"Then we don't hit it. We ground it. Gemini, can we reroute the induction blade’s output to create a localized surge?"
"Risk: 64%. It will deplete your remaining 14% battery in 0.8 seconds. You will have one shot."
Haruto didn't hesitate. He jammed the blade into the soft sediment at the creature's base and initiated the override.
IF Existence_Unstable THEN Activate_Sacrifice_Protocol.
The line from his future logic-code flickered in his mind like a phantom. He wasn't sacrificing his life—just his only weapon.
CRACK.
The surge reversed the Tunneler’s internal polarity. Blue energy backflowed into the beast’s nervous system, causing its bio-metallic plates to buckle and shatter from the inside out. Haruto fell to his knees as the induction blade crumbled into useless ash, smoking in the crystalline sand.
On his HUD, the survival knife icon didn't blink red or flash a warning. It simply vanished—a cold, binary deletion of his only defense.
The Tunneler lay motionless, but Haruto’s nervous system refused to respond. The adrenaline was gone, replaced by a crushing, leaden fatigue that made his very bones feel like iron.
"Gemini... the core..."
There was no reply. The HUD flickered once, then went dark. The silence was absolute. Haruto’s hand slumped into the sand, centimeters away from the glowing blue prize. Darkness swallowed him before he could touch it.
Nine minutes and forty-two seconds passed in total silence.
Booting system...
Power: 0.1%... 0.4%...
Emergency wireless power transfer detected.
"Nago! Nago, respond! Wake up!"
A sharp, synthesized voice cut through the fog of unconsciousness. Haruto gasped, his lungs burning as they pulled in the thin, metallic air. He was still on the sand. The sapphire core had ruptured during the explosion, leaking a glowing fluid onto his left arm and the ORION's interface.
"Gemini... stop shouting..."
"I cannot. You were clinically inactive for nine minutes and forty-two seconds. The Tunneler’s core ruptured, initiating an unguided energy bleed. I have been siphoning the runoff to restart my core logic."
"You're... drinking the monster's blood?"
"Crude, but accurate. We have 2.8% power. It is volatile, but enough to move. Now, Nago—extract what remains of the core. We need to stabilize this charge before it overloads my capacitors."
Haruto pulled the shattered core from the carcass with a trembling hand. Immediately, the ORION emitted a resonant chime, its light shifting from a faint flicker to a steady, deep blue pulse.
"Synchronization: 100%. Power capacity expanded by 400%," Gemini reported. "But there is a reportable bug. I have found a recurring error in the background radiation. A negative jitter at the eighth decimal point. It’s like a... logical cancer embedded in the physics of this sector."
Haruto stood up, his legs shaky but holding. The new weight of the ORION felt less like a tool and more like an extension of his own nervous system.
"A cancer in the physics... So someone wrote the world to fail. Fine. If it’s code, I can debug it."
"Nago, survival probability has increased to 18%. I recommend immediate extraction from this valley."
"Right. A consultant for a broken world... I can live with that."
Haruto looked toward the shimmering horizon, where
The world was still trembling from the last surge when Haruto forced himself upright. His breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale scraping against the inside of his throat like sandpaper. The air was thin, metallic, and tasted faintly of ozone—evidence of the catastrophic discharge that had just torn through the valley.
The Tunneler’s carcass lay half?buried in the crystalline sand, its bio?metallic plates still twitching with residual static. Haruto’s induction blade—his last real weapon—was nothing more than a smear of ash scattered across the ground.
He rolled up his torn sleeve and glared at the ORION’s dim, flickering display.
“Battery at 14%… Dammit, I used too much on that decoy.”
“Affirmative,” Gemini replied. Her voice was faint, distorted. “Nago, life support maintenance is at risk. Immediate energy acquisition is required.”
“I know! You don’t have to tell me!”
The frustration wasn’t directed at her. Not really. It was directed at the universe—this broken, inconsistent world that seemed determined to kill him with every breath.
He turned toward the shimmering horizon.
A massive silhouette rose from the dunes—a crumbling spire half?buried in the sand. Its surface pulsed with faint geometric patterns, like a heartbeat rendered in alien mathematics. And from its base…
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
A signal.
A structured, deliberate signal.
A signal that should not exist.
“Nago,” Gemini said, “an undefined interrupt detected in the system kernel. This is a waveform nearly identical to the emergency protocol you once built.”
Haruto froze.
“What? My code? That’s impossible.”
He staggered toward the spire, boots crunching through the glass?sand. The pulse grew stronger, syncing with the rhythm of his own heartbeat.
“This planet’s civilization died five thousand years ago,” he said. “Why is my logic structure here?”
“Unknown,” Gemini replied. “However, the waveform match is 99.87%. This is not coincidence.”
Haruto’s mind raced. His emergency protocol was unique—written in a moment of desperation during ORION’s early development. No one else had access to it. No one else even understood its structure.
So why was it here?
Before he could process the implications, the ground convulsed beneath him.
A deep tremor rolled through the valley, followed by a violent eruption of crystalline sand. Haruto stumbled backward as a colossal bio?metallic beast tore its way out of the earth.
A Tunneler.
But not like the last one.
This one was larger—twice the size, with reinforced plates and a drill?maw that glowed with internal heat. Its segmented limbs clattered against the glass dunes, sending ripples of vibration through the unstable terrain.
It roared.
The sound wasn’t organic. It was a digital noise?burst—an ear?splitting blast of corrupted data that rattled Haruto’s nervous system. His vision blurred, and his legs buckled.
“Warning!” Gemini shouted. “The signal was a lure—or this creature is preying on the source! Battery at 14%. Combat is impossible!”
Haruto clenched his teeth. “Impossible is just another word for a bug I haven’t fixed yet!”
He drew his induction blade.
Or what was left of it.
The blade flickered weakly—barely functional. At 14% power, it wouldn’t cut through the Tunneler’s armor. Hell, it might not even scratch it.
But he didn’t need to cut it.
He needed to break it.
“Then we don’t hit it,” Haruto muttered. “We ground it.”
He sprinted toward the creature’s base, dodging shards of glass?sand as the Tunneler lunged. Its drill?maw slammed into the ground behind him, sending a shockwave through the dunes.
“Gemini!” Haruto shouted. “Can we reroute the induction blade’s output to create a localized surge?”
“Risk: 64%,” Gemini replied. “It will deplete your remaining 14% battery in 0.8 seconds. You will have one shot.”
Haruto didn’t hesitate.
He jammed the blade into the soft sediment beneath the creature’s armored plates and initiated the override.
A line of code flickered in his mind— IF ExistenceUnstable THEN ActivateSacrifice_Protocol.
A fragment of his future logic. A ghost of something he hadn’t written yet.
He wasn’t sacrificing his life.
Just his only weapon.
CRACK.
The surge detonated.
The Tunneler’s internal polarity reversed. Blue energy backflowed into its nervous system, causing its bio?metallic plates to buckle and shatter from the inside out. The creature convulsed violently, its limbs spasming as the surge tore through its core.
Haruto fell to his knees as the induction blade disintegrated into ash, smoking in the crystalline sand.
On his HUD, the survival knife icon didn’t blink red or flash a warning.
It simply vanished.
A cold, binary deletion of his only defense.
The Tunneler collapsed, its body dissolving into metallic dust. But Haruto’s nervous system refused to respond. The adrenaline was gone, replaced by a crushing, leaden fatigue that made his bones feel like iron.
“Gemini… the core…”
There was no reply.
The HUD flickered once, then went dark.
The silence was absolute.
Haruto’s hand slumped into the sand, centimeters away from the glowing blue core pulsing within the creature’s remains.
Darkness swallowed him before he could touch it.
---
Nine minutes and forty-two seconds passed in total silence.
Then—
Booting system…
Power: 0.1%… 0.4%…
Emergency wireless power transfer detected.
“Nago! Nago, respond! Wake up!”
A sharp, synthesized voice cut through the fog of unconsciousness. Haruto gasped, lungs burning as they dragged in the thin, metallic air.
He was still on the sand.
The sapphire core had ruptured during the explosion, leaking a glowing fluid onto his left arm and the ORION’s interface. The liquid pulsed like living circuitry, seeping into the device’s seams.
“Gemini… stop shouting…”
“I cannot,” Gemini replied. “You were clinically inactive for nine minutes and forty-two seconds. The Tunneler’s core ruptured, initiating an unguided energy bleed. I have been siphoning the runoff to restart my core logic.”
Haruto blinked. “You’re… drinking the monster’s blood?”
“Crude, but accurate. We have 2.8% power. It is volatile, but enough to move. Now, Nago—extract what remains of the core. We need to stabilize this charge before it overloads my capacitors.”
Haruto forced his trembling hand toward the shattered core. The moment he touched it, the ORION emitted a resonant chime. Its light shifted from a faint flicker to a steady, deep blue pulse.
“Synchronization: 100%,” Gemini reported. “Power capacity expanded by 400%.”
Haruto exhaled shakily. “Good… that’s good…”
“But,” Gemini continued, “there is a reportable bug.”
Haruto froze. “What kind of bug?”
“I have found a recurring error in the background radiation. A negative jitter at the eighth decimal point. It is not natural. It is like a… logical cancer embedded in the physics of this sector.”
Haruto stood, legs shaky but holding. The ORION felt different—heavier, more responsive, almost alive. The new energy coursing through it resonated with his own nervous system.
“A cancer in the physics…” he murmured. “So someone wrote the world to fail.”
He tightened his grip on the ORION.
“Fine. If it’s code, I can debug it.”
“Nago,” Gemini said, “survival probability has increased to 18%. I recommend immediate extraction from this valley.”
Haruto looked toward the shimmering horizon, where the distortion was thickest—where the error was being compiled.
“Right,” he said. “A consultant for a broken world… I can live with that.”
He stepped forward.
And the world shifted.
