Karl left Emma’s group without a backward glance, striding toward the base’s training complex. The encounter had been awkward but irrelevant. After years facing life-and-death scenarios in Earth’s orbital forces, petty social theatrics meant nothing. His mind burned with a singular purpose: **strength**.
Three years. That’s all he had to reach C-class combat ratings and outrank battalion commanders. Wasting time karaoke-chasing some faded college fling? Absurd. Still, two faces in that crowd lingered in his periphery—Lisa and Gao Chong. Pausing at the training complex entrance, he ordered West to send Zhu an encrypted message. A warning. A courtesy.
The training hub’s lobby gleamed with sterile efficiency. Two receptionists manned the front—one a human woman, the other a gynoid with a saccharine smile.
“Welcome. How may I assist you?” The gynoid bowed, nametag reading *Su Cheng*.
Karl’s lips twitched. Last timeline, security pranksters had let him flirt with this ¥100,000 bio-drone for ten minutes before revealing the joke.
“Training facilities access.”
“Hourly rate: 50 credits. Shall I transmit regulations to your chip?”
“Proceed.”
The complex spanned 36 floors—indoor ski slopes, zero-G combat rings, AI sparring partners. Most miners couldn’t afford this, but security personnel lived here. Their perks included private floors for… extracurricular activities.
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Floor 36 greeted Karl with arctic blasts. West adjusted his thermal suit as elevator doors opened onto a winter wasteland—a simulated ski range dotted with illicit banquet tables. Eight security officers froze mid-bite, eyes narrowing at the intruder.
Their ID scans flashed:
> **Miner #2781**
> Employment duration: 27 days
> Credit balance: 8,969
Smirks spread. Security’s innate superiority over miners hardened their gazes.
Karl ignored their hostility, marching to their table laden with empty rice wine bottles and a centerpiece of unopened Moutai. He seized a ¥2,500 bottle, uncorked it, and guzzled half in one go.
The room iced over.
Security Captain Luo Fei leaned back, amusement crinkling his scarred eyelids. “Whose rookie is this? Got balls.”
“Wouldn’t mind recruiting him!” someone chuckled.
Karl finished the bottle, slammed it down, and grinned through the burn. “My apologies. Fine liquor’s hard to resist. I’ll cover the cost.”
Luo tossed him another bottle. “Drink this, and we’re square.”
No hesitation. Karl drained the second Moutai like water.
“HA!” Luo erupted, slamming the table. “Kid’s got grit! Earn enough credits, and I’ll save you a security slot!”
The squad roared approval. Karl hid a smile—Luo hadn’t changed. Still the booze-hound who judged men by their alcohol tolerance.
A yellow-toothed veteran shoved a third bottle at Karl. “Name’s Old Lu. Bottle or glass?”
Karl grabbed the liquor. “Bottoms up.”
The room exploded.
“Old Lu! Don’t let some greenhorn show you up!”
“Chug! Chug! Chug!”
Luo signaled a subordinate, who produced a crate of baijiu. The real negotiation began.