The wasteland wind, carrying the scent of rust and dust, scraped past two figures—one tall, one short.

  Kane led the way, with Crag following behind.

  Every step Crag took was like a pile driver, leaving a shallow crater in the cracked earth. He carried a mountain-like load on his back, yet his form remained as steady as a moving fortress.

  "Kid."

  Crag’s deep, booming voice came from the rear.

  "After this, where?"

  Kane didn't look back.

  "Blackrock Town. Moving cargo."

  His voice was flat, as if stating an established fact.

  Crag didn't press further.

  He didn't understand what "moving cargo" meant, but he understood that the Elder had told him to follow this lean young man—that it was the only path to protecting the tribe.

  Just then.

  Beep, beep, beep—!

  A sharp, urgent electronic tone exploded from Kane’s waist, filled with manic impatience.

  It was that madman, Kyrie’s, encrypted communicator.

  Kane’s brow furrowed slightly as he opened the feed.

  A holographic projection snapped upward. Kyrie’s face, a map of oil stains and burn scars, dominated the frame. His eyes were bloodshot, but deep within his pupils burned a nearly twisted fervor.

  The background was a deafening roar of mechanical grinding and the hiss of high-voltage currents.

  "Kid!!"

  Kyrie’s roar pierced through the projection with a metallic echo.

  "My masterpiece is finished! Now! Instantly! Get over here right now!!"

  His voice was a mixture of boasting, lunacy, and the desperate urgency of a creator who had touched the divine and needed to show the world.

  "I have created... a monster! A perfect, breathing monster!!"

  "NOW!!"

  The communication was cut off abruptly by his side.

  Kane stowed the communicator with an expressionless face.

  Crag cast an inquiring glance.

  "A madman," Kane remarked dryly.

  "First we sell the goods, then we go to his place to pick up a new toy."

  Crag nodded, his massive palm patting the jagged Rocket Fist strapped to his shoulder.

  His gaze asked: All of these, sell?

  Kane read him perfectly.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Yes, sell it all."

  "Turn it into credits."

  His gaze swept across the wasteland, settling on the hazy silhouette of the city on the horizon, shaped like the spine of a great beast.

  "And then, turn that into power—power that can tear everything apart."

  The "Rat's Tail" General Store.

  Cyclops, the shopkeeper, was using a pair of tweezers to carefully pluck a drowned fly out of a glass of murky liquor. His expression looked as if he had just lost a major deal.

  The door curtain was suddenly ripped aside.

  The light was completely blocked out by two figures.

  One lean, one massive.

  Cyclops’s remaining eye narrowed into a slit. When he realized it was Kane—and the mountain-like Stoneborn giant standing behind him—his finger holding the fly froze in mid-air.

  It was him.

  The kid who had sold him the Phase-Rat King materials not long ago. The one who was as cold and calm as a corpse.

  Thud!

  A deafening impact shattered his train of thought.

  Crag slammed the massive Rocket Fist from his shoulder onto Cyclops’s greasy counter.

  The wooden counter groaned in agony, visibly denting as cracks spiderwebbed from the edges.

  Cyclops’s eyelid twitched violently.

  But that was only the beginning.

  Clang!

  Morris’s massive chainsaw, stained with dark red blood and gristle, was tossed on top. Disgusting fibers still clung to its jagged teeth.

  Next came several mercenary-standard rifles, a few bundles of military-grade high explosives, and finally, a heap of mechanical parts and high-purity ores scavenged from the Iron Hand Gang's warehouse, all reeking of machine oil.

  The mountain of weapons and parts nearly buried the entire counter.

  Inside the general store, there was dead silence.

  Cyclops had even stopped breathing.

  His lone eye stared fixedly at the familiar Iron Hand Gang livery on the Rocket Fist, then scanned the personal insignia of "Chainsaw" Morris on the saw’s grip.

  Finally, his gaze drifted upward, landing on Kane’s face, which remained hidden in the shadow of his hood.

  An absurd, terrifying thought exploded in his brain.

  The Iron Hand Gang… had been wiped out?

  By just these two?

  He dropped the tweezers and donned a monocle magnifier. His movements were no longer characterized by his usual slow deliberation; instead, they betrayed a frantic urgency.

  His hands were shaking.

  It wasn't from fear, but from a predator-like excitement at the prospect of swallowing a massive fortune!

  "‘Iron Fist’ Buck’s Rocket Fist! The energy core still has sixty percent output! Damn, this is an out-of-print model! I’ll give you five thousand!"

  His voice cracked with agitation, turning sharp and piercing.

  "‘Chainsaw’ Morris’s blade! This thing tears through mechs as fast as it carves meat! Four thousand!"

  "Three standard rifles—one thousand two hundred!"

  "Military-grade high explosives—two thousand!"

  "This pile of parts and ores..." He swept a scanner over them rapidly, the greed on his face almost turning physical. "A bundle deal for three thousand five hundred!"

  Every time Cyclops barked out a price, his heart throbbed.

  While estimating the value, he used his peripheral vision to frantically gauge Kane’s reaction.

  There was none.

  The young man stood there silently, like an emotionless stone statue.

  It was as if these numbers—figures that would drive any scavenger insane—were nothing more than meaningless noise to him.

  Crag was the same; his stony face was a mask of total indifference toward money.

  "Total..."

  Cyclops licked his parched lips and called out the final figure.

  "Fifteen thousand seven hundred Kunlun Credits."

  He stared intensely at Kane, braced for the man to open his mouth like a lion and engage in a three-hundred-round verbal war over the price.

  However, Kane simply nodded.

  "Acceptable."

  Cyclops froze.

  He felt as if he had thrown a full-strength punch only to hit thin air.

  He even suffered the sudden delusion that he might have offered too much.

  The transaction was incredibly fast.

  When the balance column on Kane’s personal terminal flickered wildly, finally settling on a heavy, brand-new figure, the corner of his mouth—hidden in the shadows—finally curled into a faint arc.

  Fifteen thousand seven hundred credits in looted goods.

  Plus the cash chips from Buck and Felix, as well as his previous savings.

  Total: 148,700 Kunlun Credits.

  A massive sum of nearly 150,000!

  In Blackrock Town, this money was enough to buy an entire street.

  But Kane knew very well that this wasn't wealth.

  This was merely the first batch of fuel that had to be burned on his path to vengeance.

  "Let's go."

  Kane turned and left without a moment's pause.

  Crag hoisted his own share of supplies and followed silently.

  Watching their retreating backs, Cyclops let out a long, ragged breath and slumped into his chair. Only then did he realize his back was ice-cold, drenched in a sudden sweat.

  He looked at his empty counter, then at the liquid assets in his terminal that had been instantly drained.

  The weather in Blackrock Town was about to change.

  He had a powerful premonition.

  This silent young man was the eye of the storm that was about to break.

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