Under a bruised night sky, Salt Port’s container terminal pulsed. All twelve usable berths were occupied by massive container ships. Cranes clawed under floodlights, hoisting cargo for routes to North America, Japan, Korea, and Australia. Ships bound for Europe were scarce—chaos would grip that region for years. The cranes’ grind mixed with the salty tang of sea wind, as if the city gasped for the fading warmth of global trade. Mangled crane wrecks, scarred from the war, twisted grotesquely on the docks. Whether to repair or rebuild them was a dead topic. They stood as relics of that history, frozen in time.

  In the distance, StarLink signal towers flickered with cold light, like digital ghost flames. Salt Port was one of the few legal ports the U.S. allowed East Asia to access—a rare gesture of mercy from the civilized world to the Shenzhen Republic, and a faint spark of hope for the near-extinct civilization of the East Asian continent. Undersea cables were gone; the Chinese navy, using anchors from rusted cargo ships, had severed humanity’s vital neural network in the Western Pacific. Satellite links were harder to destroy, but control lay in foreign hands—who got access was beyond Chinese authority. The Great Firewall, once Beijing’s fantasy, paled against the brutal clarity of a physical blackout.

  “Victor” Chan stood with impeccable naval posture in the top-floor office, gazed at a twin-hulled missile boat cutting through the distant sea—the pride of the South Sea Fleet and the steel keel of his career. Even in sweltering summer, he wore a bespoke Italian suit, hand-stitched with double-breasted buttons. The building’s air conditioning was set to 18 degrees celsius, not the government-mandated 25, a subtle display of the company’s privileged status. This served as the South Sea Fleet’s unofficial embassy in the Shenzhen Republic, cloaked in unspoken diplomatic immunity. The fleet’s quasi-sovereign status, born of postwar pragmatism, mirrored practices in Europe, the Middle East, and East Asia, akin to the Sovereign Military Order of Malta.

  SouthSea Logistics was the lifeline of Salt Port, the financial backbone of the South Sea Fleet, and the king’s formation in Chan’s strategic chess game. Five years ago, he led marines in the Plum Beach landing. An anti-ship missile struck the combat information center of his amphibious assault ship, but he kept commanding. It cost him his right leg, yet he secured victory and earned the Medal of Honor. Under U.S. mediation, the Shenzhen Republic acknowledged the South Sea Fleet’s trade privileges, leasing Salt Port to the fleet for 99 years at a cost of $500 million. SouthSea Logistics stepped up, serving as the fleet’s window, anchor, and shadow in Shenzhen. Fitted with an American-made cybernetic leg, Chan seamlessly retired from active duty and stepped into the role of CEO of this trade giant.

  “Victor, the A3 meeting room is ready!” the secretary announced, pushing open the door. Chan had chosen “Victor” for dealings with Americans, a name symbolizing victory, though he initially struggled to respond to it.

  Chan turned, responding politely, “Good! Thank you!” As he walked away, he added, “You don’t need to follow!” before taking an executive elevator to the fifth basement level, a hidden floor carved in secret. The A3 chamber, sealed with submarine-grade technology including a Faraday cage and oxygen supply, ensured signal isolation for top-secret discussions. The oxygen supply, adapted from submarine systems, sustained the chamber’s airtight environment.

  Seeing him enter, Iron Skull sprang up with a crisp salute. Moving more slowly, Director Lin nodded. “Mr. Chan.”

  Chan nodded in acknowledgment, gestured for everyone to sit. They formed a triangle, knees close, and settled into a candid discussion. He cut to the chase. “Today, the Americans requested aid on the Soul Ore issue,” he told the pair. At the word Americans, Director Lin’s eyes narrowed briefly. A former captain from the fleet’s political department, he belonged to a known anti-American faction. His assignment as office director clearly carried the weight of a watchdog. Chan noticed, and his phantom right foot throbbed with sharp pain. He suppressed it and continued, “They claim Shenzhen’s flooding markets with cheap robots—not just robots, all kinds of smart gear—powered by illegal Soul Ore.”

  Director Lin nodded and spoke slowly, “Indeed, exports surged over fifty percent this year. The Commerce Department raised it last quarter, and you, Mr. Chan, called it promising—Shenzhen’s finally boasting high-tech worth flaunting.”

  Chan grunted in pain inwardly but didn’t respond, turning his gaze to Iron Skull. During the Plum Beach landing, Iron Skull, then a Commander of the Marine Special Operations, had fought behind enemy lines with skill and valor, seizing glory until shrapnel tore through his skull. To restore his cognition, the fleet authorized a treatment to Chiba, Japan, for a StarLink neural enhancement module implant, designed to boost reaction speed and data access. His surname, Tie, meaning “iron” in Chinese, inspired the nickname Iron Skull after the implant. The module boosted his reaction speed and data access, though it relied heavily on StarLink connectivity.

  Iron Skull strained to think, then blurted, “Admiral—oh, sorry, Mr. Chan—What do you want our security company to do? Just give the order!”

  Chan had already anticipated their reactions—loyalty hinged on proximity, but Iron Skull’s devotion was a constant, network or not.

  He sighed and said, “Boosting trade is great, of course, a win for our fleet, right, Director Lin?” Director Lin nodded eagerly. Chan’s tone hardened. “But we’ve got to respect the global trade realities and rules. What did we lose so much for when the trade war with America spiraled into all-out conflict?” Another sharp pain surged. He pulled out a tissue, wiped the sweat from his brow, and told the two, “No more grand ideals! The Americans are our key partner—and Shenzhen’s too. We cooperate when needed.”

  Director Lin removed his glasses, wiped them, and slid them back on—a tic when deep in thought. “Mr. Chan, you’re absolutely right. When you’re under their roof, you’ve got to bow your head, yes?” His words dripped with compliance, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of resentment. He asked, “As for this matter, what kind of investigation are you looking for?”

  His words hid scheming barbs: different approaches—some ripped through facades, others glossed over surfaces, and some shifted power under the guise of inquiry. Chan, trained at the Naval Academy as a commanding officer, lacked the polished finesse of a political operative. Still, years of tempering in the Communist military had sharpened his instincts to dodge traps. Lin was merely prodding him to set the course, ready to follow his directives. If the execution succeeded, Lin would claim credit; if it failed, he’d dodge all blame, perhaps even slipping in a backstab to climb over his corpse for a promotion.

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  “How to investigate?” Chan glanced at Director Lin, then Iron Skull. “First: obtaining situational awareness through recon! The Americans are worried—Shenzhen’s AI was useless, churning out gibberish like ‘Decentralized Tech Empowerment of Proletarian Movements’ or ‘Postmodern Consumer Culture’s Nonlinear Class Erosion’—total nonsense. So why the sudden breakthrough? Is it mass misuse of human consciousness? It’s ethically forbidden, a taboo! Digitizing consciousness is a gray area, let alone duplication and commercialization; autonomous robots must be driven by AI alone.” He found it almost laughable. Soul Ore was an open secret in Shenzhen—hell, even foreign traders and regulators knew, but for profit, they’d turn a blind eye as long as it seemed legally compliant.

  Director Lin added cagily, “Mr. Chan, HuaCent’s own AI was indeed a flop, so they’ve been snapping up Soul Ore for years. The acquisition price has dropped to ten bucks a pop, cheaper than ever. In Shenzhen, everyone—locals and foreigners—knows they’re using Soul Ore over AI. In fact, they are even mass-replicating Soul Ore. Their robot shipments don’t match population data, but the key is getting hard evidence. Without it, they’ll insist they’re using AI. The IT guy told me, the firmware on the motherboard looks the same. Unlike conventional software, AI and Soul Ore both operate within neural networks like a black box. Once compiled and encapsulated, they share the same file format. There’s no way to tell the difference.”

  Iron Skull’s face was clouded with confusion. His neural enhancement module was clearly useless in this signal-shielded chamber. He nodded slowly, “These past couple of years, they’ve been messing with some digital immortality project, supposedly hoarding piles of Premium Soul Ore. Then there’s this Chest-born Project or whatever. These guys are obsessed, like the ‘Classic of Mountains and Seas’ isn’t enough to name their crazy schemes. Who knows what else they’re cooking up behind closed doors? Oh, by the way, just got rumors—HuaCent’s put out a hundred-grand bounty for a hacker in Bastian. That’s pretty steep. Could we start digging from there?”

  A needle-like pain stabbed his phantom foot. Chan told the two, “I think Director Lin’s approach makes sense! Work out the details later and assign the tasks. Starting today, you’ve got three weeks to deliver an internal investigation report to me. As for the operation—code name: ‘Crossfire’. Top secret, keep it between us three.”

  The air in the chamber grew heavier. Director Lin steepled his fingers, a sign of calculation, and said, “Mr. Chan, that hacker business in Bastian that Mr. Tie mentioned—it’s stirring up quite a buzz. A hundred-thousand-dollar bounty! HuaCent’s rarely so generous to outsiders. Should we put someone on it? It might lead us to some clues.” His tone was steady, eyes sharp with probing intent.

  Iron Skull scratched the back of his head, the interface of his neural enhancement module glinting faintly in the dim light. “Admiral… oh, Mr. Chan, HuaCent’s headquarters is right in Bastian. That place, outside their compound, is a mess—like an insurgency hotspot. Black markets, triads, hackers, smugglers—you name it. HuaCent’s drones sweep the area daily, nabbing hackers like they’re rats. So why aren’t they handling this themselves?”

  The phantom pain eased slightly, and Chan said in a firm, steady voice, “HuaCent’s got plenty of enforcers, but what they lack is an excuse. Going public with a manhunt would be admitting Bastian’s got something they can’t control. Director Lin, you arrange a few people to dig into that hacker’s background—keep it low-key. Iron Skull, have your security team take a close eye on the port. Don’t overlook any leads in HuaCent’s cargo shipments through the port.”

  Director Lin nodded, the corner of his mouth curling slightly, as if calculating something. Iron Skull slapped his thigh hard. “Yes, sir! Not a single container at the port escapes our eyes! HuaCent’s gang, selling robots like they’re giving ’em away—bound to crash and burn sooner or later!” His voice sounded dull in the sealed chamber. Director Lin shot him a glance but stayed silent.

  Chan stood, ending the meeting. The heavy door slid open, a rush of air escaping from the pressure shift. Back in his top-floor office, he stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows. The nightscape of Salt Port burst into view. A freighter was easing out of the harbor, her bridge lights blurring in the mist like phantom fires. Through the glass, he could almost smell the diesel and seaweed tang. Heaven, he missed his fleet days.

  “Mr. Chan!” Old Ma’s gruff voice shattered Chan’s thoughts. The port supervisor strode in, sweat gleaming on his forehead, one of Chan’s trusted inner circle allowed unannounced entry. “Just got word—a Dafai speedboat was detained by the fleet near Snake Estuary last night, loaded with unregistered Abais, probably black-market goods. Should I… inform Director Lin?”

  Chan frowned, lighting a Marlboro as smoke curled up. “No need. Let the fleet handle it by the book—find out where the cargo came from and report back to me.” Old Ma nodded, hesitated, then whispered, “Mr. Chan, dock workers say Huaxun’s Thunder has been lurking, leading drones that sweep the area, spooking everyone.”

  “Thunder? Outrageous!” Chan exhaled a plume of smoke, his gaze darkening. He’d heard the name, a notorious hardcase. He paused, then said slowly, “Noted. Keep an eye on it, but keep it quiet.” Old Ma’s fingers tightened unconsciously, and he left with a nod.

  Chan leaned against the window, pain stabbing his missing right foot. His mind flashed to the Plum Beach landing war five years ago—dragging his shattered foot from the hatch, sailors’ screams echoing. He’d thought death was certain, yet commanded until US rescue helicopters swooped in. He owed them his life, and the fleet too. StarLink towers blinked, mocking his compromises—Shenzhen’s lifeline in American hands.

  “Soul Ore…” he muttered, grinding out his cigarette. The Americans weren’t after robot exports; they targeted HuaCent’s endgame. Iron Skull’s mention of the “Chest-born Project” parked danger. HuaCent knew no ethical bounds—they’d industrialized consciousness replication. If they advanced to splitting, reassembling, or weaponizing it, the fallout could devastate SouthSea Logistics, the fleet’s privileges, and the Shenzhen Republic. He had to uncover the truth fast, yet cautiously, wary of Lin’s schemes. That man might be entangled with the New Unity Faction or the likes of the Northwest Wind Plan. Chan had heard whispers of the Political Department colluding with northern factions, pushing for an East Asian Community of Shared Destiny.

  The secretary pushed open the door, clutching an encrypted tablet. “Victor, the Americans sent a new message, pressing us to hasten the investigation.” She paused, noticing Chan drenched in sweat. Untying her silk scarf, she reached to wipe his brow. “Are you… okay?”

  Chan snatched the scarf, a tight smile curling his lips. “I’m fine,” he said gently. “Tell them SouthSea Logistics will cooperate, but they can forget about me bowing to their orders… Oh, also, arrange an upgrade for that thing in Iron Skull’s head—it’s useless without a network, and that’ll cause trouble. Handle it yourself, and keep it from Director Lin.”

  His mind tangled with threads—port lights flickering alongside too many secrets. This chessboard was sprawling ever wider, and he couldn’t tell who was a pawn and who held the pieces. The secretary met his intense stare, lowered her eyes, cheeks flushing. “Mr. Chan,” she said, “the staff are whispering that Director Lin’s digging into you behind your back. You need to watch your six.”