The metal sphere shot a glance at the dashboard with its black eyes, as if it wanted to say something else. But this time, it wisely held its tongue—after all, it had a dowry now.
Pei Ran saw it too.
Whether it was due to the aging power source or a half-charged battery, the dashboard showed only a sliver of red remaining. The forklift had just enough power left for 700 kilometers.
One step at a time. She'd drive for as long as it would go, and figure the rest out later.
W quietly transmitted a Federation map.
A red circle marked their destination in the far northwest—Black Well.
Pei Ran used the compass on her wristband to find the right heading and began to drive northwest. The forklift crawled along at 10 kilometers per hour, slow but steady.
One person. One floating orb. A tiny forklift. Carefully weaving through narrow alleyways.
After a while, they emerged from one alley and immediately spotted a navy-blue patrol drone from the Public Security Bureau hovering in midair above the street.
It turned toward them at the sound of the forklift, locking onto Pei Ran behind the wheel—and without hesitation, it opened fire.
Pei Ran reacted instantly. Even as it twisted in midair, she slammed the accelerator and jerked the wheel. The patrol bot's shot missed, blasting a hole in the wall beside them.
W fired back at the same time.
His aim was impeccable. One shot, straight through the drone's head.
A loud crack rang out behind them from another direction.
Pei Ran turned her head. "?"
"Nothing to worry about," W said. "Just another patrol drone. Not a problem anymore."
Then he added, "When I'm not wearing that scarf, my observational skills are top-notch."
Pei Ran wasn't thinking about his observational skills. Her thoughts were heavier. They were no longer near Hank Street or the city center, yet the patrol drones were still actively targeting her. That meant CT122 had likely issued her L15 extreme-threat-level warrant last night.
At least in Whiteport, every patrol unit was after her now.
Just her luck.
W understood her worry. "We need to get out of the city as fast as possible. The farther we go, the fewer patrols we'll see."
"As fast as possible" still meant 10 kilometers an hour.
As they went on, the skyscrapers disappeared. Buildings grew sparse. In their place stretched a bizarre new landscape.
Houses stacked together like uneven black cubes, piled layer upon layer. Each one was only a few meters wide, forming a dense grid—like rectangular beehives.
The black material looked like plastic, or perhaps some kind of lightweight metal. Hard to say.
Crude staircases were attached to the outer walls, linking one layer to another. Clearly homemade. Materials varied wildly: a cast-iron spiral stair was welded to a shiny steel ladder, a wooden frame led to a dangerously swaying rope bridge. No aesthetic thought whatsoever—just function.
W, forgetting his dowry, slipped into his usual commentary mode:
"There's a huge slum on the outskirts of Whiteport made up of shipping containers. The material's light, strong, and decently insulated."
"This area is a mix of all sorts. Crime is common, enforcement is weak. Public Security has little control," he continued. "But on the bright side, there are barely any patrol drones here."
Pei Ran drove the forklift through the hive-like alleys. Up ahead, a pile of debris blocked the road—pipes, scrap steel, stacked like a low barricade, waist-high.
The road was completely blocked—clearly placed there on purpose.
Pei Ran paused, then calmly turned the wheel, reversing direction.
Behind them, four men had appeared.
They were tall, heavily built, carrying large backpacks, dressed in dull gray winter clothes. Their mouths were covered with transparent duct tape—badly, since each had wrapped it multiple times around their heads like a crude bandage.
Blocked in front and back. The little orange forklift now looked like a trapped rabbit.
When it was empty, the streets had felt like a dead sea. But the moment people showed up, it became clear—people weren't much better.
Pei Ran glanced at the men and asked W, "Let me guess—you can't attack humans freely?"
W answered, "Unless they've been classified as L15-level threats, I'm not permitted to shoot."
Right. Out of everyone here, she was the only one he could legally shoot.
The men slowly approached, stopping a few steps away.
One wore a black knit cap pulled so low it nearly covered his eyes. His stubbled face was half-hidden. He tapped on his wristband, typed a few words, and projected a virtual screen toward her:
[We need your vehicle. Emergency requisition.]
As expected. Here to steal the forklift.
At times like this, nine out of ten functioning vehicles were rigged with explosives. A working one was priceless.
Pei Ran said nothing. She quietly picked up her backpack, stepped off the forklift, and moved aside.
Her posture was docile, obedient.
The men seemed to take her silence and submission for granted. Without another glance at her, they gathered around the forklift, examining it like it already belonged to them.
Someone poked the metal orb hanging at the front.
He turned to the stubbled man, confusion in his eyes—Is this a patrol drone? Doesn't look quite right.
The stubbled man frowned when he spotted the "DOD" lettering on the orb's shell.
None of them were paying any attention to Pei Ran.
Perfect.
A sharp metallic crack against bone.
One man staggered, collapsed forward onto the forklift.
The others jumped, spinning around in shock.
Pei Ran didn't say a word. She swung her mechanical arm again, this time at the neck of another man.
Crunch.
A strange brittle sound. He didn't even have time to resist before crumpling to the ground.
The last two lunged in, fists raised. Pei Ran dodged the one on the left, flowed behind the one on the right, and drove her mechanical elbow into his spine. He went down instantly.
Only the stubbled man was left.
He panicked, turned to run.
Pei Ran pounced like a cat, caught him, wrapped her arm around his neck, and twisted hard.
In under a minute, all four were down.
W was silent for a long time.
Pei Ran picked up her backpack, tossed it into the back of the forklift, kicked a body off the hood, and climbed back into the driver's seat. Casually, she asked, "Did I level up?"
W: "Level up?"
Then he got it. Pei Ran was wondering whether killing those four might bump her status from L15 to L17.
But L15 was already the top tier. There was no L17.
"I'd call it self-defense," he said. "Maybe a little excessive, but given the situation, not a problem."
Pei Ran restarted the engine and turned the vehicle.
Then W said sharply, "Pei Ran. We've got more incoming."
She'd already heard the sound and was turning her head.
More people were coming from the direction those four had appeared—this time, a group of seven or eight.
They were bizarrely dressed, hair dyed in neon colors. Some had rings in every pierceable part of their faces, their leather jackets bristling with metal chains.
At the center sat a young man in a wheelchair, about Pei Ran's age.
But he looked nothing like the rest.
He wore a refined light camel wool coat, a soft cream-colored scarf. His shoulder-length black hair curled slightly at the ends. His skin was paper-pale, but his eyelashes were as dark and heavy as crow feathers.
The others all had duct tape over their mouths. He wore no mask at all, seemingly confident in his self-control.
The strangest thing was the object on his lap—a small black notebook, no bigger than a hand.
He wasn't looking at Pei Ran. Instead, he kept his head bowed, hand flying across the page as he sketched.
The sky was gray. Layers of makeshift black shelters loomed overhead, blotting out the light. In the gloom, the tip of his pen glowed a strange green.
Bright. Familiar.
It danced on the nib like it had a life of its own, sometimes wriggling upward along the pen, then slipping back down to rest.
Pei Ran stared at that light—its movements, even its rhythm, were exactly like the one in her mind.
Except his light wasn't internal. It was visible, external, unnervingly strange.
The man in the wheelchair looked up, finally meeting her eyes. Calm, relaxed, he spun the pen between his fingers.
Pei Ran's body locked up.
It was like invisible ropes had appeared from thin air, binding her limbs—and pulled tight all at once.
She stiffened, toppled off the forklift.
She couldn't move a muscle. The impact smacked her nose hard against the ground, making her eyes water. Her chest hit next, the blow deep and painful.
Suddenly, white foam spilled from her mouth. It seeped out from the edges of the tape, dripping down her chin as she lay paralyzed.