The air was thick with the stench of rotting corpses, mingled with the faint, sweet metallic tang of rust.

  Kane lay flat against the ridgeline of a sand dune. The cold texture of the Basilisk Stone Armor pressed against his skin, keeping his mind exceptionally sharp.

  Through the telescope’s lens, Scrapyard 7 looked like the hollowed-out carcass of a massive steel beast, its entrails picked clean.

  Too quiet.

  At this hour, the station should have been a cacophony of life—the roar of engines, the clanking of metal, and the drunken brawling of men. Now, there was only a deathly silence.

  A few greedy vultures paced across the roof of Old Phil’s shipping-container office, the highest point in the station. They occasionally dipped their heads to peck at something.

  Kane lowered the telescope, his eyes showing no emotion. This place had never been a home; it was a cage that had bled him dry for years.

  He didn't take the main gate.

  With a blur of motion, he circled silently to the rear of the scrapyard, moving behind a row of giant sewage pipes half-buried in the sand. This was a defensive blind spot. He had slipped out through here countless times before, usually to dodge the endless list of extra chores Old Phil forced upon him.

  The dark green armor was nearly invisible in the shadows of the rusted iron sheets. The dragon-tendon joints ensured his landing was soundless, without a single wasted vibration.

  He was a venomous serpent sliding into its nest.

  The moment he stepped into the scrapyard, the smell of blood grew ten times stronger. In the corner, several scavengers lay in twisted positions, their faces frozen in pre-death shock.

  Kane’s gaze swept over the bodies.

  The throat.

  Every victim's fatal wound was at the throat—a long, thin incision as smooth as a mirror. One strike, one kill.

  A few shell casings were scattered nearby, and fresh bullet holes peppered the walls. There had been a firefight, but cold steel had decided who lived and who died. This wasn't a gang war where thugs sprayed lead with low-grade rifles.

  This was an assassination.

  The target was clear: Old Phil.

  Having made his judgment, Kane wasted no more time. He moved through the silent corridors toward the heart of the station—Old Phil’s office.

  The iron door had been kicked open with brutal force, leaving behind a massive, concave footprint. The interior was a disaster; documents, parts, and trash were strewn everywhere. But with a single glance, Kane saw that the truly valuable modified equipment and high-precision parts were still in place.

  Whoever had come here wasn't after money.

  He surveyed the wreckage, his gaze finally fixing on a spot beneath an inconspicuous ventilation duct in the corner. He walked over, knelt, and slid the tip of his dagger into a gap in the wall paneling, giving it a gentle pry.

  Click.

  A camouflage panel, identical in color and texture to the wall, popped open to reveal a pitch-black hidden compartment.

  This was Old Phil’s most secret safe. The old man thought no one knew about it, but he had forgotten that the "Corpse Dog" who handled so many of his "troubles" had seen far too many secrets he wasn't supposed to know.

  The compartment was empty.

  Kane’s eyes didn't move. He reached out a scaled finger and slowly traced it across the rough iron at the bottom of the niche. His fingertip caught on a nearly imperceptible resistance.

  He leaned in, his pupils contracting.

  Caught in the seam of the iron plating was a tiny scrap of paper—a fragment left behind after something had been torn away with violent haste.

  He picked it out carefully with the tip of his dagger.

  There were only two scribbled words—"The Tavern."

  A memory of Old Phil’s drunken boasting flashed through Kane’s mind: "The Hunter’s Tavern in Blackrock Town... now that’s a place for real men..."

  The clues aligned.

  This old dog had prepared an escape route long ago.

  Kane gripped the scrap of paper, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. A cold fury, fueled by the realization of how long he had been deceived and toyed with, surged from his heart. He had always thought Old Phil was merely a local tyrant ruling over this small patch of dirt. He hadn't realized that, in the old man's eyes, he wasn't even a laborer.

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  He was just a tool—one that was convenient to use, but entirely disposable.

  He let out a cold snort. With a squeeze of his fingertips, the paper fragment was ground into dust.

  He knew Old Phil had one last sanctuary. A "Ultimate Safehouse" constructed from three welded shipping containers and buried deep underground. Old Phil had bragged more than once that the place could withstand the most massive sandstorm; even if an army came, he could hold out for ten days to a fortnight.

  Kane arrived at the supply warehouse. Behind a pile of scrap metal, he found the entrance disguised as an exhaust fan.

  The infrared sensor was dark.

  However, a clear trail of footprints on the ground led deep into the entrance. Old Phil had already retreated inside.

  The digital lock at the entrance had been forcibly melted from the outside, leaving a charred mess. Beside it lay two corpses clad in black tactical suits. Their cause of death was identical to the scavengers outside. The attackers had found this place but failed to enter; they had been picked off by Old Phil through the door.

  Kane stared at the scorched control panel, his eyes icy.

  Ignoring the fused wiring, he slid his dagger into an inconspicuous cooling vent on the side of the panel. He sliced downward with a sharp jerk, then gave a gentle pry to the left.

  Click.

  A faint, almost inaudible sound.

  Beneath the panel, a mechanical lever completely covered in dust popped out. Old Phil had once bragged that this was a pure-mechanical failsafe—an "in-case-of-emergency" secret only he knew.

  He had forgotten that the person he chose to brag to was a "Cleaner" with a terrifyingly sharp memory.

  Kane reached out and pulled the lever down with force. Without hesitation, he turned sideways and slipped inside.

  The safehouse was brightly lit, with food and water piled high. Old Phil was slumped in a chair, gasping for air. One of his arms was twisted at an unnatural angle, clearly injured in the previous struggle.

  When he saw the familiar figure encased in dark green armor squeezing through the gap, the relief of surviving the earlier raid instantly froze into a mask of pure horror.

  "You... you're not dead?"

  Old Phil’s voice cracked with terror, sounding like a chicken being stepped on. He lunged out of his chair, pulling a modified pistol with an intimidatingly thick barrel with his good hand. The black maw of the muzzle pointed straight at Kane.

  "Kane! Calm down!"

  Old Phil’s voice was high-pitched and grating. "I know you hate me! But about Old Tock... there was nothing I could damn well do about Old Tock! It was Kunlun Corp! What was I supposed to do? I’m just a junk collector!"

  "The secret on your body—those idiots in the Iron Hand Gang don't understand it, but I do! That’s no ordinary bloodline ability!"

  "Don't you want to know who sold out Old Tock? I know! Come with me to Blackrock Town, and I'll give you the name! Together... we can get revenge for Old Tock!"

  Kane didn't say a word.

  He simply took a step.

  One step.

  Then another.

  He walked toward Old Phil at a steady, unhurried pace. The hiss-hiss of the armor scales rubbing together in the cramped space sounded like the Grim Reaper dragging a scythe, drumming against Old Phil’s heart. The pressure of his silence was more suffocating than any vile curse.

  Being stared down by those icy eyes hidden in the shadows of the helmet made Old Phil’s scalp crawl. The last thread of his sanity was swallowed by terror.

  "Go to hell!"

  He shrieked, pulling the trigger!

  BOOM!

  The deafening blast roared inside the safehouse. The shockwave even ruffled the hair on Kane's forehead. Old Phil stared intently at Kane's chest.

  The expected scene of mangled flesh never happened.

  The large-caliber armor-piercing round—powerful enough to punch through three millimeters of steel—struck the dark green Basilisk Stone Armor and exploded into a shower of blinding sparks.

  Ting!

  A crisp, almost musical metallic ring.

  The bullet screeched as it ricocheted away, leaving a deep crater in the wall. On Kane's breastplate, there was only a shallow white scratch and a dull thud of impact no worse than a hammer's tap.

  His forward momentum didn't falter for even a fraction of a second.

  The ferocity and madness on Old Phil’s face shattered completely, replaced by a pure, soul-deep despair, as if he were looking at a ghost.

  "What... what kind of monster are you..."

  He instinctively tried to raise the muzzle to aim at Kane's exposed face.

  Too late.

  A green blur flashed.

  Kane closed the distance instantly. His notched dagger traced a cold arc, slicing upward with surgical precision through Old Phil’s gun-hand wrist.

  "AHHH—!"

  Old Phil let out a piercing scream, and the pistol hit the floor with a heavy clatter.

  Kane gave him no quarter, driving a kick into his chest.

  Thud!

  Old Phil was sent flying, crashing hard against the supply crates behind him. Before he could slide to the floor, Kane was already on him, the cold tip of the dagger pressing firmly against his throat.

  "Wh... why... I clearly..." Old Phil made a wheezing, leaky sound in his throat as bloody froth bubbled out. "I clearly... gave you a way out..."

  Kane leaned in. From beneath the helmet, his voice was raspy and indifferent as he answered the man's question for the first and final time.

  "The 'way out' you gave me was to let me clean up your trash like a dog. That’s called exploitation."

  "And when Old Tock died, I didn't forget a single one of your faces. Not for one day."

  Before the words even faded, the dagger sank in with clinical efficiency.

  Warm liquid splashed against his gauntlet, only to slide off the smooth stone plating instantly, leaving no trace behind. Kane pulled the blade out expressionlessly, wiping it clean on Old Phil’s clothes.

  He began to loot the spoils.

  First was a bulging coin purse—the accumulated wealth Old Phil had amassed by squeezing countless scavengers dry over the years.

  More importantly, in Old Phil's inner vest pocket, he felt a cold, hard object. It was a palm-sized black metal token, surprisingly heavy. One side bore a lifelike carving of a wolf's head; the other was stamped with a serial number: C-734.

  The key to The Hunter's Tavern.

  Aside from the money and the token, Kane found a data pad wrapped tightly in oilcloth hidden in Old Phil's boot. When he powered it on, the screen flickered to life.

  Inside was a map of the wasteland far more detailed than anything he had ever seen. The territories of major factions, supply points, and hazard zones were all clearly marked. One area, highlighted in deep crimson, was his planned destination: The Silt Flats.

  On the map, someone had circled a region in the center of the flats with red ink, accompanied by a scribbled note: "Forbidden Zone. High-value biologicals spotted."

  There was no specific marker for Phase-Rats, but at the edge of the red zone, a small skull icon was drawn with two words beside it: "Watch the shadows." Finding the rats would require Kane to scout that lethal terrain himself.

  It was an unexpected windfall.

  The data pad also contained an encrypted transaction log. Kane tried a few of Old Phil's common passwords, but all failed. However, in the unencrypted summaries, he saw several recurring terms: "Messenger Raven," "Hunter's Tavern," and "Cargo Delivery."

  The specifics remained hidden, but the direction was clear. It seemed that to fully unravel Old Phil's secrets, the Hunter's Tavern was a destination he could no longer bypass.

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