The "Survival on the Train" game has bugs, it's really laggy!

Su Yuan's right eye shone brightest.

Within the tricolored vertical pupils, three layers—dark gold, pure white, and jet black—rotate at high speed, each processing different signal streams. Pulses from the motor cortex are simultaneously emitted along ninety-nine dark gold conduits, and eight hundred physical motion axes complete their final synchronization calibration within 0.1 seconds.

The hydraulic servo motors of the ninety-nine robotic arms emitted a uniform hum.

Ninety-nine scalpels fell simultaneously under the shadowless lamp.

There are no rules to guide us.

There is no concept to support it.

There are no super-physical means.

Pure, absolute, and extremely violent surgical incision.

The first second. Thirty-three blades completed the first stage of their cutting. The carbon steel blades advanced precisely along the boundary between the grayish-white sarcoma and normal tissue, each cutting path different, each angle of entry calculated independently. The neck restraints of the thirty-three clones endured the stress of violent struggle, the ratchet teeth emitting a dense clicking sound.

The second second. Sixty-six blades completed their cutting. The remaining thirty-three blades entered the finishing stage. Su Yuan's left-hand blade flipped four times in the air, each flip corresponding to a different debridement and replenishment path. The blade tip bounced back and forth between the deep root systems of clones 14 and 37, shaving off the two most troublesome code roots from the muscle fascia without leaving a trace.

The third second.

Ninety-nine scalpels were sheathed simultaneously.

Ninety-nine wet, slapping sounds echoed simultaneously in the operating room.

Snap. Snap. Snap- ...

Ninety-nine grayish-white fleshy growths fell from ninety-nine sixteen-year-old faces. They landed on the stainless steel floor, bounced once, rolled half a circle, and came to a stop.

The cuts are neat and uniform.

The width error of each incision does not exceed 0.03 millimeters. The cut surface of the code root system at the bottom of each sarcoma is smooth and flat, without tearing, residue, or even a single extra fibrous tissue still connected to the host.

The stark white light of ninety-nine operating lights shone on the empty wounds. At the base of the wounds lay clean, pink, normal human tissue.

There was hardly any bleeding.

Xiao Huo lay hunched over the control panel, his bloodied face pressed against the cold metal surface, one eye staring intently out the window.

His mouth remained open for a long time.

It doesn't fit.

Wang Hu knelt on the floor, his robotic arm hanging limply. He turned his head and glanced at the line of green text on a white background that appeared on the terminal display screen.

"99 patients, lesion resection completed."

"Resection quality rating: S".

"Medical malpractice: Zero."

"Surgeon 001's Assessment of the Procedure —"

"Impeccable".

Wang Hu slowly closed his eyes.

Then she slowly opened her eyes again.

"Three seconds." His voice was muffled.

"He performed 99 surgeries in three seconds."

The ratchet lock of the restraint strap automatically popped open.

Click.

Ninety-nine sounds rang out in turn.

The steel base loosened, and the polymer woven straps slid off the limbs and neck. Ninety-nine clones, now free of grayish-white tumors, slowly descended from mid-air, their bare feet touching the stainless steel ground.

They did not stand still.

Because there's no need to stand still.

The first clone to land looked down at its hand. The skin on the back of its hand, which was originally covered with gray-white code patterns, was becoming transparent at a visible speed.

It is not extinction.

It's a return.

The grayish-white outer shell peeled away layer by layer, revealing the original, unmarked, and faintly glowing initial data beneath.

Warm colors.

Extremely pale.

A fainter light than a firefly.

The first clone's lips twitched slightly. It wasn't the chilling smile from before. It was an indescribable, extremely subtle expression.

It did not speak.

It no longer needs to speak.

The gray outer shell shattered completely. The entire person transformed into a fist-sized ball of warm, soft light, which hovered quietly for half a second under the illumination of the operating lights.

Then it floated up.

slowly.

It drifted towards the bottom of the Devourer's carriage.

The second. The fifth. The seventeenth. The forty-third.

One by one.

The initial data from the 99th Regiment broke free from the shattered gray outer shell, forming a very faint warm-colored band of light above the operating room. The band of light flowed silently, following the gaps in the stainless steel walls and ceiling, and merging into the biomass resting layer at the bottom of the Devourer's carriage.

Xiao Huo tilted his head to look at the faint light drifting in through the car window. A few rays of light brushed against his face, extremely cold but gentle to the touch. His nose tingled.

It took a total of twelve seconds.

All ninety-nine clones disappeared.

On the stainless steel floor, only ninety-nine grayish-white tumors remained, along with ninety-nine empty, old hospital gowns still carrying the lingering scent of body heat.

Su Yuan glanced down at the hospital gown at her feet.

He did not bend over.

The light in the tricolor vertical pupils dimmed slightly.

Just a little bit.

Then it was restored.

He turned around.

Ninety-nine dark gold vines extended from the bottom of the Devourer, their ends not resembling fangs for combat, but rather standard gripping heads coated with a high-polymer insulating layer. They precisely picked up the ninety-nine grayish-white fleshy growths scattered on the ground.

Each one is individually clamped, with the metal clamps separated from the surface of the sarcoma by a 0.2-millimeter-thick insulating film.

There was no direct contact.

Physical isolation.

Standard procedures for the disposal of hazardous medical waste.

The vines carried the ninety-nine fleshy growths back to the front of the vehicle and stuffed them into the old, physically explosion-proof reactor attached to the pitcher plant's engine.

The furnace door was closed.

The sealing strip is stuck.

The indicator light changed from red to orange.

Su Yuan returned to the carriage.

His left hand still gripped the scalpel. The grayish-white bloodstains on the blade had dried, and the carbon steel surface gleamed with a dull, cold metallic sheen.

He glanced at the knife.

I inserted it into the tool slot on the side of the control panel.

Outside the operating room.

A 30-centimeter-thick pure steel partition kept No. 000 outside the surgical area. The gray-green military-coated surface reflected the afterglow of the operating lights.

Number 000 stood behind the partition. His white coat was stained with grayish-white blood. The fist-sized mass of fleshy remnant on his mask had slid down the fabric to his collar, leaving a long, dark gray trail.

His greyish-white eyes peered through the gap at the top of the partition at the screen showing the synchronized feed from the terminal.

Ninety-nine total resections. S-level rating. Zero accidents. Completed in three seconds.

He did not fly into a rage.

He smiled.

Laughter seeped out muffledly from behind the mask, so low it was almost inaudible. It lasted for about four seconds.

Then he extended his right hand.

The hand with the frayed cuffs of the white coat.

He pressed his finger on a physical switch on the control panel behind him.

red.

Knife type.

The old bakelite handle was worn smooth and shiny by time, and the metal contacts on the base were exposed without even any insulating rubber.

A purely physical switch.

There are no higher-dimensional interfaces.

Number 000's gray-white eyeballs were slightly raised.

"Medical waste disposal procedures".

His voice was very soft. So soft that it carried a sense of contentment in its sigh.

"start up."

Snapped.

The switch fell.

The sound of metal contacts closing echoed twice in the cramped space behind the control panel.

Then everything changed.

The change started at the ceiling.

The first to shatter were the shadowless lamps. The lampshades of ninety-nine old-fashioned halogen shadowless lamps exploded at the same time, and glass shards and filaments poured down from the 15-meter-high ceiling, crashing onto the stainless steel floor with a loud thud.

The lights went out.

The operating room fell into complete darkness for 0.3 seconds.

0.3 seconds later, another light appeared.

Dark red.

From all directions.

From the ceiling. From the walls. From underground.

The stainless steel plates began to peel off. Piece by piece, they detached from the frame, folding outwards to reveal the true structure beneath, which had been concealed for who knows how long.

It's not an operating room.

It never has been.

The operating room is just an empty shell.

Beneath the shell lies metal. Rusty, heavy metal walls, covered with industrial rivets and wear marks. Each metal plate is branded with repeated yellow and black warning stripes, most of the paint peeled off, the lettering blurred but still legible.

"Danger! Waste incineration tunnel! Do not enter!"

The wall is receding.

It doesn't shrink back. It flips over and unfolds to both sides, revealing a deeper structure.

gear.

Crushing gear.

A gigantic alloy gear, over thirty meters in diameter, emerged from deep within the wall. Its teeth were covered with pits and scratches of varying depths, and the gaps between the teeth were filled with crushed material remnants. There were metal shavings. There were organic slags of unknown origin. Some of the grooves also contained something of an odd color.

There is more than one group.

A dozen or so groups. Dozens of groups. Hundreds of groups.

From head to toe. From left to right. The density of the gears increases as you go deeper, with some being tens of meters in diameter and others only two or three meters, layered and interlocking to form a strangulation pipe running from top to bottom.

The ceiling disappeared.

Instead, a circular shaft stretched upwards to an unseen top. The shaft's inner walls were entirely riveted together from rusted metal plates, with a set of crushing gears protruding from the walls every fifty meters. The gears were not turning.

not yet.

But the preheating sound of the hydraulic starter pump was already emanating from deep within the metal wall. A muffled thud. A continuous, low-frequency muffled thud. The kind of foundation-level vibration characteristic of large industrial equipment before startup.

Then there's acid rain.

The first drop of liquid fell from the invisible darkness at the top of the shaft.

The droplet landed on the metal floor three meters from Su Yuan's feet. *Sizzle*—a black, bean-sized corrosion pit immediately appeared on the metal surface. Bubbles surged, releasing a strong, pungent odor.

The second drop. The third drop. The tenth drop.

The rain came.

This wasn't ordinary acid rain. It was high-concentration, industrially formulated aqua regia acid rain. The rain poured down from the top of the shaft, covering the entire cross-section of the passage. Dark red lights shone through the rain, casting distorted, flowing shadows on the metal walls.

The disguise of the operating room has been completely stripped away.

From beginning to end, this was not a sterile operating room for intensive care.

This is the waste incineration shaft of the Great Wall defense line.

Its diameter exceeds 100 kilometers.

Its depth is immeasurable.

It is specifically designed to crush and incinerate everything that the defense line deems waste.

Number 000's voice came from far above the shaft, and was repeatedly refracted by the metal walls, turning into a hollow whisper with an echoing tail.

"Beautifully cut."

"But who gets the cut-off pieces?"

"It belongs to the medical waste disposal system."

"Including the operating table that generates waste."

"Including the instruments on the operating table."

"Including the people standing by the operating table."

His voice paused for a beat.

"Including your beat-up car."

"Grind it all up."

"Incinerate them together."

"Discharge together."

The strong gravitational field was activated in that second.

It's not gravity manipulation at the level of laws. It's the full-load output of the physical gravity generator at the bottom of the shaft. The direction of gravity is straight downwards, and the acceleration is ninety times that of standard gravity.

The Devourer lost all levitation power in that instant.

The train was falling downwards.

The front of the car is facing down. The rear of the car is facing up.

The dark gold-colored car body rapidly descended in the dim red light of the shaft. The distance between the sides of the car body and the inner wall was less than two hundred meters, and the sparks generated by the friction of metal hissed in the acid rain.

at the same time.

The first set of crushing gears started.

The moment the hydraulic pump reaches its working pressure, the thirty-meter diameter alloy gear suddenly starts to rotate. The metallic clanging sound from the meshing of the gear teeth bounces back and forth between the inner walls of the shaft, creating a continuous industrial grinding roar.

Group 2. Group 5. Group 12.

More and more crushing gears extend from the wall, starting simultaneously at different heights in the shaft. The rotation direction alternates—one set clockwise, the next set counterclockwise.

Shear force.

Purely physical shear force.

Anything that passes between the gears will be torn to pieces by the interlacing rotating teeth.

Acid rain poured down from above. Gears writhed from all sides. Gravity pulled from the soles of our feet.

A triple physical deadlock.

The Devourer's descent speed increased rapidly. The dark gold scales on the front of the vehicle were corroded by acid rain, producing white bubbles, and high-temperature steam seeped from the welds.

Little Fire was thrown off the floor by weightlessness, his back slamming against the ceiling. His tail thrashed wildly, his six legs kicked erratically in the air, and his golden vertical pupils looked down at his feet—no, at the car window below his head.

Outside the car window lay a dark red abyss. The silhouette of gears spun in the acid rain, drawing ever closer.

"We're doomed!!"

His voice was as broken as shards of glass.

"Master, we're falling! There are meat grinders below!!"

Wang Hu's robotic arm swung wildly uncontrollably in zero gravity, and he was thrown against the side wall of the carriage. He gripped a pipe tightly with his still-mobile hand, his knuckles turning white.

"Old Su! This isn't a conceptual attack! It's purely physical! The laws of nature can't stop it!"

The sound of metal grinding penetrated the car wall and drowned out the rest of his sentence.

Slaughterhouse Command Center.

The terminal screen simultaneously displayed a dark red panoramic view inside the shaft. The dark gold outline of the Devourer shrank continuously in the image, surrounded by gear arrays and acid rain as it accelerated its descent.

The fire control officer lay on the ground, staring at the unidentified debris stuck on the rotating giant teeth, and felt a wave of nausea wash over him.

"Underlying physical destruction..."

The communications officer leaned against the wall, his voice dry and cracked.

"Irreversible. The gravity generator is a hardware-level device. The gears are solid alloys. Acid rain is a chemical formula." "None of them have anything to do with the laws of nature."

The adjutant's lips moved twice.

"Grind it into iron powder."

The commander stood in front of the tactical console. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning blue.

He stared at the train in the video, its speed increasing as it plummeted, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He didn't say anything.

Because there really isn't much to say.

The observation area of ​​the high-dimensional dark web.

The young elder lay prone in the pool of black blood, his neck tilted back at an extremely twisted angle, staring at the projected image above him.

He didn't laugh.

It's not that I don't want to laugh.

When he saw those shattered gears, a chill ran down his spine.

"It's not a law," he murmured. "It's not a concept. It's not some higher-dimensional thing."

"It's just gears. It's just acid. It's just gravity."

"The most primitive things."

He lay in a pool of blood, squeezing out a single, bubbly word from his throat.

"He's dead."

The afterimage beside him did not refute.

Inside the shaft.

The Devourer fell downwards at ninety times the force of gravity.

The car was upside down. The engine was off. The main control system was alarming wildly in the weightless environment, and more than a dozen warning lights on the control panel lit up red at the same time. The shrill sound of the buzzer was mostly drowned out by the sound of metal grinding.

Su Yuan stood inside the carriage.

Feet on the ceiling. Head down.

Even in zero gravity, the acid corrosion marks on his dark gold bone armor were still bubbling with white foam. His left hand was braced against the pipe frame on the roof of the carriage, while his severed right wrist hung limply in front of him.

His expression remained unchanged.

The mechanical left eye rotated one notch. Click.

The AM resonant slot emits two short pulses.

He released his left hand.

He flipped over in weightlessness. His boots landed on the control panel.

He stomped down.

The cover at the bottom of the control panel was physically shaken open, revealing a dense network of pipes and interfaces underneath. Su Yuan reached in with his left hand and precisely located a special cable among a pile of old hydraulic lines.

The cable is made of braided steel wire and has a rusty surface. It connects to a manual clutch mechanism that has been welded shut for a long time deep under the chassis.

Su Yuan gripped the cable.

I tugged at it.

Didn't move.

The weld joints are too old. The steel welds have been oxidized over time and are as hard as lumps of iron.

The three-colored patterns on the surface of Su Yuan's dark gold bone armor on his left arm lit up for a moment.

It is not a rule.

It was a purely physical, muscular output. The muscle fibers beneath the bone armor contracted rapidly, and the dark gold armor plates cracked and shattered due to deformation.

The cable is taut.

The steel wire braided layer emitted a sharp metallic friction sound.

The solder joint cracked.

Boom——

The moment the cable snapped, a series of heavy mechanical unlocking sounds came from under the front of the vehicle. Click. Click. Click. Gears disengaged. Driveshaft switched. Hydraulic valves redistributed.

The Devourer's control mode was switched from "Law-Assisted Driving" to a dusty, basic mode.

Fully mechanical and manual.

Something popped up in the middle of the control panel.

steering wheel.

Old-fashioned. Metal frame. Hard rubber casing. Polished to a shine, with old oil stains embedded in the grooves. An old brass rivet is riveted at the intersection of the three spokes, with a faded number engraved on it.

The steering wheel reeks of engine oil.

Su Yuan grabbed it tightly.

Left hand.

One hand.

The knuckles tightened. The metal frame made a slight crackling sound in the palm.

He glanced down at the small fire.

Xiao Huo was lying upside down against the ceiling—the ceiling in zero gravity was actually the floor. His face was covered in blood, and the alarm indicator lights in his core perception layer were flashing so brightly they were almost blinding.

"Switch to fully mechanical manual driving."

Su Yuan's voice was not loud.

But every word pressed down on Xiao Huo's auditory nerves.

"Turn off all law modules."

Little Fire's pupils twitched in the blood. His mouth opened. He wanted to say something. He wanted to say, "Master, you don't even have a right hand, how are you steering the wheel?" He wanted to say, "With the Law Module off, we don't even have a basic shield." He wanted to say, "Can we even get through those gears below using just physics?"

But he saw Su Yuan's eyes.

Right eye has a tricolor vertical pupil.

There was no fanaticism. There was no despair. There were no superfluous emotions.

Quiet.

It was so quiet it sent chills down your spine.

Xiao Huo shut up.

It kicked its six legs twice in the air, rolled over, and pressed its belly against the control panel.

The tip of his tail twitched three times.

Then his claws landed on the main circuit breaker of the Law Module.

"All Law Support Modules..."

Liquid slid through the golden vertical pupils.

He pressed it.

"Closed".

All the law patterns on the surface of the Devourer vanished simultaneously in that instant. The dark golden conceptual shield disappeared. The three-colored law circuits ceased operation. The negation force field returned to zero. The Devouring configuration retracted.

The train has become a purely physical vehicle, devoid of any super-physical attributes, consisting only of a steel skeleton and a mechanical engine.

When acid rain hits a bare car body, the rate of corrosion triples instantly.

Su Yuansong released the steering wheel.

Turn around.

He took two steps to the front of the carriage.

The pitcher plant's engine casing swayed in zero gravity, its connecting pipes rattling. There was a small door on the side of the engine. It wasn't an energy inlet. It wasn't an interface for the law conduit.

It is a purely physical refueling compartment door.

Old-fashioned. Made of cast iron. The hinges are rusty. The door handle is wrapped with dirty asbestos insulation cloth.

Su Yuan lifted his foot.

He kicked it.

bang——

The cast iron hatch was kicked open, and the hinge bolts flew out of the frame, hitting the carriage wall and bouncing a few times.

The interior of the fuel chamber is a circular cavity approximately two meters in diameter. The inner walls of the cavity are lined with refractory bricks, the surfaces of which have been baked red-hot and blackened by high temperatures. The bottom of the cavity connects to the fuel inlet of the engine's combustion chamber.

empty.

There was nothing there.

Su Yuan turned around and looked at the physical explosion-proof reactor at the front of the vehicle.

The furnace door is still closed. The sealing strip is properly engaged. The indicator light is constantly orange.

Inside were ninety-nine of the most concentrated base scavenger code sarcomas that had just been cut off.

Su Yuan walked over.

Pull the furnace door open with your left hand.

Heat waves surged from the furnace, causing the edge of the dark gold bone armor on his left cheek to turn slightly red.

Ninety-nine grayish-white growths sat quietly inside the furnace. Each one was covered with dense grayish-white coded patterns on its surface, which were slowly writhing and emitting a faint base-level signal.

Base cleaner code.

Something at the kernel level of the operating system.

The absolute rule that is theoretically above all other rules.

Su Yuan used his left hand to grab five pieces from the furnace.

The grayish-white tumor twitched in his palm. The coded lines tried to crawl up his skin through his fingers.

Su Yuan's fingers tightened.

The tumor was deformed. Grayish-white liquid seeped from between the fingers.

He walked to the door of the fuel filling compartment.

Five tumors were pushed into the feed inlet of the combustion chamber.

Then I grabbed ten more.

Push it forward.

Ten more.

Twenty more.

It got faster and faster each time. It got rougher and rougher each time.

He was too lazy to pick up the last few one by one. He reached his left hand into the furnace, extending his entire arm to the bottom, and scooped out the remaining tumors along with the ash and slag accumulated at the bottom of the furnace, stuffing them all into the fuel compartment.

Ninety-nine base-level scavenger code tumors.

Put them all into the furnace.

He closed the fuel filling compartment door.

Then I took a picture of the physical ignition switch on the side of the combustion chamber.

Click.

Piezoelectric ceramics generate electrical sparks.

boom--

The pitcher plant engine's combustion chamber erupted with a muffled roar that made the entire train tremble.

It wasn't a high-pitched howl.

It's a deep, resonant roar, so low-frequency that it can cause internal organs to resonate, the kind of deep rumble that only industrial boilers produce when running at full load.

Ninety-nine base-cleaning code tumors were encased in a combustion chamber at a temperature of 1,600 degrees Celsius.

The grayish-white code patterns twisted, broke, and carbonized in the flames.

Those foundational rule codes, which are invincible at higher dimensions and even the operating system is wary of, emitted a teeth-grinding carbonization crackling sound in the face of pure physical heat.

Hiss hiss hiss hiss hiss hiss—

The code is burned.

It burned into charcoal.

Carbon releases an alarming amount of heat at 1,600 degrees Celsius.

The information density of the base-level scavenger code far exceeds that of any known matter. When this information is forcibly broken down into the most basic energy by the high temperatures at the physical level, the heat released is tens of thousands of times that of an equivalent mass of standard fuel.

The temperature in the combustion chamber soared from 1,600 degrees to 4,000 degrees in three seconds.

Five thousand degrees.

7,000 degrees.

The extreme temperature limit of the refractory bricks was exceeded. The brick surface began to soften and melt, but was held up by some deeper physical structure. The core cavity wall of the pitcher plant engine emitted a heavy metallic expansion sound under extreme heat, and the entire engine vibrated.

The exhaust pipe of the Devourer protruded from the rear of the vehicle.

In fully mechanical manual mode, the exhaust pipe has no filtering or buffering mechanism, and what comes out is the most brutal, unprocessed, pure physical combustion exhaust gas.

Flames.

Dark red.

It is ejected from the exhaust pipe.

The length quickly increased from ten meters to one hundred meters.

Three hundred meters.

500 meters.

One kilometer.

A jet of dark red flame, a kilometer long, shot out from the rear of the Devourer, standing out starkly against the dim red lights of the shaft. The heat of the flame evaporated the acid rain before it even made contact, creating a dry vacuum zone hundreds of meters in diameter.

The engine thrust reaches its peak in that second.

Purely physical thrust.

Slaughterhouse Command Center.

The reading on the energy monitoring panel jumped for a second.

The communications officer stared at the number, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

"What did he burn?!"

The fire control officer halfway up from the floor, twisting his neck at an awkward angle to look at the screen.

"Exhaust temperature over 7,000 degrees Celsius... thrust output... how can the thrust be so high?!"

The adjutant leaned against the cabinet, mouth agape, and after a long pause, managed to squeeze out a sentence.

"He...he removed those tumors..."

The commander stood in front of the tactical platform, his hands braced on the table, the veins on the back of his hands throbbing three times.

"Base code," he said.

The voice is very dry.

"He used the base code like coal to burn."

The entire command center was silent for two seconds.

Two seconds of silence were louder than any curse.

The high-dimensional dark web.

The young elder lay prone in the pool of black blood, his neck stiff, staring at the thousand-meter-long tongue of fire spewing from the tail of the Devourer on the projected screen.

His pale lips moved slightly.

No sound.

The afterimage beside him spoke, its voice so soft it was almost ethereal.

"The 'base cleaner' code...that's something at the operating system kernel level..."

"He used it to power the boiler?"

The young elder's eye twitched slightly.

He didn't laugh.

He couldn't laugh anymore.

Inside the shaft.

The Devourer's descent speed suddenly slowed down the moment the flames erupted.

A kilometer-long, dark red thrust column withstood the downward pull of ninety times the force of gravity. The train's descent speed rapidly decreased from several hundred meters per second.

Then it stopped.

It is suspended in the middle of the vertical shaft.

The car was upside down, with its rear facing upwards. Flames spewed from the rear, and the acid rain evaporated around the flames, forming a dark red heat barrier.

But stopping is not enough.

The gear set below is still turning.

The number 000 is still there.

Acid rain is still falling.

Staying still is tantamount to waiting to die.

Su Yuan gripped the steering wheel with his left hand.

He didn't look down.

He looked up.

Above the shaft. The direction of the control panel where Number 000 is standing. That is, the direction of the entrance we came from.

Upwards.

Against gravity.

Against the acid rain.

Going against everything.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly and turned it sharply to the right.

The front wheel of the Devourer—the old-fashioned solid rubber wheel assembly exposed in fully mechanical manual mode—turned thirty degrees in mid-air.

Vehicle body offset.

The front of the car is no longer pointing straight down.

Instead, it is angled at a 30-degree angle towards the inner metal wall of the shaft.

Su Yuan stepped on the gas.

The pitcher plant engine's speed is increased from its peak.

The base, shaped like a tumor, continues to carbonize and release energy in the combustion chamber. The exhaust temperature exceeds 8,000 degrees Celsius. The flames stretch to 1,200 meters in length.

Under the oblique thrust, the front wheel assembly of the Devourer collided with the inner wall of the shaft.

The instant a rubber tire comes into contact with a rusted metal wall.

The entire shaft was trembling.

The high-speed spinning tires rolled over the metal plate, and sparks from the friction cascaded down from the point of contact like a waterfall. The screams of metal and rubber bounced back and forth between the inner walls of the pipe, superimposing into a continuous high-frequency whistling sound that pierced the eardrums.

The train stopped falling.

It started running along the inner wall of the shaft.

Spiral-shaped.

Upward.

The tires gripped the metal wall tightly, and relying on the terrifying thrust of the engine and the centripetal force generated by the friction of the tires, they began to spiral upwards along the almost vertical inner wall of the pipe.

Each rotation ascends fifty meters.

For every fifty meters of ascent, one must pass through a set of crushing gears extending from the wall.

Group 1.

Su Yuan turned the steering wheel. Sixty degrees to the left.

The Devourer passed through the gap between the two sets of gears. The sides of the vehicle were less than three meters from the rotating gear surfaces. The wind from the gears scraped against the windows, leaving white stress marks on the glass surface.

Second group. 45 degrees to the right. Pass through.

The third group. The gap was even narrower. Su Yuan turned the wheel an additional fifteen degrees to the right. The dark gold scales on the underside of the car scraped against the edge of the teeth. The metallic clanging sound caused all the warning lights on the control panel to pop up and then bounce back.

One of the scales was scraped off.

It spun around and crashed into the opposite wall, embedding itself in the rusted metal plate.

Little Fire lay sprawled on the control panel, all six claws digging into the panel's seams to hold himself firmly. His mouth was gripping the insulation of a pipe, rendering him speechless. His eyes were filled with tears and blood as he stared out the window at the constantly rotating metal walls and gear silhouettes flashing by.

He had only one thought in his mind.

crazy.

He's completely gone mad.

How do you drive this car?

Wang Hu was slammed against the side wall of the carriage by the immense centrifugal force, half his face pressed against the cold metal plate. His robotic arm was completely destroyed, the joints broken, and the wiring exposed. He clung desperately to the weld with his still-functioning hand.

His teeth were clenched so hard that his molars almost broke.

It's not fear.

It's because I can't stand the sound of friction.

The sound of rubber rolling over rusted metal is fucking awful.

The Devourer climbed wildly along the inner wall of the shaft in a spiral trajectory. A thousand-meter-long jet of flame trailed a dark red ring of light in the pipes behind it. Acid rain hissed and smoked as it hit the vehicle, but the speed was too great; the liquid didn't have time to accumulate before being flung away by centrifugal force.

The temperature is rising.

The speed is increasing.

The altitude is increasing.

The rotation speed is increasing.

The roar of the engine was repeatedly amplified and superimposed inside the sealed pipe, and the volume exceeded the pain threshold that the human ear could tolerate.

But the steering wheel was gripped tightly.

There was no shaking.

Wasteland shelter.

The staff officer was pressed against the screen. His nose was less than five centimeters from the display. His mouth was wide open, and the muscles in his jaw were clenched uncontrollably.

In the scene, the dark golden outline of the Devourer spins and rises rapidly along the inner wall of the shaft. Flames trail behind it. Sparks fly everywhere. The tires leave incandescent friction marks on the metal surface.

"He's climbing the pipes..."

The staff officer's voice shattered into fragments.

"He's climbing the pipes with a tire..."

"Relying on friction...in a vertical pipe...spiraling upwards..."

The commander stood by the table, his cigarette long since extinguished.

He stared at the train on the screen, which was navigating at the extreme between acid rain and gears.

Silent for a long time.

"The thrust generated by burning the code from the ninety-nine bases," he said.

"In terms of standard nuclear fuel, it's roughly equivalent to the annual output of two hundred stars."

"He's using the power of two hundred stars to burn tires."

The staff officer turned to look at him.

The commander's expression was complicated.

"This person has no limits."

The high-dimensional dark web.

The young elder lay prostrate in the black blood.

He's no longer looking at the screen.

He looked at the ceiling.

A hollow, gray-white ceiling.

The afterimage beside him whispered, "He's using the base code to power the boiler, and he's driving a car through the vertical pipes."

The young elder did not react.

The afterimage spoke again.

"How did the system determine that?"

The young elder finally moved. He slowly turned his head and looked at the line of white text on a green background in the corner of the projection screen.

"Current assessment of operation number 001: Compliant."

Reason: Physical combustion does not involve the application of any laws.

"The incineration of medical waste complies with standard procedures."

The young elder stared at the words for five seconds.

Then he buried his face in the black blood.

He is laughing.

He laughed so hard his shoulders were shaking.

But there was no joy in that laughter.

We have no choice but to accept our fate.

Above the shaft.

Number 000 stood behind the control panel. He had already pushed the steel partition aside. His grayish-white eyes looked downwards.

He can see it.

A dark red flame rose rapidly in a spiral trajectory deep within the shaft, accompanied by the piercing whistle of rubber crushing metal and the industrial roar of a fully loaded engine.

Climbing up from the abyss.