Rex didn't look back—he bolted while the chaos raged. Let the chief's precious grandson handle this mess. Most of the men down there are his family's hired thugs anyway. Fewer mouths to feed if they don't make it back.

  He knew the truth: if those men all died in the caverns, his feud with the chief would become blood-deep.

  Heh. Here's hoping those seven idiot councilors grow a spine and check the chief's power. Makes leaving easier if Shipwreck Village isn't a one-man kingdom anymore.

  Behind him, explosions and roars merged into a single thunder. He tightened his pack and melted into the darkness.

  He ran fifteen kilometers without stopping. Either side winning meant danger for him. In Rex's view, these people had no respect for life. Parents gave you one chance to walk this world—why waste it serving as the chief's slave, only to end up fertilizer in the sand? Not worth it.

  Rare wisdom for someone so young. Proof that his dead parents had raised him right. At least Rex was still alive. And getting stronger.

  Another fifteen hours of forced march. His pack's weight halved, his body upgraded, he still had reserves when he reached the northern sector. He gathered edible mushrooms along the way, but rationed the honey-spore mushrooms—two-thirds had to survive for trade at the oasis.

  He'd survived worse than missing meals. Water was harder to find, so he worked harder. The traction beam saved him, letting him raid cliff faces for rare moss that tasted surprisingly decent.

  Humans were omnivores. Sky, water, ground—everything was food. If gene-tuning's only downside was hunger, its benefits magnified that cost a thousandfold. By day seven, he scaled hundred-meter cliffs barehanded without strain. His strength matched the village blacksmith's. Most of his scars faded. He carried himself differently.

  Seventeen days blurred past. One scorpion encounter, nothing else. Plenty of stamina for running—threats lost him within minutes. He felt invincible.

  He couldn't imagine what three full gene-tuning sessions would achieve. His vision, senses, smell, physical capacity—all elevated beyond that dirt-scrabble Shipwreck boy he'd been.

  Youth meant dreams and defiance. Maybe confidence drove him now, but he burned to test himself against the world beyond.

  He was done with the rat's life, scurrying through endless tunnels. Now he had the credentials to walk the open desert. Honey-spore mushrooms and medicinal leaves—enough seed capital to build something. To fight for his future.

  Right. First, scout the village. The caravan should be gone. Touch base with the forge quietly—Uncle Blacksmith will help.

  Half a day to find the right path. He returned to the shipwreck's belly dusty and spent. The gerbils had paid dearly defending their territory—destruction everywhere. His four-year room lay in ruins. Rage flared.

  "Light-brain, you there? Respond."

  Silence. His eyes burned wet. The AI had been rigid, but a true teacher and friend. Four years without its voice would have been emptier.

  He clenched his fists, wanted to storm out and hurt someone. Useless. One destroyed terminal didn't mean system-wide failure. He'd find another access point. Intelligence first.

  He set up his micro-searchlight and cleared debris. Soon he found the jack—hidden, untouched.

  He pulled headphones from his pack. Heavy static at first, then clearer after tuning. Rex waited with patience he didn't feel. Eventually, voices emerged.

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  "Father, the village is restless. Little Seven barely escaped with his life. You can't send more men."

  "What? Questioning my decisions? That's the legendary Scorpion King. Kill it, and our family emigrates to a resource world—my life's dream. You want descendants breaking their backs in dirt like us, ending up buried in random sand? What's wrong with you? I'd sacrifice the entire village if I had to."

  Silence. Then: "Resource worlds mean poverty. In Shipwreck Village, no one dares cross us. Little Seven lost the particle grenade launcher. Even wounded, that Scorpion King won't die easy. Father, swallow your ambition. Better rooster's head than phoenix's tail. Without absolute strength, I oppose emigration."

  The chief exploded: "You—you'd kill me with this stubbornness? The councilors don't know we took the launcher underground. If they learn that, rally the village to depose me—think about that! The arrow's nocked. I must strike first."

  "That... losing the launcher complicates things. But we have other weapons. We don't need to—"

  Father and son argued. Rex learned plenty. The chief's grandson had survived the Scorpion King's territory, but lost the village's sacred weapon. The chief obsessed over emigrating—not wrong in itself, but building his dream on others' bones was.

  Rex packed quickly. He had to spread word. Clearly, the chief planned to manipulate villagers into hunting the Scorpion King, using the lost weapon as bait.

  For a veteran eavesdropper like Rex, the chief's tricks were obvious. Pity about the particle grenade launcher. Its existence had kept outsiders cautious.

  The shipwreck was a labyrinth. Rex entered ancient ventilation shafts, crawled long minutes, kicked through grates, and emerged.

  "Who's there!" a voice called.

  "Me. Rex. Uncle Gao?"

  A figure approached through dim light—Gao, the councilor who'd tipped off Chairman Brax.

  "Knew you weren't dead, kid. Been circling this area for days. What's the word from the chief's house?"

  Gao was a sly old fox, eyeing the chief's seat for years. Rex's successful wiretapping owed much to him—an inside man.

  "Bad. The chief's men took heavy losses in the caverns. Lost the particle grenade launcher, hit something nasty. High probability he'll rally villagers to recover the weapon. Chance to depose him. Uncle Gao, has the caravan left?"

  Rex wouldn't show his full hand. Long dealings with Gao taught him the man's nature. Gao as chief might just become another tyrant. Ambition looked the same on everyone.

  Gao hissed, furious: "What? That fool lost our sacred weapon? Wastrel. Triple-damned idiot. Without serious firepower, the village is vulnerable! I must meet other councilors immediately. Demand answers."

  "Wait—you didn't answer my question."

  "Right, right, see how rushed I am! Caravan left ten days back, in a hurry. Kid, your intel is gold. If I'm elected chief, you'll be rewarded."

  Gao vanished. Rex relaxed instantly. With that old fox leading the charge, the chief would suffer. Hands in pockets, he strolled through corridors, climbed to a ruined platform, headed for the forge.

  The forge was interesting—more than tools, more than trade. A third power, independent of chief and council. Tiny but complete. Shipwreck Village: a micro-kingdom standing a thousand years in the deep desert.

  No time for sentiment. Post-tuning speed carried him across the vast platform effortlessly. Moments later, he reached his destination. Front door meant witnesses. He entered through the alley's rear.

  "Well, well. Look who crawled in. Dear Rex, dear nephew. Heard you made the chief's family eat dirt. Humiliated them. Did your uncle proud."

  The middle-aged man wiped machine oil with a rag. He was adjusting a water pump. The forge's back saw few visitors—front staff handled customers.

  "You're joking, Uncle Blacksmith. Truth is, I'm running. Played too hard. Chief overreacted, lost men, maybe lost the sacred weapon too."

  "The particle grenade launcher? Explain. Now."

  Surprise flickered across the blacksmith's face, then steadied. He'd seen worlds beyond—joined major caravans, reached the Antarctic, lived three months in an Inuit settlement. He'd witnessed the launcher's power. Less impressive than legend suggested.

  "Details are fuzzy. I'm here for supplies, plus anything interesting. Trading honey-spore mushrooms—interested?"

  "Honey-spore mushrooms? Show me. Now."

  The blacksmith forgot the launcher. His eyes lit with hunger. Mycelium was common; spores were priceless. High-grade mycelium meant nothing next to honey-spore mushrooms.

  Rex smiled, laid a dozen spores on the table, and browsed travel gear.

  He selected: marching pack, night-vision goggles, machete, field tent, miscellaneous items.

  Returning, Rex said: "Uncle, I need two bio-camels at the village gate by morning. You equip me, I pay in spores. Deal?"

  "No problem. Tomorrow, dawn. Bio-camels are scarce—one adult, one juvenile?"

  "Your reputation is solid. See you at sunrise."