wood man

wood man

老K

老K

@jimpangzi

25 Aug 2025

Shenzhen Republic: Soul Ore By Old King Chapter 1 Neon Edge Foo-shing, an urban village carved from Bastion’s sprawl, was her sanctuary, its autonomous status barring police and offering fugitives like her a fragile shield. But HuaCent’s enforcers bribed local gangs to roam Foo-shing unchecked, their presence a silent violation of its autonomy. Enforcers and bounty hunters slunk through, and her blown alias made her a target. The air reeked of cumin, chili, and burnt wiring, matchbox towers looming, their peeling tiles scarred by the Sino-American and Shenzhen Independence Wars. Foo-shing was a labyrinth of narrow alleys, dangling cables sparking in the drizzle, electric scars flaring in the mist. Passersby sidled through, their cyberlimbs glinting—bare stainless steel arms and legs, badges of survival from PLA booby traps: flying mines and landmines that shredded limbs during the wars. Unlike Bastion’s elite, who cloaked prosthetics in silicone skin, Foo-shing’s poor flaunted raw metal, a grim flex over the wooden crutches of the destitute. Ruoxi’s petite frame blended into the crowd, her short hair tucked under a hood, clinging to youth’s fraying edge in a white cartoon T-shirt and canvas pants, but Avei’s laugh echoed in her skull, a ghost urging her to vanish before HuaCent’s claws found her. She was HuaCent’s prey, her NeonEdge alias a beacon for enforcers. Slade’s cyber repair shop held her lifeline: a rare million-dollar Abai robot needed fixing, and the payout could bankroll her escape to another urban-village, far from HuaCent’s reach. But with her cover fraying, every step in Foo-shing felt like a trap. She ducked into a Lanzhou noodle stall, patting her bag to feel the jammer’s weight, a black-market lifeline against HuaCent’s relentless eyes. The LED sign—“Real Beef Noodles”—was flickering in sickly green. The stall was a patchwork of rusted metal and plastic tarps, steam curling from vats of halal beef broth, rich with star anise and fennel, a Hui Muslim staple from Gansu. Locals crowded rickety tables—delivery riders in patched jackets, scavengers with sunken cheeks, a courier’s cyberlimb whirred, its exposed gears grinding from overuse. The stall owner, a wiry Hui man with a white skullcap, kneaded dough, stretching and slapping it into springy noodles, offering real beef slices. Ruoxi slid onto a stool, her hood low, and ordered beef noodles from a HuaCent bot server, its cracked plastic faceplate and jerky movements betraying low-end Soul Ore. “Beef… noodle… error… pork?” it droned, eyes dimming, mangling the halal menu. The owner’s head snapped up, dough slapping the counter. “Pork? You broken pile of scrap!” he roared in thick Mandarin, hurling a ladle at the bot, which clattered against its chassis. “This is a Muslim stall, you idiot! Get out before I melt you for parts!” Locals chuckled, but the air tightened as a rider leaned in, his steel fingers twitching. “Ruoxi, watch your back,” he muttered, voice low, eyes darting. “That HuaCent dog’s prowlin’ again, flashin’ your photo ‘round, askin’ ‘bout a girl with techy glasses. He’s got no shame, but we keep Yichi—nobody’s talkin’.” HuaCent’s enforcers bribed local gangs to roam Foo-shing unchecked, their presence a silent violation of its autonomy. Her vision blurred, the LED sign’s sickly green pulse syncing with Avei’s voice in her mind, whispering, “Sis, run!”. A scavenger with a scarred steel leg whispered, “He don’t bargain, just snatches. Last fool he grabbed vanished. Yichis strong, but money tempt, lah.” The owner, still scowling at the bot, growled, “Eat fast, Ruoxi. Foo-shing’s no fortress when that bastard’s huntin’.” She forced a sip of ice tea. The broth’s heat—beef, green onions, chili oil—hit her lips, but fear drowned the flavor. She slurped noodles, the tangy spice lost in her racing thoughts, and slipped out, the stall’s LED glow fading into Foo-shing’s chaos. Slade’s cyber repair shop crouched in a dim alley, its holographic screens droning AI pop songs. Shelves sagged with circuits, robot parts, and salvaged cyberlimbs, the air thick with motor oil and burnt solder. Slade, the shopkeeper, leaned against the counter, his left bionic eye flashing blue in the gloom. “You’re late, lah,” he growled, scratching his chin. “This Abai’s worth a million, but fishy, lah,” Slade muttered, his bionic eye flickering with old grudges against HuaCent’s black-market games.“But in this cutthroat market, we’re lucky to scrape a few thousand. Fix it clean, lah. Don’t botch it.” Ruoxi’s jaw clenched, the weight of Avei’s keychain in her bag a reminder that even a pittance could mean freedom. Ruoxi ignored him, her glasses syncing to a knockoff Circuit North diagnostic cap. One wrong move, and she’d be pinned. Her AR glasses flared, data streaming like a digital waterfall, her dark web AI probing the core’s quantum encryption. The Abai lay stiff on the workbench, a BioSynth Vanguard Alpha—synthetic muscles and lifelike flesh, marketed as a $100,000 servant but spiked to a million in Shenzhen’s black market under U.S. tech sanctions. Its eerie grace unnerved her, its expression too human, almost mocking. HuaCent bypassed Tesla’s AI, implanting Soul Ore to replace the neural core and crack the geofence. Ruoxi adjusted the diagnostic cap, syncing her glasses. Her AI wormed through the core’s defenses. In the distance, HuaCent Technology Group Tower pierced the night, its black facade flashing “Innovation Saves the Nation!”—a slogan no one dared question. HuaCent’s tech monopoly churned out cheap gear, outshining SouthSea Transport’s overpriced Western imports, fueling the Shenzhen Republic’s economy under Western technology sanctions. Their LAPSS drones patrolled relentlessly, and enforcers bribed local gangs to roam Foo-shing unchecked, their presence a silent violation of its autonomy. The village is untouchable, but HuaCent wanted to see everything. Eyes darting to the alley, Ruoxi’d slipped further in. The chill of air conditioning cut through the shop’s reek, grounding her as she worked. “Come on,” she muttered, urging the AI to crack faster. Every second risked exposure. HuaCent’s drones were just surveillance, evading violating the village’s autonomy, and Foo-shing was their jungle. “Boss, we’re hitting paydirt!” Ruoxi called, voice sharp with a hacker’s edge. The Abai’s Soul Ore was shattered—billions of tiny gibberish files, a chaotic mess of folders within folders, like a digital junkyard. Dark web forums called it HuaCent’s Ore Shredder, splintering consciousness to disable Abais. A Premium Soul Ore from Circuit North could reflash the core, a 100-grand deal, but Ruoxi wasn’t after cash. She needed answers. Slade leaned over, squinting at the synced wall screen, his Cantonese drawl thickening. “Aiya! Soul Ore’s smashed to dust, lah. Hold up—I’ll ping Sima for a quote, no muckin’ about.” Ruoxi kept browsing, curiosity burning despite the drone’s hum. A memory scene file flickered, larger than the rest, buried in the chaos. She hesitated, then opened it. Her own face flashed onscreen—scavenging through General Che Temple Industrial Park’s ruins, debris scattered under a gray sky. A voice shouted: “Sis, watch out!” A rotten king coconut tree crashed down, dust clouding the frame. Her throat went dry, and her breath caught. “Heaven, that’s me!” she gasped, voice cracking. “Boss, it’s Avei! My little brother!” Her AR glasses blared a red alert—vitals spiking, brainwaves signaling overload. “Memory file log’s encrypted!” Ruoxi plugged a USB drive into her rig, clipped her Neuropulser behind her ear, and fused with the glasses via a trafficked StarLink feed. Only a U.S.-based AI could crack the encryption. The AI’s logo spun for three agonizing minutes, then peeled open piecemeal: “August 15, 2034 … Consciousness Transfer … Requested by: ‘IronGrip,’ Approved by: ‘SilverEye.’” August 15, 2034—the day Avei vanished into AbyssNet. Her mind reeled. The panicking crowd tore them apart in the chaos. HuaCent took Avei with other young survivors, promising shelter and engineer training in their sealed Bastion compound, a fortress of armed guards and corporate secrets. Ruoxi’s contract with HuaCent was slavery—grueling hours, rare breaks—so she could catch only glimpses of Avei in the headquarters’ crowds. When HuaCent unveiled AbyssNet, hyping consciousness uploads for digital immortality, Avei volunteered, brainwashed by their “ocean of stars” slogan. His body, deemed brain-dead after the upload, was “donated” to HuaCent. At first, AbyssNet seemed flawless. Ruoxi had jacked in via her Neuropulser, roaming glowing flower fields under neon skies with Avei, soaring through nebulae at the universe’s edge. He’d laughed, pointing at an ion storm near a black hole: “Sis, look, our ocean of stars!” Then, he vanished. HuaCent’s support snapped: “Sorry, no such ID found.” Locked out, her colleagues and superiors labeled her inquiries paranoid. Group chats flamed her as ‘insane,’ demanding her silence. She was sent for neural scans and mental therapy. Everybody was a perpetrator. Gripped by fear and fury, she burned her savings, teamed with a hacker crew, and fled Bastion. Now, as a repair tech in Foo-shing, she chased any lead to Avei. This memory file wasn’t just a fragment—it was a scream from his past. Her fingers grazed the USB’s cold edge, Avei’s Peppa Pig keychain flashing in her mind, its scuffed plastic a tether to the brother she’d failed. Slade’s bionic eye glinted, his voice low. “As I said, this Abai’s fishy. Million-dollar bot dropped at our dump?” Ruoxi’s jaw tightened, Avei’s voice echoing in her skull. “Who brought it?” she snapped, dodging his black market philosophy. Slade flipped through records, scratching his chin. “Some suit, Old Li’s connect. Let’s trace it, but keep your head down, lah.” “I believe this Soul Ore’s a copy of my little brother,” Ruoxi said, voice steely. “Can you help me trace where it came from?” “Your kid brother? The AbyssNet one?” Slade sighed, leaning back. “Someone drops a pricey Abai at our rinky-dink shop? Why not Circuit North’s big joints? Head there, find Sima. Guy’s a data wizard, knows Premium Soul Ore inside out. Or ping Ajay first, let him poke that file.” A shrill alarm blared from her glasses—her AI crack had tripped HuaCent’s anti-tamper system, sending her data to their servers. The drone’s hum outside turned predatory, its red beam grazing the window, painting the shop in crimson. Ruoxi yanked off the glasses, unplugged the USB, and stuffed it into her canvas bag—half a pack of Red Double Happiness smokes, iced tea, an illegal drone jammer, and Avei’s scuffed Peppa Pig keychain, her only proof he’d existed. “I’m out,” she muttered, her breath catching as Avei’s nebula-lit smile flickered in her mind, urging her into the night.” She bolted for the back door, sweat and sewage smell hitting her like a toxic wave. LED signs flashed in a dizzying blur, sewer stench mingling with acrid sweat and barbecue smoke. Passersby sidled through tight alleys, dodging dangling cables that sparked in the humid air. Three palm-sized LAPSS drones buzzed overhead, their red beams sweeping every shadow, locking onto movement. Ruoxi ducked into the crowd, fast-food boxes crunching underfoot, her short hair tucked under a hood. She wove past a street vendor steaming baozi, the sizzle masking her footsteps, her breath ragged. She reached her jammer, illegal but effective against drones’ recognition, battery 82%, and turned it on. At a corner convenience store, she tapped her phone with her ChainCoin wallet on a bootleg StarLink terminal bolted to the wall, its screen cracked but functional. Her Neuropulser beeped, connection locked through a dark web relay. A virtual screen flared, and Ajay’s face popped up, hooded in a sweat-soaked shirt, his background cluttered with busted gadgets and blinking servers. “NeonEdge! You again?” he grinned, Sichuan drawl bursting through the static. “Last time you flashed that rig, I nearly got nabbed!” Ruoxi smirked, choking back the fumes of chili-fried pork intestines from a nearby stall. “Ajay, do me a solid. I cracked an Abai and found Avei’s memory file. Check it, quick.” Ajay’s grin faded, eyes narrowing as he leaned into the screen. “HuaCent’s Premium Soul Ore? You’re pokin’ that? Dark web’s blowin’ up—HuaCent slapped a 100-grand bounty on a ghost hacker! Address? Longgang District, Bastion Precinct, Foo-shing Village—that’s you! Holy shit, log off! Hood up, mask on!” He glanced off-camera, voice dropping to a hiss. Ruoxi’s fingers froze on the terminal, the cracked screen’s flicker mirroring the panic clawing her chest. “My junk server’s about to get smoked. Head to the old ancestral hall in the village. I’ll patch in remotely—safer, yeah?” Ruoxi killed the terminal, taking the Neuropulser off and stuffing it into her bag. She slapped on her AR glasses, flipping to anti-facial-recog mode, random geometric shapes flashing across the lenses to scramble cameras. Another LAPSS drone whirred overhead, prop wash kicking hot air, its red beam sweeping every shadow. The old ancestral hall crouched deep in the village, half-buried beside rubble heaps, its wooden frame warped by years of neglect. Ruoxi forced the creaking door open, slipping into the musty darkness. A hardwired hub, jerry-rigged by hackers, glowed faintly in the wall’s corner. She plugged in, her virtual screen sparking to life. Ajay flashed a grim smirk, his face lit by the glow of his rig. “Alright, we’re good. Sling me the file—let’s see how deep this shit goes.” She fired off the data as the muggy air choked her lungs and the hall’s silence amplified her pulse. Ajay’s screen flickered as he scanned the file, his face paling under the hood. “Heaven, HuaCent’s Ore Shredder! Pulverized on purpose, clear as day—this memory fragment’s a heavendamn ghost trap. Your brother must’ve stumbled over their black-ops experiment. Check it: ‘Approved by SilverEye,’ and that’s high-level as hell!”His screen blazed red, and he flipped out, voice cracking. “Shit! They’ve pinged us again! We’re fucked! Bolt, now!”

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