291: Chapter 291 Chen Xiaodao's Patrol

The morning light hadn't yet fully climbed up the foot of the East Wasteland Mountain; that streak of cyan-white on the horizon looked like ashes rubbed away by fingers, barely revealing a hint of light.

The cluster of metal supports was so quiet that one could hear the sound of dew sliding off the edge of the cooling boxes—plop, and then another, so slow it made one's heart race with unease.

Chen Xiaodao walked close to a thick iron pillar, his footsteps so light it was as if he were treading on his own breath.

He chose to land every step in the shadows, deliberately shifting his boot soles by half an inch when pressing over gravel to avoid those reflective metal scraps.

He had walked this patrol route for three months and seven days; he could touch the raised texture at the joint of the seventh guide rail even with his eyes closed.

But today was different. There was a smell in the air—not tar, nor the sour rot of spiritual energy overload, but rust mixed with an indescribable fishy scent, like the sole of an old rubber shoe that had been half-burned.

He suddenly stopped.

His right foot had just lifted and hadn't yet landed, when his ears twitched.

Over there, between the gaps of the cooling boxes, came a faint, subtle movement—not the wind blowing, not the humming of a mecha's self-check, nor the fluttering of night birds.

It was the sound of fabric brushing against metal, short and suppressed; it happened just once, and then it was gone.

Chen Xiaodao didn't move.

He leaned sideways against the pillar, his spine pressed tight against the cold iron plating, shrinking his entire body into the shadows.

His left hand pressed lightly on the communication talisman at his waist; he didn't activate it, merely confirming it was still there.

His right hand slowly landed on the hilt of his short sword, knuckles tightening, but he did not draw it.

He knew there shouldn't be anyone in this place.

The shift change was scheduled for later; it was currently too early, the patrol team was in the West District, and the mecha patrol had just passed three minutes ago—there was no reason for anyone to be crouching here.

He held his breath, his ears vibrating slightly.

The Ear Aperture Vibration Technique, a perception method only accessible at the Foundation Establishment Middle Stage, could amplify subtle sounds by three times.

He heard it—the sound of breathing, half a beat slower than the normal rhythm, deliberately suppressed, hidden within the wind.

And a heartbeat, from over a dozen steps away, thump, thump, thump, unstable, as if afraid of being heard, yet also afraid of not moving.

"Who is it?" he asked, his voice neither high nor low, just right to carry into that gap between the cooling boxes.

No one answered.

He stared at those two rows of cooling boxes, the black gap between them as deep as a well mouth.

Moonlight shone in at an angle; the surface of the box on the left reflected a streak of light, while the right side was pitch black.

If someone was hiding inside, they should be in the shadow on the right side, facing outward, directly towards his direction.

He didn't call out a second time.

His right hand still gripped the sword, but his left hand slowly raised, drawing a semicircle in front of his chest, and his fingertips tapped three times in the air—this was a signal, indicating "Anomaly detected, enemy or friend unconfirmed."

He didn't send it out.

In case the other party was one of his own who had lost their way, making a scene would only embarrass them; if it wasn't... then he definitely couldn't alert the enemy.

He began to inch forward.

Not in a straight line, but in a "Z" shape.

First, he moved five steps horizontally to the left, walking against the supports, his boot soles grinding over a piece of scrap metal, emitting a faint creaking sound.

He was doing it on purpose; he was testing them.

There was no reaction from the gap.

He moved forward another two steps, then shifted horizontally to the right, circling in a small arc to shorten the distance.

Fifteen steps; he was fifteen steps away from seeing clearly inside.

He slowed his speed, waiting three seconds for every step he took, listening to the wind, the breathing, and the heartbeat.

It was still the same rhythm: thump, thump, thump, slow, but becoming increasingly hurried.

His lips tightened.

Not someone from his clan; the Chen family patrol team had a unified breathing rhythm, trained like a pendulum.

This person's breathing was chaotic, and their heart was, too; they couldn't hide it.

Furthermore, he smelled that scent—the stench of corroded iron mixed with burnt rubber soles, coming from the soles of their shoes.

Their patrol boots were made of specially treated soft rubber and wouldn't wear down to produce such a smell.

Only outsiders, wearing common stealth boots and rubbing against metal supports for a long time, would leave such traces.

He stopped.

Under his feet was a small piece of metal, the size of a palm, with curled edges, as if it had been broken off from a scrapped terminal.

He stared at it for two seconds, then suddenly lifted his right foot and gave it a light kick.

The metal scrap flipped over, hit the support next to it, and made a crisp "ding" sound.

At that very instant—

In the deepest part of the gap, within the shadow on the right, a figure shrank violently.

The shoulders moved; not the head, but the shoulders pressed downward, as if instinctively trying to dodge the source of the sound.

The movement was extremely small; an ordinary person wouldn't be able to see it at all.

But Chen Xiaodao saw it.

His pupils constricted.

Something was wrong.

He didn't move or speak, but his mind was racing: "Not a mecha, not a patrol, not internal personnel... who could it be? Why hide? Why not run?"

He recalled that three days ago, the System had popped up a new directive: "Strengthen night defense, focus patrols on the south side support cluster."

At the time, he hadn't paid it any mind, thinking it was just another routine reminder.

Now that he looked at it, that directive hadn't come at a bad time; it was for exactly this moment.

He slowly bent down, knees slightly bent, center of gravity lowered, like a wolf preparing to pounce.

His right hand still gripped the sword, but his thumb had already pushed open the scabbard latch.

As long as he took one more step, he could charge in and force the other party out with a single sword strike.

But he didn't move.

He knew that in such a situation, whoever exposed themselves first would lose.

He stared at that gap, without blinking.

The wind blew from behind, carrying the dampness of dew, brushing over the back of his neck.

He suddenly spoke, his voice one degree lower than before: "I know you're there."

No response.

"You stepped in coolant," he continued, his tone calm, as if discussing the weather.

"Under the third set of supports, that wet patch was left by you. Your boot soles have defective soft rubber; after walking for a long time, it precipitates chemicals that react with the coolant and become sticky. I have already memorized this scent."

Still, no one spoke.

But he saw that in the gap, that hand—the one that had been pressed against the box body—quietly withdrew by half an inch.

He smiled, though not audibly; his lips merely twitched.

"If you come out now, you might still get away clean," he said, "If you wait for me to personally invite you, you might end up missing an arm."

The other party didn't move.

Chen Xiaodao wasn't in a rush either.

He straightened up a bit, his left hand slowly moving away from the communication talisman and resting on his belt.

He knew the other party must be thinking right now: Did this person really discover me? Did he call for backup? Are there ambushes outside?

When people are afraid, they are most prone to making mistakes.

He waited.

The wind blew again, this time kicking up some dust, brushing over the metal scraps and making a soft, rustling sound.

At the very moment this sound arose, he caught it out of the corner of his eye—in the depths of the gap, that foot shrank back by half an inch.

It moved.

He immediately locked onto the position: right side, towards the back, about eight steps from the entrance; judging by the height, a crouching posture, left leg slightly bent, right leg supporting, center of gravity shifted to the right.

They could jump up or retreat at any moment.

His right thumb pushed against the scabbard again.

He couldn't wait any longer.

He stepped forward with his left foot, his body leaning forward, making a move to charge—

But at the very instant he exerted force, he suddenly froze.

Because he heard another sound coming from within the gap.

Not breathing, not a heartbeat.

It was the soft sound of metal friction, extremely faint, as if some device had been activated.

He abruptly reined in his momentum, his eyes sharpening.

It wasn't something a person would carry on them.

It was a fixed device.

The other party didn't come alone; they had already planted something here long ago.

His gaze immediately swept around: support joints, underneath the energy guide rails, the top of the cooling boxes... anywhere something could be hidden.

But he didn't find it.

He only knew one thing—the other party wasn't here to steal anything.

They were here to cause destruction.

He slowly stepped back twice, leaning back into the shadow of the support, his right hand still gripping the sword, while his left hand had already pulled out the communication talisman.

This time, he didn't hesitate; his fingertips quickly traced over the talisman, inputting three secret commands:

[South side cooling box cluster, infiltrator discovered, identity unconfirmed, requesting perimeter lockdown, forbid mecha from approaching, prevent accidental triggering of devices].

The communication talisman vibrated slightly, indicating it had been sent.

He looked up, staring at that gap, his voice turning cold: "You had better pray that the thing you hid doesn't blow up our own people."

Having said that, he stopped moving, half-crouching in the shadows, his eyes locked firmly on that patch of darkness.

The wind stopped.

Dew dripped down.

In the distance, the first ray of sunlight climbed up the factory tower, shining on the plaque that read "Technology Propels the Clan, Protecting Ten Thousand Homes," reflecting a blinding light.

Chen Xiaodao's hand never left the sword hilt.