The screeching whir of steel grating against metal echoed within the dimly lit workshop, a cavernous space filled with the low hum of machinery and the smell of burning iron. The walls were coated in soot and dust, illuminated only by flickering neon tubes that buzzed like dying insects. The scent of sweat, oil, and synthetic grease lingered heavily in the air.
"Wang Ming! What the hell are you doing, you idiot? Fix that screw properly!"
A coarse, thunderous voice cut through the droning background noise like a blade through silk.
"Yes, boss!"
The reply came quickly—hurried, deferential, and just a bit bitter.
Wang Ming was crouched beneath the hull of a partially dismantled rover, his hands wrapped around a rusted wrench. The boy—barely twenty—wore the standard uniform of base maintenance crews: a thick grey mechanic's coat with reinforced plating on the elbows and shoulders, its left sleeve patched three times over, a synthetic leather belt around his waist holding various tools, and a pair of dusty black boots whose soles had seen better years. His black hair was matted with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and his copper-toned skin bore the grimy mark of endless toil.
As he tightened the screw with a grunt, he muttered under his breath, voice laced with frustration.
"Fuck, this bastard... What the hell does he think I am, a robot?"
His hands moved mechanically, but his mind had already drifted far from the grimy workshop. The scolding voice faded into the background as Wang Ming sank into the abyss of memory, recalling the life he once had.
Just two days ago—at least, according to his fragmented memory—he had been an ordinary office worker, a faceless cog in the relentless machinery of modern Earth. A 9-to-5 job, endless spreadsheets, tasteless vending machine coffee, and a flickering monitor had defined his days. On one unremarkable night, while working overtime, he had nodded off at his desk... and awoke not in his dim cubicle, but in a world that felt entirely alien.
This was Dustveil-9, a barren, wind-blasted planet on the edge of the Praxian Galactic Arm, home to one of the countless military outposts of the Human Sovereign Confederacy. The sky here was a permanent haze of violet, dotted with broken moons and fragments of ancient planetary rings. The air outside was toxic, requiring filtration masks and skin-tight exo-suits just to survive a trip beyond the base walls.
And this... this nightmare was his new reality.
Humanity had long since cast off the shackles of their solar system. In their march through the stars, they had built empires, clashed with alien races, and harnessed the very fabric of the universe. On Dustveil-9, however, all that glory seemed distant, irrelevant. Here, Wang Ming was just a low-ranking junior engineer—a replaceable laborer in a decaying frontier base barely worth defending.
What made this world even more absurd, even more surreal, was its divergence from science alone. In addition to hyperdrives, plasma rifles, and anti-gravity engines, this universe also harbored something far older, far stranger—Transcendents.
Beings who had broken past the limitations of human flesh and spirit, who wielded power that defied physical laws. Some drew their strength from forbidden runes etched into their bones, others from contracts with cosmic entities slumbering between dimensions. They were scholars of the arcane and masters of mystic arts—half-technological gods who walked among men.
And Wang Ming… was not one of them.
SLAP!
A sudden impact exploded against the back of his head, sharp and resonant. A jolt of pain burst through his skull like an electric pulse.
"What the hell are you daydreaming about now, you half-witted slug? You think this is nap time?" the middle-aged man bellowed, his fat fingers still extended from the slap.
Wang Ming gritted his teeth, blinking away tears of pain. He bowed his head and forced out the words with as much humility as he could muster.
"I—I'm sorry, Boss. I was just a little... distracted."
"Hmph." The man grunted, clearly unimpressed.
He was a rotund figure named Guo Lian, clad in a reinforced officer's vest two sizes too small for his belly, his helmet askew and stained with grease. A cheap cigar stub dangled from his lips, unlit. He was the kind of man who ruled over his underlings not by merit, but through connections—his sister happened to be the wife of the current base captain.
Wang Ming watched the man waddle away with disgust masked behind his neutral face.
"Fat bastard…" he muttered internally. "If it weren't for your connections, you'd be scrubbing reactor sludge with the rest of us."
His gloved hands continued tightening bolts, the movements muscle memory by now. His thoughts drifted again, bitter and cold.
"At least on Earth, things weren't this bad. Sure, I was an orphan there too, just another cog in the system… but there were rules. There was fairness, even if only in name. Here, all I have is dust, pain, and that damned sky."
The ground beneath his boots trembled slightly.
At first, Wang Ming thought it was just another transport vessel taking off from the launch pad. But then came a sound that chilled him to his core—a thunderous blast, followed by the shrill, almost inhuman scream of tearing metal.
BOOM!
The air shook. Red warning lights began flashing wildly across the ceiling, and a piercing alarm wailed through the corridors.
"—Bomb!"
Someone screamed the word from outside, their voice cracking with fear. The atmosphere inside the workshop flipped in an instant. Wrenches fell. Screws scattered. Workers who moments ago were busy repairing or half-asleep suddenly snapped into motion, eyes wide with terror.
Wang Ming's body moved on instinct, but his thoughts were frozen.
Zergs?
A dreadful realization clawed its way into his mind.
"The rumors… they said Dustveil-9 was close to a migration path... It can't be…"
He clenched the wrench in his hand tightly, knuckles white beneath the glove. Outside, more cries rang out. Blasts. Gunfire. Something monstrous shrieked.
And within that chaos, Wang Ming could feel it—something stirring, deep within his soul.