Early morning, three days later.

  Without warning, a beam of dark red light, suppressed to its absolute limit, erupted from the mouth of the Heart of the Ancestors.

  The beam was like a giant, red-hot bone spear, forcibly piercing the grey canopy of the dawn.

  The light wasn't bright; instead, it was murky and viscous. Inside, it looked as though magma was churning and roaring in silence. A primitive, wild aura filled with unknown danger instantly seized the entire canyon by the throat.

  Sh-sh—

  The sound of grinding stone tools stopped.

  Thud! Thud!

  The muffled rhythmic pounding of grain ceased.

  Every Stoneborn tribe member stopped their work, tilting their heads to gaze at the blood-colored pillar that dyed half the sky. Their faces were a complex tapestry of awe, worry, and anticipation.

  This power was far more domineering and violent than any bloodline awakening in their recorded history.

  The light lasted nearly half an hour before it finally dissipated into the air, looking like it had been drained of all energy.

  Not long after, the figure of Elder Granite appeared at the cave entrance.

  His face bore visible exhaustion, but within his murky eyes flickered an irrepressible spark of excitement. Ignoring the concerned inquiries of his kin, he walked straight to the grotto where Kane was recovering.

  Kane was sitting by the entrance, using a piece of beast hide to wipe his notched dagger over and over again. His movements were focused and mechanical, as if he intended to grind his own soul into a sharp edge along with the blade.

  "Crag’s life is saved," Elder Granite said, his voice raspy from depletion.

  "Not only is he saved, but he found fortune in this disaster. The energy from that artificial relic of yours was too fierce. Coupled with this brush with death, his evolution... has exceeded all ancestral records."

  The old leader looked toward where the red light had vanished, his expression incredibly complex.

  "Judging by that display, the bloodline talent he awakened is no small matter. But digesting this power requires time. A month, perhaps longer, before he wakes."

  Kane’s hand did not pause for a second as he wiped the dagger. It was as if Crag’s life or death had nothing to do with him.

  Elder Granite didn't mind the coldness. He shifted the topic, his expression turning solemn.

  "The Stoneborn do not leave debts unpaid."

  He waved a hand.

  Two exceptionally burly Stoneborn warriors approached, their footsteps making the ground tremble as they carried a heavy, rectangular stone chest.

  Thud!

  The chest was slammed down heavily in front of Kane.

  The lid was slowly pushed open.

  A suit of full-body armor, dark green in color, lay quietly upon a soft pad of beast hide. The surface of the armor glinted with a peculiar serpentine luster; under the morning sun, it looked as though liquid obsidian was flowing silently across the plating.

  "This armor is called the Basilisk Stone Armor," Elder Granite said, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of pride.

  "The material comes from the deepest part of our tribe's holy mountain—the 'Basilisk Stone Heart,' unyielding for ten thousand years. Our three finest craftsmen worked without sleep, pouring their blood and sweat into it for three days and nights to complete this for you."

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  "The joints are linked with tendons from an Iron-Back Earth Dragon, forged perfectly to fit your frame."

  The Elder pointed to the plating, his voice low and heavy.

  "It is light yet incredibly resilient. Even under severe deformation, it will not shatter. Most importantly, it possesses an effect that reduces incoming damage by roughly thirty percent."

  Kane’s hand finally stopped.

  He reached out, his fingertips grazing the cold, delicate scales of the armor. The texture was as smooth as jade, lacking any of the typical roughness of stone. On the chest piece, a simplified Stoneborn totem symbolizing "Protection" was engraved in a deeper, darker shade of black.

  It was a heavy gift.

  That feeling he loathed most—"indebtedness"—pricked his heart like an invisible, venomous thorn.

  But he did not refuse.

  In the wasteland, anything that kept you alive was god.

  Without uttering a single word of thanks, he stood in silence and picked up the armor.

  One piece.

  Then another.

  He donned it methodically.

  Bracers, cuirass, greaves, boots...

  When the final gorget plate snapped shut with a sharp click, Kane was transformed. He was no longer the lean, scrawny scavenger who looked like he could be crushed at any moment. He looked like a lethal predator that had been dormant for ages, now encased in a fortress-like shell. Every inch of his silhouette radiated deadly danger.

  "It's time for me to leave."

  Once suited up, Kane flexed his limbs. The dragon-tendon joints ensured his movements remained fluid, without the slightest hint of restriction. His first words were of departure.

  "That 'heart' bought Crag his life. We're even."

  He turned away, his voice devoid of warmth.

  "But I didn't come here for nothing. I need to go claim my own 'reward'."

  These words, cold and pragmatic to the extreme, made Flint—who had been standing nearby—knit his brow. He couldn't help but take a step forward, shouting at Kane’s back in a stiff, awkward tone, "What's so good about the outside? We have meat here, a place to sleep... Why do you have to leave?"

  His voice held no hostility, only a primitive, clumsy attempt to make him stay.

  Kane’s footsteps faltered for a heartbeat.

  He didn't look back. He merely used the corner of his eye to cast a cold glance at this big idiot who had clearly not been fully educated by the wasteland yet.

  Elder Granite reached out to stop Flint from saying more. His aged eyes seemed to peer through the cold armor, seeing the riddled, scarred heart hidden beneath.

  "The canyon entrance will always remain open to you," the Elder said solemnly.

  Kane did not linger for another second.

  Clad in his brand-new Basilisk Stone Armor, his figure disappeared decisively into the swirling dust at the canyon's mouth. Like a drop of ink, he merged back into the filthy, grey world where he belonged.

  ...

  Once the primitive, flourishing aura of the tribe was completely cut off by the yellow sands, Kane halted his steps.

  The "warmth" of the tribe, an atmosphere that had made his entire body itch with discomfort, vanished instantly. His expression immediately reverted to the icy calculation unique to a predator.

  He raised a hand covered in dark green scales and brushed the hard totem on his chest. A clear, cold web of plans rapidly unfurled in his mind.

  The first to die would be Old Phil.

  That old bastard from Scrapyard 7 had exploited him for years and, more importantly, had witnessed the anomaly of the seal on his palm. He could not be left alive. This return was not just to silence a witness, but to settle old scores.

  Next was reconnaissance.

  The Kunlun Corp pursuit team had been wiped out, but had they locked onto his identity? Had Blackrock Town posted new bounties? He had to know. To know one's enemy and oneself was the only way to survive longer.

  But the prerequisite for all of this was becoming stronger!

  A map of the wasteland regions appeared in Kane's mind, his gaze eventually locking onto a high-danger zone northwest of Blackrock Town: the Silt Flats.

  Phase-Rats.

  They were creatures even more troublesome than Shadow Stalkers, possessing a bizarre ability to change direction and exert force a second time while in mid-air. For someone like him, who desperately lacked mobility and explosive maneuvers, that ability held a lethal attraction.

  Finally, weaponry.

  He touched the notched dagger at his waist and looked at his empty hands. The Basilisk Stone Armor provided defense, but his claws and fangs were still not sharp enough.

  With his plan set, Kane hesitated no longer. He oriented himself and began moving at full speed toward the memory of Scrapyard 7. The dark green armor fit his body perfectly; as he ran, he felt almost no extra weight, only the soft hissing sound of the scales rubbing against each other.

  The sound was like a giant venomous serpent gliding rapidly across the sand.

  Two days later.

  On the horizon, the ugly silhouette constructed from discarded shipping containers and metal sheets finally appeared.

  Scrapyard 7.

  Kane did not walk straight toward it. Relying on years of instinct, he silently circled behind a leeward sanddune. Pressing his body flat against the sand, he pulled an old monocular telescope from his vest.

  He aimed the lens at the station.

  The next second, he froze.

  It was too quiet. Quiet enough to be... a grave.

  There was no noise of scavengers entering or leaving, no rhythmic clanking of machinery repairs. Even the two guards who usually loitered at the gate to collect protection fees had vanished. Only a few carrion vultures circled and landed on the roof of the highest container.

  A thick aura of misfortune, like an invisible dark cloud, hung heavily over the small outpost.

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