163: The rules of the safe haven? I'll set them!

"A guide?"

Butcher's mind raced in fear, and a glint of desperation, unique to those with nothing to lose, flashed in his eyes.

This was a crisis that could utterly destroy him.

But at the same time, it was also a heaven-sent opportunity that could elevate him to great heights!

If he could connect with these two "Sirs" who clearly had extraordinary backgrounds, wouldn't his status as "Butcher" in Safe Harbor skyrocket like a rocket?

"Sirs! You've asked the right person!"

He immediately scrambled to his feet, a fawning smile plastered on his face, making the gnarled burn scar appear somewhat comical.

"When it comes to the person in Safe Harbor who knows the Eye of the Storm best, it's absolutely 'Old Ghost'!"

"Old Ghost?"

The electronic synthetic voice of the Yama Mech repeated the name, devoid of any emotion.

"Yes! An old, cunning, scoundrel of an old man!"

"No one knows his name, and no one knows where he came from. They only know that he, alone with a dilapidated ship, has been haunting this 'graveyard' like a ghost for decades!"

Butcher gesticulated wildly as he spoke, afraid that the two Sirs wouldn't be satisfied.

"Others who enter the Eye of the Storm just circle the periphery, picking up scraps from space stations."

"That old man, his guts are boundless!"

"He often takes his 'Seagull,' a ship so broken it's about to fall apart, and dives into the most dangerous 'Wind Shear Corridors' that even we wouldn't dare to mention!"

"Several times everyone thought he had died in there, but then a few months later, he'd return, dragging a ship full of rare goods he'd salvaged from some unlucky soul's battleship wreckage, completely unharmed!"

Butcher lowered his voice, a hint of awe in his tone.

"He definitely has the most detailed, exclusive navigation charts!"

"Where is he?" Lin Mo asked.

"This..." Butcher rubbed his hands, a troubled expression on his face. "Old Ghost has a terrible temper, and his whereabouts are unpredictable. However, at this time of day, he's most likely drinking at the 'Rusty Tavern.'"

"Lead the way."

Lin Mo's command brooked no argument.

"Yes! Yes! Two Sirs, this way please!"

Butcher immediately bowed and scraped, personally leading the way, his posture more deferential than the most professional doorman.

Two massive mechs, thus, under the guidance of a local bully, swaggered out of the berth and onto the chaotic and filthy streets of Safe Harbor.

The so-called streets were actually just a relatively wide main corridor inside the space station.

The ground was a pockmarked metal deck, covered in solidified oil stains and foul-smelling, unidentified liquids.

Above, countless thick energy pipes and ventilation ducts crisscrossed like the exposed organs of a giant beast, with unknown, viscous liquids occasionally dripping from the pipe seams.

On both sides of the corridor were bizarre shops, converted from shipping containers or spacecraft cabins.

There were those selling various weapons and mechanical parts of dubious origin, others openly hawking gene-modifying serums that could turn people into monsters, and still others, adorned with pink neon lights, from which emanated sounds of decadent entertainment.

The air was filled with a strong, complex odor, a mixture of metallic rust, cheap fuel, alcohol, body odor, and vomit.

This smell was enough to instantly suffocate anyone from a civilized world.

The appearance of the two mechs, without a doubt, caused a sensation like a landslide and a tsunami.

All the ragged Scavengers and fierce-faced mercenaries on the street stopped dead in their tracks as if they had seen a ghost, stiffly retreating to either side, automatically clearing a wide path.

Their faces bore identical, complex expressions of shock, fear, and greed.

In a place like Safe Harbor, a high-performance mech represented absolute power and wealth.

And these two, especially the black demon that made one's soul tremble just by looking at it, were practically forbidden existences that only existed in legends!

Butcher felt the reverent gazes cast his way, and his back unconsciously straightened quite a bit.

He even began to enjoy this addictive feeling of borrowing prestige.

Soon, they arrived at the entrance of an inconspicuous tavern.

The tavern's sign was a rusty alloy plate, with the words "Rusty Tavern" scrawled in red paint.

"Sir, this is it."

"Wait outside." Lin Mo gave Butcher the order.

"Yes, yes."

Lin Mo and Gu Zhixia did not deactivate their mechs.

They directly piloted their mechs, pushing open the creaking metal door with the most unceremonious attitude.

Boom—!

Two steel giants forcibly squeezed into the already small and dimly lit tavern.

The formerly noisy tavern instantly fell silent.

All the desperadoes who were drinking and bragging stopped as if a pause button had been pressed, slowly turning their heads with stiff movements, looking at the two uninvited guests at the door, the intoxication on their faces vanishing instantly without a trace.

The environment inside the tavern was even worse than outside.

The air was thick with the pungent, sour smell of strong cheap alcohol and vomit, almost solidifying.

Lin Mo's gaze, like a high-precision radar, locked directly onto a table in the corner.

There, sat a small, thin old man with white hair and a beard.

He wore a faded, worn-out astronaut's undershirt, his face covered with weathered wrinkles, and one eye was replaced by an old mechanical prosthetic eye that glowed with a faint red light.

While everyone else was too scared to move, only he, unperturbed, picked up a glass of strange blue liquid from the table and slowly took a sip.

It was as if two ordinary drunkards looking for a drink had entered through the door, not two war machines capable of leveling the place.

"Old Ghost?"

Yama's voice echoed in the deathly silent tavern.

The old man's intact eye slowly lifted, his cloudy gaze sweeping over the two mechs, finally resting on the black "Yama."

His mechanical prosthetic eye emitted a faint "beep-beep" sound, seemingly performing some kind of scan.

"Newcomers?"

The old man's voice was as hoarse as two rusty iron plates rubbing together.

"Want to buy a ticket into the Eye of the Storm from me?"