A man holds a round object in his hand and asks the shopkeeper,
"Where did you get this?"
The shopkeeper replies calmly,
"It doesn't matter where I got it. If you want it, you can take it."
The customer looks at the object carefully and says,
"Alright, but what's the price?"
"It costs four hundred credits," the shopkeeper answers.
The customer frowns.
"That's too much. After all, this is just a part of a machine. It could break. And what guarantee do I have that it even works?"
The shopkeeper leans forward, his voice steady.
"This is a rare machine, essential and valuable. That's why its price is exactly what I said."
'Yeah, I know," the man replied, "but still, you're charging too much. Two hundred is more than enough."
"If you want it that cheap, go get it from somewhere else," the shopkeeper said curtly, ending the conversation.
"Fine,"
the customer said and walked away.
The shopkeeper picked up the part and gently wiped it with a cloth. It gleamed under the light. "Valuable," he muttered.
"This doesn't just show up in regular scrap. It's rare—no idea who it was meant for." He turned it over in his hand, lost in thought.
Just then, another man walked into the shop.
"Someone told me you've got a rare machine part today," He said.
The shopkeeper glanced briefly at the departing customer, then pointed at the silver component.
"I'll charge,five hundred for it."
The man picked it up, inspected it closely—then even more closely. The shopkeeper watched nervously, expecting him to hand it back like so many others had. After all, this wasn't something the average person could even understand—what it did, whether it even worked. It could be damaged, or on the verge of failing, and no one could be sure if it even belonged to any known machine.
.....
,,,,,,,,
In our world—Astro—machine parts show up in trash heaps. You have to pick through debris just to spot one. Even the ones that look new are often defective. No one knows how to fix them or what they really do. They often turn out to be useless—arms, legs, joints of broken-down robots. Only a true expert can test and verify them. Who takes that kind of risk for 500 credits? On average, machine parts sell for 30 to 40 credits—80 if they're rare. Five hundred could be someone's yearly savings. Even sellers can't afford to buy components at that price.
........
"I'll take it,"
The customer finally said.
The shopkeeper stood stunned. He hadn't even known what the part belongs for, whether it worked, or where it belonged—but this man, what did he know to offer 500 credits for it?
As these thoughts raced through the shopkeeper's mind, the customer gave him a money without any hesitation.The money is in shopkeeper hand know.
He wanted to ask the man what it was, where it would be used?, how he even knew it was worth anything. A dozen questions flooded his mind—but the customer had already walked out with machine part in his hand.
......
"What did you bring home this time, Mark?"
The question came lazily from Dec as he watched Mark step into the lab, place a strange metallic object onto the central table, and settle into the chair opposite. A mocking smile curled on Dec's lips — one of those smirks he wore when ready to tease. He stood up and leaned over to inspect the device more closely.
"How much did you pay for this?"
Dec asked,
"Five hundred credits."
The answer was plain and unbothered. Mark began arranging the wires attached to the machine with calm, focused movements.
Dec let out a loud laugh. Then another. And another.
"Five hundred credits? Seriously?" He was now almost gasping between chuckles.
"Do you even realize how much credit you waste on this junk? No one even looks at your so-called research. You're a flop scientist in this half-dead world of ours. You really think attaching that worthless machine to a decaying corpse will bring it back to life? That it'll suddenly start breathing again?"
Mark didn't flinch. His tone was firm, eyes steady on the machine.
"I don't want to bring him back to life. And I can't. I'm not God."
He paused, then continued with purpose.
"But the body… his limbs, his organs — they're in perfect condition. I want to use them. Repurpose them. Build someone new."
Dec's expression darkened.
"In our world, the ones kept alive by machines were already living. They lost parts — arms, eyes, nose, lungs — and we replaced them with tech. But you... you're trying to build an entire person from pieces of a corpse!"
His voice rose, full of disbelief. "You've completely lost it, Mark."
looks at Dec, who stands on the other side of the table, his face turning red with anger.
.......
The two have been friends for fifteen years, working together in the lab. It's been seventeen years since they both joined the Scientist Company of Astro World. Dec is known for his exceptional research and creations. He has won many awards and is respected across the field.
Mark, however, is always left behind. He works hard, puts in effort, but his results never shine. People always say he wastes time in the lab — a man who never creates anything. A flop scientist.
......
Dec stares at the machine lying on the table.
Mark notices and begins to explain.
"It's called the Zyreth Core," he says calmly.
"It has a pump system — designed to circulate fluids, or whatever we choose to connect it with. If we try using it with the heart samples we built... or at least understand how it functions, it might give results."
Dec's expression hardens, voice sharp with frustration.
"Those hearts samples aren't even complete. We've never replaced them inside a human. You know why? Because we never thought about taking a life. So how can you claim this can work?"
.....
Mark has never done experiments on living people. Dec, on the other hand, is known for it. He brings in real subjects, and many have died under his tests.
But according to the law, he always escapes punishment — by paying the victims' families and staying clean on record.
....
Mark repeats, his voice firmer than before.
"I think it will work."
Dec slams his hand on the table in rage. The impact knocks the Zyreth Core to the floor with a sharp metallic clatter.
"You'll always be a flop scientist,"
He spits, then storms out of the lab without another word.
Mark doesn't react. He quietly bends down, picks up the Zyreth Core, and gathers the wires he had carefully attached to it earlier. Without a sound, he walks into the next room.
As soon as he enters, he moves straight to the side table, pulls out a pair of gloves, puts them on, then slips into his lab coat and fastens a medical mask over his face.
The room is dimly lite, as if the lights are deliberately off. In front of him stands a patient roller bed, and behind it, the wall is lined with samples — heart prototypes, the same ones Mark had mentioned. On the side wall are surgical tools, neat and precise, just like those used by real doctors. The air is cold, unnaturally cold — the kind of temperature used to preserve what should have already begun to rot.
Mark places the Zyreth Core on a small metal table near the foot of the patient bed. Then, he reaches for the sheet covering the body and slowly pulls it back.
Lying there is a dead man — no doubt the cold was meant for this body. But it isn't an ordinary corpse. There's no skin.
Flesh, exposed brain matter, and bone are all clearly visible — horrifyingly intact. Not damaged. Not decaying. Preserved in a condition that looks almost… perfect.
Mark stood silently at the head of the corpse, his eyes fixed with intensity. The stillness in the room was heavy, and his gaze didn't waver.
"Who was this man?" he wondered.
"Where did he come from?"
There were no answers—just silence. A mystery wrapped in lifeless flesh.
He gently pulled the cloth back over the body, covering it once more. But his mind wasn't on the dead man anymore. His thoughts were still spinning around the words Dec had said.
"It's true,"
Mark whispered to himself.
"I haven't become a great scientist… not yet. But I have hope. I believe I can rebuild him."
He gave himself the same reassurance he always did. There was something unshakable in him—a quiet belief, buried deep, that he could do it. He always had that belief. But every time, his hard work led nowhere.
And now… fear was returning.
What if this, too, ended like all the others?
What if, I failed again?
So many questions. Too many doubts.
But then he took a breath. He steadied his hands and his thoughts.
"Whatever the outcome, I'll keep working," he told himself again.
Just once more, he gave himself the comfort he needed—I will succeed. I have