She waved the beret guy away like smoke drifting off a street stall. Yekase slid the Jianqieli 21 into her coat pocket and sized up the old shopkeeper, his wrinkles like dry riverbeds.

"Boss, you even stock engraving pens from Huaxia on the far side of the continent. You must really love the machinist trade."

"So-so," he said, a sly glint flickering in eyes wrapped in creased bark. "It feeds me. Scarce goods are easy to pump. Sell one, make the rest rarer."

"Uh, you're not wrong."

Small talk hit the wall like rain on oiled stone.

We middlemen don't buy that! Yekase could hear the smug voice-over swaggering like a brass band.

He clearly hated seeing Yekase work the secondary market in his face. Jianqieli 21 is that "one less with every sale" kind of piece, a hard-core feel like steel under bare hands.

Most Western machinists, used to plastic and ceramic pens, can't stomach it, so it moves slow, like a river in winter.

A tiny market has no reference price. He likely planned to jack it sky-high and fleece the savvy buyer—me—with a smile.

The thin old man looked razor-shrewd, like a fox under the moon. Nine times out of ten, he'd do exactly that.

She tightened her guard, a frost settling under her ribs, and kept a warm, humble smile like a spring sun, a quiet apology for her little show-off.

"I need one guide rail and one coordinator. The rail from Germany's Bufon Works. Amplifier, any brand. You have them?"

"You're clearly not new. Why grab the whole trio?"

"Left my old tools at home," Yekase said, frank as open sky. "Didn't dare teleport them—afraid they'd break en route."

That sold him. He seemed extra pleased at the latter half, nodding to himself like a pigeon pecking grain. He set down his newspaper and started rummaging the shelves, dust motes drifting like tiny comets.

"Coordinator. You sure 'any'?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've got NASA's aerospace PSG. Perfect accuracy on mid-low bands. It went to the Moon with Apollo."

"Wh—"

"Just right for deft hands, rich experience—and a top-tier machinist pushing into a brand-new field, alone."

Skilled hands. Seasoned mind. New frontier. —Top-tier machinist.

That's me, isn't it? The words burned like wine.

"N-no. Can't. Cash flow's tight—" Desire surged like a tide; she chopped it down with both hands.

She was here for stopgaps, not upgrades. The ones at home will last two more years, steady as old oak.

"You can try it."

"A trial?"

"A trial."

She met his eyes, dark as a deep well.

"This is a retired NASA PSG3, right? And you just hand it out for testing?"

"Not 'just.' Because it's you."

Like a magician palming the moon, he pulled a locked metal case from under the wicker chair and slid it across the table. The NASA logo gleamed like a frost seal.

He opened the case. The coordinator lay in black foam like a blade on velvet. Yekase examined it, careful as holding a moth's wings, afraid her gaze might scuff it.

"Go hands-on. Bring your own sample?"

"Got it," she said, breath light as mist. "Got it."

Machinists buying a coordinator and rail—especially secondhand—often carry Infinite Power devices to test those precise little beasts right in front of the seller.

Yekase hadn't brought trinkets. She popped the magazine out of Dawn of Eden like drawing a swallow-tail from a sheath.

That palm-sized mag compresses six different Infinite Powers—though the Soul Power round had gone to Jiang Bailu as a token—demanding a precision that cuts like glass.

Ever since setting foot in Europe, she hasn't dared to put it in a teleport crate. Across Eurasia, that's juggling a bomb. She's kept it in that local offline space button, tucked like a seed in dry soil.

"There's a workbench inside."

"No need," she said, steady as flint. "I'll test by hand."

One hand held the magazine. The other cradled the coordinator. She stood in a shop as quiet as a deserted courtyard and began to tune, fingers moving like birds.

The moment she aligned the band, she knew it was real. Tuning slid smooth as oil; counts came clean as rain. The dual-layer knob had just-right damping; when it seated, the light click was music.

The free pointer danced on the screen with a drummer's pulse, bright as fireflies.

She tuned all five rounds, then set the Moon-walker back in its box, like returning a relic to its shrine.

"…"

"It's lucky it met you," the old man murmured, voice like tea steam. "It leaves its dark fate behind."

"Please don't," she said, hands up like shields. "I absolutely won't—"

"And you're lucky you met it. You can retire the Sigma040T you've used for three years."

"—?!"

He smiled, mild as winter sun. "That thing doesn't support Spiral Force. You're eyeballing positions and hand-tuning frequency, right? That outward-slipping tail trace is Sigma's characteristic drift."

"You pressed it well, but it still shows. I see you like scavenging e-waste. Push back three or four years—the hot 'new' retired units… that's the 040T generation."

"Master, put away your magic. I really can't afford it!" She almost dropped to her knees, heart thrashing like fish in a bucket.

Why now of all times—couldn't you tempt me one or two months later, after my paycheck lands?

"Can't you apply for school funding? Say you're opening a blue ocean for Spiral Force."

"It won't pass. I asked before. Not enough face with the board of trustees..." Her voice trailed like smoke.

"You know who I am?" Yekase's mouth twitched, a torn smile.

"How could I not." He sipped tea, amber as late sun.

Being too famous is a nuisance. Yekase chuckled awkwardly and glanced aside. The engraving-pen thing was just gear-mag osmosis. She could've played the newbie and scrounged more freebies. That ship had sailed.

"May I ask your name, senior?"

"No big shot. Simmons Rosenberg. Just a secondhand dealer."

Simmons Ro— Rosenberg? The discoverer of Spiral Force?!

Not in America making a name. Here, hustling as a small-time broker? The world tilted like a boat.

So that's why he spotted the issue with that Spiral Force round at first glance. At home, she'd wrestled that incompatible machine forever, never reaching perfection, so she'd never developed the matching continuous blade.

"I have two students named Rosenberg in my class. Your grandchildren?"

"Sort of."

Sort of… Her mind flashed to Ain and Dorothy, the siblings—faces all local, no trace of mixed blood, while Simmons was a black-haired, black-eyed Japanese-descended man.

Better not pry into another family's river.

Simmons shut the case and set it by the table, not stowing it, just letting it sit there and tempt her like a pear on a branch.

"Bufon rails are out. Interested in the Russian Bicorn?"

"Wasn't that puffed up by oligarch PR? Who in their right mind uses a dual-channel rail? That feature's nonsense."

"Shame. The Bicorn's pumped high."

"Then I'm even less buying it!"

"Speaking of Russian yards… the Seton line's old rails have gone hot lately."

Trap bells rang in Yekase's chest like metal on stone. She eyed Simmons warily. "How so? Seton is simple and durable, classic Russian grit. Good is good, but the flagship was limited to two thousand units. After the Soviet collapse, the plant died. Now it's mostly for collectors, right?"

"That rail can do a sinking circuit."

"…" The words felt strange yet familiar, like a name heard in a dream.

"Sinking… sinking? Isn't that—"

"The diagnostic circuit you used in your paper."

"Right! I made that— no, me and my assistant!" Memory came roaring like tide.

They'd built that before the escape. Looking back felt like another lifetime, a lantern glimpsed through fog.

Sinking circuits… Did the paper pull them into public view, make them fashion? Then an old tool perfect for them caught a tailwind, and the market went stormy.

But what does that matter to Yekase? She couldn't afford Seton before; she still can't now. Her own rail can fill a sinking circuit, just need to babysit the flow rate, fussy as threading a needle in wind.

"I've got one right here."

"No!" she yelped, a sparrow bursting from brush.

"Last night, on a whim, I carved a sinking circuit. Frail old bones, I went to sleep without pouring Infinite Power. Any helpful young soul—"

"I—I mean, I can help. Just a little, just in passing…"

What else could she do? For the progress of science, for humanity's tomorrow, Yekase shouldered the honor of assisting Spiral Force elder Simmons in making a sinking circuit.

Of course, with a Seton rail, cold as river iron.

When she came out from the back, the feel of channeling Infinite Power still tingled in her fingers, a soft haze rising in her mind.

"PSG3 plus Seton 99," Simmons said, tying up a bundle neat as a pilgrim’s pack. "Two hundred fifty thousand for both. Once you step outside, it's a price with no supply."

"Guuuuu…" The sound squeezed out of her throat like a kettle about to whistle.

She'd never wavered this hard, not even facing a strong enemy. This kindly-eyed old man… he's not human.

He's a demon of temptation, a creator of debt, a plunderer of futures, a sweet poison in a porcelain cup.

She came to buy stopgap tools. Why force her to gaze at temptations crystallized like sugar?

"—Your Flash Energy is interesting."

Simmons sat back in the wicker chair and lifted his tea, moonlight calm. He didn't keep pushing. For the first time, he talked about something beyond merchandise.

"Thanks…" Her voice fell like a petal.

"The will to evolve," he said. "Once, Spiral Force was seen as evolution's proof and avatar. But when the Sinister Organization came knocking, I saw it would bring ruin to the weak."

"So I left everything I'd built in America and came here, like a bird leaving a burning forest."

"So Spiral Force research stayed lukewarm all these years… because of that?" Yekase asked, thoughts flowing like a dim river.

"Mm."

While she pondered, Simmons already had the two items bagged, paper crinkling like dry leaves.

"For Super-series Infinite Power, the entry gate seems set by the first discoverer's subconscious. The observer shapes them into what we know."

"I've always wanted to ask: what gate did you give Spiral Force?"

Simmons didn't look regretful, nor proud. His thin frame wedged between shelf and counter—no trace of the magazine-photo swagger—yet it still commanded respect like a weathered pine.

"The will to break the status quo and step forward," he said, voice steady as a drum.