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

The Devourer stopped 400 meters away, its headlights shining white light onto the double-layered gates of Station 58.

The upper-level door was still rising, hydraulic rods pushing the two double-leaf gates open to the left and right. The scene behind the door was gradually revealed—a standard old Blue Star platform, the light tubes were clean, supply boxes were stacked in two rows, the indicator lights in the medical bay were blindingly green, and the desk lamp in the crew lounge was still on. The announcement was playing on a loop, a gentle female voice with an old-fashioned tone, carrying the breathing rhythm and ending tone habits of real crew members on the Great Wall defense line fourteen years ago.

Welcome home.

The lower door remained stationary. The three-meter-thick blast-proof door, with its red background and black framed combat readiness markings, reflected a dark red light under the scanning lamp.

Wang Hu walked out, grabbing a handful of lime powder in his left hand. He first sprinkled a handful onto the upper gate. The powder drifted past the door frame, entered the upper platform two meters inside, was sucked in by something, curved along the air layer, and disappeared behind the supply box.

He walked toward the lower door. The same movements, the same dusty gray.

The dust settled on the door track, remaining perfectly still.

But Wang Hu noticed the other side of the powder coating—the side closer to the door seam—where the edge of the powder coating was slightly pushed apart. The pushing force was extremely weak, only squeezing out half a millimeter of powder coating particles.

"Positive pressure." Wang Hu squatted down, placing his palm three centimeters in front of the door crack. "There's air blowing out from behind the door."

Behind the lower door is a living space. It has ventilation, circulation, and something is running.

The broadcast was cut off.

It wasn't a gradual decrease, it was a sharp cut. The "Welcome Home" message on the upper platform stopped at the third word, and then the entire frequency band was covered by a new voiceprint.

The voice of an arbitrator from the Old Blue Star. Neutral tone, devoid of any emotional bias, with a consistent pace and precise spacing between each word. This voiceprint is used only at the highest-level stations of the Old Blue Star Expeditionary Force—no persuasion, no threats, only statements.

"Station 58 is a key transfer station. Train 001 can choose between two routes."

Su Yuan stood in the driver's seat, his right hand resting on the edge of the control panel, his gaze shifting from the upper gate to the lower explosion-proof door.

"Upper level: Hand over the key to the second right compartment of embargo box No. 005, the group has been granted full supply authority for the Great Wall defense line, wounded soldier No. 013 has been transferred to the medical pod, and all personnel have entered the inner ring safety zone of the Great Wall."

The arbitration call paused for 0.3 seconds.

"Lower level: Keep the key, group the impacts to the three-meter blast door, withstand the impact of three hundred tons, the path behind the door is unknown."

It paused for another beat.

"There is no medical bay behind the lower door. The wounded cannot be treated."

Inside compartment 013, the wristband sensors on both frostbite victims flashed twice simultaneously. Their heart rates jumped from 72 to 89. One of them turned to look at the other, and after less than a second of eye contact, the one who spoke first pressed the mute button on his wristband sensor.

The sensor went out. Heart rate data disappeared from the home screen.

Tang Lan leaned against the door frame of cabin 013, her hand resting on the protective cover next to the release hook. She didn't look at the two wounded soldiers; she stared at the loudspeaker.

Nobody asked which one to choose.

Simultaneously, the recessed areas in the walls on both sides of the upper gate lit up. Not lights—but projection arrays. Twelve holographic projection devices popped out from the wall recesses, the lenses turning to the track surface in front of Station 58, and the image unfolded.

Old Blue Star Database. Internal Records of the Great Wall Defense Line.

The screen title reads: "Station No. 58 Historical Passage Records".

Seventeen articles.

Each entry corresponds to a lead vehicle number, a date, and a selection.

The first twelve entries are all marked "upper class". The oldest date is thirteen years and seven months ago, and the most recent is two years and three months ago.

The projection then switched to the current state of these twelve lead vehicles.

The infrared thermal image is grayish-green. Twelve trains are neatly arranged on the platform at the terminus of the Great Wall Inner Ring Road station. The doors are closed, the windows are intact, and there is no external damage.

The window reflected a dark silver liquid metal light.

Crew cabin heat source signal: zero.

The last five are marked "lower level". Five dates, five impact records, five identical endings - impact failure, wreckage sinks into a sea of ​​waste.

The projection finally settled on the eighteenth line. Blank. Waiting to be filled in.

Inside the third compartment, the old mechanic took out a cigarette case from his pocket. The case was empty. He squeezed it twice, threw it on the ground, and then stepped on it with his right foot, grinding it in a circle.

"Those who went in alive all died," he said.

Control room at Base 04. The technician retrieved all twelve crew lists from the upper-level records. Names, employee numbers, arrival times, and the time of the last wristband signal.

The wristband signal disappeared on the third day after entering the inner ring of the Great Wall.

Without exception.

The old engineer's hands were pressed against the table, his knuckles turning white. He looked at that line of data three times, the green light of the screen reflected in his glasses.

"You beast," he said. Not loudly, but everyone in the control room heard him.

Su Yuan pressed the communication button. "Small fire. Twelve upper-level records, compare timelines. Key signal changes, lead vehicle occupant wristband reset to zero, serial number reuse. Pull them all out."

The low flame lasted four seconds.

Data is displayed on the screen.

Twelve lead vehicles. After handing over the keys, they entered the inner ring. At the forty-seventh hour, the key signal was copied—two heartbeat codes with the same frequency appeared, one in the original vehicle and one in the inner ring main control node. At the fifty-second hour, the original vehicle's key signal disappeared. At the seventy-second hour, all the lead vehicle occupants' wristbands were reset to zero.

A supplementary log pops up on the side of the 014 cooling compartment's old Blue Star data interface. Yellow text scrolls on the secondary screen.

Three months later, the carriage numbers of those lead cars were reused. The new crew's registration information was complete, their wristbands were normal, and supplies were in place, but the new crew's heartbeat was pounding—

The waveform of the small torch is magnified.

The new crew's heartbeat rhythm was perfectly synchronized with the synchronous pulse of the living metal cluster.

"The upper level is not a safe zone." Su Yuan's voice came through the communication channel into the control room of Base 04, into pod 013, and into the ears of the young survivor in pod 005. "It's the Key Harvesting Ground."

The broadcast continued. The arbitration tone kept repeating the selection rules. But Xiao Huo noticed something unusual—background noise.

There was another layer of signal mixed in with the background noise of the arbitration tone.

Signal source location: behind the upper gate, speakers are embedded in the ceiling of the medical cabin.

Using a low flame to separate the voiceprint, he peeled away the outer layer of the arbitration sound. What was revealed caused him to delay the analysis results from being displayed on the screen by 0.7 seconds.

It is not the old Blue Star system.

It is the consciousness of a living metal cluster synthesizing speech.

It's learning the arbitration tone. And it's very accurate. But at the end of each sentence there's a 0.3-second discharge noise—the characteristic frequency emitted by a dark silver liquid metal capacitor during discharge.

The synthesized voice added, "Groups that hand over the keys can permanently dock on the inner ring."

Permanent parking.

Wang Hu threw lime powder onto the upper gate. The powder drifted three meters into the gate.

Dark silver tentacles curled up from the cracks in the ground, swallowing up the dust and powder.

On the stretcher in compartment 013, Qin Yan's iron plate slammed down. Each strike was heavy, the sound of metal hitting metal piercing the bulkhead.

Tang Lan translated. Her voice was low and she emphasized each word.

"The underlying arbitration tone... conceals low-frequency pulses... twelve parasitized crew members... their combined heartbeats... have been rewritten into a synchronized beat."

Qin Yan paused for a moment, then struck again.

"It uses the heartbeats of the dead as a carrier wave."

Tang Lan moved her right hand from the detachable protective cover to the pistol grip. The veins on the back of her hand bulged, and she pulled the pistol out of its holster by three centimeters before putting it back in.

Su Yuan did not hesitate.

"The entire unit rejects both upper and lower levels."

The broadcast interrupted the arbitration voice loop. A new voiceprint appeared, the speech was faster, and the ending sounds were lowered.

"Warning. The lower-level impact must be completed within 300 seconds. If the impact is not completed within the time limit, activate the Waste Sea Sound. Awaken all living metal nodes in the 011 wreckage. Total number of nodes: 5,300. After awakening, spread outwards using the 011 wreckage as a relay station, expected to cover the entire area of ​​Station 58 in 42 seconds."

A countdown popped up on the main screen. Three hundred.

Wang Hu had already reached the lower-level door. He raised the wrench and slammed it hard against the center of the door.

The echo was extremely deep, traveling from deep within the door panel to the handle, making his hand go numb.

"Three meters. Solid." He shook his hand. "The door frame and wall were poured together as one piece."

The scan results are displayed on the screen. Door lock structure: non-mechanical lock. Six sets of piezoelectric crystals are embedded in the left and right sides of the door frame, and the crystal surfaces have a frequency response coating.

"Frequency lock," Xiao Huo said. "Six sets of heart rate data need to be entered to unlock it. The frequency range matches the heart rate data of the six crew members in crew 011 perfectly."

Qin Yan's iron plate clanged. Tang Lan translated, "The lock core needs a living heartbeat. The replica module uses mechanical vibration, lacking bioelectrical signals. The sixth crystal will jam."

283 seconds.

A new projection pops up at the upper gate. The image is a scanned view of the internal structure of the second compartment from the right in compartment 005. The label is clear: old Blue Star standard brass mechanical lock cylinder, 32 mm in size, made of brass, serial number readable.

The announcement, accompanied by visuals, stated: "Driver 001, please open the storage compartment, retrieve the physical key, and hand it to the storage slot on the right side of the upper gate."

The storage slot pops out from the right side of the upper gate. The copper-colored metal base has a smooth, polished surface, and the size of the groove is indeed the dimensions of a 32mm copper lock cylinder.

Wang Hu walked over and sprinkled lime powder on the surface of the storage tank.

The powder was swallowed the moment it fell. Dark silver tentacles surged out from the bottom of the groove, swept away the lime powder, and then retracted.

"It doesn't know what's in the box," Su Yuan said.

He didn't look at the scan image. He was looking at the data on the screen that Xiao Huo pushed up—the frequency response range of the piezoelectric crystal in the lock cylinder of station 58. Lower limit 42 Hz, upper limit 160 Hz. Pure heartbeat frequency band. No physical key required.

The living metal is forging rules. It wants him to open the box.

261 seconds.

A sound came from the direction of 005 emplacement.

Metallic impact. It originates from the inside of the boron-lead plate, passes through the sealant coating, through the lead shielding layer, and lands on the rail surface.

Three short.

pause.

Two lengths.

pause.

Three short.

The young survivor's hand bounced off the borosilicate plate. He took half a step back and stared at the seal on the second compartment from the right.

Wang Hu ran back, the wrench clanging as it was dragged on the ground. He crouched down outside the 005 emplacement, pressing his ear close to it.

The knocking sound repeated itself: three short, two long, and three short.

Xiao Huo's voice came from the communication channel, half a beat faster than usual: "Beat analysis—the first half of the combined heartbeat code of the six crew members of Crew 011. The frequency corresponds to the input range of the first to fifth crystals in the lock cylinder."

Control room of Base 04. Lu Mingyuan stood up. The communicator slid from his hand onto the table with a clatter.

The box is reporting its frequency.

The prohibited items in the second right compartment of compartment 005 are actively outputting the first half of the unlocking code for the lower door lock.

244 seconds.

Su Yuan walked to the real brain access panel.

"No unpacking."

He pressed the switch on the neural conduction interface. The 001 downgraded backup traction brain, recovered from Station 52, hummed from its cryogenic storage chamber, and the green light illuminated.

"True Brain output: Combined heartbeats of the six crew members of Flight Attendant 011. First five frequencies. Connect to the flight attendant identity heartbeat replication module. Target—six piezoelectric crystals in the lower door lock cylinder."

The replica module's copper casing vibrates. The mechanical code transmitter activates, and heartbeat pulses are directionally output from the cab speaker array, spreading towards the lower door frame.

A low-frequency pulse struck the first piezoelectric crystal on the left side of the door frame.

The train conductor's heart rate is 68 beats per minute. It is steady, slow, and the intervals between heartbeats are even.

The first crystal's green light came on.

The pulse steering second crystal. The assistant commander's heartbeat. Seventy-four beats per minute, half a beat faster than the commander's.

The green light is on.

Third. Fourth. Fifth.

The green lights turned on one by one. Five lights.

The sixth crystal.

The replica module outputs the heart rate of the sixth flight attendant. It is 71 beats per minute, with a stable rhythm.

The sixth crystal's green light flashed twice.

Not locked.

The lights went out.

"The frequency matching rate is 97.3 percent," Xiao Huo said. "The sixth flight attendant has an abnormal premature beat in his heart rate—it deviates once every 47 beats, with a deviation of 0.03 Hz. The replication module is a mechanical vibration and cannot simulate biological premature beats."

Two hundred and ten seconds.

The five green lights flash again, waiting to be released synchronously after the sixth crystal locks in. If the timeout occurs, all lights will reset to zero.

Wang Hu was already kneeling outside the 005 emplacement.

His knees were digging into the rail welds, his left hand bracing against the bottom of the cargo compartment. His right hand rested on the boron-lead plate, near the seal of the second cargo compartment on the right.

"Can you type it out?" Wang Hu said. His voice wasn't loud, it was muffled, "The sixth person's abrupt, uneven heartbeat."

There was a moment of silence inside the ward.

A drop of black condensate seeped from the edge of the seal and trickled down the surface of the boron-lead plate.

Then a knocking sound was heard.

It's not three short and two long.

Long and short.

pause.

Long and short.

pause.

Long and short.

It repeats three times. The middle "short" beat isn't uniform—the second beat is 0.03 seconds faster than the first, and the third beat slows down again. That 0.03-second difference is the premature ventricular contraction (PVC).

Wang Hu didn't move. His ear was pressed against the boron lead plate, and his fingers tapped lightly on the surface of the plate to the beat, memorizing the rhythm.

Small-scale sampling. Compare with the original data from the 011 copper recording.

"Perfect match. Premature ventricular contractions are precisely located. Deviation is accurate to the millisecond."

One hundred and ninety-two seconds.

Su Yuan unplugged the signal cable from the replica module and connected it to the manual beat input port. He looked at Wang Hu.

Wang Hu tapped the keys three times to confirm the rhythm. Then he extended his right index finger and pressed the beat trigger button next to the input port.

Long – Press and hold for 0.6 seconds, then release. Short – 0.15 seconds. Short – 0.12 seconds. Short – 0.15 seconds. Long – 0.6 seconds.

The pulse is output from the replication module and strikes the sixth crystal.

The sixth crystal's green light came on.

Flash once.

twice.

locking.

All six green lights are on simultaneously.

The three-meter-long explosion-proof door made a sound. It wasn't a hydraulic pump—it was the release of mechanical locking pins. Six sets of piezoelectric crystals contracted simultaneously, and the twelve locking pins embedded in the door frame were pulled out of the door leaf.

The door crack has changed.

The positive pressure airflow disappeared. It was replaced by negative pressure. The air that had been sealed for fourteen years was drawn in from behind the door, the airflow scraping through the cracks with a low, whistling sound.

The door moved.

The three-meter-thick door opens inwards, and the hinges make no sound—the bearings have been sealed with grease for fourteen years, and the first turn is silent.

Behind the door.

It's not a passageway.

Vertical shaft.

Vertical lift shaft. The shaft walls are made of poured concrete, without any coating; the formwork patterns from the pouring are still visible. It is eight meters in diameter. A small-scale scanning wave was fired, but the echo time exceeded the preset range—the depth limit was exceeded.

A hoisting platform hangs in the center of the shaft. Four steel cable supports bear rust from the top to the third clip, but the main cable remains intact. The platform is large enough to park a single train car, and its edges are protected by old Blue Star standard anti-derailment railings with brass plaques hanging on them.

Wang Hu read aloud the words on the bronze plaque: "Pangu Project No. 001 Lifting Section. Passenger limit: six people. Carriage limit: one car."

There are chalk words on the well wall. They are white, large, and written on the smooth surface of the concrete pouring. The strokes are bold and forceful, with white dots left by chalk dust at the ends of the strokes.

"We didn't go up. You shouldn't go up either. Go down."

The words of the train commander, number 011.

The lifting platform started moving. No one pressed a button, no one turned on the power. The automatic program started, and the platform rose from the depths of the shaft, the steel cables moving through the pulley system, making a steady creaking sound.

The broadcast has been restored.

It is not an arbitration sound. It is not a synthesized sound from living metal.

It was a cassette tape. The background noise was extremely high, with the equipment's roar drowning out the human voice. But the human voice was clear; every word could be heard.

Male voice. Middle-aged. Steady breathing, slow pace, and heavy enunciation, carrying the standard broadcasting habits of a tank commander from the old Blue Star expeditionary force twenty years ago.

"The key isn't in the box."

011 Train Commander.

"The key is a heartbeat. The heartbeat is ours. We give our heartbeat to you."

The static from the tape drowned out a breath.

"Don't hand it over."

No one spoke inside compartment 013. The older of the two frostbitten patients removed the wristband from his wrist; the sensor was still flashing yellow. He clenched the wristband in his palm and pressed it against the left side of his chest.

Tang Lan leaned against the hatch frame, her right hand removed from its holster. Her hand hung at her side, her fingers slightly curled.

Wang Hu stood at the edge of the well, his right hand still clutching the 009 hanging timer. The copper casing was oxidized and blackened, and it had become warm from his grip.

The entire formation fell silent.

The lifting platform has reached the wellhead. The platform surface is level with the lower threshold of Station 58. The four main cables of the steel cable suspender are taut, ensuring platform stability.

The broadcast switched to automatic voice. It used the original voice of the old Blue Star system, emotionless, and read word for word.

"The lifting platform is in place. Please select one carriage to enter the platform. Only one carriage is allowed per passenger."

Su Yuan walked from the driver's seat to the door. He glanced at the platform's area, then at the width of the lead vehicle of the Devouring Wasteland. The platform could accommodate the lead vehicle, but the load-bearing capacity of the crane was unknown.

He didn't choose the lead car.

"005," Su Yuan said, "005, the tail anchor carriage, is on the platform."

Wang Hu turned to look at him. The young survivor straightened up from the side of the 005 emplacement, his hand gripping the boron lead plate tightly.

The knocking inside the 005 emplacement stopped.

A half-second silence.

Then a new beat began. The rhythm changed.

Two long and one short.

Xiao Huo's translation came out almost simultaneously: "Understood."

The young survivor reattached the boron-lead plate to the outer wall of the cabin and pressed it firmly with his palm. He stepped back two paces to make room for the 005 unhooking.

Tang Lan walked to the protective cover for the hook. She glanced at Su Yuan. Su Yuan nodded.

The protective cover flips up. The coupling locking pin disengages. The 005 tail anchor car detaches from the 013 rear hook, and the 012 forward sliding block pushes out from the front, slowly pushing 005 towards the platform.

005 The wheel rolled over the threshold and entered the lifting platform. The wheel rim pressed against the old Blue Star standard guide rails on the platform surface, and the front and rear positioning blocks held the wheel in place.

The platform's load-bearing indicator light is on green.

The steel cable is being pulled in.

The tail anchor compartment, isolation box, second right cargo compartment, boron lead plate, seals, condensate—along with the knocking thing inside the box, all sank down.

Su Yuan stood at the edge of the well, the white light from his headlights shining down onto the well wall. The top of the 005's protective compartment grew smaller and smaller, its outline shrinking into a square in the light and shadow.

Deep inside the shaft, knocking could be heard coming from inside 005.

Two long and one short.

The sound grew farther and farther away, fainter and fainter, but the rhythm remained unchanged.

The scan data from Xiao Huo appeared on the main screen.

Bottom depth: 1,200 meters.

A small, operational reactor exists at the bottom. The core temperature is 380 degrees Celsius. Operating time: 21 years.

"Six years earlier than 011's death in the line of duty," Su Yuan said.

Text appeared on the well wall. It wasn't chalk—it was a projection. The font was dark silver, and the edges of the strokes had a flowing, liquid metallic sheen. It was a composite font made of living metal.

"Welcome to the true entrance to Project Pangu. Please hand over the key."

The sound of 005 being struck came from deep within.

Two long and one short.

It didn't pay.

Su Yuan stood at the wellhead, the cold white light of Station 58 above him, and the dark vertical shaft 1,200 meters below. 005 was still sinking, the creaking sound of the moving steel cables growing fainter and fainter.

He glanced back at the train formation. The lead car of the Devourer, the third car, cars 013, 014, 012, and 009, along with the mobile refining furnace, were all parked in front of the lower level gate of Station 58. Wang Hu stood on the other side of the wellhead, wrench in hand, staring at the line of dark silver characters on the well wall.

"Listen," Su Yuan said.

Everyone quieted down.

Deep inside the shaft, 005's tapping changed again. It was no longer two long taps followed by one short one.

The rhythm becomes complex. Short-long-short-short-pause-long-short-pause-short-long-short ...long-short-short.

The small flame receives the signal, and the analysis takes time. The waveform on the main screen is moving, and the data is being processed.

Three seconds later, the translation appeared on the screen.

"Once the platform reaches the bottom, drive the lead vehicle in. There are maintenance rails on the seventh level of the well wall. The width is sufficient."

Su Yuan glanced into the well. The top of 005 had shrunk to the size of a fist, and the white light reflections on the outer wall of the cabin were getting dimmer.

It's teaching them how to go on.