchers... whatever you prefer, the payment method is up to you."

At this, the crowd finally reacted, stirring with a bit of agitation. Soon, a middle-aged man wrapped entirely in a blackened quilt stood up. He moved with difficulty, squeezing through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd toward Milton.

"I know."

His voice was incredibly raspy, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time. "The kid inside is named Song Shi. I remember he worked off the books at the Mendy Manufacturing Plant."

He thought for a moment and added, "That kid... he came back last night."

"Uh-huh." Milton’s tone was cheerful. "Credits?"

The middle-aged man shook his head, succinct and to the point: "Digital dark coins."

Milton nodded and produced an item from inside his coat. As soon as the object became clear, the breathing of those around him visibly quickened. It was a whole stack of data cards in various styles.

Milton crisply pulled one out and handed it to the man. Immediately after, he smiled and lifted his jacket, revealing a gleaming handgun holstered at his waist and a large patch of cybernetic implant scars. Consequently, the many scrutinizing gazes that had been fixed upon him were quickly withdrawn.

"—Everyone, I said everyone."

Milton clapped his hands forcefully once more, and this time, most people looked up, turning their attention toward him. His cybernetic eye flickered. "I have already sent the photo of the tenant of this room, 'Song Shi,' to all of you."

"Although most people won't pay you any mind, I know you all have your own ways of surviving. Sharing drop-off points for near-expiry food, the locations of power-stealing charging piles, the opening hours of charity shelters, the patrol routes of the police... you have your own chat groups."

"—Spread my words! Send out Song Shi's photo! Tell the others among you! Find out where he has appeared. Two hundred credits. If you capture a photo of him, four hundred credits."

Milton paused for a beat and then shouted, "And if anyone can confirm his current location, I will pay four thousand credits or items of equivalent value!"

"Believe me! High-quality sugar, the offline addresses of popular streamers, scarce medicine, even temporary entry permits for the White Gate District! I have much better channels for getting these things than any of you!"

"Starting from this moment, within four days!"

Milton’s voice rose another notch, and he held up the stack of data cards high. "Regarding his current location, for every day earlier that someone tells me, I will add another thousand to the original four thousand credits!"

Another long silence ensued.

"...What if you don't pay when the time comes?" someone asked.

Milton chuckled, offering no answer.

As he was about to exit the corridor, Milton suddenly stopped. He pulled three cards from the stack and tossed them behind him.

Then, like a fishpond fed breadcrumbs, the starving school of fish surged; the entire surface of the water boiled in an instant as these people sprang from the ground, scrambling to snatch the data cards. Amidst the massive commotion of the chaotic scramble in the hallway, Milton’s shoulders shook with laughter.

The man didn't look back at the scene behind him, walking out of the building without the slightest hesitation.

The night was deep.

Looking up at the hazy, pale moonlight in the sky, the man lit a cigarette and muttered to himself.

"How much longer can you hide, 'Song Shi'?"

...

The third morning since leaving the research institute.

"Mm, this feeling..."

Song Shi opened his eyes, the ceiling the first thing to enter his vision.

Immediately following that was an unprecedented state of being—

The intense pain from using the "Flame of the Forge" to refine himself last night had vanished entirely, replaced by a surging vitality throughout his limbs and bones, as if he had just emerged from a fierce and hearty battle.

His mind was clear and stable, relaxed and comfortable, without a hint of fatigue.

And his body.

Song Shi stretched out his right hand, slowly spreading his five fingers. Under the weight of such abundant energy, he felt an illusion that if he clenched his fist, he could punch through a steel plate.

No, it couldn't entirely be called an "illusion."

Song Shi carefully sensed his physiological state.

Under the dual physical reinforcement of his "Psionic Awakening" and the "first refinement by the Flame of the Forge," his physical fitness was inching bit by bit toward the transcendental.

As he was now... he still couldn't punch through a steel plate. But with one punch, he could leave a visible dent on the surface of one.

"That’s already quite good—even a bit exaggerated," Song Shi thought to himself.

He was on the path of the [Great Source], not the [Transcendence] path. The latter pursued the "Way of Self-Transcendence." From the first ring onward, [Transcendence] psionicists could use psionic techniques to bestow upon themselves a powerful physique—perhaps a massive boost in self-healing, strength comparable to a brown bear, dynamic vision capable of tracking the trajectory of an arrow, or the growth of a layer of armored scales.

Amidst the ruined palace remains, scholars would look up at the mottled murals—long eroded and stained with malachite and hematite—depicting lion-headed golden-armored guards, solemn and majestic giants, and terrifying serpents that stirred the seas. The prototypes for these murals were, most of the time, ancient psionicists of the [Transcendence] path.

The most common and orthodox way of the [Transcendence] path was to forge one's own "perfect body that could no longer be surpassed."

Of course, in today's age where "cybernetic implants" are ubiquitous, [Transcendence] has changed drastically.

But he was [Great Source].

His path's direction was to master the "Power of the Great Source," and in both lives, the "Power of the Great Source" he chose was fire. Under these circumstances, he could still craft his current physical state using the "Flame of the Forge"—and the reinforcement from the "Flame of the Forge" hadn't even reached its limit yet!

Once the reinforcement of the "Flame of the Forge" reached its limit, setting aside special abilities like "armored skin," his basic physical fitness alone would not be inferior to that of an average first-ring [Transcendence].

"As expected of a high-tier psionic technique."

Red-gold flames danced between Song Shi’s fingers before vanishing in an instant.

"Before the nineteenth sunrise..."

"It seems it won't take that long after all."