Copyright 2025 Old King, All rights reserved

  Foo-Shing Village rotted under Bastion’s electronic fog, a sprawling urban village where reckless deals thrived and dreams fizzled into static noise. The night market pulsed with chaotic life, its narrow alleys choked with black-market stalls brimming with contraband: cracked neural implants boasting faster reflexes, knockoff American prosthetics, crude but deadly, and glowing vials of synthetic fentanyl promising transcendence beyond death. At one stall, a vendor hawked “NeuroBuzz,” a cheap digital drug that hijacked low-end neural interfaces to jolt the brain’s pleasure centers. At 10 ChainCoin a hit, it was dirt-cheap but wildly unstable, with side effects ranging from neural short-circuits to vivid hallucinations or permanent brain damage. A junkie staggered by, his neural jack sparking wildly, eyes hollow as he rasped, “Colors… so many colors…” before collapsing beside a stall, his body convulsing from a NeuroBuzz overload. Overhead, holographic ads flickered like ghosts—scantily clad avatars murmuring about “SoulSync consciousness upgrades” or “eternal consciousness backups,” their voices mingling with the sizzle of soy mutton skewers and the acrid tang of motor oil seeping from underground server dens. The air hung heavy with humidity, reeking of scorched circuits and cheap chemical synthetic baijiu. LAPSS drones prowled the night sky, their crimson beams slicing through the smog like a predator’s gaze. Villagers crowded open-air beer stalls, clutching cracked plastic cups, their hushed voices nearly drowned by the hum of Shenzhen’s neural network.

  The Shenzhen Republic’s president had declared a state of emergency, his grim face looping on every cracked LED screen in Foo-Shing. His monotone voice echoed through the market’s din, proclaiming an “international terrorist threat” without naming the enemy—Guangzhou’s Revolutionary Military Government plotting to cripple StarLink satellites, Eastern Guangdong warlords allegedly colluding with HuaCent, Guangdong separatists stoking rebellion, or the New Unity Faction weaving conspiracies in the dark web’s depths. Another headline loomed: a military crisis in the South China Sea, with Vietnamese troops in Guangxi severing land routes to Zhanjiang’s port, effectively besieging the SouthSea Fleet’s home base. Panic gripped the villagers, who sensed the truth behind the chaos. “HuaCent’s covering their crimes, and even Vietnam’s in on it,” a weathered vendor muttered, spitting a wad of betel nut onto the fractured pavement. “Soul Ore’s vile—human consciousness stripped to replace AI they can’t perfect. Their robots keep breaking. Heard someone torched their factory last week. HuaCent’s furious, raided a cargo depot, but a costly victory. Emergency state’s just their excuse to crush dissent.” A scrawny man with glowing facial tattoos chimed in: “It’s Guangzhou’s crew, or Eastern Guangdong muscling in on HuaCent’s turf. Their smuggled legit bots can’t compete. Either way, we’re the ones screwed.” A slurred voice, numbed by NeuroBuzz, mumbled, “New Unity’s playing a long game, using HuaCent and Vietnam to oust Salt Port’s gangs. SouthSea Fleet’s caught in a pincer. War’s coming, no way out!” A drone’s blood-red beam swept over, silencing the group, but rumors and suspicion lingered like the greasy smog overhead.

  Amin wove through the crowd, his faded sweatshirt and worn jeans blending into the chaotic stream of workers, thugs, and cyber-junkies. Beside him, Kim Eun-hee moved like a hunter, her hoodie and tactical pants understated yet brimming with coiled energy. Her signal sniffer, a jury-rigged device cobbled from scrap circuit boards, buzzed faintly in her pocket, its micro-LEDs flickering as it hunted encrypted signals from Foo-Shing’s dark web nodes. “Old Li’s been grabbed,” she whispered, her gaze flicking to a drone circling above a mahjong parlor, where holographic tiles cast ghostly shadows through the haze. “ThunderVolt’s sweeping the streets. Red Lotus knows you, Amin. ChainCoin’s in place. Don’t mess this up.” She caught the tension in his clenched jaw, his fists gripping an unseen burden. She recognized that look—guilt, rage, a man teetering on the brink—but kept her focus on the job. In Foo-Shing, sentiment was a fatal flaw.

  They pushed deeper into the market, passing a stall where a cyber-surgeon implanted a HuaCent retinal chip into a trembling client, the air sharp with the stench of burnt skin. Nearby, a server den spat sparks from an overclocked rig, its operator—a kid under sixteen, his shaved head studded with neural jacks—cursing as smoke rose with the alarms. Ocean of Stars Haven flickered ahead, a dilapidated diner buried in the urban village’s heart, its walls plastered with outdated holographic ads that shimmered like EMP bursts frozen in time. The LED sign at the entrance buzzed erratically, a faulty transformer casting jagged shadows. Inside, the air was thick with cheap tobacco and sweaty feet, dim LED strips painting the battered tables and baijiu-strewn bar in a sickly yellow glow. On the counter, a discarded Neuropulser lay abandoned, its flexible circuits sprawling like Foo-Shing’s own decay.

  Red Lotus stood behind the bar, the unchallenged queen of Foo-Shing’s underworld. Cheap implants glimmered beneath her scarred skin, her right arm’s LED tattoo—a coiling dragon—pulsing with muscle-driven electricity. Her left eye, a cybernetic lens, whirred as it locked onto Amin, its aperture snapping wide. She’d carved her empire through betrayal and grit in Foo-Shing’s brutal underground, where every deal could be your last. Old Li had been her top client, dependable as a Japanese machine, until Bastion’s cops—or HuaCent itself—snatched him for a fatal misstep. Now Amin stood in his place, a pattern all too familiar; Old Li himself had inherited his trade from a fallen predecessor. Memories of past losses sharpened her caution. “Old Li got nabbed by ThunderVolt,” she said, her voice low, laced with familiarity and a survivor’s wariness. “Got some nerve showing up, Amin. What’s your move?” She leaned forward, her cyber-eye scanning him, cataloging every twitch, every bead of sweat.

  Despite the turmoil within, Amin held steady, his voice calm. “You know Old Li vouched for me, boss,” he said. “His business is mine now. Big client’s pressing, and I need his supplier to keep things rolling, loh.” Kim stepped up, her AR glasses glowing as she activated her wallet. A holograph of a forged Vietnamese order for 200 units hovered in the air, its text flickering with made-up urgency, projecting an 80-million-ChainCoin balance—1 ChainCoin equaled 1 USD, enough for 200 Premium Soul Ores at wholesale. The funds, approved by Iron Skull via SouthSea Transport, were tightly monitored by the Security Department. “Vietnamese are desperate,” Kim said with a smirk. “Cash. Name your cut.”

  Red Lotus’s cyber-eye buzzed, scanning the balance, her lips curling into a predator’s grin. “Old Li never touched deals this big,” she said, her tone easing but guarded. “Who’s backing you? SouthSea? Circuit North bosses?” She nodded toward the diner’s grimy window, where a LAPSS drone’s crimson beam swept past, its low hum a nighttime siren. Amin met her stare, drawing on years of running Old Li’s cargo through Shenzhen’s shadows. “Two years running for Old Li, boss. Never a slip. You know my rep, loh. This is me and her taking over his trade. Three percent commission, loh. Deal?”

  Red Lotus laughed, a sharp, raspy sound echoing off the diner’s walls. “Three percent? You’re dreaming, kid. For 80 million, I want five percent, or you’re back to driving trucks.” Her dragon tattoo flared brighter, feeding off her bravado. Amin paused, glancing at Kim, who nodded subtly, her fingers grazing her sniffer. He sighed, feigning surrender. “You’re ruthless, boss. Four percent, done.” Red Lotus’s smile deepened, her cyber-eye softening as trust followed the money. “Sharp kid,” she said, climbing the stairs. “You’re like Old Li—stubborn but solid. Don’t let me down.”

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  Moments later, she returned, her voice barely audible over the diner’s static hum and clinking bottles. “I’ve set you up with Old Wen, mid-level at HuaCent’s Bastion HQ. Cargo moved here in Foo-Shing—you’ve picked up from me before. Post-emergency, he wants to meet you at the ancestral hall, 11 p.m. tomorrow. Less eyes, safer.” She slid an encrypted chip across the counter, loaded with Old Wen’s meet details—time, location, dark web codes. “HuaCent might trace this,” she warned, her eyes narrowing. “Snitch, Amin, and I’ll plaster your name across the dark web. Bounty hunters from Changsha to Hong Kong will hunt you.” Her phone buzzed with an encrypted call—ThunderVolt’s goons or Old Wen?—and her face darkened, the dragon tattoo flashing deep red. “Move!” she growled, pointing to the back door. “ThunderVolt’s got a scent!”

  Back in the night market, Foo-Shing’s electric pulse surged. Vendors shouted over the glitchy thump of K-pop beats generated by HuaCent’s Soul Ore from a nearby stall. Black-market couriers shoved through, their cybernetic arms laden with contraband, eyes hidden behind anti-drone AR masks. Above, LAPSS drones circled, their red beams casting fleeting threats across the market, a sign of HuaCent’s tightening grip.

  Gossip spread like a virus, vendors and workers swapping tales over cheap beer and synthetic meat skewers. “One of ThunderVolt’s avatar hit the repair shop,” a drunken vendor slurred, his breath sour. “Alloy limbs, basic model. The depot one was packed with neural mods, consciousness piped into its brain—HuaCent’s dark tech. Most blew up in labs, but a few worked. EMP hit, modules fried, brain gone!” A thin woman with an AR mask leaned in. “HuaCent’s scheme. ThunderVolt’s got avatars for combat, deals, even PR—unstoppable. This screw-up’s got HuaCent panicking; emergency state’s their cleanup before SouthSea moves.” A NeuroBuzz-slurred voice added, “New Unity’s orchestrating it, using HuaCent and Vietnam to clear Salt Port. SouthSea Fleet’s trapped. War’s next, lah!”

  Kim guided them to a shadowed stall where NightOwl, a hacker, crouched over a cobbled-together terminal, AR glasses casting a sickly green glow on his gaunt face. His wiry frame was hunched from years evading HuaCent’s claws, paranoia his lifeline. A scar on his left cheek and deep distrust of strangers bore witness to his past. Once a NeuroBuzz addict chasing escape from hacking HuaCent’s systems, the drug’s instability had fried his circuits, wiping half his memories and leaving unfillable voids. “You’re late,” NightOwl grumbled, his voice low and paranoid. “Old Wen’s cautious since the South African president’s hit. Trades at the ancestral hall, buyers verified on the dark web. Soul Ore’s handed off there, crates glowing blue, smuggled via Salt Port overseas. Bastion’s Soul Ore factory and vault? SilverEye’s got them locked down tight post-emergency. Old Wen’s cashing in, but ThunderVolt’s watching—drones, snitches, even hacked neural implants.” He scratched his scar, a nervous twitch. “Don’t be me—NeuroBuzz torched my mind, erased half my life. Cheap bliss, paid with your brain.”

  Amin leaned closer. “Old Wen’s cargo—details.” NightOwl smirked, glasses glinting. “Premium Soul Ores, top-tier, extracted from high-end minds. One crate could run Foo-Shing for a month. Salt Port’s the hub—ships like BlackTide haul them overseas. Vietnamese love it; their CNC mills churn out robot parts, but Terminus AI licenses are pricey. HuaCent’s Soul Ore makes bots at half the cost. SilverEye’s got the factory and vault under cybernetic guard 24/7. Old Wen’s mid-level, maybe General Affair, even untouchable by execs. Cross him, you’re drone food.” Kim cut in: “Vault location? Entry points?” NightOwl’s grin widened. “Cracked dark web comms—mentions ‘SilverEye’s vault’ and ‘Chest-Born Project.’ 100,000 ChainCoin.” Kim and Amin exchanged a glance, waving him off. “Next time.” Her sniffer quietly siphoned his cache, confirming Old Wen’s dark web alias: “BlueWhale.”

  At 11 p.m., the ancestral hall loomed in the darkness, a black silhouette among Foo-Shing’s decaying sprawl. Cracked wooden beams bowed under time’s weight, the faded altar piled with incense ash and candle stubs. Flickering lights cast jagged shadows dancing on the walls, barely holding back the gloom. Old Wen stood waiting, his wiry frame draped in a dark coat. Years in the supply chain built on stolen goods from HuaCent had honed his caution, but Old Li’s arrest put him at risk of being exposed, his luck a fraying thread. He clutched a high-powered HuaCent jammer, issued for covert corporate operations.

  Amin stepped forward, voice steady. “Old Wen, Vietnamese order—200 Premium Soul Ores.” Old Wen sneered, his cyber-eye scanning. “Running cargo in a state of emergency? ThunderVolt’s scouring Foo-Shing. You chasing coin or death?” Kim projected the wallet balance, 80 million ChainCoin glowing in the dimness. “Money talks,” she said. “Where’s the handoff?”

  Old Wen paced, shoes scraping the brick floor. “Foo-Shing’s no good. Village guards can hold the village, but cargo can’t leave—ThunderVolt will get trucks stopped outside. Tomorrow, 10 p.m., the ruined General Temple under Tanglang Mountain, bombed out by the Americans. Don’t be late, or I won’t wait.” Kim nodded, picturing the temple’s collapsed beams and shattered idols. “How’s it shipping?” Old Wen’s mouth twitched. “You take the cargo, I take the coin. Transport’s not my problem.” Amin seized the opening, voice low. “Where’s Old Li? We checked Bastion’s precinct—no record.” Old Wen’s eye narrowed, his voice a hiss. “Cops handed him straight to HuaCent, no booking. He’s in the Education and Training Center, Bastion HQ. Loyal, didn tersely didn’t snitch on me. That’s all I know. Don’t push—both Discipline and Supervisory Commissions are sniffing close.” Kim’s gaze sharpened. “Bastion’s network’s tight, but I can crack it. We’re bribing him out—he’s our boss.” Old Wen scoffed, bitter. “Loyalty’s rare. Good luck. HuaCent’s firewalls chew up hackers—I’ve seen ThunderVolt’s work.”

  Kim initiated a transfer, 7.85 million ChainCoin—10% deposit—into Old Wen’s dark web wallet, embedding a forged log with bait code. The trap would lure Old Wen or his higher-ups into verifying the deal, exposing nodes tied to Bastion’s Soul Ore factory, vault, or Education Center. Her sniffer hummed, tracing faint signals toward HuaCent’s core. Old Wen, unaware, pocketed his phone. “ThunderVolt’s watching. First deal—don’t botch it, or you’re done.” He melted into the shadows.

  Amin and Kim retraced their path, the market’s electric hum fading at the village edge. Kim glanced at Amin, noting the exhaustion in his eyes, his shoulders sagging under an unseen weight. She knew he was thinking of Lili, his sister, lost to HuaCent’s tech and dark data trades. Her voice stayed cool, hacker-steady, but carried a trace of warmth: “We’ll find your sister, Amin. We’ll burn HuaCent down.” Amin nodded, jaw clenched.

  At the village gate, beneath a soot-stained memorial archway with a glitching LED dragon, ThunderVolt appeared, alloy limbs gleaming, backed by six plainclothes enforcers armed with automatics. HuaCent’s systems had flagged them, as they were there during the cargo depot raid, live feeds confirming their faces. “Old Li’s rats!” ThunderVolt roared. “Grab them!” The squad spilled from vehicles, doors slamming. Kim’s sniffer screeched, detecting spiked data flows. Amin spotted plainclothes closing in threes, his voice a snarl: “HuaCent’s dogs, I’ll end you!” Kim yanked him back into the village, diving into the alleys as enforcers crashed through stalls, the elk market erupting in chaos.

  They sprinted down a narrow lane, walls tangled with rusted pipes, ground littered with trash. Kim’s sniffer pinged, and SouthSea Transport drones rallied overhead, jammers disrupting ThunderVolt’s trackers. A few minutes remained before the village guards would arrive to drive out the intruders. A cybernetic enforcer charged, stun baton swinging. Amin toppled a trash bin, metal crashing into the enforcer’s legs, forcing him back. Kim tugged a loose cable, sparking a burst of electricity that halted another pursuer. “Run!” she yelled. They hurdled a low wall, splashing into oily water, the LED dragon’s reflection shimmering. An enforcer lunged, baton arcing down. Kim dodged while Amin fired an EMP pistol, frying the enforcer’s prosthetics in a puff of smoke. Kim pulled him left, toward a construction site where cranes loomed like ghosts in the fog. The green plastic safety net concealed the entrance, a musty smell lingering in the damp air. Enforcers closed in, beams grazing them. SouthSea drones buzzed above, jammers cloaking the site. Kim’s sniffer chirped—the bait code had hooked a signal from Bastion’s HQ. “We’re in,” she whispered. “HuaCent’s network’s cracked.” Amin nodded, resolve flaring. ThunderVolt’s curses faded as village security swarmed, forcing him out, but the chase left them on a razor’s edge.