[Time: One week after the opening of the "School on Ruins"]

  The 13th Street had never been this vibrant—or perhaps, "eerily prosperous" was the better term.

  Originally, this place was the appendix of New Babylon, a synonym for poverty, chaos, and despair. But now, if you stood on the roof of the container apartment reinforced by Lu Ban and looked down, you would find this block transforming into a self-sufficient "Independent Kingdom," blending Cyberpunk grit with Eastern mysticism.

  Energy:

  The miniature Wardenclyffe Tower left by Tesla, though a temporary structure pieced together from trash, was still operating stably. Every night, arcs of blue electricity formed a protective net over the entire block. Residents not only had free electricity but even had excess energy to charge old cybernetics scavenged from the black market.

  Housing:

  Education:

  Medical:

  John's clinic (now unbranded, everyone just called it the "Freak House") was booming. The big iron pot left by Hua Tuo was still there, boiling bitter but incredibly effective herbal soups every day. Margaret's condition had stabilized, and she had even started teaching neighbors how to knit sweaters from her wheelchair.

  Management:

  Although nominally an anarchy, under John's coordination (executed by Bone and Grace), a strange order had formed. For problems, find John; for disputes, find Confucius; for garbage, find Big Croc (the crocodile).

  Current Merit Balance: 16,975 (20,000 principal repayment deducted).

  "Not bad." John stretched. "At this rate, in another two months, I can pay off a good chunk of that 500,000 debt."

  He even started fantasizing: once the debt was cleared, maybe he could buy his mom a real bionic arm, or take her to see the real ocean.

  However, what he didn't know was that this prosperity was built on sand.

  Or rather, it was built on the limit of the Necromancy Guild's patience.

  [02:00 AM. New Babylon Upper Sector, Mordred's Private Laboratory]

  On the massive holographic screen, the heat map of the 13th Street was displayed. The area, which should have been gray and dead, was now a glaring red, like a spreading tumor.

  Mordred stood before the screen. Behind him, rows of tanks contained pale, faceless bodies soaking in fluid.

  "It's been a week." Mordred's voice was as cold as ice. "That D-Class fugitive isn't dead. Instead, he's turned that place into a... Demonstration Zone."

  "He is showing the whole city a possibility: that without the Guild, without even modern technology, the lower class can live well."

  "This idea is more dangerous than a hundred rioters."

  He turned to look at the silent commander in black tactical armor standing behind him—Codename "Undertaker."

  " The law has failed. Public opinion has failed. Economic blockades have failed."

  Mordred's finger tapped gently on the glass of a tank. The body inside twitched slightly.

  "Since we can't cut out the tumor, then... pull it out by the roots."

  "Activate the 'Scavenger' Unit."

  "This time, no arrest warrants, no trials."

  "I only want one result: Wipe that block off the map."

  [03:30 AM. The 13th Street]

  In the deepest part of the night, even the punks playing cards had gone to sleep. The only lights in the block were a few streetlamps powered by the Tesla tower running on low mode.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  John was asleep too. The high-intensity work of the past few days had left him exhausted. Bone was napping in a cardboard box at the door, and Grace had entered sleep mode to save power.

  There was no warning.

  No sirens, no declaration of war.

  BOOM—!!!

  A massive explosion, like thunder detonating right next to the ear.

  At the entrance of the block, the abandoned shipping container used as a roadblock was instantly blasted into shrapnel by some immense force.

  Fire shot into the sky, illuminating half the night.

  "Enemy attack!!!"

  Bone jumped up, but before he could stand steady, a second shell landed right at the clinic's doorstep.

  BOOM!

  The shockwave shattered all the glass. John rolled off his bed, ears ringing, face covered in dust.

  "What's happening?! Earthquake?!"

  He crawled to the window and looked out.

  The scene froze the blood in his veins.

  Under the illumination of the fire, countless black figures were pouring in from every entrance of the block.

  They wore fully enclosed heavy exoskeleton armor, their faces covered by masks painted with skull motifs. They didn't carry police batons; they carried flamethrowers, heavy machine guns, and chainswords.

  Behind them, several heavy bulldozers, larger and more hideous than the Pluto-Class Mechs, advanced slowly. The front of these machines wasn't a shovel, but a massive, rotating Crusher Hammer.

  This was the Necromancy Guild's most notorious unit—[The Scavengers].

  They didn't handle security; they handled "cleaning." Cleaning trash, and cleaning people.

  "This isn't demolition..." John watched the soldiers opening fire on civilian houses, his voice trembling. "This is a massacre."

  No negotiations. No warnings.

  They killed anyone they saw; they burned every house they passed.

  "Ah! Help!"

  "My baby! My baby is still inside!"

  Screams and crying instantly drowned the street. Some residents, still dazed, ran out only to be mowed down by machine guns; others were trapped in burning houses, banging desperately on the windows.

  "Bastards!" Bone roared, grabbing his battle axe to rush out.

  "Don't go!" John grabbed him. "That's suicide! They have heavy firepower! And... that's the regular army!"

  This was different.

  Last time, it was security guards and hooligans. This time, it was a real army. The uniform speed of their advance, the emotionless efficiency of their killing—it wasn't something a few traps could stop.

  "Boss! Our defense systems are down!" Grace was forcibly woken up, her voice filled with panic. "They jammed the signal! And... they're using some kind of 'Anti-Magic Field'! The Tesla tower's energy is suppressed!"

  This was the power of a regular army.

  They had prepared countermeasures for every one of John's tricks.

  "We can't stop them..."

  John looked at the approaching tide of steel.

  His mind went blank. All plans, all preparations, seemed so pale and powerless in the face of absolute violence.

  This was war.

  Not a game. No respawns.

  [Meanwhile. Netherworld System Maintenance Backstage (A Virtual Space)]

  Beside him, a translucent figure in a trench coat, smoking a pipe (Sherlock Holmes), floated leisurely in the air, watching the "System Maintenance" progress bar on the internal monitor.

  "Tsk, tsk, tsk." Holmes blew a smoke ring. "How crude. Maintenance without any sense of aesthetics."

  "Save your sarcasm," Singularity cursed without looking up. "This broken server should have been replaced ages ago. If not for the lack of funds, I would have upgraded to a Quantum Optical Brain already."

  "However," Holmes narrowed his eyes, watching the data streams restructuring on the screen, "have you noticed? Your system, and the system of that Necromancy Guild... they operate on two completely different logics."

  "Duh." Singularity wiped his sweat. "I'm the genuine article; they're pirated."

  "No." Holmes shook his head. "It's the difference between [System Theory] and [Reductionism]."

  "The Necromancy Guild's system is based on extreme reductionism. They believe life is a pile of parts. Strengthen the bones, strengthen the muscles—even if the assembly lacks beauty, as long as it moves, it's strong."

  "So the things they create... while locally strong, the whole is... a pile of garbage. Rigid, mechanical, soulless."

  Holmes drew a circle in the air with his pipe.

  "But your system... or what your agent represents... is System Theory."

  "The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Life is life because of that '1+1>2' soul coordination."

  "He knows how to combine seemingly useless parts to create a chemical reaction. That is why Mordred wants to destroy him."

  "Because his existence itself proves that the Guild's proud theory... is wrong."

  Singularity stopped his work.

  He looked at the screen and was silent for a long time.

  "You're right, you old smoker."

  Singularity took off his sunglasses, revealing eyes that were tired but gleaming with sharp light.

  "But the premise is... the server needs to be fixed fast. Otherwise, no matter how correct his theory is, it's useless without a signal."

  He tightened the last screw viciously.

  "System Reboot Countdown... 10 Minutes."

  "Let's hope he makes it."

  [Back to the 13th Street]

  John was knocked to the ground by the blast wave. He spat out a mouthful of blood mixed with sand, watching the massive crusher hammer raised above his head.

  "Bone! Take Mom and go!"

  John pushed Bone away, but he stood up himself.

  He had no weapon, only that ridiculous scalpel and the iPad that was running out of battery.

  He couldn't summon anyone. Not enough time, and the enemy had cut the signal.

  But he couldn't retreat.

  Behind him was the clinic. Under the bed, there were dozens of hiding children.

  "Come on!"

  John roared at the steel beast, his voice sounding so insignificant amidst the gunfire.

  "Want to pass? Unless you drive over my dead body!"

  The crusher hammer crashed down.

  Darkness fell.

  [Message from Singularity]

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