The familiar, stale-carpet-and-old-dust smell of the warehouse was replaced by the cool, diesel-tinged night air of the city. Only when Michael stepped outside, the heavy door groaning shut behind him, did he look up. A vast, indifferent tapestry of stars sprawled across the black velvet sky, the light pollution from the distant city center casting a faint orange glow on the horizon. He fished his phone from his pocket. The screen's blue light was harsh in the darkness. 1:27 AM.
A peculiar, rootless feeling settled over him. Back in his own world, at this ungodly hour, he was adrift. His usual first port of call—Dong's pawn and exchange shop to convert his hard-won gold—was out of the question. Waking the man up now would be the height of bad form, not to mention potentially hazardous to future business relations.
Going back to his cramped, stale-smelling apartment to sleep? He'd only been awake for a few hours, his body still humming with the residual adrenaline of the Wasteland. Sleep was a distant concept.
But Michael, ever resourceful, was not a man to be stymied by such trivialities. A grin spread across his face. There was a place, a temple of sorts for men in his transient, nocturnal state. A place of solace, of cheap distraction, of comforting, grimy familiarity. A place of glorious, unapologetic decadence. He needed, he decided, to get his fix.
Hailing a passing motorcycle taxi, its engine sputtering in the quiet night, he was soon deposited in front of a flickering neon sign that buzzed and crackled with electric malaise: Velocity Internet Cafe. In some parts of the city, they called them 'premium net-bars,' trying to class them up. This one made no such pretensions. The 'V' in 'Velocity' flickered erratically, as it had for the six months Michael had known the place. The owner, it seemed, couldn't be bothered to fix it. The inconsistency was part of its charm.
With a satisfying thwack, Michael slapped his ID card and a fifty-yuan note onto the sticky laminate of the reception counter. A young woman with dyed caramel hair, wearing a tiny spaghetti-strap top that seemed designed for a different climate, didn't look up from her phone.
"Twenty on the card, a pack of Double Happiness, a Red Bull, and a cup noodle—extra egg, extra sausage," he announced, affecting the casual bravado of the regular. "Keep the change. Buy yourself a milk tea."
The girl finally glanced up, her eyes scanning him with the weary, dismissive efficiency of someone who'd seen a thousand variations of this particular breed of late-night, slightly-pitiful charmer. Her voice was flat, devoid of all hope. "Your total's fifty-two. You're short."
Deflated, Michael swapped the Red Bull for a bottle of water. Armed with his diminished haul, he found a secluded corner booth, the worn pleather groaning in protest as he sat. The glow of a dozen monitors lit the hazy room. The rhythmic clack of mechanical keyboards and the occasional burst of profanity from a headset-wearing gamer were a symphony of disengagement. It had been months, he realized, since he'd last set foot in this particular pit of vice. Since discovering the Wasteland.
And yet, sinking into the sagging chair, the warm, chemically-cheesy scent of the instant noodles rising to meet him, he felt a strange, instant sense of belonging. It was a lower form of life, perhaps, but it was his lower form of life. The noodles, somehow, tasted better here, eaten under the sickly glow of an LED strip light.
His nostalgia was short-lived. He logged into his old gaming account, queued for a match of his once-beloved battle royale shooter. The familiar maps loaded. He landed, scrambled for a weapon, engaged an enemy. But as his avatar sprinted and crouched behind digital cover, a profound sense of absurdity washed over him. It felt… fake. Pathetically so.
The crack of gunfire from his cheap headphones was a tinny parody. The recoil was non-existent. There was no weight to the actions, no coppery taste of fear in the back of his throat, no burning in the muscles from carrying real gear, no gut-wrenching lurch as a real explosion tore the earth nearby. This was a child's game of lights and sounds. After the visceral, mud-and-blood reality of Cinder Town's defenses, the Detroit ruins, the feel of a real rifle bucking against his shoulder… this pixelated violence was empty. A ghost of a feeling. The boy who'd once lost whole weekends in this digital world was gone, left behind in the radioactive dust of another reality. He exited the game, the victory screen meaning nothing.
With a sigh, he opened a browser. If he couldn't waste time, he'd use it. His fingers hovered over the keyboard before typing: Michigan.
If the future had diverged utterly, perhaps geography and geology remained constant. The bones of the world, at least, should be the same. Understanding the land—really understanding it—could be the key to everything. What resources lay beneath the poisoned soil of the Wasteland? What had this place been, and what could it be again? And, most pressingly, what kind of factory could he possibly build in a place like Sweetwater Gulch?
A flood of information appeared. He clicked a link, his eyes scanning text and maps. Almost immediately, a startling realization dawned: the location of his portal, just outside the ruins of the old Cinder Town, was a staggering piece of luck.
Michigan, the "Great Lakes State." Two peninsulas surrounded by vast freshwater seas. The climate, moderated by those immense bodies of water, was described as milder than other northern latitudes. Southeastern Michigan, where Detroit—and by extension, Cinder Town—was located, had an average high of around 57°F (14°C) and an average low of 43°F (6°C). Before. Before the bombs, the fires, the ecological collapse.
Michael leaned back, whistling softly. If this relatively temperate region now saw summer highs pushing 115°F (46°C), he couldn't begin to imagine the inferno that places like Miami or Phoenix had become. He'd have been desiccated in a day. Conversely, the Wasteland nights were already dipping towards freezing. If Michigan's winters could hit -4°F (-20°C), what hellscape awaited Canada? He'd be a human Popsicle. The portal hadn't just dropped him in a wasteland; it had, by some quirk of fate, placed him in one of the more habitable parts of a dead continent. The thought was simultaneously comforting and deeply unsettling.
His focus shifted to mineral resources. This was the bedrock of industry. His pulse quickened as he read. Michigan was rich. Not just rich, but strategically rich. Coal. Iron ore. Oil. Natural gas. Limestone. The foundations of 20th-century industry were all here, sleeping beneath the poisoned earth. The Detroit area, the very heart of the old automotive empire, was particularly endowed with coal and iron. Of course, he thought. They built the city here for a reason. The resources were at its doorstep.
A wild, ambitious plan began to flicker in his mind. Large-scale power generation? They could skip the finicky diesel generators and go straight for coal-fired steam turbines. A real power plant. As for steel… he wasn't ready for a full-scale mill. But the Wasteland was littered with the skeleton of the old world—cars, trucks, girders. A small, primitive blast furnace, the kind China had phased out years ago, could melt that scrap down. They could be reforging steel within a year! And the land… the text spoke of vast, flat plains surrounding Detroit, perfect for large-scale agriculture. All they needed was to drill deep wells for clean water…
A giddy excitement rose in him. This wasn't a barren hellscape. It was a treasure chest, buried under ash and amnesia. Sweetwater Gulch wasn't a dead end; it could be a foundation. A kingdom.
Then, his cursor hovered, and he searched: cost of coal-fired power plant.
The numbers that flashed onto the screen hit him like a physical blow. A small, 10-megawatt plant? Sixty to seventy million yuan. A proper, 200-megawatt plant? Seven to eight billion.
The euphoria evaporated, leaving a cold, hollow feeling in his gut. He stared at the screen, the glowing digits searing into his retinas. The noodle broth in his cup turned to ash in his mouth. The grand visions of smokestacks and steel mills crumbled to dust, dwarfed by the sheer, astronomical scale of the numbers. He was a kid dreaming of castles while counting pennies in a piggy bank.
"Well," he muttered to the empty, glowing screen, the sounds of virtual gunfire a mocking backdrop. "Diesel generators and solar panels… they're not so bad. Reliable. Low-maintenance."
The decadence of the internet cafe suddenly felt cheap, not comforting. He stood up, leaving the computer logged in, the browser window open, the dream of industry a distant, mocking image on the monitor. He was done with this place. He doubted he'd be back.
As he turned to leave, a news aggregator widget on the browser, set to refresh automatically, pinged and updated. A new headline slid to the top of the 'Trending' list. Michael, lost in thoughts of coal prices and his own insignificance, didn't see it.
The top story: A renowned international director, fresh from wrapping a massive, post-apocalyptic war epic, had launched a global search for the film's theme song. The reward for the selected composer? A cool ten million USD.
The second: An update from the authorities in a certain South Asian country. The hunt for the "rogue mech" that had caused such an international incident continued, with no leads. A substantial reward for credible information was still on offer.
The third story had no bounty attached. It was a piece of academic news. A Chinese teenage girl had just won the International Physics Olympiad (IPhO), sweeping the competition. Commentators and fellow contestants were quoted calling her a "once-in-a-century talent" in theoretical physics. Elite universities worldwide were already vying for her, offering full scholarships and unprecedented research opportunities.
Beneath this article was a photograph of the winner accepting her medal. She was young, vibrant, her face alight with an intelligence that seemed to glow from within. The resemblance to a certain other young woman in another world—a woman who called Michael "Ba-Ba"—was, to anyone who knew them both, uncanny. Striking.
But Michael was already pushing through the glass doors of the Velocity Internet Cafe, back into the neon-drenched night, his mind a thousand miles and two hundred years away, occupied with the price of diesel and the weight of gold. The face of a genius, a potential key to understanding the very fabric of the worlds he bridged, flashed unseen on a flickering monitor, soon to be buried by the next clickbait headline.
Chapter 122: Brother Dong's Ambitious Notions
The sound was a rich, metallic cascade, a chorus of promise and danger. Clink, clink, clink-ting! A small leather sack, worn smooth by anxious hands, was upended over the felt pad of a high-precision digital scale. A sunburst of gold coins, each bearing the serene, alien profile of the Elven Queen, spilled out, forming a glinting, seductive pile.
Brother Dong's eyes, usually sharp and calculating, went soft, then glazed over with a deep, primal hunger. In the yellow glow of his desk lamp, the coins seemed to hold their own light. This wasn't the first time in recent weeks he'd witnessed this spectacle, but the effect never diminished. The human psyche, it seemed, was hardwired for this particular shade of avarice. The sheer, tangible weight of wealth, the history and mystery stamped onto each piece, held him in thrall.
A pointed, dry cough from the plush visitor's chair across the room broke the spell. Dong blinked, the shrewd businessman snapping back into place, overlaying the dazzled treasure-gazer. He carefully schooled his features into an expression of professional congeniality.
"Michael, my friend," he said, his voice a practiced blend of warmth and authority. He tapped the scale's display. "Two thousand and thirty-six grams. Spot price has climbed a little more since last time. For you, a valued client… three hundred and ten per gram. Fair?"
He watched Michael, who was lounging in the chair as if he owned it, sipping from a tiny, expensive porcelain cup of gongfu tea. The young man seemed to consider it, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be noticeable before giving a slow, casual nod. He swallowed the fragrant tea with an appreciative sigh.
"Three-ten it is," Michael said, his tone implying a magnanimous concession. "Wire the round number to the usual account. I'll take the remainder in cash. Wallet's feeling a bit light."
A genuine, unforced smile spread across Dong's face. The deal was sweet. He'd move this gold, as he had the previous batches, to a refiner who asked no questions. Even at a modest markup, the profit was substantial. He made a show of bustling about, refilling Michael's cup with hot water from a singing kettle, the picture of the gracious host. "Of course, of course! Always a pleasure."
He called out to the next room, his voice sharpening. "Ah-Cai! The usual split! Wire transfer for the bulk, cash for the difference. Be quick about it!"
The transaction, as always, was efficient. The money appeared in Michael's account; a neat stack of cash was counted into his hand. With a casual wave, Michael was gone, the door to Dong's second-floor office clicking shut behind him.
Dong didn't move from the window. He watched the figure below emerge onto the street, climb into a nondescript white box truck, and pull away into the late-morning traffic. Only when the taillights disappeared did he turn, his expression thoughtful, all trace of the jovial host gone.
"Ah-Cai," he said, his voice low. "Get in here. Bring the ledger. The private one."
A moment later, the woman entered. She was in her late thirties, with a mass of artfully tousled, honey-blonde waves and lips painted a bold, glossy crimson. She moved with a lazy, proprietary confidence, placing a simple, cloth-bound notebook on Dong's desk before perching on the arm of his chair. Her perfume, something floral and expensive, clashed with the smell of tea and old paper.
"How much," Dong asked, not looking at her, his eyes still on the street where Michael's truck had been. "How much has that… prodigal son… taken from us in the last month? And how much have we made?"
Ah-Cai, his "financial manager" in every sense of the term, opened the book. Her manicured nail traced down columns of neat figures. After a minute of silent calculation, she let out a soft, appreciative whistle. "In just under a month… he's walked out of here with seven point two million. Our cut… after expenses and payoffs… is pushing eight hundred thousand."
She shifted, sliding fully onto his lap and looping her arms around his neck. "Darling," she purred, her body moving against his in a familiar, insistent rhythm. "Business is so good. That Bottega Veneta bag I showed you… it's only a little over twenty thousand. A treat. For being such a good girl keeping the books…"
Dong's hand came up, not to caress her, but to still her movements. His gaze was distant, fixed on a point far beyond the office walls. "Not yet," he murmured.
"What?" she pouted, the seduction faltering.
"The bag can wait. First, we need to find out where this little cockroach is finding his honey." Dong's voice was soft, dangerous. "Seven hundred grand in a month. In dribs and drabs. That means there's more. A lot more. This isn't a lucky strike. This is a vein. A gold mine walking in on two legs."
Ah-Cai went very still on his lap, the promise of a designer bag momentarily forgotten, replaced by a colder, sharper glitter in her eyes.
Dong continued, thinking aloud. "My boys… they're good for collecting debts, for making a scene. But for this? For a quiet, thorough… relocation of assets? No. We need professionals. Outside talent. Men with a reputation for being decisive and… discreet."
A plan was cohering in his mind, cold and clear. The initial greed he'd felt when Michael first brought in the strange coins had been tempered by caution. He'd even toyed with the idea of getting them appraised as rare antiques. But the consistent, volume-based flow had killed that fantasy. This was bulk product. New, but old. It made no sense, and in Dong's world, things that made no sense were usually either dangerous or incredibly profitable. He'd decided it was the latter. Michael was small-time, a lone wolf. A lucky fool who'd stumbled onto a cache. He had no backing, no organization. If he were relieved of his treasure, who would he complain to? The police? Unlikely.
The perfect candidate for the job came to him then, a name surfacing from the murky depths of his connections. A man known for efficiency and a certain brutal pragmatism. A man who asked few questions and expected clear answers about payment.
In a moment of post-coital clarity—a common time for Dong's sharpest ideas—he reached for his phone, scrolling through his contacts. He found the number, saved under an innocuous name: "Mr. Knife – Hardware Supplier."
He took a steadying breath and pressed dial. After a few rings, it connected. "Xiao Dao Ge," Dong said, his voice layering hearty bonhomie over a core of steel. "Long time no hear! I hope business is good. Listen, if you're not too busy… I might have a… collaborative opportunity. A mutually beneficial cleaning job. Are you free to talk?"
…
Blissfully unaware of the storm clouds gathering over the unremarkable pawn shop, Michael was in his element. The cash, thick and reassuring, was in his pocket. The digital balance in his account was healthily padded. The world was his oyster, albeit a rather specific, procurement-based oyster.
His first stop was the wholesale market, a chaotic symphony of shouted orders, rolling pallet jacks, and the smell of plastic, spices, and detergent. He restocked on the essentials: bulk salt, cheap cooking oil, massive sacks of laundry powder, bars of coarse soap, and an assortment of canned goods and dry noodles. The routine was familiar, comforting.
Next, he drove his small truck back to the rental yard, swapping it for the heavy-duty flatbed trailer he'd used for the excavator. This was for the serious shopping. He headed to a building materials depot, where the air was white with cement dust. Thirty metric tons of bagged Portland cement were forklifted onto his trailer, followed by a stack of large-diameter PVC drainage pipes. The suspension groaned under the load.
A more cautious man might have bought rebar, wiring, gravel. But Michael, the self-styled "clever lad," was thinking like a wasteland lord. Sand and gravel? The Barrens were made of the stuff. He had strong backs and hungry mouths to feed; they could dig all he needed. Rebar? The ruins of Detroit and a hundred smaller settlements were vast, open-air scrap yards of twisted steel. A sledgehammer and some sweat could straighten a lot of rebar. Electrical wire? The same principle applied. Why spend good money on what the apocalypse had provided in abundance?
It was, he thought with immense satisfaction, frugal genius. The money saved was money he could spend on more important things. Like his own comfort. Like the vague, glorious notion of a "factory" he'd promised his people.
Standing beside his heavily-laden trailer, doing mental math, a warm glow of satisfaction spread through him. Even after this procurement run, he'd have over half a million in liquid funds, plus the upcoming payment for the agricultural supplies. For the first time in his life, Michael felt genuinely, securely wealthy. The anxiety of rent, of bills, of the next meal, was gone. He had capital. He had a revenue stream. He had, as the modern saying went, made it.
The feeling was sublime. It was the feeling of options, of security, of power. He was no longer just surviving the cross between worlds; he was starting to work it. The taste was sweet on his tongue.
Then, the buzz in his pocket shattered the moment. He pulled out his phone. The screen flashed with the caller ID: "Fat Lady Diner – Boss."
He answered, a lazy grin in his voice. "Hey Boss, no need to rush me. You know I always come at night… to get the slop. Don't worry, the money's good."
Instead of the usual gruff banter, a raw, wrenching sob erupted from the speaker. It was followed by the sound of ragged breathing, then the proprietress's voice, choked and trembling with a despair he'd never heard before.
"Michael… they… they smashed it all up. The whole place. The collection vats, the pipes… everything's ruined." Another sob, loud and ugly. "There's… there's no more slop. I can't… I can't get it for you anymore."