[Cooldown Time +1]
In the dim, cavernous warehouse, dust motes danced in the single beam of light from an overhead bulb. The air was stale, thick with the smell of old concrete and metal.
Nolan sat cross-legged on the gritty floor, his shoulders slumped. His expression was utterly numb, his eyes slightly unfocused, staring at a point on the far wall.
His hands, however, never stopped. With a practiced, mechanical motion, he picked up a gun from the pile, held it, and willed the simulator to consume it.
Click.
The weapon vanished. He reached for another. His movements were detached, automatic, his mind adrift as he mechanically increased the simulator's cooldown time.
Click.
Another gone.
Ten minutes crawled by, marked only by the shifting of the pile.
He finally paused, his wrist aching. Nolan gazed at the literal mountain of guns piled in front of him. He could not help but let out a long, weary sigh.
At this moment, Nolan found himself in a profoundly bittersweet dilemma.
The thousand guns before him were just the first batch. They represented a massive influx of potential, a huge boost to his power. If the merchant guild's main warehouse had possessed enough space, Madam Gao could have sent over even more.
However, what truly troubled Nolan, grinding down his patience, was this:
The accursed simulator did not support batch processing.
He couldn't just point and convert the whole pile. He had to convert them one at a time, slowly, tediously.
Click. Click. Click.
"Well, it's not like I'm in a rush. I'll take my time..."
Nolan sighed again, the sound lost in the warehouse's empty space. He flexed his cramping fingers and picked up another lasgun to continue the mind-numbing conversion.
But then, just as the weapon dematerialized from his hands, the simulator, which had been silent for so long, suddenly underwent a change. A soft, internal chime sounded in his mind.
[Cooldown Time has exceeded 500 hours.]
[New function unlocked.]
[Restarting...]
"Huh?"
Nolan blinked instinctively. The sound and the sudden text snapped his wandering focus back into sharp, immediate presence. He sat up straighter, his numbness vanishing.
[Salvage feature updating...]
[Salvaged items now support categorization.]
"Categorization..." Nolan murmured, his voice slightly rough from disuse.
He glanced at the simulator's updated interface, his focus now absolute. He quickly navigated to the salvage page. The display, which had previously been a chaotic, jumbled collection of salvaged items, had now been neatly, logically categorized.
Energy fuel. Ammunition. Clothing. Food supplies.
Rows of items were now organized and presented in distinct, easy-to-read categories.
Feeling a sudden tinge of genuine delight, Nolan rubbed his chin, a small, thoughtful smile touching his lips. It seemed that as the cooldown time increased, as he fed the simulator more and more, it would undergo corresponding changes. It wasn't static.
A spark of sharp excitement ignited in Nolan's eyes. The tedium was no longer just a chore. It was progress.
He suddenly felt reinvigorated, his fatigue forgotten. His hands, which had been moving with sluggish repetition, now picked up guns with a renewed, enthusiastic pace.
Click. Click. Click.
Roughly an hour later, the last gun vanished.
The warehouse floor was finally empty.
The mountain was gone.
The simulator's cooldown time had surpassed 1,289 hours for the first time.
Nolan exhaled deeply, the breath shuddering out of him. He shook his slightly sore, cramping hands before turning his full attention back to the simulator's interface. He hadn't just passed the 500-hour mark. He had shattered it.
And the system had been busy.
[Cooldown Time has exceeded 700 hours.]
[New function unlocked.]
[Restarting...]
[Salvage feature updating...]
[Salvage feature now supports targeted salvaging.]
[Cooldown Time has exceeded 900 hours.]
[New function unlocked.]
[Restarting...]
[Simulation feature updating...]
[New simulation modes now available.]
Squinting, Nolan leaned forward, examining the simulator's changes carefully, one by one.
First was the Targeted Salvaging, unlocked at 700 hours.
The simulator's notes explained that to acquire specific salvage items, such as components for power armor, a base of 100 hours was required per attempt. Each additional 100 hours would increase the success rate, up to a maximum of 1,000 hours for a single targeted attempt.
However, despite Nolan's extensive probing, clicking through every submenu he could find, he could not find any further details. There were no hard numbers, like the exact success rate of a 100-hour base.
Was it 1%, or 10%?
The salvage page simply noted, in frustratingly vague text: "The more time invested, the higher the success rate."
Based on his understanding of the simulator, Nolan suspected it was not so simple. It was a gamble. A 100-hour targeted salvage yielded only one chance. That was a huge investment for a single roll of the dice.
Being frugal by nature, Nolan already knew that basic salvaging was, for now, far more cost-effective. At least with ammunition or energy, he was never in short supply.
Still, the choice between raw quantity and targeted quality was worth pondering...
Sighing deeply, Nolan scrolled down and continued reading.
At 900 hours, the simulator's core Simulation Feature underwent its first-ever change. Nolan could now customize the time ratio for his survival scenarios.
Previously, surviving one day in a simulation required one hour of cooldown. It was a fixed, one-to-one rate.
Now, surviving one day could be set to consume 10 hours of cooldown, dramatically increasing both the difficulty of the simulation and, crucially, the potential rewards.
"This might mean... I'll finally get to meet the Astartes, huh?"
Nolan's eyes lit up, his voice a quiet mutter. His breath caught slightly. He had never once successfully simulated becoming an Astartes. The requirements had always been too high, the scenarios too brutal. This new mode might be the key.
His thoughts began to race, calculating the possibilities. The fatigue from his long session vanished, replaced by a restless energy. Nolan stood up, his joints popping as he stretched his stiff back and legs.
He turned and, with a new, decisive stride, walked out of the empty warehouse.
......
Three Days Later, Pre-dawn Hours
In an old, seemingly abandoned warehouse on Manhattan's East Riverbank, the concrete floor split apart. A section lowered smoothly, revealing a massive, newly excavated underground hangar. A Valkyrie armed transport, painted in faded desert camouflage, slowly emerged from the hidden bay.
The roar of its massive engines reverberated through the cavernous space, a deep bass rumble that vibrated in the chest, drowning out the quiet, ambient hum of the hangar's machinery.
Inside the cockpit, soft classical music played, a strange, incongruous serenity against the backdrop of the powerful war machine.
David, seated at the controls, hummed along lightly, his hands moving with practiced expertise as he guided the colossal machine upward. The Valkyrie ascended vertically, its thrusters barely whispering, and descended smoothly onto a nearby clearing beside the dark, sluggish river.
The classical music abruptly stopped. David turned his head toward Nolan, who stood behind the co-pilot's seat.
"My lord," David began, his tone calm and precise as always, "all nearby warehouses are under your name now. Departing from here will not attract any unwanted attention. Their 'tendrils' are well within my control."
Nolan gave a satisfied smile and a firm thumbs-up.
"Excellent work, David. Truly remarkable." He tapped the bulkhead. "Excavating such a massive underground tunnel in just three days... it's beyond my imagination."
David's piercing blue eyes flickered briefly in acknowledgment. "Your praise humbles me, my lord. As your servant, this is simply my duty."
Nolan, still smiling, shifted his gaze toward the dark night outside the cockpit. The first hints of grey were just beginning to touch the eastern sky, but the city across the river was still a glittering tapestry of lights.
After a long pause, he spoke.
"David, is the Valkyrie fueled and ready?"
David straightened slightly at the controls, his posture becoming even more formal. "Of course, my lord. Are you planning...?"
Nolan cracked his neck, the sound sharp in the quiet cockpit. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the dashboard, his grin widening with predatory anticipation.
"Why wait? The tunnel is done. The gear is ready. Let's kick things off with a wild night infiltration."
David glanced at him. His expression remained placid, but his tone carried a faint hint of amusement, or perhaps resignation.
"As you command, my lord. As you wish."
The engines roared to life once more, this time with purpose. The Valkyrie rose vertically into the air. Its hulking shadow swept silently across the dark waters of the East River, leaving the glittering, sleeping skyline of Manhattan behind.
Climbing steadily into the night, it tilted forward and accelerated, vanishing into the thick, low clouds, a ghostly predator ready to strike.