An unnamed eeriness spread over them like mist across stone. As they all stepped into the “cold storage,” the metal door behind them snapped shut like a guillotine. No matter how Xun Xun pounded, it stayed mute as rock.

The bodyguards itched to demand what the ticket clerk meant, sparks on their tongues, but the boss had warned them—don’t offend the staff here, or stir a storm.

Even an ordinary employee outweighed the two of them, like gold to gravel. Dismantle the guards and sell the parts, they still wouldn’t match one worker.

Xun Xun had planned to slip out the front while they haggled over the Mechanical Arm, like a fish darting for a gap. He hadn’t expected the damned ticket clerk to seal the road so clean, like ice over a river. Now one path remained, a narrow lane breathing cold, and he had to follow it like a leaf in winter.

The ticket clerk handed Xun Xun and the guards three protective suits, shells like winter glass. Inside, they kept body heat like banked coals, and filtered most toxic gases and foul scents like a sieve of snow. Their defense matched the Magic Layer of First Symphony, a protective suit a step ahead of its time.

Unease flickered first, then habit steadied his hands like a metronome. Xun Xun suited up as instructed, then followed the clerk—also suited—into a narrow passage, a throat of steel. They hadn’t walked a hundred steps, yet door after door opened and shut like scales on a serpent. He thought the security here was tight as layered armor.

The last door opened like an eyelid. A cavernous space bloomed before him like a hidden valley. Hard to imagine the manpower and money to carve this out beneath the earth, a mountain turned hollow. Precision machines stood like a forest of metal, and white coats moved like herons among reeds. The price of it all was no small number. This group wasn’t bluffing—no wonder it was the largest Modification Center in District Twenty One.

The ticket clerk handed off to a white coat without a suit and rushed off like a gust. Xun Xun guessed she wanted to get back to her post and slack off, a cat in the sun; after all, few people came to the park at this hour.

Hello, the newcomer said, voice steady as a scalpel. I’m the cutter here—you can think of me as the surgeon. I’ll help you choose the Mechanical Arm you want.

The surgeon’s gaze seemed to see through his suit like rain through paper. She kept staring at Xun Xun’s right arm, as if she knew sludge had chewed it and a Mechanical Arm would take its place.

As if reading his thoughts like a calm pond, the surgeon keyed in a code with a smile and spoke unhurriedly. I’ve seen plenty of patients. Your left and right don’t move in sync—your hand’s got problems. Your right stays clenched. I’d bet your right is the one that’s gone bad.

A chill bloomed in him like frost across glass. Her deduction was spot on despite the suit and his careful movements. Were the doctors here all this sharp?

A metal door opened. Rows of Mechanical Arms lined both sides in glass counters, the in-case lights shedding a cold gleam like winter fish scales.

This model is the 990x steam-powered arm, she said, words clicking like gears. It converts fossil fuels into steam. Downside: it gulps fuel and takes long to charge. Upside: it hits hard and costs less.

His heart stayed flat as a lake, but his head turned anyway, pulled by the price tag like a red stamp: two million. A steam Mechanical Arm for that much? He still looked twice, eyes snagged like hooks.

The guards beside him shook their heads like dogs shedding rain. The father’s order was to pick the best, money like water. Steam arms were old stock; cheap, but the rust showed.

Their own bodies ran on steam mods; they regretted that choice like a bad tattoo. Naturally, they moved on to the next.

The next is the 2100t electric Mechanical Arm, she said, voice bright as a filament. Lighter than the last, as the name says, it runs on electricity. Its endurance is average, and its combat power is weak. But power is easy to find. It’s a solid arm for daily use.

A gentle hope rose in him like a small flame cupped in palms. He looked at the slim arm under glass; every component caught his eye like star glints. He didn’t crave combat. To him, this fit.

The guards thought otherwise, iron weighing down paper kites. His father walked both black and white roads, so the family needed force. The arm fit today, not the road ahead.

The surgeon sensed it like a fox sniffing wind. These three were big clients. The two guards held the reins, and money meant little. She hurried them past the rest, display after display like waves. Each model bore multiple flaws. The guards dismissed them all with words like blades.

Frustration pooled in him like stagnant water. In Xun Xun’s eyes, most were fine; the flaws fell within the lines. What should’ve taken minutes dragged half an hour, dusk that wouldn’t fall.

He saw silicone bionic arms, touch like his own skin, only cold as jade. He saw exoskeletal power arms, the steam tradition perfected, heavy as anchors—their only sin.

The guards still weren’t satisfied, winter clouds refusing to break. The surgeon brought out her trump card. She pressed a button in her pocket, careful as threading a needle. A platform rose in the room’s center like a stage from the sea.

This was developed with the Seeker’s tech, a magitech Mechanical Arm, she said, pride like a lantern. It can perform ultra-fine operations. It looks like an ordinary arm, but activate the runes and it can easily defeat First Symphony, and it can even contest Cantata Two.

She paused; as she spoke, her eyes brightened like stars on black water, as if her own sweat lived in that arm.

Its endurance, power, and build stand above all other arms, a hawk over sparrows. The only flaw: it runs on Magic Stones, which burn money, and it’s costly to make. Most important, we don’t hold the rights.

I’ve got a recording.

She took a button from her pocket and tapped play. A hidden projector painted a blue screen in the air like a frozen lake. The footage was first-person. The wearer had this arm, gleaming like a wet blade. The foe was a Magic Maiden with gray-white hair, her face blurred like fog, Crimson flame cupped in her hand.

A prickle of recognition ran through him like an ant trail. He felt he’d seen her recently—a Magic Maiden who used flame. The color differed, but the silhouette matched.

She seemed outmatched by the first-person view; the arm was fierce beyond measure, thunder in a closed room. Yet she wasn’t alone. Invisible wind blades skimmed the wearer, leaving shallow cuts like grass across skin.

Five minutes rolled by like beads on a string. Even two-on-one, the arm didn’t fall behind. The two guards all but drooled, wolves at a pen. Magic Stones were a problem, but not for Xun Xun’s father.

That arm won their hearts like fire in winter. One guard pulled the surgeon aside to talk, his voice rustling like reeds. They wanted the price moved higher. He slipped her a box, a dark gift in his palm.

She hesitated, guilt like frost on her tongue. Then she saw the bank card with nearly a million, and the frost melted like morning dew. It was their family’s business, and she was just a doctor. With that thought, she pocketed the card without shame, sliding it into her wide coat like a leaf between pages.

Curiosity gnawed at him like a rat behind the walls. Xun Xun wandered aimlessly on the surface, but a guard tailed him like a shadow, too close to eavesdrop.

A knot of dread and resolve tightened like ice in his chest. He unzipped the front, reached into his pocket, and touched a cold piece of metal. In his mind, a plan took shape like frost on glass.

He stopped toward the door and edged back, step by careful step, a crab to the tide. The metal piece glowed faintly. The Magic Stone set in its center shed a soft light like foxfire.

Luck brushed him like a warm draft. The guard only followed and wasn’t watching with his whole mind. In a blink, Xun Xun raised the primed metal piece before him like a knife to his own throat. The guard flinched and moved to stop him.

He aimed the metal shard at his head like a pistol and ordered the guard not to come closer, voice cold as iron. He kept retreating until his back touched the door like a cool wall. He could just catch the surgeon and the other guard’s whispers, moth wings on air.

Please bury this chip in his brain, the whisper slid like poison. He’ll be under anesthetic anyway. He won’t know a thing...

Shock cracked through him like lightning, twice over at the word chip. Did his father want a chip in his skull? Or did someone else want the reins on him?

In the family, only bought slaves got chips, to keep them obedient, collars you couldn’t see. Now someone wanted one in his head? That meant becoming a chess piece on someone’s board, a pawn without breath...

Fear came first, then rage, boiling like a kettle. He chased freedom and wouldn’t let his life and thoughts sit in another’s fist. But he lacked the strength to fight the two guards, and the power to flee this damned underground lab.

You will not talk about what just happened, or else... His words hung like a blade of ice.

Xun Xun slipped the Magic Tool away, a dagger back into the sleeve. The guard nodded, blank as rain-washed stone, seemingly unaware of the other guard’s scheme.

Do you know about the chip? His voice was low as a drum in fog.

Desperation tasted like iron on his tongue. He had no way but a gamble. No money, no power, no pull; he couldn’t buy the surgeon. He could only bluff with a fox’s borrowed roar. Nearby, he knew only this guard. If he was in on it, his freedom ended here like a candle in wind.

The guard froze for a beat, gears catching on sand. He murmured, Chip? What chip? The words fell like pebbles in a well.

Relief washed through him like a warm tide. This was the best news he could hear, bar none. The guard knew nothing and followed his father. So it wasn’t his father moving against him...

He looked at the Magic Tool in his hand, and dread bloomed like ink in water. Today he just happened to get the Magic Tool. He just happened to go out. The guard just happened to have a chip. It was all too neat.

The one who wanted him ruined was the one who gave him the Magic Tool and nudged him out the door like bait on a hook, wasn’t it?

A thousand images flashed through his head like a storm of leaves. Old tenderness shattered on the floor like porcelain.

That person was...

His mother.