Chapter 25

“Are you sure this will work?” Mu asked skeptically.

Ye Chong could only shrug helplessly. “I’m not certain. My old man was the one who usually made this stuff—I just helped out a few times. Back then we used blood from the coarse worm, but where are we supposed to find one of those right now? So I’m trying the blood of this big fellow instead. If it works as a substitute, great. If not, we’ll just have to dig for worms ourselves.”

He poured the blood of the iron python lizard into a container, then added several other unknown substances, placing the mixture over a thermal furnace. Soon, the liquid began to bubble, and Ye Chong stirred it continuously with a stick. The color shifted from red to blue, casting an eerie glow over his face, making him seem like some villainous sorcerer in a novel concocting a cursed potion. Even Mu, bold as he was, had his electronic eyes flashing wildly.

They had managed to retrieve the iron python lizard’s scales, which met the requirements for repairs. But how to fasten those scales to the metal hull was another dilemma altogether. With no proper tools, it was like trying to cook with only rice and nothing else—having one ingredient was not enough to make a proper meal.

Luckily, Ye Chong was quick-witted and came up with a makeshift solution. Back when they’d needed to affix barbs to Winny, it had taken his father a fair bit of ingenuity before he eventually devised this odd, powerful adhesive. Its effectiveness had been impressive—despite all the impacts Winny had endured, the barbs had never once fallen off. That was the real source of Ye Chong’s confidence now.

Still, swapping the coarse worm blood for iron python lizard’s blood left him uneasy about the result.

Ye Chong stirred the mixture carefully until a faint sweet aroma wafted from the container. Only then did he stop. The alluring scent suddenly made him think that perhaps the stuff might actually taste good—a ridiculous notion he quickly suppressed. Impulsiveness is a demon, he reminded himself over and over, though his gaze lingered on the dab of blue liquid clinging to the stirrer, and he couldn’t help but swallow hard.

He took out two metal plates, brushed a layer of the adhesive on one, pressed them together firmly, then quickly tossed the pair into a nearby water basin. The blue liquid squeezed from between the plates turned colorless as soon as it touched the water.

Ye Chong retrieved the plates, dried them, and handed them to Mu.

“That’s it?” Mu asked.

Ye Chong replied irresponsibly, “I have no idea. That’s why I want you to test it.”

Mu tried to pull the plates apart. “Seems pretty good, but we’re dealing with biological and metallic materials now.”

Ye Chong grinned. “I already thought of that.” He produced the smallest iron python lizard scale.

The experiment was a success—or at least, as much a success as one could hope for under these circumstances.

Ye Chong fetched the largest scale, slathered it with a generous layer of blue adhesive, and pressed it firmly over the gaping hole. The opening was immediately sealed tight. Still not satisfied, Ye Chong added several more layers for good measure.

Mu commented candidly, “Your craftsmanship is absolutely terrible.”

Ye Chong, unfazed by the patchwork inside the cockpit, replied, “Maybe so. But just because I don’t understand it, doesn’t mean it isn’t a form of profound artistic expression. Should we add another layer on the outside?”

“No need,” Mu replied. “Without a vacuum pump, if we seal both sides, the air pressure inside could kill us during interstellar jumps.”

“Oh, I get it now,” Ye Chong said. “But what about the leftover scales?” He gestured to the pile on the floor—all the scales from the lizard, but only a few had been used. It seemed a waste to throw them away, but keeping them would be a hassle.

“I’ve still got room in my subspace. We’ll store them there,” Mu answered.

Sturdy as Ye Chong was, he seemed small next to the towering Mu. The two sat side by side atop the nearest junk hill to Ye Chong’s home, the pulse signal relay station looming behind them. Evening was settling in, and the orange light of the star gave this desolate planet a touch of warmth and vitality.

They sat in silence, neither willing to disturb the rare tranquility.

As the last ray of starlight slipped below the horizon, Mu spoke. “The energy combs are fully recharged. It’s time for us to get moving.”

Ye Chong nodded. The most critical task was done, but there was plenty left to do.

Inside the cockpit, Ye Chong found himself cramped—the once spacious interior now filled with energy combs of all shapes and sizes, leaving him barely able to turn. He donned his helmet. The outside world was clear as day through the visor.

Suddenly, he felt a pang of reluctance. He and his father had lived here for more than ten years. He knew every inch of this place, every junk heap bore his footprints.

Ye Chong let out a long breath.

Wherever he went, whatever he did—it was all just for survival.

He gazed deeply at the place where he had grown up. His voice hoarse, he said, “Mu, let’s go.”

Mu slowly rose into the air, then shot upward in a straight line.

Ye Chong watched as the pulse signal relay station shrank below him, growing smaller and smaller until it was no longer visible. He felt a bit dazed.

Mu’s speed was astonishing. The outer shell of his mech shimmered with a thin layer of plasma, sparks flying from the friction with the atmosphere. In no time, Mu broke free of the planet’s gravity and soared into the vastness of space.

Ye Chong stared into the endless darkness, at the radiant nebulae—soft red like gauze, deep blue like smoke, drifting among the stars, breathtaking in their beauty.

Though it was his first time in space, the spectacle held no fascination for him.

“Yezi,” Mu’s voice came, “activate the pilot protection system—the green button, third row down, under your right armrest.”

“Oh,” Ye Chong answered, following the instructions. A transparent shield rose from the seat, enveloping him completely. Curious, he touched the ellipsoidal, eggshell-like barrier. It felt soft and elastic, like some kind of colloid—that was his first impression.

Mu’s voice came again. “Yezi, don’t move. We’re about to accelerate.”

“Accelerate?” Ye Chong echoed.

“Yes. Only at a certain speed can we make a space jump. I have a forty-one percent theoretical chance of reaching that velocity.”

Ye Chong replied nonchalantly, “You’re in charge. It’s not like I have a choice.”

Mu’s engines roared to life, propelling them toward the endless darkness ahead.

What awaited them in the unknown beyond?