Section Eight

Ye Chong’s current predicament was far from ideal.

When he emerged from the cockpit, it was as if he had just been fished out of a pool—his entire body drenched, soaked through. But the aftereffects did not end there. He stared at his hands, apparently unscathed, showing no sign of anomaly, yet he was deeply troubled. The pain—it was an agony that burrowed into his very bones! Waves of spasms assaulted his mind, and despite his remarkable endurance, he could not help but draw sharp breaths, his face pale with pain.

Strangely, his hands displayed no swelling or signs of cramping; instead, they were perfectly intact, not a single hair out of place.

Mu Shang, after examining Ye Chong, explained with an impassive face, “The aftereffect of excessive consciousness usage. The neural segment in your central nervous system controlling your hands has surpassed the critical threshold between your consciousness and your hands, resulting in pain. There is no actual physical harm to your body; with proper rest, you will recover.”

Ye Chong, still gasping from the pain, retorted sarcastically, “Rest? How am I supposed to rest when it hurts like this? I’d probably wake up from the pain even in my dreams!”

Mu Shang replied, “I have a method that can eliminate your suffering.”

Ye Chong’s eyes lit up. “Really?” The torture of this persistent pain had left him desperate, unable to live, unable to die. Hearing that Mu Shang had a solution was like rain to a parched earth.

Mu Shang continued, “This method requires neither medication nor bodily injections. It is safe, effective, and provides immediate relief upon implementation…”

Ye Chong, eyes burning ever brighter, immediately interrupted the unmoving Mu Shang, “Then, then hurry up and start!”

Mu Shang paused, looked down at Ye Chong, and asked, “Are you certain you want to use this method?”

For some reason, Ye Chong felt a chill creep up his neck as he looked at Mu Shang, but the escalating pain forced his resolve. “I’m sure!”

With a sudden whoosh, a sharp blow struck Ye Chong’s carotid artery.

Darkness swallowed his vision, and as consciousness ebbed, his sole thought was—well, it certainly doesn’t hurt anymore!

Mu Shang’s calm voice echoed through the room, “Procedure complete.”

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When Ye Chong awoke, he could distinctly sense changes in his body, especially his hands. It was as if his body lagged behind his thoughts, the feeling awkward and uncooperative, nothing like before when his body obeyed his commands so readily.

Mu Shang explained, “This is due to the imbalance between your consciousness and your body. Your consciousness has advanced, breaking through its previous limits, but your body remains unchanged and can’t keep pace, making it feel slower. In truth, it’s your consciousness that is faster than before!”

Following Mu Shang’s advice, Ye Chong avoided the virtual network these days, choosing instead to train his body at home, focusing on his hands.

On a half-meter square platform, Ye Chong concentrated on manipulating six steel balls, his hands deftly flicking back and forth. His ten fingers formed a net, capturing all six balls within their domain. The steel balls darted rapidly, colliding and tracing unpredictable paths within the range of his hands.

The balls’ speed increased, sweat began to bead on Ye Chong’s forehead, and his hands accelerated to match. Gradually, sweat poured more freely, and his hands moved ever faster—a faint misty shadow appeared, growing in clarity.

At last, a flurry of sharp pops marked his loss of control—the steel balls shot off in all directions, utterly breaking his grip!

Panting, Ye Chong didn’t even bother to retrieve the scattered steel balls. The exercise was utterly exhausting!

Mu Shang commented from the side, “Though not impressive, it’s a decent achievement for you.”

Finally freed from the monotonous, tiresome steel ball training, Ye Chong suspected the whole exercise was devised by Mu Shang purely to torment him. Yet deep down, he held a great respect for Mu Shang. At least now, his hands felt truly his own again—and far more nimble than before.

Sitting once more in Winnie, Ye Chong felt elated. It had been some time since he piloted a mecha, and even the battered Winnie seemed endearing.

During his days of steel ball training, Mu Shang had handled all hunting duties. The prey Mu Shang caught bore only a single piercing wound at the neck, never any other marks. Ye Chong was amazed—Mu Shang was indeed formidable!

Ye Chong drove Winnie at high speed, skimming past one garbage mountain after another, while Mu Shang followed at a relaxed pace behind.

He truly felt his hands were faster and more dexterous than before, and in his delight, he recalled Mu Shang’s lesson on chaotic waveform jumps. Mischief stirred in him.

He abruptly shifted Winnie to maximum speed, his hands launching into a dazzling series of operations, performing an impromptu chaotic waveform jump!

Winnie, old and battered, careened wildly under Ye Chong’s control, tracing arcs both large and small, curved and straight.

Caught up in the excitement, Ye Chong even attempted a short-range, dense waveform jump.

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Within a very short distance, Winnie began to surge forward at full speed in a series of tiny waveforms. If the previous arcs varied in size, now every arc was uniformly small, and Ye Chong even attempted to shrink them further.

Pleased with himself, Ye Chong pressed on, determined to make the waveforms even smaller. Suddenly, with a loud crack, Winnie’s overtaxed structure could take no more—she split in two at the waist!

Alarmed, Ye Chong barely had time to call for Mu Shang’s help before Winnie’s upper half, like a meteor, shot into a nearby garbage mountain at extreme speed, burying itself deep within. Before Ye Chong could recover from the impact, the mound of trash collapsed and buried him completely.

Darkness enveloped him.

When Ye Chong—or more accurately, Winnie’s upper half—was hauled out from dozens of meters deep by Mu Shang and brought back into daylight, he found a rare mocking expression on Mu Shang’s usually impassive face, which greatly irritated Ye Chong. And when Ye Chong, sitting in Winnie’s cockpit, was carried home by Mu Shang, his annoyance reached its peak.

Yet, annoyance aside, without Winnie, Ye Chong had no mecha. Mu Shang never allowed Ye Chong to pilot him, and Ye Chong felt that piloting Mu Shang would be like wielding a broadsword before a master—a futile gesture, given their vast disparity in skill.

The loss of his mecha was unacceptable. For all Winnie’s age and decrepitude, she was irreplaceable in Ye Chong’s life, the most vital and indispensable part of his existence.

With no other choice, Ye Chong had to beg Mu Shang to recover Winnie’s lower half for him.

Staring at the bitter fruit of his impulsiveness, Ye Chong’s heart sank. Winnie was already an ancient mecha, miraculously surviving years beyond her service life. Now, such a catastrophic injury—fatal even to most standard mechas—left almost no hope for repair, especially in a place where nothing existed but rubbish.

Mu Shang, ever the realist, poured cold water over his hopes: “Ye, I must tell you a harsh truth—the probability of repairing Winnie is less than one percent. Pursuing such a negligible chance is utterly irrational!”

Ye Chong was at a loss, bereft of options. In his frustration, he dove into Mu Shang’s cockpit and plunged into the virtual network.

Mu Shang, utterly unconcerned with Ye Chong’s feelings, followed him relentlessly. “Statistics show you have eighty-six basic training subjects yet to complete. Here’s the curriculum.”

A long list instantly appeared before Ye Chong. He paid it no mind, walking straight ahead.

Mu Shang fell silent. After a moment, he spoke: “Ye, if the day comes when your skills surpass mine, I’ll let you pilot me.”

Ye Chong paused, then silently walked away.