155: Chapter 155 A Powerful Debut at the Wasteland Inn!

The engines of the Ghost Fortress roared to their limit, the forty-five-ton steel behemoth tearing a blue-white trail of light through the Magnetic Storm Floating Forest.

Yi Chang gripped the sofa armrest, her vertical pupils reflecting the dark silver giant trees rapidly receding outside the window.

Her high heels slipped on the metal floor, forcing her to lower her center of gravity, her legs tensed straight.

Her legs, having taken their human form less than three hours ago, had not yet fully adapted to the human balance system.

The Ghost Fortress suddenly banked sharply to the left.

The maglev engine pulled an angle of nearly forty degrees while dodging a broken giant tree spanning the path.

Inertia flung Yi Chang, her slim heels scraping against the smooth alloy floor tiles with a jarring screech.

Chen Chen's hand reached out from the edge of the console, his fingers gripping her waist.

Yi Chang's body collided with his chest.

The body temperature of his 167-point constitution was nearly forty-two degrees.

Through the thin white shirt, that heat scorched directly into Yi Chang's newly formed skin.

The spinal reflexes of a cold-blooded animal took over her brain within 0.3 seconds—her body instinctively pressed closer to the heat source instead of pushing it away.

The top two buttons of the white shirt popped open during the collision.

A large expanse of snow-white skin spilled out from the neckline below her collarbone, with newly formed silver-gray scales faintly visible at the junction of her skin, thin and translucent.

Yi Chang's vertical pupils dilated sharply.

She looked down at her position pressed against Chen Chen's chest, her face burning from the roots of her ears.

"Re...release me."

Chen Chen's palm pressed against the layer of ultra-thin invisible scales on her waist, his fingertips feeling the subtle tremors of the muscles underneath.

"Stand steady first."

Jiang Yanxue leaned against the opposite sofa, her dark red pupils sweeping over Yi Chang's open neckline, and she let out a cold snort.

Blood Rose leaned half her body out of the booth, her wine-red curly hair flicking twice: "Yo, Sister Snake, you've been hiding quite the figure."

Yi Chang gritted her teeth, struggling out of Chen Chen's arms, and fumbled to button her shirt.

Her fingertips were shaking violently; it took three tries to get it fastened.

She stepped back, her back hitting the cabin wall, her vertical pupils churning with shame and anger.

Chen Chen withdrew his hand and turned toward the console.

The communicator rang.

Shen Wanbing's voice came down from the fourth level, carrying professional calmness: "Eighty-seven kilometers ahead, Wasteland Inn signal source confirmed. But—"

She paused. "A medium-sized convoy from Zone 046 has already arrived at the perimeter of the inn, twenty-three heavy vehicles, all carrying large-caliber artillery. Energy fluctuation characteristics show an extremely high concentration of faith marks."

Chen Chen stepped up the stairs to the fourth level. "What cult?"

"Not the Ash Cult." Shen Wanbing's concentration ice heart necklace flickered with blue light. "The faith frequency band leans toward the mechanical type... suspected to be the 'Machine Cult', and they are currently probing the inn's defensive shields with firepower."

Chen Chen sat in the pilot's seat and pushed the engine power from eighty percent to full load. "How long until we arrive?"

"At the current speed, eleven minutes."

"That's enough."

...

Wasteland Inn. The name sounded like a dilapidated bar, but in reality, it was alive.

It was a giant mechanically modified mutant turtle over sixty meters long, its shell welded with metal plates, communication antennas, and defensive turrets.

At the highest point of the turtle shell stood a three-story structure made of a mix of wood and alloy, with a crooked sign hanging, written in seven or eight languages: "Wasteland Inn · Neutral Truce Zone".

The giant turtle lay on a floating rock platform, its four thick mechanical legs half-retracted into its shell, occasionally moving and shaking the entire inn.

On the edge of the rock platform surrounding the inn, three or four hundred ragged, wandering survivors gathered.

They came from different war zones, some with missing arms, others with lame legs, all craning their necks to look toward the inn's main entrance.

"Please, give us a bite to eat—" "Master, I can do anything, move cargo, do chores, be a meat shield, anything—" "Just one repair capsule, just one is enough—"

No one paid them any mind.

The inn's C-grade defensive shield isolated these people, and they couldn't even get through the door.

On the other side of the rock platform, twenty-three heavy war vehicles welded with dark gray metal plates were arranged in an arc formation.

The design style of the war vehicles was extremely bizarre—the bodies were embedded with a large number of exposed mechanical gears and pipelines, as if industrial machine tools and armored vehicles had been forcibly stitched together.

Each vehicle's roof was mounted with an exaggeratedly large-caliber electromagnetic cannon, the muzzles aimed directly at the inn's shield.

A person stood on the roof of the lead war vehicle. To be precise, half a person.

Everything below the waist was metal—two thick mechanical legs, with hydraulic cylinders exposed at the knee joints hissing with white steam.

The left arm was also mechanical, unfolding into a small rapid-fire cannon.

The right eye was replaced by a red optical lens, constantly flashing with scanning beams.

The leader of the Zone 046 convoy. The "Execution Apostle" of the Machine Cult.

He held up a megaphone, his voice distorted and harsh from the electronic synthesizer: "Listen up, you trash inside! I'm giving you thirty more seconds!"

No one responded.

The Execution Apostle's mechanical left arm raised, the rapid-fire cannon aiming at the group of kneeling wandering survivors on the edge of the rock platform.

"Not coming out, huh?"

A volley of armor-piercing rounds poured out.

The three survivors kneeling at the very front were shredded into meat, blood spattering the faces of those nearby.

Screams erupted instantly, and the crowd retreated frantically, trampling over one another.

The Execution Apostle brought the megaphone to his lips, laughter coming out from the electronic synthesizer with the harsh noise of metal rubbing against metal: "Three killed every thirty seconds. Can those junk defensive cannons of yours penetrate my A-grade alloy armor? Get out here! Hand over the technology! Become vassals of the Cult! Otherwise—"

His mechanical leg stomped heavily on the roof of the vehicle. "Flatten this broken turtle shell."

The inn's main door opened. Three people walked out.

Leading them was a burly man nearly two meters tall, with a full beard, wearing a leather apron, his arms as thick as an average person's thighs.

In his left hand, he carried a wrench taller than a person, and in his right, he gripped a welding torch that was still sparking. The Bearded Mechanic.

Following behind him was a tall female with pointed ears, emerald green long hair, wearing an off-the-shoulder dress woven from vines.

Her waist was hung with various potion bottles, and pale green energy threads were wrapped around her fingertips. The Elf Pharmacist.

The third was a short, stout dwarf, carrying a rune engraving machine larger than himself, goggles pushed up onto his forehead, his hands covered in oil. The Rune Forger.

The Bearded Mechanic slammed the wrench onto the ground, creating a crater. "Kid, do you know the rules of this inn?"

The Execution Apostle's red optical lens flickered: "What kind of bullshit rules—"

"Equivalent exchange."

The Bearded Mechanic's voice was like thunder. "If you want technology, bring something to trade for it. You want us to become vassals?"

He raised his hand, and the six high-tier defensive cannons on the inn's turtle shell turned simultaneously, their muzzles aimed at the Execution Apostle's convoy. "Dream on."

The Elf Pharmacist sneered and raised the potion bottle in her hand, the emerald green liquid churning inside: "Say one more word of nonsense, and I'll have all your mechanical parts rusted and scrapped."

Both sides were at daggers drawn. The Execution Apostle's mechanical left arm slowly raised, the rapid-fire cannon aiming at the Bearded Mechanic's head. "Do you think those few broken cannons of yours—"

He didn't finish his sentence. Because on the horizon, a blue-white trail of light appeared.