[Task Objective Update:]
[Arrive at the Source Formula Research Center. (Not Achieved)]
Bismarck sat in the passenger seat of the Silver Rider 577, his scent indescribable—a mix of healing potion, the tallic tang of blood, and the unique biological perfu of corporate elites.
Gino and Yucca Rope sat silently in the back.
The three of them stared out the window in silent accord.
"Do you really believe this is the work of gang mbers?"
Bismarck asked casually, as if not expecting a response.
The interior of the car remained quiet.
Both Gino and Yucca Rope looked out toward the horizon, deep in thought—the hovercar swirled through the smoke with its searchlights and sirens piercing the flas.
Eden City was ablaze in the inferno.
The Silver Rider hypercar sped across the wasteland highway, gradually leaving the chaos behind.
A strange ticking sound echoed inside the car.
John glanced at the rearview mirror.
In fact, he didn’t need to rely on reflective surfaces to observe the backseat.
The Silver Rider’s intelligent system was connected to cybernetic eyes, allowing the driver to monitor passengers’ expressions and even the car’s surroundings through caras.
John was searching for the source of the ticking sound.
Yucca Rope’s brow twitched, his expression easy to read, instinctively glancing towards Gino.
Gino furrowed his brow, glanced at Bismarck, then quickly locked eyes with John in the front, as if confirming sothing...
Clearly.
Everyone in the car had received another transaction.
Except for John.
Bismarck noticed his confusion.
"You don’t need it."
His gaze shifted, glancing at John’s arm—where a green countdown was displayed beneath synthetic leather skin.
"It’s the Martyr, isn’t it? You’re already dying."
Bismarck adjusted his posture to a more comfortable position, as if savoring the luxury leather of the Silver Rider.
"Top-tier luxury car, customized prosthetic body, you seem to do well as a rcenary, indicating you’re not short of money, at least not as desperate as a street kid, so the Serum must have bought you off with sothing else, like a way to stay alive..."
There was also a hint of certainty in his tone, as if the rcenary would speak up on his own.
John knew what was going on in Bismarck’s mind.
This guy feigned indifference to life and death but was actually trying to maximize his survival chances all along.
He hoped John would voluntarily reveal his plight, betting on both sides with this corporate executive.
However, John naturally resisted corporate dogs.
Instead of hoping for an unseen hope, he was more curious about what was inside his arm.
"Do you recognize this thing?"
"...You don’t know?"
Bismarck raised an eyebrow.
"The Martyr GTX, this is truly one-of-a-kind, did the Serum get it for you?"
"A friend at an underground clinic helped get it, not cheap either."
"Sounds like street rcenary bragging."
Bismarck shook his head.
"It’s a bit of a waste for sothing this valuable, it really is the pinnacle of life extension technology."
The Martyr GTX was invented by Gaia Cells.
Capital’s favor doesn’t lie.
They once developed a biological prosthetic that could forcefully prolong the life of the installer under both physical and ntal collapse.
Bismarck spoke with restraint.
Yet his words still revealed admiration for the products of other companies.
John picked up on the key.
"Once?"
"Yes, the designer took the technology to hell."
After Gaia Cells created the Martyr, they conducted a scenario simulation to test the product’s limits.
They selected a test subject, carefully designed a trap, and had the subject implant the Martyr GTX under the right conditions.
Gaia Cells had high hopes:
First, have the subject give their all, then retrieve the data from the entire process.
"You know, John."
Bismarck’s smile was faint.
"The test subject they chose back then was also a rcenary, but not a street lone wolf, rather a leader of a small, sowhat famous team."
"And then?"
"They screwed up."
The test subject accomplished an extrely difficult mission.
It’s said that more than half of the rcenary team died.
The expected rescue didn’t co, instead, they encountered company soldiers intent on recovering data and silencing witnesses.
Then.
The test subject went out of control in the lab.
The military-grade prosthetic on the person overclocked under the boost of the Martyr GTX, shredding the company’s soldiers sent to eliminate them to pieces.
"Do you know the underground mall in East District?"
Bismarck asked.
John’s mind flashed with scenes:
Doctor Ryan’s clinic, middleman Raphael conducting business through others’ bodies, fleeting rcenaries, a comrcial center hidden beneath the city...
"There’s a huge pit there, sunken in, do you rember it?"
Bismarck paused, waiting for the audience to recall the exact coordinates, then nodded and said.
"Back then, the Gaia Cells lab was right there."
The whole building collapsed inward.
Experintal data, company executives, developers of the project, and nurous advanced prosthetics including the Martyr GTX...
All vanished in the explosion and flas.
"That test was perfect, but the Martyr GTX’s limits exceeded everyone’s expectations, exposing a fatal flaw."
There was a tone of pity in Bismarck’s voice.
This thing was not a life-extension device, but a death countdown.
The test subject’s body suffered irreversible collapse in the experint, mory backups failed, and when the corpse was dissected, brain matter leaked out like cooked mush.
The already produced Martyr GTX was divided among surviving mbers of the ti, occasionally appearing on the market.
John quietly listened, gripping the steering wheel.
Ryan Randall must have been one of the survivors.
His underground clinic contained advanced prosthetics, even though he was a prosthetic doctor, he had a rcenary bounty account with the ECPD, and had intricate connections with the most mysterious middlen in the East District...
The old drunkard’s drunken complaints turned out to be rooted in a story.
"How about a deal? Give a call before this thing’s countdown zeroes out, give whatever’s extracted, as for the reward, you na it."
"Didn’t you say this product was a failure?"
"But the principle is interesting, worth reviewing."
Bismarck revealed a aningful smile.
Before John could respond, Gino, sitting behind Bismarck, kicked.
"Don’t make any deals with the company."
Gino’s expression was icy.
"Things the company makes are like protein paste, they start advertising as soon as they have an idea, creating hype, making fools pay for half products, the designer keeps cleaning up after themselves with the money, by the ti it’s finished, the company has already reaped the profits of several product generations..."
"You seem to know a lot about comrcial processes."
Bismarck wasn’t Fazed.
BANG.
Another kick.
Gino slumped back into his seat, raising one leg, looking as though he were stepping on Bismarck’s head from the side.
The corporate executive’s face remained unchanged, seemingly waiting for a new round of accusations.
"Who’s responsible when things go wrong? The company discards the victims like garbage, pats its backside and considers itself off the hook!"
"Do you have a case at hand?"
Bismarck remained calm, like a patient and reliable counselor from the news.
CLICK.
Gino pointed a gun at Bismarck’s head.
This was a gun she picked up while searching the crash wreckage.
"Put the gun down first."
John sighed.
He could tell Gino’s hatred for the company was genuine.
Considering she graduated from a public university but never joined any company, sothing must have happened to her.
"It’s not the ti yet."
John waved off the holographic navigation, shifting gears, steadily driving onto the wasteland highway.
"We’re almost there."
The pitch-black night seed to be brewing sothing.
The sand dunes and rectangular wind turbines gradually beca clearer on the horizon.
Just a few more minutes...
In the vast, slightly radioactive wasteland, a do-shaped research facility lood.
[Eden City]
[Source Formula Research Center]
Bismarck and Randall’s logos glimred atop the glass do.
Like a beacon in the sand sea.
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