The air inside the shuttle was the same over-processed, sterile quiet as everything else in this place.
One second after He Min flicked that little stone out the window, the whole vehicle came to a dead stop right in the middle of the intersection. The magnetic brakes engaged with barely a sound—so smooth it was almost creepy.
The sudden halt wasn't jarring, but it still broke the dull peace inside the cabin.
The businesswoman in front of He Min had been hunched over her tablet, working on some document. The stop nearly sent her face-first into the seat ahead. She jerked up, and for the first time her professional mask cracked. Real anger flashed in her eyes before she forced it down to just an irritated "tsk."
"What's going on?" a college-aged guy asked nervously. His wrist display was flashing yellow—late for something important.
Nobody answered him.
The AI driver just kept repeating the same line in that emotionless voice: "Obstacle detected that cannot be bypassed. Maximum safety protocol active. Please remain patient. Order and safety above all."
That canned phrase killed any complaints before they could start. In Lord Asta's perfect world, questioning the system was basically questioning order itself—politically incorrect in the extreme.
He Min lounged by the window, watching the little chaos he'd just created ripple outward beneath the surface calm. Like a director enjoying the unrehearsed reactions on his stage.
The white-haired woman next to him looked confused but was trying to make sense of it.
"Strange—this is the second maximum safety alert this month," she said, but still managed a warm smile. "But it just shows how perfect Lord Asta's system is, doesn't it? Always choosing the safest option for us."
"Absolutely," He Min nodded seriously, even adding what looked like genuine respect. "Safety first. Lord Asta's order is so thorough, so thoughtful. We should feel honored."
The old woman beamed, thinking she'd found someone who understood. She couldn't see the mischievous glint in his eyes.
But patience has limits—especially in a world obsessed with efficiency.
Ten minutes later, the scene outside had turned into something impressive. Spreading out from their shuttle, traffic in every direction was completely frozen. Silent self-driving cars packed the huge intersection like confused robot bees, stuck in every lane. No honking, no yelling—just a dense, motionless forest of metal. The quiet chaos felt more absurd than any regular traffic jam.
Inside the shuttle, the mood was souring.
The businesswoman had given up on her files and was pulling at her hair. Her tablet was flashing angry red meeting alerts. The student had slumped in his seat—whatever exam he was rushing to was definitely a lost cause now.
"What the hell kind of obstacle takes this long to clear?" someone finally complained.
"Quiet!" came a sharp response from one of the true believers. "Trust the system! Lord Asta's calculations are always perfect!"
He Min figured his little artwork was only half-finished. A single traffic jam was amusing, but not exactly masterpiece material. Time to think bigger.
The shuttle doors had switched to ventilation mode and slid open. He Min stood up, gave the old lady a polite nod, and stepped out into the drizzle with the other stranded passengers. Umbrella up, he wandered off—just a casual stroll that happened to take him toward several other busy intersections.
At each one he repeated the same simple trick: a casual flick of his finger, another dull little stone embedding itself in the asphalt where nobody was looking.
Within ten minutes the entire orbital city's transportation network was behaving like a stroke victim. Starting from the key arteries, traffic flow just... stopped. Died. The whole system collapsed.
The armored Law Wardens finally got their alerts and came marching in—these towering figures in polished metal, looking like the last guardians of civilization.
They quickly discovered they had a problem.
At the main intersection, one warden tried the direct approach: just shove the first shuttle out of the way. The vehicle's AI immediately flagged this as "malicious destruction of public property" and locked down everything—wheels, electromagnetic chassis, the works. The thing clamped to the street like it was welded there. Even with augmented strength, the warden couldn't budge it an inch.
Another squad found one of the embedded stones. They tried high-energy lasers, mechanical claws, everything in their toolkit. Nothing worked. The little pebble might as well have been part of the planet itself.
Watching these guardians of order struggle with something that simply refused to follow the rules was almost too funny. They looked completely helpless.
He Min watched the whole show from a second-floor café window, sipping something that tasted like dishwater but was supposedly "optimized nutrition." The artistic satisfaction was real.
In the end, city management had to bring in giant construction cranes—the most primitive, undignified solution possible—to lift the stubborn vehicles out of the way one by one.
That night the official news blamed a "rare high-intensity geomagnetic storm" causing "multiple sensor failures across the network." They made sure to emphasize the system's "zero casualty" record as proof of its superiority.
He Min nearly spit out his drink reading that.
The desperate spin was funnier than the traffic jam itself. With a thought, he recalled his little stones—they dissolved into specks of light and returned to his pocket.
The performance was over, but the audience's reaction was already boring him.
He folded his umbrella and stepped back into the rain.
Physical pranks were fun, but the scope was too limited.
His gaze drifted toward the city's bright center—where all the minds gathered.
Next time, he decided, he'd play a game that reached straight into people's hearts.